Lady Killer

  Clio stood on her tiptoes, and he bent down over her, gently, softly brushing his lips against hers. Butterflies, satin, blades of grass, honey, rose petals, marble, none of them were right for the feeling of his lips on hers. They were barely touching, and yet Clio was astonishingly aware that this was different than what she had felt with Justin Greeley. This was achingly, impossibly wonderful.

  Miles felt transported back in time, back to a moment before the pain, the enforced emptiness, before the vision. Before Beatrice.

  The kiss lasted less than two seconds.

  It was Clio who ended it, pulling away sharply. She reached her fingers up to her lips, touching them where his mouth had been, kicking herself mentally. This man was betrothed to her cousin. He could never be hers, he would always be one more thing that she lost, one more person who was fascinated by Mariana and repulsed by her. How hard it must be to know you are unlovable, she heard Mariana say again. She was not jealous, it was different than that. She just needed never to see him again.

  “Good day Lord Dearbourn,” she said, then spun and walked away.

  Miles did not follow her. It had been Clio who ended the kiss, but Miles who was charred by it. He had won his peace by ridding himself of all those emotions, emptying himself (and his wine cellar) and he would not go back.

  But where would his peace be if he let Clio Thornton be killed by the Vampire of London? Where was his peace anyway?

  “Wait,” he shouted, moving quickly after her. He wanted to let her go, wanted to force her to go away from him, forever, but he could not. He had to make sure she would do nothing that got her killed. “I need to talk to you,” he said when he caught up with her.

  Clio did not stop moving. “About what just happened?” she asked in a stilted voice, not looking at him. “Don’t worry, it—”

  “No. About the vampire.”

  Clio walked on in silence, still avoiding his gaze.

  “I want your promise that you will not pursue him,” Miles continued when it was clear she would not speak.

  Now Clio looked up at him. “I will make no such promise. Why should I?”

  “I will pay you.”

  Clio gave a harsh laugh. “My lord, although it may be hard for you to believe in light of what just happened, and although I would very much like your money, I have my pride. I am no more inclined to take money from men for no reason, than you are to pay women who work with their clothes on.”

  “Very well. Then I will pay you to look into something for me.” Miles could not understand how he had failed to see this option earlier. He had been briefed on her investigations and impressed by her success—as well as by the way the Special Commissioner’s face looked near exploding whenever her name was mentioned.

  She stopped walking. “Into the vampire?”

  “No. Into a household matter. Someone has been killing my guard dogs and—”

  Clio put up a hand, interrupting him. “Have you been speaking to the Special Commissioner?”

  “No,” Miles lied. “Why?”

  “I was trying to decide if you said that innocently or maliciously.”

  “And what did you conclude?” Miles smiled his most innocent smile.

  “It does not matter.” Clio shook her head and began walking again, this time faster. “I do not do investigations involving dogs.”

  “That is a very strange rule. Why not?” Miles asked, genuinely curious.

  Clio waved his question away. “I have a great many strange rules. You would not enjoy working with me.”

  Miles had to stifle a laugh. “Perhaps you should allow me to determine what I would and would not enjoy, Lady Thornton. If you are refusing because you think the investigation is somehow beneath you, I can assure you, the situation with my dogs is very grave. They were not poisoned or strangled and—”

  “I am sorry. Even if I were willing to undertake a case chasing puppies around, I would have to decline. I already have a client.”

  “Who?” Miles demanded, suddenly serious again.

  “I do not divulge the names of my clients to men who chase me down the street. Another of my strange rules.”

  Miles decided not to contest her description. “Does this client want you to find the vampire?”

  Clio shrugged.

  “It would be a mistake for you to attempt to unmask the Vampire of London on your own, Lady Thornton.”

  “It would be impossible for me to do it any other way. I only work alone.”

  “Not this time,” Miles told her. “Not against this fiend.”

  “I am not sure I believe he is a fiend. I am not convinced this is anything more than a clever, and somewhat theatrical, murderer.”

  Miles’s voice was low, serious. “You are wrong, Clio. I did not believe it was a vampire either, but I do now. And I can prove it to you.”

