“I guess I never minded giving them up as long as the three of us could stay together.” Portia rested her head against Caroline’s shoulder. “But I have noticed that your portions at supper keep getting smaller while ours stay the same size.”
Caroline stroked a hand through Portia’s soft curls. “You’re going to be a prize yourself someday, my pet, but we all know that Vivienne is the True Beauty of the family, the one most likely to make an advantageous match that will rid us of Cousin Cecil’s bullying and assure both her future and our own.”
Portia tilted her head to gaze up at her, un-spilled tears clinging to her thick, dark lashes. “But don’t you see, Caro? If Vivienne falls beneath this devil’s spell, she may not have a future. If she surrenders her heart to him, she’ll be lost to us forever!”
Caroline could see a shadow of her own fears reflected in Portia’s pleading eyes. If Vivienne was successful in landing a husband, it would only be a matter of time before he found a suitor for Portia among his eligible friends. He might even be charitable enough to invite his spinster sister-in-law to come live with them. But if not, she would spend the rest of her days rattling around this drafty old cottage at Cousin Cecil’s capricious mercy. The thought sent a fresh shudder down her spine. She was old enough to know that there were some men who could be far more terrifying than monsters.
Before she could attempt to soothe either of their fears, Anna came shuffling into the room, her white head bowed. “What is it?” Caroline asked the elderly maidservant, rising from the ottoman.
“This just came for ye, miss.”
Caroline took the missive from Anna’s palsied hand without bothering to ask her what it was. The maid’s rheumy eyes were fogged with age.
Caroline ran her fingertips over the ivory vellum, admiring its expensive weave. The folded missive had been sealed with a single dab of ruby wax that glistened like a drop of fresh blood against the fine paper. She frowned. “I thought the morning post had already run?”
“Indeed it has, miss,” Anna confirmed. “A private messenger brung it. Some great strappin’ lad in scarlet livery.”
As Caroline broke the seal with her fingernail and unfolded the letter, Portia scrambled to her feet. “What is it? Is it from Aunt Marietta? Has Vivienne taken ill? Gone into a sudden and unexplained decline?”
Caroline shook her head. “It’s not from Aunt Marietta. It’s from him.”
Portia raised an eyebrow, urging her to continue.
“Adrian Kane—Viscount Trevelyan.” As Caroline’s lips shaped the name for the first time, she would have sworn she felt a shiver ripple through her soul.
“What does he want from us? Is he demanding some sort of ransom for Vivienne’s soul?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Portia, stop being such a silly goose! It’s not a ransom demand,” she said, scanning the message. “It’s an invitation to come to London and make his acquaintance. That should allay your ridiculous suspicions, should it not? If this viscount was harboring less than noble intentions toward Vivienne, he wouldn’t bother to secure our blessing before pursuing her, would he?”
“Why doesn’t he call on us right here at Edgeleaf, as any proper young gentleman would do? Oh, wait, I forgot! A vampire can’t enter his victim’s home unless he receives an invitation.” Portia cocked her head to the side, looking for an elusive moment both older and wiser than her seventeen years. “Just what exactly has the viscount invited us to?”
Caroline studied the bold masculine scrawl for several seconds, then lifted her head to meet her sister’s eyes, already dreading the triumphant gleam she was soon to find there.
“A midnight supper.”
Chapter Two
“What if it’s not an invitation, but a trap?” Portia whispered in Caroline’s ear as their aunt Marietta’s rickety carriage wended its way through the deserted London streets.
“Then I suppose we’ll soon find ourselves manacled to a dungeon wall, at the mercy of some fiend’s dark desires,” Caroline whispered back. Caught off guard by the curious heat her own words stirred in her, she snapped open her fan and used it to cool her flushed cheeks.
