Poison or Protect
Page 4
“Welcome. You are the last to arrive.” The duke was one of those remarkable politicians who looked exactly like his caricature – tall, stooped, and lined.
“With tea near to serving.” His lady wife had an eye to the practicalities. “You are timely.” The Duchess of Snodgrove was the opposite of her husband. Her features were delicate and her form well padded. She looked like the human representation of a comfortable settee.
Lady Villentia gave an elegant curtsey of the exact correct depth for a duke and his duchess. Gavin was impressed. He might act and sound provincial (it worked in his favor, to be constantly underestimated), but he’d attended Eton and knew all the forms. Her delivery was perfection itself.
“It is your dirigible that has seen us safely here. Thank you for the kind attention, Your Grace.” She slid as smoothly into the role of guest as she had into that of fellow traveler.
Overly perfect.
“Not at all.” Their host turned to his wife. “My dear, you know Lady Villentia?”
“I know of her, of course.” The duchess’s tone was frosty.
Interesting. The addition of the widow to our party must be the husband’s idea. Gavin was seized with a crushing thought: Is Lady Villentia Snodgrove’s mistress? He shook it off. The Duke of Snodgrove was known for his devout leanings.
How is Lady Villentia acquainted with such a man? And is she really here to kill him by his own invitation? Perhaps she has a different target?
Gavin dared not allow himself to hope, but he must entertain the possibility. If danger to the duke were coming from another source, he could not focus solely on the known assassin. Much as her buttons might wink and her eyes hide a well of sorrow.
“I see you have already met your fellow guests. Captain Ruthven, Mr Jackson.” This time, the duke’s voice was cold.
So, Jack may be the son of a family friend, but his suit is na welcome. And I’m guilty by association, or by birth. There were always some who simply did not like Scotsmen.
Gavin watched closely as the duke gave the widow the tiniest of nods. Is the duke her employer? Is it possible he knows of his own danger and has hired her as protection? Nay. Such a man wouldna take a lass to bodyguard. There must be somewhat else between them.
Lady Villentia (a consummate professional) did not acknowledge Snodgrove’s nod.
Naught for it, thought Gavin, I’ll have to find out the truth myself. No hardship to throw myself on such a sword – she cuts with a bonnie sting.
But before he could intercede, Jack offered Lady Villentia his arm, to the duke’s obvious delight.
Interesting.
Gavin followed them all into the house.
Let the game begin.
CHAPTER TWO
A Most Inferior Assignment
The previous night, in a very nice part of London…
Preshea moved unnoticed through the abode of the most popular supernatural in the British Empire.
It shouldn’t be so easy to break into the home of a vampire. Especially not this vampire.
Lord Akeldama was known by a select few to be a consummate spymaster, and by everyone else as a renowned fashion icon. The two were intimately connected, of course, but even fewer realized that.
His house, a model of decadence and luxury, echoed with emptiness.
Where are his guards?
There were no stealth bouquets or subversive finials. There wasn’t even a yappy dog. Or a yappy drone, for that matter.
Oh, yes! Gibson Moontjoy opens that new opera tonight. What is it called? The Baker of Little Beasley?
Preshea gave a delicate shudder. She loathed the opera.
She slid into the vampire’s main hallway. The gas was turned down, making sinister shadows out of dancing cherub statuary. Preshea became one with their devilish waltz.
One might think a creature that set no traps had no secrets. But Lord Akeldama held everyone’s secrets, even Preshea’s.
Foolish old fangs.
She chose the sitting room over the drawing room. This was a private matter, after all. Lord Akeldama kept his drawing room for more showy pursuits.
The sitting room was beautiful – mahogany and brocade furnishings, heavy velvet curtains, and a Persian rug. Everything was trimmed with a surfeit of fringe. She could not make out the colors. The only light came from an old streetlamp through a large bay window. It turned everything brown and yellow.
Preshea settled into the window seat, drawing the curtains closed behind her. She curled up her soft booted feet and pulled off her gloves (both were leather; anything less interfered with dexterity). Lady Villentia had no qualms about paying good money for shoes and gloves – hers must be attractive and functional (unlike those of most gentlewomen). She also relished the fact that something had died in order for her to dress properly.
She tucked her clothing under and around. Thank heavens fashion plates were calling for narrower skirts next season. Preshea was petite, and the ridiculously wide silhouette of the last five years did her no favors. Oh, she wore de mode and wore it well. Such fullness was excellent for hiding things (be they goods or services) but she had never liked it, and never wore the cage crinoline. She abhorred the idea of being caged in any way.
Tonight, Preshea’s evening gown was of bombazine with braid trim, but not because she was still in mourning (she grieved only when it suited her purposes). No, it was because lady intelligencers required dresses of nonreflective fabrics that did not wrinkle. Preshea’s was the highest quality bombazine, with intricate detail around the neck and cuffs. She was no fading flower, even when fading into shadows.