  Clio did not reply for a moment, letting his words, or rather, one of them, sink in. Then she asked simply, “How?”

  “I can tell you what I saw the night we captured him. But only if you agree to work for me.”

  “I have already told you, I do not investigate dogs.”

  “I understand. I will pay you to help me find the vampire.” The best way to ensure that she did nothing to put herself in danger was to oversee her actions himself, Miles realized. “But it must be on my terms. We work together. You do what I say. We share information. I know more than anyone else about the vampire, but I will only tell you if you are in my employ.”

  The audacity of the Deerhound knew no boundaries, Clio thought to herself. He would be perfect with Mariana. Who did he think he was, the Lord High Commissioner for the Security of the Kingdom? Did he really think she would allow him to command her? She would find the money and the information some other way. Even dealing with the Special Commissioner would be preferable. With enormous relief, she saw her front door in the near distance. She was just formulating an appropriate response to his kind offer when she noticed the figure pacing back and forth in front of her house like a sinister sentinel. The apothecary’s apprentice.

  She had entirely forgotten about the ten pounds she owed Arthur Copperwith. She reached for her purse, but then remembered that she had not bothered to bring it with her because it was completely empty. Her mind racing, she looked from the sentinel to the Deerhound, and had an idea.

  “Let me understand,” she began, casually. “In order to learn what you know, I have to let you pay me?”

  “You have to agree to work for me, yes,” Miles nodded.

  “Very well. My consultation fee is ten pounds.”

  Miles held out two large round coins to her, but she shook her head and gestured for him to follow. “Give them to him,” she announced, pointing to the shabby looking man standing menacingly in front of her door. “He is a sort of guard,” she explained, as Miles handed over the money.

  Closing the door on the “guard’s” toothless grin, Miles followed her into the cool, dark-paneled vestibule of her house. The noise of the street disappeared, replaced by the muffled sound of someone proclaiming the end of the Roman Empire in another room, accompanied by a twittering that Miles recognized as the monkey’s. The scent of the light pink roses that covered the facade floated on the air, and grew stronger as Clio led him into her study, where a bunch of them were haphazardly arranged in a water jug. The room seemed filled with Clio’s presence, with her scent. It would be a good room for sleeping in, Miles thought.

  A tall, gangly looking man wearing an alarming wig, whom Clio addressed as Snug, followed them in.

  “You saw the gentleman outside,” Snug asked delicately.

  Clio signed. “Yes. He has been satisfied. But remind me that I need to have a talk with Toast. A long talk.” The tone in her voice made Miles glad that his name was not Toast.

  “Very good. May I bring anything for you and your, ah, visitors?” Snug looked at the little gold puppy, now covered in dust, who was chasing his tail around Miles’s legs.

&nbs
p; “Take him,” Clio pointed at the dog, “to the kitchen and give him some refreshment. Nothing for the viscount. He would not want to trouble you.”

  Miles could have sworn that Snug sneered at him. He followed Clio toward the back of the room, and took the chair she motioned him into as she moved behind a mammoth desk. She settled back in her seat, leveled her eyes at him, and said, “Prove to me there is a vampire. Tell me what you saw.”

  Much of what happened in the course of his seventy-two hour pursuit of the Vampire of London three years earlier had grown cloudy in Miles’s memory during his recovery from the knife wound to his abdomen, but there was one image that did not dim. He could use a drink, he thought, and considered asking for a glass—or better, a carafe—of wine, but one look at Clio’s intent expression changed his mind.

  He took a deep breath, pushed his hair off his forehead, and began speaking. “We had been pursuing the Vampire for two days when we finally found him, and even then it was more luck than skill. Every member of the queen’s guard was sent out into the streets and told to watch for a man who fit the vague descriptions we had collected from witnesses. Even this was guesswork, since half the people claimed he was tall, the other half that he was short, some said he had blond hair, others red. Nor was it helped by all of the theories that were circulating. We had several false calls—one poor man caught in bed begged us to arrest him just to keep his wife away from him when she learned he had a mistress—but finally we found the right man.”

