“Very well,” said Marbod, sighing. “But Nicki and I are not liable for that temper of his.”
“His temper,” said Victoria, “will be of no moment if he cannot find them, and I daresay he will not if they wish not to be found.”
Gabriel’s fangs gleamed as he smiled. “Their activities here defy a visit.”
“Then it would be rude not to take up the gauntlet,” said Markus, glancing at the clock. “Now that that’s all settled, I shall at last take my leave of you all. Goodnight.”
“Where are you going? I hope you don’t expect me to gad about at this hour.” Victoria craned her neck around as he strode towards the door. “It is almost dawn!”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I have a pressing engagement with a delightful little somnambulist.” And thus he left before Gabriel could raise another tiresome objection.
Chapter Sixteen
Peculiar Things
My Dear Mary,—I apprehend the strangest things are happening to me. I wake up with begrimed feet and am told that I have been perambulating along London streets in my sleep…with the mad butcher still about! And now there are indelible ink stains on my neck that I cannot account for, to say nothing of the uncanny dreams that beset me each night—always the same faceless lovers. Milli declares I am out of my senses, but that is the pot calling the kettle black. With love, your favorite potty cousin,
Emma.
The vestigial shadows of Emma’s dream had left its brand upon her neck long after the sun resumed its faithful purchase in the sky, albeit obscured behind the familiar London mantle of soot and cloud.
Perhaps Emma had been beset with one of those sleepwalking spells Milli kept insisting she suffered from and had somehow scraped her neck along the way? Yes, that was it! Emma studied her reflection with narrowed eyes, tracing the shape of the little smudge at the base of her throat. A higher neckline might conceal it from suspecting eyes, but if her uncle or Milli chanced to gaze upon it they would like as not only think it another of the many ink smudges Emma was wont to wear. Leastwise that was her hope.
As she dressed herself in one of the dreadful morning gowns that she knew would send Milli into transports of horror, Emma was struck by a peculiar fancy—it seemed to her that the room was leavened with the faintest hint of masculinity; she only had to close her eyes a moment and breathe in the wind blown salt and amber of some wild and ancient crag. Something about that masculine perfume embodied the night itself. It was arrant nonsense, of course, for how could one possibly smell such a thing. She was being fanciful again.
Howsoever fanciful she was, Emma decided not to dismiss any feelings of presentiment. Though she felt ridiculous doing so, she snatched up a long dark strand of hair from her pillow and therewith tied it inconspicuously around the hasp and loop of the window. She would make sure it was still in place before she went to bed tonight, and she would tie her braid to the bedpost for good measure, lest she herself open the blasted window in one of her stupors; a good dose of pain to the scalp would surely wrench her from a dream walk. And a dream lover. If the window should be tampered with in the night, she would know of it by next morning.
Satisfied, she left her chamber to join the family for breakfast. She found Milli uncharacteristically withdrawn, doubtless affected by the gloomy weather. The hush that ensued as they breakfasted was likely of no moment to Mr. Haywood who, Emma knew, believed silence necessary to digestion. And it was no secret he rather preferred when the ladies, the youngest especially, accommodated that quiet and left him to read his paper in peace.
Milli obliged him, however, only until Reid appeared at her side with an epistle atop his silver tray. “The post just come for you, miss,” he said.
She thanked him and broke the seal directly.
Emma recognized the Winterly insignia stamped firmly into the crimson wax. The handwriting, that so inspired her sister’s happy animation, was a neat feminine script that declared itself to be the hand of Victoria.
“Another invitation to Mayfair!” said Milli in rapturous accents. She then gave vent to an ear-splitting squeal, brandishing the letter at Emma.
Aunt Sophie gave a visible start, nearly spilling her tea, and their uncle harrumphed irritably behind his broadsheet. Emma calmly took the letter from her sister’s fervid hand and read.
Half Moon street, Monday.
My Dear Friend,—I fear the weather might prove to be as dismal all this week as it is today, but if you and your sister would honor me with your company to-morrow, I should be very much obliged to see you here at two o’clock for tea and light refreshments. My brother is from town to-day and shall not be returning till Tuesday a sennight. Yours ever,
Victoria Winterly.
“How exciting!” said Milli, her chair nearly toppling backwards as she rose from her chair. “I shall answer her at once!”
“Yes, please do.” Emma gave an irreverent wave as her sister dashed from the room in a flurry of muslin and petticoats. “These rich ladies can’t bear to wait till one has broken one’s fast.” Shaking her head, she tucked the invitation into her notebook for safekeeping.
Milli returned a moment later, much becalmed, having presumably sent off her reply.
“Aunt,” said Emma, “may I have the carriage this evening?”
“Yes, of course but what for?”
“The Littérature Étrangère exhibition in Cavendish Square. I believe I told you about it yesterday.”
“Bless me, I quite forget!” Aunt Sophie pursed her lips, flustered. “You see, I’ve taken a box at Haymarket tonight, for I recall you did express a wish to see Castle of Andalusia. Will you not reconsider and postpone your outing till tomorrow?”
“I would give up any appointment but this one, Aunt.” She was indeed most eager to see that particular opera, but she knew it would be repeated on Saturday, and if she missed that showing too, there was always Macbeth, her favorite play. However, she had tried and failed to find out any information whatever pertaining to the mysterious Littérature Étrangère and, therefore, might very well never get another chance to see the like again. There was every possibility she might be denied admittance, but it was a venture worth the undertaking.
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear it,” said her aunt.
“And I,” said Milli, patting her aunt’s hand, “for she shall miss Mr. Braham singing Faithless Emma!”
Emma ignored the remark and continued poring over Milton.
“Really, Emma, I cannot comprehend your fixation for those moldy old books. They very likely shan’t even be printed in English, for heaven’s sake!”
“You, my dear,” said their uncle, extricating himself from his chair, “might well benefit from such moldy old books as might advance your organon. Perhaps then your wit might improve with your sense.”
Milli waited until he had repaired to his library before leaning forward to stick her tongue out at Emma. “I daresay my uncle would not think you nearly so witty if he perceived the volumes of grotesqueries you read at night!”
But Milli was not able to bring her sister to any proper sense of shame, leastwise none that Emma cared to betray upon her countenance. Emma closed her book with deliberate care and stood to her full height, which was considerably greater than Milli’s. “Then it is a good thing I don’t care sixpence what anyone thinks of me.” That said, she quit the room as calmly as she had delivered her lie.