Chapter Two
Cordon Shaw, Viscount Grayson, dipped his pen in the inkwell on his writing desk, then carefully drew a line through number twenty-five on his list.
He still couldn’t believe he’d actually done it, and during the day!
The moment would remain etched in his mind for what little remained of his unnatural existence.
His hands had trembled so badly, he’d been sure the stern yet hauntingly beautiful woman he’d bumped into would have remarked upon it.
But she hadn’t reacted when he’d relieved her pocket of the small box.
He felt a twinge of guilt for the theft, but she deserved it for spurning him.
It had been decades since he’d encountered a woman who hadn’t immediately simpered beneath the full power of his vampiric stare.
Even Queen Victoria had bent to his will, creating a viscountcy for him and believing without question the undocumented birth date he’d provided to make him a man born only forty-five years prior.
“A lovely item,” his valet said from behind him. “But you shouldn’t go out alone, my lord. I could have acquired it on your behalf.”
Cordon chuckled. “That would not have been nearly as entertaining.”
Adams furrowed his brow and crossed his arms, managing to look imposing despite being over a hundred years younger and more than a foot shorter than his employer.
No other member of Cordon’s staff would have dared show such obvious disapproval, which was the reason he favored the man.
Cordon’s long existence had taught him to keep anyone who wasn’t intimidated by him close.
Otherwise, it was too easy to become surrounded by people who would only tell him what they thought he wanted to hear.
He closed his inkwell, placed his pen back in its resting spot, then returned his list into the top drawer in his desk.
Although Adams knew about the list, Cordon did not want anyone else to see it.
Adams had proven his loyalty and discretion, but Cordon could not say the same of every member of his staff.
If any of them discovered his activities—or his true age—they would surely flee his house, and his housekeeper would stake him if she had to hire additional servants.
“Shall I put the scarf away?” Adams asked. “Or do you wish to send it to Miss Griffith immediately?”
“Away,” Cordon said. His latest mistress, the esteemed actress Georgina Griffith, had lost his favor as of late. Like most of the women he chose to pursue, she inevitably expected more of him than he could give. He was not quite ready to dismiss her but would likely do so soon.
Adams lifted a silver tray of glass bottles from atop Cordon’s bed and brought it toward him. The sight of the awful concoctions immediately soured his mood.
“Your evening repast, my lord,” Adams said, setting the tray on his writing desk. Then he stood there, statue-like, as if he had been tasked by Cordon’s physician to ensure the patient consumed his medicine.
Cordon picked up the first of the bottles, removed the stopper, and downed the coagulated sheep’s blood inside.
When the liquid touched his tongue, he shuddered.
The only good thing about dying was knowing he wouldn’t have to continue taking the tonics intended to extend his existence for much longer.
The journal tucked beneath his mattress had told him how to make the awful concoctions.
It also described many other things he wished he hadn’t learned but could no longer forget.
His maker, the woman who had turned him into a vampire, had left the journal to him after she’d abandoned her nest to die alone of the same affliction that now plagued his entire nest.
“Shall I check for blemishes?” Adams asked when Cordon had consumed the last of the blood.
Cordon scraped the cloying taste from his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was strip down and have Adams scrutinize every inch of his pale flesh, but he had to know how far the mate atrophy had progressed.
According to his vampire physician—and Marguerite’s journal—a fledgling vampire could survive for fifty years without forming a telepathic bond with their fated mate before symptoms began.
The first stage included bleeding in the nose or in the mouth.
This Cordon had experienced this for some decades and was of no great concern.
He carried scented, scarlet handkerchiefs to disguise such incidents.
The second stage started around a hundred years after mortal death and presented much like the dreaded consumption with a gradual weakening, blood in the lungs, and a persistent, fearsome ache of the muscles.
Cordon kept a ready supply of laudanum, morphia, and animal blood to sustain himself during the worst of these fits.
His physician had cautioned against long-term use of such medicines, but there was no long term for Cordon.
Given his condition, he would be lucky if he survived another year.
