“There you are!” Julian exclaimed, popping out of an attic window like an inebriated jack-in-the-box. His weaving was explained by the half-empty decanter of scotch he gripped in one hand. “I thought you’d gone out.”
“What would be the point?” Adrian eyed the horizon. In the past few years, he’d become an expert at detecting the faintest shift from black to gray. “The sun will be up in less than two hours.”
Julian staggered over and sank down on a crumbling chimney pot without a trace of the effete grace that had so dazzled Adrian’s guests. “And not a moment too soon, as far as I’m concerned,” he said, yawning broadly. “I don’t know what was more exhausting—being forced to spew out overwrought poetry for hours on end or having that little girl gaze at me all night as if I hung the moon.”
A wry smile touched Adrian’s lips. “Didn’t you?”
“No,” Julian retorted, lifting the decanter to the sky in a mocking toast. “Only the stars.”
Above their heads, those stars were winking out one by one, mourning the passing of the night. The fading shadows only deepened Julian’s pallor and accentuated the hollows beneath his eyes. The hand clutching the decanter betrayed a visible tremor.
Adrian nodded toward the decanter, feeling his heart twist with a concern that was becoming all too familiar. “Do you really think that’s wise?”
“Beats the alternative,” Julian quipped, taking another deep swig. “There’s only so much rare roast beef a fellow can choke down in one night. Besides, I have every right to celebrate, as do you. Didn’t you hear Larkin? After tracking Duvalier through every sordid hellhole on seven continents, we finally have the bastard in our sights. He’s falling right into our little trap.”
Adrian snorted. “Or setting a trap of his own.”
Julian leaned back on his elbows, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Do you think he’s seen her yet? Or was it just the rumors of your impending romantic bliss that finally lured him back to London?”
“I’m sure the mere thought that I could find happiness in the arms of any woman must be driving him insane with rage. I’ve tried to arrange it so he wouldn’t catch more than a glimpse of her until the ball. That’s why we’ve been frequenting darkened theaters and private suppers. I want to whet his appetite first, to draw him so deep into our net that escape will be impossible.”
“What makes you think he’ll take the bait and follow us to Wiltshire?”
“Because half of London will be following us to Wiltshire. You know as well as I do that a masquerade ball thrown by the mysterious Viscount Trevelyan will be the most sought after invitation of the Season. And Duvalier never could resist an audience.”
Julian reached down to wipe a speck of soot from his boot, plainly weighing his next words with care. “I’m fully confident in your ability to keep Vivienne out of Duvalier’s clutches, but aren’t you just a little bit worried about breaking the girl’s heart?”
Adrian offered his brother a rueful smile. “I might be. If it was mine to break.” Julian frowned in bewilderment, but before his brother could question him further, Adrian continued. “Speaking of Vivienne, I don’t believe her eldest sister was quite as enamored of you as young Portia was.”
Julian pulled a long face. “She was all starch and vinegar, that one.”
“On the contrary,” Adrian said, keeping his face carefully impassive. “I found the elder Miss Cabot to be quite intriguing.”
Vivienne had spoken of her older sister with such dismissive affection that Adrian had been expecting a dried-up spinster, not a slender, gray-eyed beauty garbed like Aphrodite herself. If Vivienne was sunlight, then Caroline was moonlight—silvery blond, misty, ephemeral. If he had dared to touch her, Adrian feared she would have melted like moonbeams through his fingers.
Julian finished off the scotch, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She didn’t seem to be particularly enamored of you, either. If it was her blessing you were seeking, I fear you’re doomed to disappointment.”
“I stopped looking for blessings a long time ago. All I needed was some assurance that she wouldn’t meddle in her sister’s affairs. But thanks to Larkin’s wretched timing, I’m afraid that all I succeeded in doing tonight was piquing her curiosity.”
Julian sat up, a worried frown creasing his brow. “Now that we know our plan is working, we can’t afford to let Duvalier slip through our fingers again. You don’t think she could pose a problem, do you?”
