The doggen turned around and presented a forcibly pleasant expression. “You have achieved a perfect casual effect. And those slacks are most flattering, as is the turtleneck.”
Darius yanked the shirt out of the waistband. “I look ridiculous, don’t I. Like someone held my head and dipped me into a vat of black paint.”
“I’m not certain that would be possible, sire.”
“I’m speaking in a figurative sense.”
“I was thinking more the issue of consent—”
Gong!
The pair of them whipped their heads up to the ceiling.
“Shit, she’s early,” Darius said as he checked his watch. “She was supposed to come at seven thirty. I can’t go up there, it’s too light out.”
“It cannot be her, sire. ’Tis too light for any vampire.”
“She’s not one of us, Fritz.”
There was a pause. “A human, then?”
“No, a toaster oven in heels.” As the butler’s brows went into his hairline like he was struggling with a mental picture, Darius wiped the air with his dagger hand. “Just go up there and get her inside.”
He needed to put some shutters on this house, maybe ones that could be dropped electronically, all at once.
“But of course, sire!” The doggen bowed low and raced for the stairwell, speaking over his shoulder. “I am eager to welcome a guest into our home—your home, rather.”
As the butler hit the first stone step, Darius said sharply, “Fritz.”
The loyal servant jerked to a halt, pivoted on a dime. “Yes, sire?”
Darius stared across at the elderly male, taking in the formal black tie and tails, the white hair that was set perfect as a cap, the wrinkly face that was somehow undiminished by age. As Darius thought of all the years they had been together, going back to that estate in the Old Country, he realized he couldn’t imagine life without the butler.
“It’s our home, Fritz. Yours and mine. I would appreciate it if you referred to this abode properly.”
Fritz flushed and looked a little wobbly. Then again, doggen did not handle praise or honor well, and to that point, the only way Darius could have gotten away with what he’d said was phrasing things as he had, as an order.
“Yes,” Fritz said roughly. “Of course.”
“Now go answer the door.”
“Shall I bring her down here?”
“I don’t know.” Darius glanced around. “I mean, it’s a bedroom. I don’t want her to think… well, you know.”
The doggen smiled wisely. “But of course. I shall welcome her properly into our house up above, sire. And we shall wait upon you.”
* * *
Well… she had double-checked the address. This had to be Darius’s house.
Darius’s boss’s house, rather.
Anne took a step back. And then another. Over the glossy black door, the correct number was displayed in gleaming brass numerals, and she knew the street was the right one.
And PS, what a house. When he’d said it was white with black shutters, she’d expected something fairly fancy given that whoever owned the place had a full-time security person—and also because she knew the neighborhood from the society articles in the CCJ. But this mansion… was like something that belonged on Dynasty. Set away from the road, the gracious antique had all the lines and craftsmanship of an authentic construction that was a century or two old, yet it, and the property it sat on, were maintained to a scrupulous degree. No chipping paint, no dirty windows, no cracks in the asphalt on the driveway, no bushes or blooming fruit trees out of order.
In the early-evening light, the lawn looked like it had been mowed… and then vacuumed—
The door opened.
What was on the other side shouldn’t have been a surprise.
Still, Anne rubbed her eyes just to see if things were a figment of her imagination. Nope. It was as if the Queen of England had come for a visit and left her butler behind: Though the silver-haired man in traditional uniform was clearly elderly, he gave off the air of being a model of efficient servitude, his carriage that of a thirty-year-old soldier, his arms and white-gloved hands down at his sides, his chin up and eyes alert.
Except… he was smiling at her?
“Mistress,” he said with warmth. “Welcome.”
And then he bowed.
Anne glanced behind herself. You know, in case some visiting dignitary had arrived and was coming up the steps.
“Um, hello?” She refocused on the man. Butler. “I’m not sure if I’m at the—”
“You are most expected, do come in.” The butler stepped back and indicated the way inside with a gracious motion. “We are most pleased to have you.”
Clasping that second-best purse of hers, she entered the house. Her first impression was that it smelled like fresh roses—oh, right, there was a vase of about a hundred and fifty of the by-any-other-names right over there. Her second impression, as she looked to the left and saw a parlor, and then to the right to check out a formal dining room, was that the place was like a museum, the collection of antiques and rugs and furnishings like nothing she had ever seen outside of a magazine.
“May I take your coat, mistress?”
Was she even wearing one, she thought in a daze.
“Ah, yes, please.” She shrugged out of the lightweight jacket. “Thank you.”
Wonder if he’d ever hung up anything that had been bought off the rack. On sale. At Casual Corner.
And that accent of his. Just like Darius’s.
“If you would be so kind as to follow me.”
“Okay.”
The butler looped her flimsy outerwear over the crook of his arm and walked farther into the house, passing a staircase that clearly led to heaven, its red-carpeted steps and carved balustrade begging for a woman in a gown and diamonds to drift down them.
The living room—no, it had to be called a parlor, too, right? Or a drawing room? Jesus, where was she?—in the back was even more impressive, the rich wood paneling and leather furniture suggesting that it was for gentlemen to smoke cigars in after the dessert course. And was that…?
Across the way, taking up most of a wall, an oil painting of a king in an ermine-trimmed robe was staring out of a gilded frame with haughty self-possession. The rendering had clearly been done by a master, the eyes so lifelike, she felt as though she’d better curtsy or run the risk of being guillotined.
“… mistress?”
She spun around. “I’m sorry. I was just—that’s quite a painting.”
“It is, is it not.” The butler gave her a gentle smile. “Darius is attending to some business at the moment, but he will be right with you. Would you care for a libation?”
Tilting forward, she frowned. “I thought I was free to go?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A liberation?”
“I’ve never heard of that cocktail?”
“Cocktail?”
As they both went quiet in confusion, she wondered where Darius was. Maybe he could help save this conversation? Or at least add a couple of responses not phrased as questions.
“A drink, madam?” The butler made a pinch, extended his pinkie, and mimed sipping from a wineglass. “Perhaps you would like one?”