The third stage, which he had not yet reached, was marked by redness, swelling, and the inability to catch one’s breath. Sores formed on the skin, as well as distinctive bruises that bloomed like spilled red wine and oozed black blood.
What happened after that, Cordon did not know, because his maker had torn out the last page of his her journal before she had given it to him.
His physician had offered to enlighten him, but he had declined.
He wasn’t afraid to learn what came next—it simply didn’t matter.
Why torture himself when his fate was inevitable?
He had spent fifty long, boring years scouring the world.
Years he would never get back. Now that he was done searching, it was time to set aside the strict rules his maker had told him that were necessary to identify his fated mate and enjoy what little time he had left.
As Adams helped him disrobe, Cordon kept his gaze on the window above his writing desk.
The sun would soon rise. He could feel it in the gradual tightening of his muscles, his vampiric instincts warning him to find shelter.
When he rested, his already unnaturally slow pulse would become almost undetectable.
The combination of that and his pale, cold skin meant he had once awoken buried in the ground by humans who had stumbled over his resting body and had assumed he was dead.
“Up, my lord,” Adams said.
Cordon curled his toes in the thick Egyptian rug beneath his feet and lifted his arms so Adams could peer beneath, feeling like a bowstring drawn and ready to fire at any moment. Adams worked in silence, walking around Cordon several times before finally stepping back.
“Nothing,” Adams said.
Cordon’s shoulders sagged. One day, likely soon, Adams would report a different result.
On that day, Cordon didn’t know what he’d do.
He preferred to focus instead on the present.
That was how he’d come to the idea of his list. If his time was coming to an end, there would be no more cold, lonely nights spent contemplating his death.
He would occupy every minute possible enjoying himself to the fullest, starting with smoothing things over with Miss Griffith—or finding a new mistress.
“Have you heard from Madame Rosalie?” Cordon asked.
Adams pressed his lips into a thin line. “No. If you pardon me for saying so, my lord, she is not worth your time.” Adams did up the buttons on the front of Cordon’s nightshirt. “She is insufferable.”
Cordon couldn’t deny that, as the dressmaker had dismissed his mistress as a client in favor of creating gowns for attendees of the upcoming Sultan’s Ball. That would not have been a problem, except it had thrown Miss Griffith into a temper, and she’d refused to visit him until he sorted it out.
As Adams busied himself putting clothes into the wardrobe, Cordon stared at the disembodied clothing in the reflection of his mirror.
He could not see his face, but from Adams’s description, he knew there were more fine lines around his eyes and mouth, and several strands of silver in his hair.
With each passing year, his youth faded.
He picked up a stack of envelopes sitting on his writing desk.
Perhaps he could find the answer to the problem within them.
If he knew Society, news of Miss Griffith screeching in the street in front of Madame Rosalie’s shop had already spread through London.
There were sure to be at least a few casual mentions of potential replacement dressmakers.
He flipped through his correspondence until he found one written in an unfamiliar hand. He set the rest aside and cracked the wax seal. When he unfolded the letter, his eyebrows rose, and by the time he’d finished, he was intrigued.
Miss Carter.
Why was that familiar?
It took a moment, then a startled laugh bubbled out of his throat.
The box he’d taken at the market had that name carved on the lid.
The woman he’d stolen from wanted him to visit her shop.
It must have been coincidence. The only other possibility was that she’d somehow broken through the mental block he’d placed on her, recognized him, and intended to try blackmail him.
Either way, here was the answer to his problem, and exactly what he needed to shake his mental fugue.
If her letter was innocent, he wanted to see the flush on her cheeks when she realized what she’d done.
If she had more nefarious purposes, wearing the scarf would show he did not fear her and might give him an edge.
He was suddenly eager to get moving. The way she had reacted to his touch had stirred something deep inside him, a particular sensation he hadn’t felt in decades.
Excitement.
And he wanted more.
He tapped his toes on his carpet as he withdrew his list from its place in his writing desk, uncapped his ink, then added a new item to the bottom of the sheet.
#101: Woo a dressmaker.