  Miles’s voice changed, became almost colorless, as if he were giving a report to a committee, and he looked out the window. “One of the guards had seen a short, young girl go into a building, followed—a half hour later, when her light had gone out—by a figure in a cape wearing a cap with light hair showing beneath it. I stationed my men around the building to stop his escape and I went in alone. The door to the girl’s room was ajar, and I was able to enter without making a noise. There were no candles, but the moon was half-full and it was possible to see everything in the room.” He paused, swallowing again. He wished he had asked for that drink. “There was a bed against the far wall. A man leaned over the bed, a man in dark clothes. He was small—” Miles remembered his surprise, surprise that someone that slight could be so dangerous—“and fair, that much I could see from behind. I inched close to him, until I was within lunging distance, and I touched his back with my sword.”

  “He turned around slowly and faced me. His cap was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face, and his hair hung over his forehead but I could see his eyes, huge and glassy, and his mouth and teeth, dripping blood. Blood from the woman behind him. Blood from where he had punctured her neck. The wound was so fresh it was still bleeding. There was blood everywhere, on his clothes, on her pillow.” Miles brought his eyes to Clio’s. They looked haunted. “I saw him sucking her blood, Lady Thornton. There can be no other explanation—he is a vampire.”

  Clio had to agree, or at least, almost. There was something about Miles’s narrative that bothered her, but she could not put her finger on it. As he had been speaking, Toast had come in and settled himself on her shoulder, placing a soothing hand around her neck. Despite his comforting touch, she felt numb, as if she had been in the darkened room, as if she had seen the glassy eyes, the bloody mouth. For a moment, neither she nor Miles spoke, locked in their own thoughts.

  Clio broke the silence. “If it is true, if he is a vampire as you maintain, then what has he been living on these past three years? There have been no notices of vampire attacks anywhere in England. Have you read A Compendium of Vampires?”

  “Yes, I have a copy of it in my library. And I know it says that the vampire needs regular infusions of blood to survive. My guess is that he went over to the continent. I have already written to my business agents in Venice, Milan, Rome, Paris, and Prague to see if anyone has reported any unusual deaths.”

  Clio pondered this, and as she did, she felt herself wavering, both about the possible existence of a vampire, and about the advisability of going through with her plan as she had devised it earlier. Maybe this once she should lift her prohibition on working alone. Maybe she should consider collaborating with the Deerhound and his agents in Venice, Milan, Rome, Paris, and Prague. Not to mention with his purse. But then she remembered how she had felt when he said her name, how she had felt when he kissed her, how it had been like waking up into a dream, how she had sworn off all partnerships of any kind for any reason and particularly partnerships with men who made her feel that way when they kissed her and said her name, not to mention those who were betrothed to and most likely in love with Mariana, and she knew she was better by herself. Safer.

  “Snug,” she called out, breaking the silence. When the man appeared in the doorway she said, “Please bring the viscount his dog. He is leaving.”

  Miles stared at her. “I beg your pardon? We have only begun our work.”

  Clio shook her head. “You said you would only tell me what you knew if you could pay me—”

  “—Hire you,” Miles corrected.

  Clio shrugged. “It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Well, you paid me ten pounds, and I got ten pounds of information. I doubt you have anything else of interest to impart, so I’ll not make you pay me any more. It would not be ethical. Of course, you would know the value of your information better than I would.”

  Miles’s face hardened into the mask of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “This is not a jest. I hired you. And I expect you to do what I say. Right now, I expect you to answer my questions. After that, we shall see.”

  “You can pay me to listen to you, Lord Dearbourn, but your entire fortune would not be adequate to secure my obedience. Good day, Viscount.”

  Miles realized then that there was only one way to handle a woman as stubborn as Clio Thornton, and that was to give her exactly what she wanted. “As you like, Lady Thornton,” he said, his voice cool and formal and one hundred percent viscount as he rose from his seat. “Do what you wish. I apologize for my unwanted intrusion and I will not bother you any further. I wish you the best of luck with your investigation.” He bent over to pick up the puppy and was about to leave the room when a man with incredible white hair stopped him in the doorway and cried, “Perfect, perfect, perfect!”

