and the refreshments table at the door. My partner and I escaped the chamber with nothing more than a ripped hem (Miss Holmes’s), a sagging hairdo (Miss Holmes’s), and a broken copper-heeled shoe (also Miss Holmes’s).
Because I could run and she couldn’t, I fairly carried my companion down the long, dark tunnel to escape. By that time, she no longer seemed to appreciate my fighting skills.
Once we were back outside in the fresh night air, I saw that the clouds had rolled in. The moon and stars were obscured. Despite the fact that I had done all the work, Miss Holmes was panting in between demanding to know what I was thinking, what had I done, did I realize what danger I might have put us in, and other variations on that theme.
I ignored her and led the way to the nearest busy thoroughfare and flagged down a hansom cab. A few streets away, behind the new Oligary Building and its belching steam, Big Ben’s gears ground rhythmically. A glimpse of his illuminated face through an air-canal told me it was approaching midnight.
Almost three hours since we’d left the party.
“Are you aside of mad? I can’t show myself in this condition,” Miss Holmes snapped when I directed the driver to take us back to Cosgrove Terrace. She was trying to rearrange her hair on the top of her head and having a hard time of it. Her voice was tight. Fury and accusation rolled off her like angry waves.
I felt a little pang of . . . well, it certainly wasn’t guilt. It was . . . regret. Maybe.
“Let me help you,” I said grudgingly, and slid over to her side of the carriage. I stuck a few pins in place, rearranged the cunning little clockwork hair clips, and adjusted some tendrils of hair over one shoulder.
When I was done, she settled back in the corner. Her nose remained in the air during the entire ride back to the party. My hair was in even worse condition, but did she offer to assist me? She did not. Thus, using a hint of reflection from the carriage windows, I put myself to rights before the cab arrived at the Cosgrove-Pitt home.
“I don’t expect to stay very long,” Miss Holmes said from between stiff lips as she climbed down from the carriage without waiting for assistance. “Just long enough to go inside and say good evening to our host and hostess. You needn’t bother to make your carriage available to take me home, Miss Stoker.”
Her spine ramrod straight, she stalked off toward the ascending glider that would take her back into the ball. Her heavy skirts dragged because one of her delicate heels had snapped off during our escape and she had taken off her shoes.
I stifled a smile. Good riddance. And if she was leaving, this would give me the opportunity to find Lady Isabella’s study and locate the invitation list after all. It would be a welcome challenge to avoid the scores of young bachelors looking for a rich and pretty heiress to marry. I happen to fall under both categories.
At the party, I eluded Sir Buford Grandine, who had breath that rivaled the stench from the sewers, and Lord Peregrine Perry-Stokes, who, although quite wealthy, had clammy hands and the tendency to pick his nose when he thought no one was looking. Unfortunately, the habit tended to stain the fingertips of his gloves.
I avoided even Mr. Richard Dancy, who was the least offensive of the lot. He was handsome and had a very comfortable income. Unlike most of his peers, he actually asked me questions and listened to my answers when we conversed, instead of rambling on about horses or hounds or the newly signed Hartford Act.
But even if a young man did show interest in what I might think, I still couldn’t allow any of the bachelors into my affections. What young man, even in our modern London of 1889, would understand the duty and role of a female vampire hunter, let alone want to be married to one? What young man would understand or accept a wife who was not only compelled to spend her nights patrolling the streets, but also who was stronger and faster than he?
I wound my way through the ballroom and down the nearest hallway. I’d been to Cosgrove Terrace once before and remembered the basic layout. The deserted corridor lined with closed doors, gilded mirrors, and a few interesting statues led to Lady Isabella’s parlor. It was logical that her study was nearby.
The noise of the party faded. I heard only the soft hum of whirring gears and the ever-present shish of steam. I tried several doors before I heard someone approaching. I ducked into the next chamber to wait for them to pass.
“Miss Stoker?”
I froze. The door opened, and Mr. Richard Dancy poked his head in.
“Ah, Miss Stoker,” he said, “I thought I’d seen you slip away from the festivities. Is everything all right? Whatever are you doing here in the dark?”
Bloody hell.
“I needed to attend to . . . a private matter,” I replied.
He stepped into the chamber and somehow found the light switch. A soft, mellow glow filtered over the room from the wall sconces, and I realized I had found Lady Isabella’s study after all. Now if I could just get rid of my unwanted companion.
“I’ve been attempting to find you all night, Miss Stoker,” he said, closing the door behind him.
He was a handsome young man with light brown hair that curled, falling in thick waves over his forehead. His dark eyes focused steadily on me. It wasn’t surprising I had no problem dismissing the impropriety of being alone in a chamber with him.
“And now you have found me,” I said. My heart was pounding, but not from fear.
Mr. Dancy remained at a proper distance, leaning against the door. His warm smile made my insides flutter a bit, and I drew myself up sharply. Focus, Evaline. You’ve got work to do.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said, and stepped away from the door. “And you seemed to have disappeared. I cannot tell you how many parties and fetes and balls and picnics I’ve attended this Season, hoping to see you and further our acquaintance. Since your presence is so rare, when I heard your name announced, I thought I’d at last have an opportunity to lead you out for a waltz. And perhaps a stroll on the moonlit terrace?”
“Mr. Dancy . . .” I began, hoping fervently Florence would never learn of his apparent interest in me. She’d have us betrothed in a trice.
“I do wish you would call me Richard, but I suppose it won’t be proper until we’ve come to know each other better. And until we’re better acquainted, I don’t believe it would be prudent for us to be found in such an inappropriate situation,” he added, his smile turning almost shy as he gestured to the room. “I wouldn’t want to besmirch your reputation. Perhaps you’d consent to a dance, in full and proper view of an array of chaperones?”
“I’m in complete agreement that we shouldn’t be here,” I said. Hadn’t he been the one to follow me, putting us in this compromising position? “And—” I caught sight of a movement out of the corner of my eye. My heart stopped, then surged back into rhythm.
From where Mr. Dancy was standing, he couldn’t see the figure who slipped out from behind a decorative Oriental screen. I wasn’t certain if I should call an alarm or deal with the intruder myself. But then I realized I was the intruder.
The shadowy figure flashed me a cocky smile, and I jolted with recognition. I’d know that insouciant pose anywhere. Bloody blasted drat! And then Pix had the effrontery to raise a finger to his lips. To tell me to hush!
Somehow I managed to keep my expression blank when I turned to Mr. Dancy. “And”—I finished the sentence, which had dwindled off for a moment—“I would be honored to have a waltz with you.”
He smiled and for the first time, moved toward me. I changed my angle so he wouldn’t see Pix in the shadows and accepted Mr. Dancy’s offered arm. My mind raced as he led me out of the study. Actually, I was fairly towing him away. How was I going to extricate myself from the dance I’d promised? And from my companion?
Pix’s plan was obvious: he intended to rob the place and had somehow gotten himself hired as part of the staff. I had to return to Lady Isabella’s study and apprehend him before he filled his pockets.
“Oh, dear,” I said, pretending to trip. I bumped into a young woman who was holding a cup of lemonade. It sloshed all over the front of my gown, and the cup landed on the floor with a crash. I danced aside as it shattered. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so terribly sorry,” I said, just as she echoed my words.
“What a mess,” said the girl. “And your gown!”
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” I said, looking up at Mr. Dancy. His expression was a mask of regret, and I felt a twinge of guilt. “I must see to this stain before it sets. And perhaps you could see to getting Miss . . . ?”
“Miss Laurel Bednicoe,” said the girl, looking up at my companion with hopeful eyes.