“With tea near to serving.” His lady wife had an eye to the practicalities. “You are timely.” The Duchess of Snodgrove was the opposite of her husband. Her features were delicate and her form well padded. She looked like the human representation of a comfortable settee.
Lady Villentia gave an elegant curtsey of the exact correct depth for a duke and his duchess. Gavin was impressed. He might act and sound provincial (it worked in his favor, to be constantly underestimated), but he’d attended Eton and knew all the forms. Her delivery was perfection itself.
“It is your dirigible that has seen us safely here. Thank you for the kind attention, Your Grace.” She slid as smoothly into the role of guest as she had into that of fellow traveler.
Overly perfect.
“Not at all.” Their host turned to his wife. “My dear, you know Lady Villentia?”
“I know of her, of course.” The duchess’s tone was frosty.
Interesting. The addition of the widow to our party must be the husband’s idea. Gavin was seized with a crushing thought: Is Lady Villentia Snodgrove’s mistress? He shook it off. The Duke of Snodgrove was known for his devout leanings.
How is Lady Villentia acquainted with such a man? And is she really here to kill him by his own invitation? Perhaps she has a different target?
Gavin dared not allow himself to hope, but he must entertain the possibility. If danger to the duke were coming from another source, he could not focus solely on the known assassin. Much as her buttons might wink and her eyes hide a well of sorrow.
“I see you have already met your fellow guests. Captain Ruthven, Mr Jackson.” This time, the duke’s voice was cold.
So, Jack may be the son of a family friend, but his suit is na welcome. And I’m guilty by association, or by birth. There were always some who simply did not like Scotsmen.
Gavin watched closely as the duke gave the widow the tiniest of nods. Is the duke her employer? Is it possible he knows of his own danger and has hired her as protection? Nay. Such a man wouldna take a lass to bodyguard. There must be somewhat else between them.
Lady Villentia (a consummate professional) did not acknowledge Snodgrove’s nod.
Naught for it, thought Gavin, I’ll have to find out the truth myself. No hardship to throw myself on such a sword – she cuts with a bonnie sting.
But before he could intercede, Jack offered Lady Villentia his arm, to the duke’s obvious delight.
Interesting.
Gavin followed them all into the house.
Let the game begin.
CHAPTER TWO
A Most Inferior Assignment
The previous night, in a very nice part of London…
Preshea moved unnoticed through the abode of the most popular supernatural in the British Empire.
It shouldn’t be so easy to break into the home of a vampire. Especially not this vampire.
Lord Akeldama was known by a select few to be a consummate spymaster, and by everyone else as a renowned fashion icon. The two were intimately connected, of course, but even fewer realized that.
His house, a model of decadence and luxury, echoed with emptiness.
Where are his guards?
There were no stealth bouquets or subversive finials. There wasn’t even a yappy dog. Or a yappy drone, for that matter.
Oh, yes! Gibson Moontjoy opens that new opera tonight. What is it called? The Baker of Little Beasley?
Preshea gave a delicate shudder. She loathed the opera.
She slid into the vampire’s main hallway. The gas was turned down, making sinister shadows out of dancing cherub statuary. Preshea became one with their devilish waltz.
One might think a creature that set no traps had no secrets. But Lord Akeldama held everyone’s secrets, even Preshea’s.
Foolish old fangs.
She chose the sitting room over the drawing room. This was a private matter, after all. Lord Akeldama kept his drawing room for more showy pursuits.
The sitting room was beautiful – mahogany and brocade furnishings, heavy velvet curtains, and a Persian rug. Everything was trimmed with a surfeit of fringe. She could not make out the colors. The only light came from an old streetlamp through a large bay window. It turned everything brown and yellow.
Preshea settled into the window seat, drawing the curtains closed behind her. She curled up her soft booted feet and pulled off her gloves (both were leather; anything less interfered with dexterity). Lady Villentia had no qualms about paying good money for shoes and gloves – hers must be attractive and functional (unlike those of most gentlewomen). She also relished the fact that something had died in order for her to dress properly.
She tucked her clothing under and around. Thank heavens fashion plates were calling for narrower skirts next season. Preshea was petite, and the ridiculously wide silhouette of the last five years did her no favors. Oh, she wore de mode and wore it well. Such fullness was excellent for hiding things (be they goods or services) but she had never liked it, and never wore the cage crinoline. She abhorred the idea of being caged in any way.
Tonight, Preshea’s evening gown was of bombazine with braid trim, but not because she was still in mourning (she grieved only when it suited her purposes). No, it was because lady intelligencers required dresses of nonreflective fabrics that did not wrinkle. Preshea’s was the highest quality bombazine, with intricate detail around the neck and cuffs. She was no fading flower, even when fading into shadows.