  The man was looking not at Miles but at the puppy squirming in his arms. “Just what we need,” the man proclaimed. “A dog will liven up that banquet scene like nobody’s business. No one else has done a scene with a puppy before. That’ll smite them!” And without another word, he scooped the puppy from Miles’s grasp and disappeared.

  “Mr. Williams,” Clio called after him with alarm. “Mr. Williams you must bring back the viscount’s dog. Mr. Williams!”

  “Let him keep it,” Miles said. Maybe it would bite her. Then he traced a formal bow, turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Clio made a face at his receding back, which was echoed by Toast. She was reviewing and revamping a list of his hateful qualities and had just determined that the less time she spent with him the happier she would be, when Snug entered the room.

  “This was delivered while you were out. Apparently you forgot it last night at Dearbourn Hall.” He held out a bound volume that she recognized as her—or rather, her father’s—copy of A Compendium of Vampires. She took it and opened to the point where a marker had been placed, then stopped.

  It was a single piece of paper, unfolded. Written on it in careful black letters was the phrase: You do not know what you are.

  Clio had no idea what the words meant, but she suddenly felt chilled through.

  Mrs. Wattles, wife of Mr. Wattles the doll maker-cum-artist, bustled into the front of her husband’s workshop, out of breath. Between having to run her own errands now that their maid-of-all-work had been taken by the Vampire of London, and having to stop at every one of her London acquaintances to share that news as she did so, she had traversed the city more than once that day and, not being a small woman, her
feet hurt awfully.

  She cast a longing glance at the large carved chair that stood next to the table, but did not let herself stop. Just one more errand and she would be through. Huffing slightly, she made her way to the back of the workshop, where her husband (famed for his ability to reproduce a lifelike face from a sketch) was bent over his work.

  “Mr. Wattles,” she announced as she came in. “Mr. Wattles, I have brought the newest picture from Lady Alecia. She says she needs the bust right away and you are to stop all your other work.”

  Mr. Wattles raised his head from the face he was molding. He wore a large magnifying lens over one eye that made him looked like a lopsided fish. “That lady thinks she owns me, she does,” he complained, reaching out for the folded paper his wife was holding. “I didn’t even hear there’d been a hanging. Whose head is it this time?” His wife shrugged and walked gingerly away, the large chair beckoning to her from across the room.

  He brought the picture, which was clipped from a news sheet, close to his face, and his surprise was so great that his unmagnified eye grew almost as large as his magnified one.

  “Mrs. Wattles,” he called to his wife’s retreating form. “Mrs. Wattles, come see.”

  Something in her husband’s tone made her return quickly. She took the paper from him, studied it for a moment, then met her husband’s eyes. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “That is what I thought, too.”

  “Do you suppose we ought to tell someone?” Mrs. Wattles asked, slowly.

  Mr. Wattles thought for a moment, then shook his head. What he said was: “Isn’t any of our business, is it?”

  But what both of them were thinking was: Lady Alecia is a very good customer.

  “Poor Inigo,” Mrs. Wattles murmured under her breath at regular intervals during the remainder of the day. “Poor, poor boy.”

  Chapter Six

  No one had ever seen a barge as large or as luxurious as the one anchored in the Thames in front of Dearbourn Hall, nor had anyone ever imagined a banquet so clever. There were a dozen lemon-ice swans floating between the candied violets that covered the surface of the crystallized sugar pool—the viscount himself had developed the machine that made the swans really glide across the surface—and long tables filled with food. No one had dreamed of a juggler as charming as the one who produced gilded gillyflowers specially grown to smell like oranges for all the ladies as he wandered about, no one had ever counted so many monkeys so delightfully dressed to match their owners in one place before, no one had thought there could be musicians so handsome, or heard birds so sweet-voiced, or conceived of lanterns so cunningly decorated with the Dearbourn crest—in short, never had there ever been a party as marvelous as the one Mariana had orchestrated for herself, at “the dear Viscount’s” expense. And it was not even halfway done when one member of her entourage made a low bow to his mistress and a lower one to her grandmother, and slipped away from the festivities, complaining of a headache.