Adrian remembered those unguarded moments before Caroline had realized who he was. He’d been blinded by the naughty sparkle in her eyes, the nearly imperceptible sprinkling of freckles over her cheeks, the inviting fullness of her lips and the flash of her dimples, so at odds with the angular purity of her high cheekbones and sharp little nose. He had never intended for his teasing to bloom into a full-blown flirtation. But all of his noble intentions had flown out the terrace door when she looked up at him as if she wanted him to gobble her up.
He turned his gaze toward the brightening horizon, wishing he could welcome the sunrise instead of dreading it. “Not if I can bloody well help it.”
Chapter Five
“Despite being a vampire, I found Lord Trevelyan to be the very soul of kindness last night,” Portia remarked.
“I thought vampires didn’t have souls,” Caroline muttered, pacing her aunt’s octagonal parlor as if it were a cage.
Aunt Marietta and Vivienne had accepted an invitation to a Lady Marlybone’s card party, leaving Caroline and Portia to their own devices. The servants had retired early, relieved to be free of their mistress’s tyrannical demands.
Caroline made an abrupt shift in direction, nearly stumbling over an overstuffed bolster. Her aunt’s three-story lodgings occupied exactly half of a narrow town house. The parlor was as fussy and overblown as Aunt Marietta. Caroline could barely reach for a teacup without snagging her sleeve on the crook of some simpering china shepherdess. A dizzying array of floral chintzes and busy brocades draped the numerous sofas, chairs, and occasional tables.
Portia was curled up in one of those chairs, her bare feet tucked beneath the hem of her linen nightdress, a book of Byron’s poems nestled in her lap. Her dark curls peeked out from beneath a ruffled cap. “Don’t you think Julian would make a far more dashing vampire than his brother? He has such elegant hands and soulful eyes.” She hugged the leather-bound volume to her chest, a dreamy smile curving her lips. “He’s not too old for me, you know. He’s only two-and-twenty, five years younger than the viscount. If Vivienne should marry Lord Trevelyan, do you think she could persuade Julian to offer for me?”
Caroline turned and gazed down her nose at her sister. “Am I to understand that now that you’ve met his oh-so-handsome and ever-so-eligible brother, you’re willing to overlook the fact that you believe Lord Trevelyan to be a vampire?”
Portia blinked up at her. “Aren’t you the one who’s always urging me to be more practical?”
As Portia tucked her nose back in the book, Caroline shook her head and resumed her pacing. She supposed she had no right to scold Portia for her ridiculous suspicions when she was starting to feel as if Adrian Kane had cast some sort of hypnotic spell over her. She’d thought of nothing—and no one—else since the moment he had first offered her his handkerchief. She certainly couldn’t admit to Portia that she had tucked that innocuous scrap of linen beneath her pillow upon returning from the viscount’s town house. Or that she had drawn it out upon awakening just to see if a tantalizing whiff of bay rum and sandalwood still clung to its luxuriant folds.
Although Kane had been the perfect gentleman for most of the evening, Caroline was still haunted by that moment in the dining room when his mask of civility had slipped, revealing that he might be even more dangerous than Portia suspected. According to Constable Larkin, dangerous enough to make a young woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to their sister vanish from the face of the earth.
She tried to draw in a deep br
eath, but the suffocating sweetness of her aunt’s lavender perfume seemed to cling to every corner of the cluttered town house.
What if this Eloisa Markham did resemble Vivienne? Was it so terrible to imagine that a man might be attracted to a woman who reminded him of his lost love? Especially if she had been lost to another man.
Caroline had spent the evening searching for any sign of a grand passion between Vivienne and her viscount—long, lingering looks, a discreet brush of the hands when they thought no one was looking, sneaking off behind a potted palm to share a passionate kiss. But they were the very model of propriety. Kane had chuckled at her sister’s jests, heaped effusive praise on her rather mediocre harp playing, and stopped just short of rumpling her hair when she said something particularly clever. He seemed to treat Vivienne with the same fond affection one might show a beloved cousin.
Or a cherished pet.
