D2D_Poison or Protect Read online

  * * *

  Gavin watched as the footman handed Lady Villentia down from the dirigible. Jack jumped down after. Gavin followed.

  He heard the poor footman whisper under his breath, “Crikey,” and gave a tiny nod of sympathy. I ken how you feel, lad.

  The Duke and Duchess of Snodgrove stood waiting to receive them.

  “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.

  Curled in the corner of the bay window, she would look like a statue from the street, were anyone able to see in. But she was confident that the lamp reflecting off the ripples in the glass, plus the heavy curtains behind her, made her invisible from inside or out.

  Two gentlemen alighted from a carriage and walked up the front stairs. The conveyance was expensive and discreet – not Lord Akeldama’s (he favored the first but not the second).

  One of the men wore equally expensive and discreet evening dress. A gentleman of quality and means but not flash. He wore discretion awkwardly, as ill fitting as a cheap waistcoat.

  The other gentleman was Lord Akeldama – an undersized absurdity, all pompadour and no circumstance. He sported a monocle he didn’t need, an accent not his own, and an attitude forever tempting disregard. He was also the deadliest creature Preshea knew. And she knew a great number of deadly creatures, including herself.

  Soon enough, they entered her sitting room. Their conversation was a flow of erudite commentary, moist with the syrup of a superior education.

  She recognized Lord Akeldama’s melodic tenor with excess cadence. “Please sit, my lord.”

  Deferential, thought Preshea. His visitor is a man of property and power or the old vampire wouldn’t bother with such niceties.

  “I prefer to stand.” This voice was deep and tinged with a quiver of fear or age.

  There came the clink of glass decanter on silver tray. “Claret?”

  “I think not. How long will this take?”

  “Not long.”

  “Where is she?”

  “It’s not yet two. Dear Lady Villentia is never late.”

  Preshea smiled at Lord Akeldama’s confidence. As a matter of fact, sometimes Lady Villentia is intentionally early.

  “Women are always late.”

  “Perfection takes time.”

  “Will she do this for me?” He was nervous about her reputation. Or Lord Akeldama’s. Or both.

  “If we provide the right incentive, all things are p
ossible, even perfection.” The vampire liked to play with his food.

  “Isn’t she required to obey you?”

  Behind her curtain, Preshea’s lip curled.

  “You misconstrue, my dear lord. That brightest of jewels is no longer under my indenture. I have requested that she attend us, not ordered it. She will come because she is bored.”

  Preshea, annoyed that he knew her so well, nevertheless conceded that this was a fair assessment.

  “You could not change the rules?”

  “My dearest boy! Seven years and seven years only – apprenticing, articling, binding, or indenture. You know that, you wrote it into law. For the protection of werewolf clavigers and vampire drones, if I remember. It applies to intelligencers as well.”

  “You have been known to bend the rules to your own ends in the past.”

  “What a charming compliment. However, I would never presume. Lady Villentia values her freedom. She has certainly earned it.”

  “Flat on her back.”

  Ah. A man who believes in performance piety.

  “Now, now. No call for vulgarity. Isn’t that the exact skill you wish activated on your behalf?”

  She heard a sharp clink. A glass set down hard on a tabletop. The visitor had taken claret after all. “I did not think I would have to woo her.”

  “Out of practice, are we? Don’t you worry, my boy, I am never out of practice with wooing. And in this instance, I am moved – quite moved – by your plight.” Condescension entered the vampire’s tone. “You may even find her demands pleasurable.”

  The visitor sputtered.

  Preshea decided that she was going to enjoy this. Whatever Lord Akeldama’s friend wanted, he wanted it badly enough to deal with two very tricky devils.

  “Of course, there is always the possibility” —the vampire was like a fussy eater, picking at his meal— “she may find your troubles unworthy.”

  “This is an affair of great distress.”

  “To you.”

  “My family is—”

  “Yes, yes. Well regarded, pillars of the community, must avoid all appearance of moral turpitude.”

  The conversation was becoming dull. So, perhaps I should provide proof of my skills. Preshea pulled a sharp silver pin from the end of one sleeve. Good for encouraging werewolves to see her point of view, particularly when applied to delicate areas of the body. She pricked the back of her wrist.

  Would it be enough?

  “But wait. What blood from yonder mortal drips?” Lord Akeldama misquoted. “Perhaps we were hasty in our assessment of the lady’s tardiness.”

  He drew back the curtain.

  Preshea allowed a humorless smile to spread over the tinted perfection of her lips.

  “Ah, my precious gem.” The vampire held out a hand, his fingers white.

  Preshea was not afraid of vampires. Or at least, not this one. Monsters came in all shapes and sizes, and very few of them were actually supernatural.

  She took his hand and gave him her full weight. He stood her up effortlessly. That was always fun. “Lord Akeldama, I was enjoying your view.”

  “Not so fine as it might be.”

  “But sir, the road is very street-like and the conversation scintillating.”

  He smiled, tight-lipped, showing no fang and no threat. “No need to be flippant, my pearl.” He escorted her forward.

  His visitor was older, with a linear face. Frown lines marred his wide forehead. More lines were grooved into his sallow cheeks, running along his nose down to the sides of his mouth. He had a full head of grey hair brushed up at the front, and trailing muttonchops. It looked as if a frustrated painter had smeared him downwards.

  “May I introduce you to—”

  The man held up a hand. “No names, please, until we have an agreement.”

  Preshea made her voice sweet. “How ungallant. You know practically everything about me. So, I am at a disadvantage.”