Portia went back to gazing sullenly out the carriage window. Her younger sister was the only person of Caroline’s acquaintance who could flounce without so much as batting an eyelash. Caroline knew that Portia was still nursing a sulk because she had sworn Portia to silence regarding the rumors swirling around the mysterious Viscount Trevelyan. If Vivienne wasn’t aware of them, Caroline didn’t see any point in letting such nonsense cast a cloud over her sister’s happiness or put all of their futures in jeopardy.
Aunt Marietta shot Caroline and Portia a disapproving glance. “Wasn’t it the very height of kindness for Lord Trevelyan to extend your sisters an invitation, Vivienne?” She drew a handkerchief out of her bodice and dabbed at her plump cheeks. They were already beginning to glisten beneath their thick layer of rice powder. With her blond froth of curls and powdered rolls of flesh, Aunt Marietta had always reminded Caroline, rather unkindly, of an underdone pastry. “It’s just another shining example of the gentleman’s generosity. If you continue to engage his fancy, dear, I’m hoping we might even be able to snag an invitation to the masquerade ball he is to host at his ancestral estate.”
Aunt Marietta did not have to point out that the we did not include Caroline or Portia. Her mother’s flighty sister had always considered Portia tiresome and Caroline far too dull and bookish to be good company. She’d never breathed one word about taking them in after their parents’ death, and if not for the viscount’s invitation, she would have never invited them to share the Shrewsbury lodgings her late husband had bequeathed to her, not even for a miserly week.
Her aunt droned on, extolling more of the viscount’s apparently endless list of virtues. Caroline was already growing heartily sick of the man, and she’d yet to meet him.
She glanced across the carriage at Vivienne. A serene smile hovered around her sister’s lips as she dutifully listened to Aunt Marietta’s shrill chatter. It would take more than a mere cloud to dim Vivienne’s radiance, Caroline thought ruefully, her expression softening as she studied her sister.
With her upswept golden hair and the fair, creamy skin so prized by the ton, Vivienne positively glowed. Even as a child, it had been nearly impossible to ruffle her composure. When she was barely five, Vivienne had come tugging at their mother’s skirts while she was cutting roses in the garden at Edgeleaf.
“Not right now, Vivi,” Mama had scolded without turning from her task. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“Very well, Mama. I’ll just come back later then.”
Warned by the off-key note in that small, obedient voice, their mother had turned to find Vivienne limping away, the arrow from a poacher’s bow still lodged in her thigh. Cradled in their papa’s strong arms, Vivienne had suffered in white-faced silence while the village physician drew out the arrow. It had been Portia’s hysterical shrieks that had threatened to deafen them all.
With her own temper so quick to flare, Caroline had always envied Vivienne her serenity. And her gleaming golden curls. Caroline touched a hand to her own pale, wheaten hair. Compared to Vivienne’s, it seemed almost colorless. Since the fine strands wouldn’t hold so much as the ghost of a curl, she’d had no choice but to sleek it back in a tight knot at the crown of her head. For her, there would be no pretty fringe of ringlets to frame the angular bones of her rather plain face.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you wear your hair that way,” she told Vivienne. “It’s quite lovely.”
Vivienne touched a hand to the shimmering cascade of curls. “Oddly enough, it was Lord Trevelyan who suggested the style. He said it would complement my fine eyes and the classical cut of my cheekbones.”
Caroline frowned, thinking it odd that a gentleman would take such a keen interest in a lady’s hair. Perhaps her sister’s suitor was one of those fey dandies like Brummel, more interested in the quality
of lace trimming a lady’s collar than in more manly pursuits like politics or hunting.
“So just how exactly did you make Lord Trevelyan’s acquaintance?” she asked. “You explained in your letter that the two of you met at Lady Norberry’s ball, but you failed to provide any of the more delicious details.”
Vivienne’s smile softened. “The dancing had ended and we were all preparing to go into supper.” She wrinkled her slender nose. “I believe the clock had just struck midnight.”
Caroline grunted with pain as Portia drove an elbow into her ribs.
