D2D_Poison or Protect (2 page)

Mr Jackson jumped on the opening. “We share a club. This may shock you, but I’m as likely as not to get myself in a pickle. I was deep in the soup over a cheese bun. Ruthven rescued me and has continued to do so ever since. Stalwart chap.”

“Oh, indeed?” Preshea cast a friendly look at the big Scotsman. Was the captain like this with Mr Jackson alone, or with all his friends? A white knight could sometimes be manipulated to see her as worthy of saving. Although victim was not a role she enjoyed playing.

“It began out o’ goodness and has become dire habit,” admitted Captain Ruthven. Preshea wondered if he was attending this house party in order to assist with his friend’s suit or to persuade him against it. She also wondered if he were prone to airsickness; he was looking peaky.

Mr Jackson nudged the captain in a jolly way, bumping the Scotsman against the side of the cabin.

The two gentlemen were quite squeezed. It was a ridiculous nicety that Preshea should sit alone, when she was half the size of either and not prone to a feeble stomach. Even as she told herself she was not concerned by the captain’s pallor, she found herself making an offer.

“Mr Jackson, why not sit next to me? It seems preposterous to insist on etiquette when the two of you are so much more than that bench allows.”

“What a kind thought! But poor old Ruthven here is a bad floater – he should sit facing.”

Captain Ruthven looked properly horrified. “I couldna possibly.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re positively green, old chap. You know facing will help.”

After further protestations, the big Scotsman shifted to sit next to Preshea. Mr Jackson slid over until he was across from her. This allowed both men to stretch their long legs. Preshea was not opposed – it put her face to face with her target. Unfortunately, it also put that mountain of warm muscles intimately close to her. She held herself aloof, noting that the Scotsman attempted to do the same.

He smells like Christmas – fresh pine boughs and spices. What right has a man to smell so good?

Mr Jackson remained endearingly concerned for his friend. “If the lady doesn’t mind, I’ll pop open the window.”

Preshea did not mind. The weather was unpleasant, but she welcomed fresh air. Not for the sake of the dirigible’s motion, for she was an excellent floater, having attended a finishing school in the skies. No, she wished to blow away Captain Ruthven’s intoxicating scent.

Preshea Buss!
she yelled in her own head, using her maiden name, the one that hurt the most.
No living man has ever brought you anything good. They are to be used, not enjoyed. Focus on the target.

Captain Ruthven recovered a little of his color. “Beg pardon, Lady Villentia. I’m a sorry traveler. I’d sooner ride, but Jack tells me it isna the done thing.”

“Gentlemen ride once they are
in
the country, Ruthven, old hat. They do not ride
to
the country.”

“Which seems daft.” The captain looked to Preshea for support. “Isna the purpose of country life riding?”

Mr Jackson issued a gormless grin. “Yes, but one
gets
there by dirigible. What do you take us for? Barbarians?”

Captain Ruthven’s eyes were intent. “Thus I send my lovely Rusticate into Berkshire separately with my batman, and you find me here, crowding lasses in dirigibles. I canna apologize enough.”

“My dear sir, you are hardly responsible for your size.”

Mr Jackson said, “Ruthven forgets that since he resigned his commission, Mawkins is his
valet
, not his batman.”

Preshea had noticed the gaffe.

The Scotsman winced, which could be from the mistake in etiquette, or something more sinister. Was he still in military employ, perhaps in some secret capacity?
Or is my training making me unreasonably suspicious?

She probed. “You were in the cavalry, then?”

“Nay. Coldsteam Guards. But I’m an admirer of horseflesh.”

An Irregular, was he?
That meant he would be exceptionally comfortable with the supernatural.

“And you, lass? Do you ride?”

“I can, but not well, I’m ashamed to admit.” Preshea was vaguely aware she ought to object to being called
lass
. After all, she had worked hard to become a proper lady. But she rather liked it, especially when delivered in that rumbling burr of his. The voice equivalent of mulled wine, warm and heavily spiced.

She moved quickly on from that thought. “My skill set is in quite the opposite direction. It is unladylike to brag, but I could steer this dirigible, if needed.”

Both men looked more admiring than shocked.
Good, I have judged them correctly.
These were that unusual breed of male that admired a capable female.

Preshea found herself in an unexpected predicament. Enjoying the float, fighting an inclination for the wrong man, and having a genuine affection for both. They seemed so very decent.
This is ridiculous. I don’t like people. I certainly don’t like men!
It was highly inconvenient. However, she would ignore it as she had ignored all such inconveniences over the years.

* * *

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.

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 possible, 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.”