Epilogue
People said that Lady Claudia Fitzwilliam, philanthropist, daughter of the Earl of Eddington, and Mr William Campbell, antiquarian and man about town, were getting married today somewhere in Rome. Rumour had it that the Earl and the Countess of Eddington had refused to attend the wedding, and that Lady Claudia Fitzwilliam was no more than a Mrs Campbell now. And sure enough, in the small Anglican church and then at the banquet in the Rabensteins’ garden, the Earl and the Countess were nowhere to be seen. But there was plenty of family still.
Captain Moritz von Rabenstein accompanied Claudia to the altar. As he effectively consigned her to another man, he mused that this could either be his end or a dizzying new beginning. Ever the optimist, he was inclined to think it was the first. Lorenz did not give a damn for beginnings and ends. The world may have ended tomorrow, for all he cared, and good riddance! His two friends did look awfully good together, though, that had to be said. As for Adela, she watched on from the sidelines, feeling a bit like a ghoul. That boor of Edmund Campbell had been seeking her out, asking her something about the Rabenstein curse and drinking blood. She had just raised an eyebrow and walked away. Which was a real shame, because he was just her type—nice legs, although no riding boots. But God, he was dumb!
Viscount Caiani had also been in attendance, and also Cousin Iris with man-least-likely-to-become-an-antiquarian Eric Campbell. Why, even her brother—the Duke of Montgrove—had shown his face, perhaps because the punch William had given him was fully justified, and he knew it.
‘I think he looks a whole lot better than he did before I broke his nose, my sweet, don’t you think? I actually did him a favour.’
‘I tend to agree.’ Claudia laughed.
But Claudia would have agreed to anything because under the banquet table William was wickedly trailing his thieving fingers on the inside of her thigh. She had a weakness for his hands—and for his thefts, which she would never, ever admit to. Else their house would have burst at the seams with stolen goods. It just so happened that every time he brought home something, she would be even quicker than usual to lead him to their bedroom, but she was quite sure he hadn’t figured it out yet.
William had very much figured it out, and as a consequence they were running out of space in their small flat in Turl Street. When Caiani’s investment had reaped the first fruits, they had ended up buying a lovely little palazzo in Rome, to spend half the year in. They would sleep there for the first time tonight. First they’d sit in the garden and look at the stars. Then he’d bring her to bed and let her ravish him however she saw fit. Or perhaps he would make her wait, until she became all growly and exasperated, and he could not help but ravish her himself. Whatever took their fancy.
Heads turned whenever Mr and Mrs Campbell appeared in public together. The Gazette Internationale even wrote that Rome had never seen anything so beautiful, and Rome had seen a thing or two in its past.
But not all of us were made for the light.
They say that St Cross married at last, and that his wife was glowing and strong on the day of their wedding. Until one day the Gazette wrote that she had been sighted at the opera wearing a dark veil to conceal a livid mark on her face.
That night, people closed their shutters and locked their doors. Deep into the Roman night, whispers spread like a plague in a maze of alleys, drawled in a strange accent, all idle sinuosity and hard consonants.
St Cross is no more! St Cross is no more! St Cross is no more!
Until the words were swallowed by the moonless night.
They say that, the following morning, Rome awoke to a terrible sight…
THE END