“I glanced over my shoulder to discover the most extraordinary man lounging against the door frame. Before I realized what was happening, he had elbowed aside my dinner companion and insisted on escorting me into the dining room.” Vivienne ducked her head shyly. “There was no one to officially introduce us, so I suppose it was all rather improper.”
Aunt Marietta tittered behind a gloved hand. “Improper indeed! He couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl. I’ve never seen a fellow look so besotted! When he first spotted Vivienne, he went so white you’d have thought he’d seen a ghost. They’ve been nearly inseparable ever since. With me serving as chaperone, of course,” she added with a prim sniff.
“So have the two of you ever enjoyed any daytime excursions?” Portia leaned forward in the seat, a cheery smile fixed on her lips. “Gone on a barouche ride in Hyde Park? Visited the elephant at the Tower of London? Taken tea in some sunny garden?”
Vivienne gave her sister a bemused look. “No, but he’s accompanied us to the Royal Opera House, two musicales, and a midnight supper hosted by Lady Twickenham at her Park Lane mansion. I’m afraid Lord Trevelyan keeps gentleman’s hours. Most days he doesn’t even rise until after the sun has set.”
This time Caroline was ready. Before Portia could elbow her, Caroline caught her forearm and gave it a sound pinch.
“Ow!”
At Portia’s involuntary yelp, Aunt Marietta lifted her quizzing glass to frown at the girl. “For heaven’s sake, child, get control of yourself. I thought someone had stepped on a spaniel.”
“Sorry,” Portia mumbled, slinking lower in her seat and shooting Caroline a narrow glare. “One of my dress pins must have poked me.”
Caroline turned to the window to watch the broad thoroughfares of Mayfair roll past, her serene smile mirroring Vivienne’s. The carriage was just turning onto Berkeley Square to reveal a terrace of handsome brick town houses basking in the mellow glow of the streetlamps.
As the carriage rolled to a halt, Caroline craned her neck to peer up at their destination. There was little to distinguish the four-story Georgian-style house from its neighbors—no snarling gargoyles perched on the slate roof, no black-caped figures lurking about its wrought-iron balconies, no muffled screams coming from the coal cellar.
Rather than being veiled with heavy drapes, the Palladian windows were aglow with lamplight, spilling a cheery welcome over the paved walk and covered portico.
“Ah, here we are at last!” Aunt Marietta announced as she gathered up her reticule and fan. “We should make haste, Vivienne. I’m sure your Lord Trevelyan is frantic with impatience.”
“He’s hardly my Lord Trevelyan, Auntie,” Vivienne pointed out. “After all, it’s not as if he’s declared for me or even hinted at his intentions.”
Watching an enchanting flush of rose spread over her sister’s fair cheeks, Caroline sighed. How could any man not fall madly in love with her?
She reached over to give Vivienne’s gloved hand a fond squeeze. “Aunt Marietta’s right, my dear. If you’ve captured this gentleman’s heart, then it’s only a matter of time before you’ll win his name as well.”
Vivienne squeezed back, giving her a grateful smile.
They descended from the carriage one by one, tucking their hands into the waiting footman’s. When Portia’s turn came, she hung back. The footman cleared his throat and extended his hand deeper into the carriage.
Caroline finally had to reach past him and yank her sister out of the carriage. As Portia tumbled into her arms, Caroline whispered through clenched teeth, “You heard Vivienne. It’s hardly uncommon for a gentleman to host a midnight supper.”
“Especially not if he’s a—”
“Don’t say it!” Caroline warned. “If I hear that word from your lips one more time tonight, I’ll bite you myself.”
Seeing that their aunt and sister had already disappeared into the house, Caroline urged a pouting Portia up the walk. They were nearly to the front steps when a dark shape separated itself from the shadows with a brittle flap of wings.
Portia ducked and let out an earsplitting shriek. “Did you see that?” she gasped, her nails digging into Caroline’s elbow-length gloves. “It was a bat!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure it was simply a nightjar or some other nocturnal bird.” Even as Caroline sought to soothe her sister’s nerves, she cast the eaves of the house a furtive look and drew the hood of her cloak up to cover her hair.