  The man took her small hand, offered naked of its glove. “Lady Villentia, I doubt that is possible.”

  Preshea looked to Lord Akeldama. “Flattery? I like him already.”

  She did not like him, although Preshea ordinarily preferred elderly men. They were so set in their ways that they only saw what they wished to see. This meant she could get away with murder. Literally. But this one was frozen solid, and none of his lines were from smiling. His clothes were somber and his neck-cloth tight with Biblical starch. He was lousy with virtuous living and the kind of Christian goodness that delights in self-sacrifice. She would not be able to win easily with him. His rectitude was as much a weapon as her looks, and they both knew it.

  No wonder he was loath to employ her.

  He dropped her hand a little too soon.

  She drew it back to her skirt and wiped it with infinite subtlety and exactly enough motion so that he could not fail to notice.

  The lines about his nose deepened.

  Thus we understand each other.

  “Shall we?” Lord Akeldama gestured to three chairs clustered about an unlit fire.

  Preshea walked over and swept her skirts to exactly the correct drape as she sat. She kept her neck long, tilting her head to show her complexion to advantage. No man would ever be allowed to forget her beauty. Especially one she didn’t like.

  She directed her gaze to the vampire, because this visitor would hate to be ignored. “You’re right, of course – I was bored or I shouldn’t have come. So, why have I come?”

  “This gentleman has a conundrum.”

  “A not uncommon failing among gentlemen.”

  That drove the man to speak his purpose at last. “My daughter has conceived of an ill match.”

  “A fortune hunter? How embarrassing, but hardly unique.” Preshea made a show of binding her bleeding wrist with a handkerchief.

  “I wish you to disabuse her of this notion.”

  Preshea turned to Lord Akeldama. “Surely, you can find something more worthy of my skills?”

  “Unhappy that you won’t get to kill anyone, my ruby?”

  Preshea tightened the knot about her wrist by pulling one end with her hand and the other with her teeth. “Matters of the heart are so dull. Death is never dull, except when it is one’s own.”

  The visiting lord looked away, disgusted by her tiny show of violence.

  Good, I can’t allow him to think me tame. “Why should I bother, my lords? Give me good reason if you want the pot sweet and the lady eager.”

  The vampire looked her over. “I believe you already have one excellent reason – you are intrigued despite yourself.”

  The lord straightened. “But she just said...”

  “I am not intrigued by the daughter’s ill choices, but by the father’s desperation.”

  “Ah.” The visitor slumped back.

  Preshea looked him over. “Saintly Duke Snodgrove. I did not think yours was a family prone to scandal.” Why allow your daughter to entertain a predator? Has she been trapped into an arrangement?

  “You know who I am?”

  Preshea tilted her head. “His Grace forgets, information is my trade and I’m a merchant of renown. We may not dance in the same circles, but your sketch has appeared in many papers. Punch is not always flattering. But somewhat accurate, as it turns out.”

  Before he objected, Preshea continued. “I’ve heard much of your philanthropy. A nobleman who advocates for the deserving poor. You entrance me.” She leaned forward, knowing this caused the swell of her breasts to rise above the neckline of her gown. A show of force, Preshea-style.

  For the first time, she saw fear in the duke’s eyes. “I’m a happily married man.”

  No man is that happily married.

  “And I’m not currently looking for a fifth husband. But one wonders what can be so awful about this fortune hunter that you, my lord, are driven to take congress with a woman like myself. I am, one might say, the very opposite of the deserving poor.” She leaned back.

  H
e took a grateful breath.

  She followed up her advantage. “Here was I, thinking you magnanimous towards the lower orders. Yet your generosity does not extend to your own daughter’s suitor? How hypocritical.”

  “What do you want?” He flushed, a slash of color on those gaunt cheeks.

  “Besides a reason?”

  “Besides that.”

  Preshea frowned. What did she want? After four marriages, and four deaths, she had everything in life a woman might desire: titled position, swollen coffers, the freedom to travel, and a world that accepted her because it was afraid of her.

  “I suppose it is somewhat satisfying to know that even you, Your Grace, nicest man in London, have a dark underbelly of corruption.”

  The man in question stood and began to pace. “I protect my family, Lady Villentia. Something with which you’ve little experience, no doubt. Do you know how many children God has taken from me? Four. And my dear Constance only recently.”

  What God has taken, no fortune hunter may covet? “My condolences.”

  “We did not lose her entirely. She went ghost.”

  “Felicitations on your family’s unbirth, then, Your Grace.”

  He inclined his head and continued with the living. “Violet is my oldest and perhaps I coddle her overmuch. She’s a good gel, fond of gardening. She doesn’t know what rottenness may manifest in men and I don’t wish her to know. I want him gone in such a way that she will not pine, but instead will feel his leaving for the better. Their parting must not originate with me. I could not stand her resentment.”

  Preshea had his measure then. A man who prefers to be the hero to his family and his country.

  Still, she had nothing better to do. “It has been a long time since I meddled in anyone else’s romance. This could be diverting, but your reason, Your Grace, is not my reason. You still have not told me how I benefit.”

  “What do you want?” He asked again.

  Preshea lowered her eyelashes, enjoying the rush of power. Nothing gave her more pleasure than a man of substance at her mercy. “I’ll take it as a debt owed. You’re a political force – there may come a time when I need a legislative favor.”

  Lord Akeldama laughed, a fractured tinkling. “There you have it. The sword of Damocles hanging over your head. She asks very little.”