The Passion of the Purple Plumeria (31 page)

London, 1806

“T
hey say he’s a vampire.”

It took a moment for her friend’s words to register through the blood pounding in Sally Fitzhugh’s ears. She banged through the French doors of the balcony, her precarious grip on her temper only maintained by the immediate necessity of getting away, her flat slippers slapping against the polished parquet of the ballroom floor, the satin of her skirt swishing against her legs like agitated whispers.

The crisp October air hit Sally like a tonic, and, with it, Agnes’s words finally reached her brain.

She turned, saying shortly, “What?”

Agnes ducked around the rapidly swinging door. “A bloodsucking creature of the night,” she said helpfully as she followed Sally out towards the balustrade, away from the crush in Lord Vaughn’s ballroom.

“I know what a vampire is. Everyone knows what they are.” Ever since
The Convent of Orsino
(by a Lady) had taken the town by storm the previous spring, the ladies of the ton had become intimate experts on the topic. The men, just as sickeningly, had taken to powdering their faces pale and affecting red lip rouge. Sally found it distinctly stomach-turning.

But, then, she found it all distinctly stomach-turning: the too strong perfumes, the smug smiles, the whispering voices behind fans, the incredible arrogance of those powdered fops and perspiring ladies. It would serve them right if there were vampires in their midst. Not that such things existed, of course. Any bloodsucking that went on in the ton was purely of the metaphorical variety, although nonetheless draining for that.

Sally gripped the cool stone of the balustrade with both hands, breathing in deeply through her nose. It seemed absurd to remember that two years ago she had been itching to leave the cloistered confines of Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary to try her wings in the world, to flirt and laugh and bend beaux to her will. She was the oldest of her friends; her family was, she had believed, socially well-connected. She had gone first, sallying off to London in the firm anticipation of champagne-filled evenings of compliments, in which she would hold court among her devoted and witty admirers.

That, she realized, had been her first mistake. Wit was in short supply among the ton. They made up for its lack with waspishness instead.

At Miss Climpson’s, she had been the center of a close-knit circle, the leader of their occasionally ever so slightly illicit activities. At home, she was the petted and privileged younger child, the only daughter, with a brother who doted on her, a sister-in-law she liked tremendously, the most adorable little niece in the world, and parents who might be dim but were really rather sweet for all that. Sally had, she realized, made the mistake of taking her brother at his word when he spoke of all those excellent chaps, those good-hearted, honorable, clever souls. Reggie, as he himself was swift to admit, might not be the swiftest in the brainbox, but he had a knack for seeing the best in everyone. It was his greatest gift and more glaring flaw.

And Sally, knowing this, really ought to have known better. But she hadn’t. The pettiness of it all had taken her by surprise.

It wasn’t that she minded for herself. So what if Martin Frobisher had called her a gilded beanpole? He was just sore because she made him look like the sniveling little thing he was—and jealous because his family hadn’t two guineas to rub together. Proud, they called her. Well, yes, she was proud. She knew her own worth, both in character and in coin. What did it matter that her family had never thrown down a cloak for Elizabeth I or provided a mistress for Charles II? Just because they had never toadied for a title didn’t mean that they weren’t as good as anyone. They were certainly a sure sight better looking.

But it wasn’t the slights about the family lineage—or lack thereof—that made Sally’s ears burn and her fingers itch for a rapier. It was the way others treated Reggie, like some inferior sort of particularly bouncy dog, to be kicked or scratched behind the ears as the occasion warranted.

Only she was allowed to treat her brother that way.

It was Lady Vaughn who had made the comment tonight, Lady Vaughn with her watchful eyes and her derisive laugh, turning to her husband with a murmur about fools who had left off their motley.

Reggie wasn’t a fool. He was just exceptionally good-hearted. And if that made one a fool in the world ruled by the Vaughns, then Sally wanted no part of it.

Except insomuch as it would enable her to rub their noses in it and make them cry pardon.

Belatedly, Sally pulled her attention back to Agnes. Unlike Sally, Agnes didn’t have her rage to keep her warm. Her skin was turning a faint shade of blue that matched the color of her gown.

“A vampire? Hardly.” Sally paused to glower in the general direction of the ballroom. “Whatever else I may think of the man, Lord Vaughn looks perfectly corporeal to me. Those waistcoats are just an affectation.”

“Not Lord Vaughn,” said Agnes patiently. “The Duke of Belliston. In the house across the garden.” She gestured in the other direction, away from the crowded ballroom, past long rows of perfectly trimmed parterres.

Even in the waning season of the year, Lord Vaughn’s shrubbery didn’t have a leaf out of place. The garden was arranged in the French style, all gravel paths and geometric designs, scorning the more natural wilderness gardens coming into vogue. Above the close-clipped hedges and the marble statues glimmering white in the moonlight, Sally could just make out the outline of the great house across the way.

Unlike Lord Vaughn’s, that garden had been allowed to run to seed, either by accident or design. Weeping willows trailed ghostly fingers over the dim outline of a pond on which no swans swam, while ivy climbed the walls of the house, dangling from the balconies, obscuring the windows. In the heart of London, the edifice had an eerie air of isolation.