They soon found themselves standing in a brightly lit entrance hall with the tinkle of crystal, muted laughter, and the rich, sweet notes of a Haydn sonata drifting to their ears. The parquet floor had been waxed to such a high sheen that they could practically admire their reflections in it. Trying not to gawk, Caroline handed off her cloak to an apple-cheeked young maid.
The girl turned expectantly to Portia.
“No, thank you,” Portia muttered. “I do believe I might be taking a chill.” Clutching the collar of the cloak tighter around her throat, she manufactured a pitiable cough to lend credibility to her claim.
Offering the maid an apologetic smile, Caroline held out one hand. “Don’t be foolish, dear. If you become overheated, your chill could very well prove fatal.”
Recognizing the steely gleam of warning in Caroline’s eyes, Portia reluctantly shrugged off the cloak. She’d bundled a woolen shawl beneath it, carefully draped to conceal the slender column of her throat. Caroline ended up in a tugging match as she sought to unwrap the shawl with Portia stubbornly clinging to the other end of it. She finally wrested it away, only to discover a silk scarf beneath it.
She was unknotting the scarf, fighting the urge to strangle her sister with it, when a pungent aroma drifted to her nose. She leaned forward, sniffing at Portia’s skin. “What on earth is that stench? Is it garlic?”
Portia stiffened. “I should say not. It’s simply my new perfume.” Sticking her nose in the air, she went sweeping past Caroline, trailing the earthy scent behind her. Caroline tossed the scarf to the gaping maid and followed her sister into the drawing room.
As she surveyed the elegant assemblage, Caroline almost wished she had refused to surrender her own cloak. Vivienne was a vision of loveliness in celestial blue poplin, and Portia managed to look charmingly girlish in her finest Sunday frock. Since hems had risen and it was all the rage for one’s bosom to spill over the top of one’s bodice, Caroline hoped no one would notice that Portia’s gown was over two years old.
Caroline had been forced to scavenge her entire London wardrobe from one of their mother’s old trunks. She could only be thankful that Louisa Cabot had been as tall, slender, and small-breasted as she was. The pale India muslin evening dress she wore was almost Grecian in its simplicity, with a square-cut bodice, high waist, and none of the frills and furbelows that had been steadily coming back into fashion for the past decade.
Painfully aware of the curious looks directed her way by the dozen or so occupants of the drawing room, she pasted an awkward smile on her lips. Judging from the smug expressions and the diamonds twinkling on both the hands of the women and the men, it appeared that Portia had been right. Adrian Kane’s reputation didn’t seem to have damaged his social standing. A few of the women were already shooting Vivienne resentful glances.
Vivienne and Aunt Marietta drifted through the room, exchanging murmured greetings and welcoming nods. Portia lurked behind them, her hand clamped over her t
hroat.
The pianoforte in the corner fell silent. A dark figure rose from the instrument’s bench, his appearance sending a ripple of anticipation through the gathered guests. It seemed that Caroline and her family had arrived just in time for some sort of recitation. Relieved to find herself no longer the center of attention, Caroline eased into an alcove along the back wall where she could watch the proceedings without being ogled. A nearby French window overlooked the courtyard garden, promising a hasty escape if needed.
Simply by striding over to pose before the marble mantel, the black-garbed stranger magically transformed the hearth into a stage and the drawing room’s occupants into a rapt audience. His fashionable pallor only made his soulful dark eyes and the rakish black curls tumbling over his brow more striking. He was broad-shouldered, yet lean-hipped, with a strong, aquiline nose and full lips that betrayed a tantalizing hint of sensuality. From the fond smile curving Vivienne’s lips, Caroline deduced that he must be their host.
A reverent hush fell over the drawing room as he propped one foot on the hearth. Caroline found herself holding her own breath as he began to speak in a baritone so melodic it could have made the angels weep with envy.