Clio was accustomed to being unwelcome by her family, but the twin looks of disgust bordering on hatred that shown on the faces of her grandmother and her cousin, Mariana, were unique in her experience. Not that she could really blame them. After all, she had been receiving her quarterly allowance for the last five years on the single condition that she never bothered any of them, a condition that had been redoubled upon the last payment with the stipulation that if Clio did anything to disrupt Mariana’s upcoming nuptials to Viscount Dearbourn, if she so much as showed a lock of her unbeautiful hair during any of the proceedings prior to the wedding, her allowance would be cut off for all time, and other bad, nameless things, would happen to her.
And here she was, bursting into the exact center of her cousin’s betrothal ball, practically accosting the man Mariana was to marry, wearing a tattered gown that was barely acceptable inside her house and certainly not fit for a gala like this. Hoping that making a rapid departure would at least allow her to keep some part of the allowance that she had never needed as desperately as at that moment, she turned to look for Toast.
She saw only Miles. “It appears that introductions are unnecessary between all of you,” he observed with a surprised gesture in the direction of his betrothed, “but allow me to introduce myself. I am Miles Loredan. The Viscount Dearbourn. Who are you?”
Clio did not have time to wonder at the strange tone in which he pronounced his title. “I am Lady Clio Thornton and it is an honor to meet you my lord and if you will accept my apologies I shall be going good night I am sorry to have intruded,” Clio said in a single breath.
“Surely you could spare me one dance before you go, Lady Thornton,” Miles asked, all memory of his business meeting gone.
Clio’s heart was racing. “No,” she said, stepping backward, away from him. “I cannot.”
He lowered his voice. “I promise there will be no repeat of my earlier behavior.”
“It is not that, it is only—” Clio began to protest but was cut off by her grandmother.
“Yes, by all means, Clio. Dance with the viscount. One would so enjoy the entertainment of watching you stumble around the room.”
Miles shot Lady Alecia an unfriendly look for these words, but he was smiling when his eyes returned to Clio. “It would do me great honor. Unless of course you need to get back to your reading.” He leaned down slightly to see the book in Clio’s hand, then stood abruptly. “What are you doing with that?”
All at once, Clio saw the beginning of a solution to her financial problem. Part of her mind knew that there were a thousand reasons it was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but it might also be her best option. Giving Miles a timid half smile—the first he had seen from her—she set the book down on the refreshment table and said, “I shall explain it as we dance.”
The room buzzed as Miles led Clio into the middle of the floor and signaled to the musicians to begin a lively volta. Other couples rushed to join them, jostling to be nearest to the mystery woman for better observation, and even Mariana could not resist, dragging an embarrassed yet enraptured looking Saunders out onto the floor with her when Doctor La Forge refused. Theories about Clio’s identity circled the room faster than the dancers’ feet, ranging from the pedestrian—that she was the illegitimate child of the queen—to the more obscure—that she was one of a band of fairies sent by the Spanish to bewitch England—and everything in between. The Arboretti were somewhat inclined to this latter theory, if only because they could think of no other explanation for the rapid metamorphosis the woman called Clio had worked on Miles. Everything about him that has been wrong suddenly seemed right, and the smile he was giving her was the most Miles-like smile they had seen in years.
Lawrence Pickering, who with his companion had been detained by well wishers on their way up the stairs and had missed the stunning arrival of the girl with the monkey, now stood with Crispin. “Miles and his betrothed certainly make a charming couple,” he said, gesturing at the dancers.
“They do,” Crispin agreed. “But that is not his betrothed.”
“Oh. Oh, no.”
“Exactly,” Crispin nodded. They watched as Miles and his companion spun around the room, stunned by the unfamiliar sound of Miles’s good-natured laughter.
Clio, whose experience with dancing had been limited to the miserable forms she was forced to run through at Mariana’s birthday celebrations, had always thought it was an idiotic pastime designed only to humiliate, but Miles was a sublime dancer and she found that she was having a not entirely horrible time. Indeed, for the first few rounds, she lost herself in the pleasure of dancing with him—of feeling his golden eyes on her, of laughing with him—to such an extent that she momentarily forgot about her plan.
And then he reached out and touched her cheek—unable to stop himself, he had to wipe that smudge of dirt off, he had been thinking about it all afternoon—and the feel of his thumb gently caressing her made Clio miss a step. Or was it Miles who missed a step, Miles who was so undone by the softness of her skin—my God, if her cheek were that soft, what would the rest of her be like—Miles who held her against him for the briefest second—roses, that is what she smelled like, delicate wild roses—Miles who felt her heart beating hard against her dress.
It was then that Clio caught sight of her grandmother nodding knowingly (You see, you cannot dance. You are a bad, wicked girl) from her place at the edge of the room. Then that she saw her grandmother frown in her direction even as she discussed something with an overdressed gentleman at her side. Immediately she recollected the reason she had agreed to be led onto the dance floor in the first place.
“You asked about the book, my lord,” she began when Miles had released her. She found she was slightly out of breath.
“I did?” Miles asked, then smiled, recalling. “I did.” He led her in a weaving step among the other dancers. He found he did not want to talk about it much. “None of my business, certainly.”