Caroline rubbed her furrowed brow. What if Vivienne’s affections were more deeply engaged than Kane’s? Unlike Portia, Vivienne had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve. Caroline couldn’t bear the thought of breaking that gentle heart when her only weapons were rumors and unproven accusations. She was also keenly aware that Vivienne’s heart wasn’t the only thing at stake. Not with Cousin Cecil all but threatening to toss them into the streets if she didn’t promise to “look upon him more kindly” in the future.
She hugged back a shudder. She wasn’t yet ready to condemn Kane. Not when she knew for sure that Cousin Cecil was a monster.
But she still couldn’t help wondering what sin could be so dark as to turn Kane’s best friend into his sworn enemy? And who was the mysterious Victor Duvalier? The constable had obviously used the man’s name as a taunt. Kane’s stony-faced reaction had only made him look more guilty, not less. Especially when his brother had gone as pale as a corpse at the mere mention of the name.
Caroline wandered over to the window. In just a few short days she and Portia would be banished back to their drafty old cottage at Edgeleaf. But how could she leave London, knowing that she might be abandoning her sister to a villain’s mercy?
As she gazed into the shadows of the night, wondering what dark secrets they held, Constable Larkin’s warning echoed through her memory: I don’t know exactly what he is. I only know that death follows wherever he goes.
“Death won’t be the only thing following him tonight,” she murmured. If Constable Larkin couldn’t provide her with the proof she needed to condemn or exonerate Kane, she would just have to do a little sleuthing of her own.
“Did you say something?” Portia asked, glancing up from her book.
“I most certainly did,” Caroline replied, turning briskly away from the window. “Get dressed and fetch your cloak. We’re going out.”
Sensing that some rare excitement was afoot, Portia slammed her book shut and scrambled out of the chair, her eyes sparkling with eagerness. “Where are we going?”
As Caroline’s gaze fell on a pair of dusty papier-mâché half masks resting on her aunt’s mantel, souvenirs of some long forgotten masquerade, a grim smile curved her lips. “Vampire hunting.”
As she and Portia slipped from the hired hack, even Caroline had to admit that it was a fine evening for vampires and other creatures of the night to be afoot—windy and unseasonably warm, with just enough threat of rain in the air to rattle the branches of the trees and set the budding May leaves to trembling. A shy half-moon peeked through the tattered veil of clouds. At least they would be safe from werewolves, Caroline thought wryly.
She had spent nearly every last coin of their meager allowance to hire the conveyance. Now she would have to return to Edgeleaf and beg Cousin Cecil for a pittance to tide them over until the end of the month. He would swear they’d squandered their money on high living in London. Instead, they’d spent an hour huddled in a rented hack that reeked of cigar smoke and stale perfume, waiting for Lord Trevelyan to emerge from his town house.
Caroline had been ready to admit defeat when the viscount’s crested carriage emerged from the alley that ran behind the row of houses. She’d poked awake a dozing Portia and signaled the driver, who had already been instructed to follow the carriage at a discreet distance. Once it reached the viscount’s destination, she and Portia had paused just long enough to fasten their cloaks and adjust the gold-leaf masks that covered only the upper half of their faces before eagerly forsaking the musty interior of the carriage for the warm, windy night.
“Oh, my!” Portia breathed, gazing upward in awe.
Caroline was tempted to do the same. She’d expected Kane to lead them to some dank alley, but instead he had lured them to one of Portia’s imaginary fairy kingdoms, brought to vibrant life by a sprinkle of pixie dust and the tap of a magic wand.
As she gazed up at the flickering lanterns strung through the branches of the elms, and heard the distant strains of violin and mandolin, Caroline realized they were standing before the gates of Vauxhall, the most celebrated—and notorious—pleasure gardens in all of London.
Her heart skipped a beat as Adrian Kane emerged from the row of vehicles parked ahead of them. Unlike one of Portia’s fantastical realms, this place held both enchantment and danger.