It was the largest house in the square, larger by far than Lord Vaughn’s. Sally felt a certain satisfaction at that thought. Lord Vaughn could put on all the airs he liked, but he still wasn’t the biggest fish in the square. And by fish, she meant duke. The Duke of Belliston outhoused and outranked Vaughn.

He was also remarkably elusive. In her two Seasons in society, Sally had never met the man. There was some sort of story about him . . . something to do with a curse and his parents.

But vampires? Nonsense.

“Where do you hear such things?” said Sally, both cross and a little jealous. At Miss Climpson’s, she had been the center of every web of gossip. Here . . . She didn’t like feeling on the fringes of things.

“The ladies’ retiring room,” said Agnes. “They were all whispering about it.”

Of course they were. Sally rolled her eyes at the idiocy of mankind. “Vampires are a myth. And not a particularly interesting one,” she added repressively.

“People said the same thing about the Duke of Belliston,” pointed out Agnes, “about his being a myth, I mean. But you can’t deny there are lights in the windows.”

That much was true. Through the ivy and the dust, a faint but distinct light shone. For a moment, Sally and Agnes stood quiet in contemplation, regarding that flickering ray of light. There was no denying that there was someone in residence at Belliston House. Whoever—or whatever—that someone might be.

Sally regarded her closest friend askance. “Next you’ll be telling me you saw a bat flying around his belfry.”

Agnes cocked her head, considering the urns that lined the roof of the house. “I think it’s a crow.” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “The collective term for a group of crows is—”

“Oh, no,” said Sally.

“—a
murder
,” finished Agnes earnestly.

As an academic appellation, it was just a little too atmospheric, especially with the moon silhouetted against the chimney pots, casting strange shadows through the abandoned garden. Sally felt a chill shiver its way down her spine, beneath the thin fabric of her gown and chemise.

Not, of course, that it had anything at all to do with the black bird flapping about the chimney pots. Chills were simply what one got when one stood on a balcony in a scoop-necked ball gown in the middle of October.

Somewhere in the depths of the garden, an owl voiced its mournful cry. Sally yanked her shawl more closely about her shoulders and turned her annoyance on Agnes.

“That”—Sally cast about for a suitably dampening adjective—“is absurd.”

“No, truly,” said Agnes. “It’s a murder of crows and an unkindness of ravens.”

That last, at least, was appropriate. Sally cast a glance back over her shoulder at the ballroom. “I’d say it’s more an affectation of imbeciles.”

She knew she shouldn’t let them bother her, but she hated to see them treat Reggie so. It wasn’t Reggie who was meant to have squired them tonight at all; technically, they were meant to be under the chaperonage of their friend Lizzy’s stepmother, the former Miss Gwen, chaperone extraordinaire. But ever since it had come out that Miss Gwen was the author of
The Covent of Orsino
, she couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed by admirers.

Miss Gwen did not admire her admirers.

Sally wondered if Miss Gwen would consider the loan of her infamous sword parasol. Just for use on a few select cads. She would make sure to clean it thoroughly before she returned it.

Agnes leaned her elbows against the balustrade, her fine light brown hair already losing its curl. “They say he sucks the blood of unwary maidens.” Agnes paused and thought about it for a moment. “I imagine they’re less trouble than wary ones.”

“Utter rubbish,” said Sally crisply. Before Agnes could argue with her, she added quickly, “Just because the man scorns society doesn’t mean that he’s an unholy creature of the night.”

In fact, at the moment, she would say it was rather a sign of his good sense.

“No one has seen him for seven years,” said Agnes. Her face took on the distant look it acquired when she was parsing out a difficult academic question. “Seven is a mystical number. . . .”

“So is three,” said Sally. “Or five hundred and thirty-two.” She had no idea about five hundred and thirty-two, but something had to be said. Sally pushed away from the balcony, her net shawl catching on the carved edge of an acanthus leaf. She could feel recklessness pulsing through her, fueled by anger and boredom. “Whatever the Duke of Belliston is, he’s just a man. And I’ll prove it to you.”

Agnes looked at her in alarm. “You don’t mean—”

Sally nodded decisively. “To go over there.”

She could feel her spine straightening, even as she spoke. It felt good to be taking the lead again, even if that lead was towards a deserted garden on the property of a duke rumored to be more monster than man. Which was nonsense, of course.

“Don’t worry,” Sally said to Agnes, as she had said a hundred times before, on midnight expeditions at Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary. “I shan’t do anything foolish. Anything else foolish,” she amended. “I’ll just peer through the window and report back. That’s all.”

Before Agnes could protest, Sally pushed her cameo bracelets up on her wrists, gave her shawl a tug, and ran lightly down the path.

Gravel crunched beneath her slippers. The cool October breeze lifted the corners of her shawl and set her golden curls dancing. Dimly, Sally was aware of Agnes behind her, a pale presence leaning over the balustrade, prepared, no doubt, to leap into the fray and fight bloodsucking creatures of the night on Sally’s behalf, should the occasion call for it. Sally’s heart swelled with affection. She really was terribly fond of Agnes.