“It is, actually,” Clio said. “I am reading it because I believe that the Vampire of London is back.”
Miles did not miss a step. “Impossible. He is dead.”
Clio nodded. If anyone should know, it would be her companion, since he was the one who had succeeded in hunting him down and shooting him after the fiend killed his beloved mistress Beatrice. Clio had read all about it in the news sheets, and it was upon this that she had based her plan. “I know that he is supposed to be,” she agreed as they came together in a turn, “but this morning I saw the body of a dead girl. With two pricks on her neck. And a gardenia.”
Miles pulled her toward him so they were dancing closer together. “How do you know about the gardenia?” he asked, his face serious.
Clio waved the question away with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that a girl is dead and others may die and I want to see to it that does not happen.”
Miles spun her out, then back, and asked, “Just how do you propose to do that?”
“I am going to find the vampire,” she said, turning away.
Miles turned her back. “I have already found him. And killed him.”
“I think you are wrong,” Clio said, her eyes challenging over her shoulder as they glided among the other dancers. “And I can prove it.”
“Indeed?” Miles slipped her arm through his. “How?”
“By bringing him to you,” Clio explained. Their conversation stopped while they entered a long arch made by the arms of the other dancers.
“I see,” Miles resumed on the other side. “And exactly what would motivate you to do that?” He swung her in a wide arc.
“Money,” Clio answered simply, not sorry that the turn had taken her out of his immediate gaze. “I propose that you pay me to find him.”
Miles’s feet kept time, but his mind left the dance. Even as he pulled Clio toward him, he was remembering the night he caught the vampire. The long scar across his stomach where the vampire had tried to drive his knife into
Miles’s heart was the only physical evidence he had of the horrible battle, but the memory, the memory of that man standing next to the girl, of his lips… He could not let the woman now in his arms see what he had seen.
“Not only will I not pay you to find him,” he announced in the voice of one accustomed to requiring—and receiving—obedience, “it would be foolish for someone like you even to look.”
“Foolish? Of someone like me?” Clio spat out the words. She pulled away from him and there was anger burning in her eyes. “Why? What is wrong with me? Do you think I am incapable of it just because you failed to capture him?”
Miles heard only two words. You failed resounded in his head, and everything instantly went white. Then his mind became completely, acutely, clear.
The events of the evening snapped through his memory one after another—I have already reserved an emerald pendant on a pearl choker. The vampire of London is back. Pay me—and a clear picture of what had happened took shape. He stood still in the middle of the floor, his hands on Clio’s shoulders, his eyes looking at hers but not seeing them, a terrible smile on his face. “Will you and Mariana stop at nothing for money?” he sneered. “This was a rather elaborate ruse, making up that story about a dead girl. Elaborate and tasteless.” He pulled her forcefully toward him and his eyes bored into hers. “Next time, don’t tax yourself. Just have Mariana ask for my purse directly.”
“What in the queen’s name are you talking about?” Clio asked, numbed by the expression on his face.
“You said it yourself. You want money from me. But you made an error. I rarely pay women for services they perform with their clothes off, and never for those with their clothes on.”
Clio wanted to slap him hard until his cheeks burned but willed herself to keep her fists clenched by her sides. Her hands were trembling, but not for the reason Miles thought. Pushing past him, she grabbed Toast who had by that time successfully decimated the meat-pie table and was proposing the health of the entire assembled company with real wine, and stalked from the room. She tried to keep her pace slow and dignified, but she knew what was about to happen and wanted to get away before it started.
The first hiccup came as they stepped out of Dearbourn Hall, and they multiplied as she and Toast made their way quickly through the quiet streets. Clio hated the hiccups, not because they were uncomfortable, but because of what they said about her. They were a sign of the war that raged inside her, a war between the violent urges that seized her and her efforts to keep them at bay. She only got the hiccups—and always got them—when she had forced herself to subdue the powerful impulses that smoldered within her. Her hands trembled with the back-and-forth pull of violence and restraint, and she was appalled, as she always was, by the realization that she had wanted to do another person harm. She had never acted on one of these impulses, had never hurt anyone, but that did not mean that she never would, and the prospect horrified her. You carry a devil inside you, she could hear her grandmother’s voice saying, just like your father, and despite how hard Clio fought against believing the words, the hiccups were always an undeniable reminder.
Don’t think about them, she admonished herself. Don’t think about the hiccups or your grandmother or Mariana or Viscount Dearbourn, or dancing—
She stopped walking and stooped down to look Toast in the eye.
“Why did you take me there tonight?” she demanded. “Was it only for the food?” At the word food her stomach rumbled.
Toast shook his head but reached into his doublet and produced a slightly mangled meat pie, holding it out to her. When she refused it, he pushed it at her more insistently.
“No bribes,” she hiccuped. “Tell the truth.”
Toast held the meat pie out to her with one hand and put his other on his hip, with an expression—one worthy of Inigo—that said she would absolutely get no more information from him until she took the savory pastry. Many people would have felt ridiculous taking orders from a monkey, but none of them knew Toast, or were as hungry as Clio was. She acquiesced, devouring the meat pie in three blissful bites between hiccups. Then she picked Toast up and brought him level with her eyes.
