Chapter 21
Chapter
Lord Ruthven could not have been more surprised if I had conjured myself into a cobra and bit him.
He leapt backwards, clutching his pricked wrist to his mouth and sucking gently at the beaded blood. “What the devil—”
“I did tell you I can always tell when a man is feigning interest. Your attempts at seduction were ham-handed, sir, and your attempts at mesmerism hardly better. Now, where is Stoker? Do not make me repeat the question again, or I will resort to a nastier and far more lethal weapon than the one I have already used,” I warned him.
His expression turned at once sullen. Gone was the sophisticated gentleman with the polished performance of a practiced seducer. In his place was a sulky man who played a very sore loser. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it about his wrist, stemming the blood.
“You have assaulted me,” he said petulantly.
“I have merely hoist you with your own petard,” I corrected.
I nodded to the jewel in his coat. “That is a very clever pin, my lord. I note especially the filigree work of the setting. It is quite elaborate and very curiously done. I must say, I have never seen another like it. I imagine the way those two prongs there are configured, they would inflict an interesting mark upon the unwary and incurious—a mark that would look very much like a bite from a mouth with a pair of sharp fangs.”
His marble-pale skin flushed angrily, but when he spoke, his voice was under control once more, mellifluous as a song.
“I understand that even the most delicate of creatures may lash out when frightened. You have no need to be frightened of me, Veronica. I will never do anything against your wishes.”
He was staring warily at the pin I still held in my hand. Assured that he would attempt no further intimacies, I slipped it neatly into my bodice.
“Are you always armed?” Now that I no longer threatened him, he seemed amused by the incident.
No doubt he surmised that he had been taken by surprise and that I should be unable to best him a second time.
I was content to let him believe it. Men, in my experience, are easiest to confound when they underestimate one.
“It has often been necessary in the course of my travels to defend myself. I like to be prepared.” I smoothed my skirts and resettled my mask over my features.
“I imagine you do,” he replied. “But it is not necessary here. I want only to be your friend.”
He was giving me a piercing look from beneath his velvety brows again, and I sighed. “Please do stop attempting to mesmerise me. It is rather annoying, you know.”
His lordship puffed out a sigh of exasperation. “You really are the most provoking woman,” he muttered.
“It will not surprise you to learn that this is not the first occasion I have heard such a thing—nor are you the first man to think it,” I told him. “Now, where might I find Stoker and Asphodel? And what plans does she have for him?”
He shrugged. “The conservatory, I should imagine. It is her domain and she prefers to entertain there.”
I moved to the hidden door above the little passageway, intending to return the way we had come. He gestured towards the main door. “Go that way. Across the hall and down the stairs. You will recognise the direction from your first visit.”
“Thank you.” I paused on the threshold, glad of the fresh air in the corridor beyond, which came as a tonic after the incense fog of his private chambers. “What did you actually hope to accomplish here tonight?”
I rather expected him to invoke the notion of challenging my perceptions and broadening my experiences again, but instead he spoke plainly. “I hoped to persuade you that Mr. Templeton-Vane would make a valuable addition to our little society. I hoped to make a friend of you.”
I stared at him, so perfectly suited to the theatricality of the setting—all shadow and glamour and dark allure. “You have a very peculiar way of making friends, my lord.”
With that, I turned and left him. In the hall the sounds of the jollity on the floor below were clear, the music a spirited polka whose jaunty notes were embellished by the bellows of laughter and shrieks of enjoyment from the guests.
Clearly the more restrained activities such as dancing had given way to other forms of entertainment I could not have possibly anticipated.
I had just reached the bottom of the stairs when an arm snaked out and a firm hand clasped about my wrist. Before I could employ my minuten, Stoker loomed out of the darkness.
“Do not even think about stabbing me,” he warned.
“I should not dream of it,” I replied, discreetly slipping the pin back into my gown. “What is all the noise about? And where have you been?”
“Someone let a baboon loose in the ballroom,” he said, never breaking stride as he towed me towards the front door.
“Heavens! Is it tame?”
“I have no intention of waiting around to find out,” he replied. He paused long enough for me to collect my things from the cloakroom, and then we were off again, at such a cracking pace as I had not moved in a very long time.