The viscount was hatless and the warm honey of his hair gleamed beneath the kiss of the lantern light. The waist-length cape of his coat made his shoulders look even broader and more intimidating. He glanced in their direction, his penetrating gaze scanning the crowd. Caroline grabbed Portia’s elbow and ducked behind a stout matron, seized by the ridiculous notion that he was going to march right back to them and jerk her up by the ear.
But when she peeped around the woman’s shoulder, he had swung around and started toward the gates, walking stick in hand.
“Quick! There he goes.” Snatching Portia by the hand, Caroline lurched into an awkward trot to match his long strides.
Despite Constable Larkin’s insinuations, there was nothing furtive about Kane’s movements. He walked the night as if he owned it, towering head and shoulders over most of the patrons streaming toward the garden.
“I was rather hoping Julian would be with him,” Portia confessed, already out of breath from their brisk pace.
“From what I understand, most predators like to hunt alone,” Caroline muttered without thinking.
Portia stopped dead in her tracks, jerking Caroline to a halt. Caroline turned to find her sister gazing at her, her eyes round with disbelief.
“I thought we were just here on a lark,” Portia said. “Do you mean to tell me that you weren’t joking about the vampire hunting? Do you really believe the viscount might be a vampire?”
“I’m not sure what I believe anymore,” Caroline replied grimly, tugging her sister back into motion. “But I intend to find out tonight.”
They were almost through the garden gate when a balding man in homespun trousers and shirt reached out from his wooden booth to block their path. “Whoa there, ladies!”
Although he addressed them as ‘ladies’, there was no mistaking the skeptical gleam in his eye. Caroline could hardly blame him for thinking the worst of two young unchaperoned females out on the town at this unholy hour. She was painfully aware that she was risking both of their reputations. But how could she weigh their reputations against Vivienne’s entire future? She could only pray the masks would keep them from being recognized by anyone in Aunt Marietta’s social circle.
Barely glancing at the man, she bounced up and down on her tiptoes, desperate to keep Kane in view. “We’re in a terrible hurry, sir. Could you please stand aside?”
“Not until ye fork over three shillings apiece.”
When she turned to stare at him blankly, he sighed and rolled his eyes. “For admittance to the garden.”
“Oh!” Caroline recoiled in dismay. This was an expense she had not anticipated, one that would leave them with little more than a handful of pennies in their rapidly dwindling coffers. But unless they wanted to return to Aunt Marietta’s lo
dgings no wiser than when they’d left, she had little choice. Kane was already melting rapidly into the crush.
Drawing her silk reticule from the inner pocket of her cloak, Caroline counted out the money and tossed it at the man’s outstretched hand.
She and Portia scrambled through the gate hand in hand. Revelers thronged the garden’s Grand Walk. Lanterns twinkled like stars among the majestic branches of the elms that lined the graveled thoroughfare. Lovers strolled arm in arm through air perfumed with night-blooming jasmine and roasted chestnuts.
A buxom lady swept past them, trailed by a liveried page, his powdered wig as white as snow, his smooth skin as dark as polished ebony. A handful of children darted through the crowd like sprightly elves, their eyes bright with mischief and their pudgy little fingers gripping sugar biscuits or whatever treat they’d most recently coaxed their parents into purchasing. A dark-eyed man stood beside a marble fountain, the violin tucked beneath his chin weeping out a wistful melody.
As she peered at all of the engaging sights around them, Portia’s steps slowed. Caroline could hardly blame her. She was in grave danger of falling beneath the garden’s enchantment herself. But she was jostled out of its spell by a swaggering pack of bucks, who stared just a little too hard and a little too long at Portia’s bosom. Just a few days ago she’d overheard Aunt Marietta and some of her cronies whispering about an unfortunate young miss who had been dragged from her mother’s side into one of the shadowy glades that bounded the gardens by a drunken pair of young bloods intent upon the worst sort of mischief.
“Hurry, Portia,” Caroline urged, gathering her sister even closer. “We mustn’t let him get too far ahead of us!” She kept her gaze locked on Kane, his powerful shoulders suddenly seeming more of a comfort than a threat.