“Did our going there have something to do with the vampire?” she asked seriously. “With the kerchief you smelled today?”
Toast nodded and began looking agitated.
“Was he there? The man you smelled?”
Toast nodded again, squirming in her grasp to turn and look over his shoulder at the street behind him. Even by the dim light of the waning moon, it was easy to see that it was deserted.
“Was he the man I danced with?”
Toast relaxed slightly, shaking his head in negation.
“But he was there.” Clio spoke the words as much to herself as to the monkey, setting him back on the ground. He ran ahead of her and she followed, letting the implication of her words seep in. The vampire had been at the ball. Given that her conversation with Miles had not been exactly private, he probably knew she was looking for him. And only Toast seemed to know his true identity. Her fastest route to finding the murderer, she concluded, was to keep him on a very short leash.
For a moment she wondered at what was really driving her forward. It was not simply that she wanted to catch the girl’s killer. That would have been enough, but she knew there was more. There was something deeper she was looking for, something personal.
She quickened her steps to catch up with Toast—her best chance at a solution—who was skipping down the street in front of her. Thinking it was a game, he increased his pace, too, and she had just opened her mouth to tell him to stop when a hook shot out of an alley, grabbed him, and dragged him, shrieking, away.
By the time Clio reached the alley the shrieking had stopped and there was no sign of her monkey in sight.
Chapter Three
Clio’s hiccups were gone. She ran headlong down the alley, struggling to listen over the sound of her panting, her eyes straining in the darkness. She slowed her pace, concentrating, and even still she almost missed it.
“I’ve got you,” a voice said behind a door just beyond her on the right. Clio crept back and put her ear next to it, listening.
“How would you like to feel these, eh? They’re sharp, they are. Sharp enough to teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget.”
Clio pushed the door open and walked in. Toast, gagged, was hanging upside down by his legs from the large hand of a red-faced man. She had never been in this room before but she had been in the shop just beyond it, and she recognized the man with the hand as its proprietor, Arthur Copperwith, apothecary, slightly less than sober.
“Aye, Miss Clio,” he greeted her. “Saw this little devil running down the street and thought I’d show him what I think of his behavior.”
Clio kept her voice level. “What exactly has Toast done, Mr. Copperwith?”
“What’s he done? Why, what he always does. Robbed me blind, that’s what he done. Just the other day when you were in the store purchasing my serum. Snuck in here and helped himself to almost my whole stock of ourali.”
The behavior the apothecary was describing was not beyond Toast, Clio knew—he had a way of making anything edible disappear into the folds of his doublet and had in fact produced a handful of lavender lozenges after their last visit—but Clio had read about the herb Copperwith claimed Toast had taken and knew it was poisonous, smelled bad, and was decidedly inedible. Plus, Clio had made it a practice to keep a close eye on Toast in public for that reason, and did not recall him leaving the front of the store during their last visit. “Are you sure?” she asked, frowning.
“Sure as this little devil is a monkey,” Copperwith nodded. “You came in to get my famous serum, and after you left I walked back here for a little nip and what do I see but half my supplies gone.”
Clio looked at Toast. “Did you steal anything from this room?” The monkey shook his head furiously and Clio turned her gaze to the apothecary. “He says he did not do it. Couldn’
t someone else have taken it?” Clio suggested.
The man was unmoved. “Says he did not do it, does he?” He gave Toast a violent look. “Didn’t have any other customers that morning. Had to be your friend. But that is the last time.” He brandished the pair of shears he had been holding in his free hand and brought them to Toast’s ear. The monkey wriggled in the man’s grasp, looking at Clio desperately. “Going to make sure he listens to me good next time I warn him.”
“Wait,” Clio commanded. “Put him down.” When Copperwith gave her only a suspicious frown in reply, she rushed on. “I will pay you for whatever he took. But don’t hurt him.”
The shears receded slightly from Toast’s head. “Pay me? When?”
“Tomorrow,” Clio answered positively, as if she had crates of gold inconveniently filling her foyer. “But you must put him down.”
Copperwith reluctantly, and not gently, lowered Toast to the floor. He scampered over to Clio and leapt into her outstretched arms.
“Thank you,” she said. She examined the monkey to be sure he was intact, then asked, “How much do I owe you?”
Copperwith looked around the storeroom for a moment, adding. “Ourali is mighty rare. Comes over from the New World, got to steal it from savages you know. And I’m about the only person around who’s got it. Should be eleven pounds twenty. But since you are a good customer, I’ll let you have it for ten pounds.”
Ten pounds was enough to feed Which House for a month, albeit not extravagantly, but one did not haggle over one’s best friend’s ears. “You may send someone for it tomorrow,” Clio agreed, wondering where the money would come from.
Copperwith glared at Toast for a moment, then nodded. “You be careful Miss Clio. Just a bit of that stuff and you’d be dead faster than you could say a prayer, and he stole enough to kill off half London. I wouldn’t want the little devil near me with that poison on him.”