“Stoker, I am wearing a very tight corset and very wide skirts,” I reminded him. “A trifle slower, I beg you.”
He checked himself then, matching his steps to my own, and I accordingly sped up a little to accommodate him in turn. It was not until we were safely ensconced in the Rosemorran carriage and on our way back to Bishop’s Folly that he heaved a sigh of relief.
Or perhaps he was simply trying to clear his lungs, for he lowered the carriage window with a decisive yank and stuck his head outside, drawing in great breaths in spite of the mizzling weather that had descended.
When he pulled his head back in, tiny drops of mist spangled his black hair like so many diamonds.
“Better?” I asked in some amusement.
“I swear that woman nearly asphyxiated me,” he grumbled. “Some devilish variety of incense, the likes of which have probably never been smelt outside a Cairene brothel.”
I raised a brow. “Have you been in a Cairene brothel?”
“Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no lies,” he quipped.
“Hm. And where was the gentle Asphodel plying her charms? The conservatory?”
“Yes. Whilst she waxed on about moon moths and fate and other such nonsense. Paragraphs of tripe.”
“Lord Ruthven was engaged in his own variety of blathering,” I remarked. “He too had recourse to incense. I cannot understand what grudge these people have against fresh air.”
Beside me, Stoker bristled. “And where was he burning his incense for you?”
“His boudoir,” I replied, thinking hard. “Or whatever gentlemen call the room next to their bedrooms. A dressing room, perhaps? There was a table for his grooming impedimenta.”
“Indeed.” The word was ground between molars that were firmly clamped together.
I sighed. It was not like Stoker to be jealous, but then I had not found myself in such proximity to an attractive man’s bedchamber since our relationship had established itself as one of perfect intimacy.
I dearly hoped he was not going to be tiresome about such things, particularly given my own complete lack of envy no matter how trying the circumstances.
“I do not like to admit it, but I believe you were correct,” I began.
Stoker sat very still, his eyes closed. He drew in a deep, steady breath, then expelled it through lightly pursed lips.
“Whatever are you doing?” I asked.
“Savouring,” he told me. “I so seldom hear those words that their appearance makes a noteworthy occasion.”
“Ass,” I said, giving him a push.
He looked at me, grinning. “Go on. You were about to lavish praise upon me and extol my many virtues including perspicacity and intelligence. Do not stint, Veronica. Use every large word you know, the more syllables the better.”
“I shall ignore your flagrant attempts to wheedle flattery from me, and confine my remarks to the facts. Whilst I was in Lord Ruthven’s dressing room, I discovered a few items of note.”
“I’ll wager you did indeed,” he said in a tone of such aridity it would make the Sahara seem lush. I ignored this as well.
“To wit,” I began, ticking off the points on my fingers, “he keeps a bottle of hair dye on his toilet table. Very dark hair dye.”
Stoker shrugged. “Men may be as vain about their fading looks as women. Perhaps he simply wishes to keep a few grey hairs at bay.”
“Vampires do not age. Second”—I held up another finger—“he has face powder of a very pale hue with a sort of pearlised finish. A liberal application of this would account for his pallor.”
“And a vampire does not need assistance in appearing bloodless,” he put in.
“Precisely. Furthermore, and thoroughly damning in my opinion, there is a looking glass over the washbasin where his razor reposes. What possible use could a vampire have for a looking glass if he casts no reflection?”
Stoker began to speak, but I carried on. “The use of that heavy incense suggests a need to overcome the senses with tricks and flummery instead of a real ability to hypnotise, although I will credit him with an uncanny ability to hold a person’s gaze. But worst of all, I think, is his stickpin.”
“His stickpin? You object to his choice of jewellery?”
“The piece is a little florid for my taste, but that is not my objection. It is that the setting around the gem has been worked into two sharp points. It would require an attentive eye—the eye of a natural scientist,” I added modestly, “to detect it, but I noticed it as soon as he drew near enough for my examination.”
“Of course he did,” Stoker muttered.
“Attend to the matter at hand,” I urged.
“The stickpin was cleverly designed to inflict a pair of wounds—punctures spaced almost precisely as far apart as the canine teeth. If he applied that pin to a person’s neck whilst they were otherwise occupied, it would leave a highly suggestive mark, one that would almost certainly persuade the victim that a vampire had been at work. ”