An icy wave washed over her.Debts.Oh, how she hated that word. When she’d been living with her family, it had been spoken daily. She swallowed back the acid burning in her throat and forced herself to ask the question.
“How much?”
Mr. Hendricks quoted a sum that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. How had her father buried himself so quickly? Hardly a month ago, she had been in his office, counting out his coins to send to the butcher and urging her father not to forget again.
She reluctantly retrieved her purse and handed it over to Mr. Hendricks.
“It’s not the entire amount,” she said.
Mr. Hendricks opened the purse. “’Tis enough. What’ve you come seeking, Miss Carter?”
The tension in her shoulders eased. She peered over his table until she found a pair of lime gloves that would match the dressshe was making while not contrasting too harshly against Lady Ferron’s fallow complexion. She pointed to them, then leaned back as the merchant wrapped up her selection.
Another pair of gloves caught her eye, made of soft kidskin and embroidered with daisies. It would be an excellent pairing with the scarf Mr. Julien had gifted her. She licked her lips. How long had it been since she’d bought something for herself? Surely months, if not years. She allowed herself the luxury of picking up the gloves. They were even more beautiful up close. Whoever had stitched the flowers was an expert, even more skilled than Mr. Julien’s wife. Kitty ran her fingertips along the careful work, then heaved a sigh and placed the gloves back on the table. In the future, perhaps, she would buy something for herself. When she had enough money to pay back her parents. For now, the scarf would have to be enough.
She stuck her hand into her pocket and found it empty.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no…”
Mrs. Julien’s gift was gone.
She patted the outside of her dress, seeking a bulge that would indicate where she had stored the box, but found nothing.
Had she placed it on Mr. Julien’s table by mistake? That wouldn’t have been so terrible, as he would surely have noticed and stored it for safekeeping. She would simply retrieve it the next time she visited his stall.
But then she remembered the man with the cane again, and it all made sense. He’d slammed into her with enough force to slide his hand into her pocket.
The blackguard had stolen from her.
Chapter Two
Cordon Shaw, ViscountGrayson, dipped his pen in the inkwell on his writing desk, then carefully drew a line through number twenty-five on his list.
#25: Steal from a stranger.
He still couldn’t believe he’d actually done it, and during the day! The moment would remain etched in his mind for what little remained of his unnatural existence. His hands had trembled so badly, he’d been sure the stern yet hauntingly beautiful woman he’d bumped into would have remarked upon it. But she hadn’t reacted when he’d relieved her pocket of the small box. He felt a twinge of guilt for the theft, but she deserved it for spurning him. It had been decades since he’d encountered a woman who hadn’t immediately simpered beneath the full power of his vampiric stare. Even Queen Victoria had bent to his will, creating a viscountcy for him and believing without question the undocumented birth date he’d provided to make him a man born only forty-five years prior.
“A lovely item,” his valet said from behind him. “But you shouldn’t go out alone, my lord. I could have acquired it on your behalf.”
Cordon chuckled. “That would not have been nearly as entertaining.”
Adams furrowed his brow and crossed his arms, managing to look imposing despite being over a hundred years younger and more than a foot shorter than his employer. No other member of Cordon’s staff would have dared show such obvious disapproval, which was the reason he favored the man. Cordon’s long existence had taught him to keep anyone who wasn’t intimidated by him close. Otherwise, it was too easy to become surrounded by people who would only tell him what they thought he wanted to hear.
He closed his inkwell, placed his pen back in its resting spot, then returned his list into the top drawer in his desk. Although Adams knew about the list, Cordon did not want anyone else to see it. Adams had proven his loyalty and discretion, but Cordon could not say the same of every member of his staff. If any of them discovered his activities—or his true age—they would surely flee his house, and his housekeeper would stake him if she had to hire additional servants.
“Shall I put the scarf away?” Adams asked. “Or do you wish to send it to Miss Griffith immediately?”
“Away,” Cordon said. His latest mistress, the esteemed actress Georgina Griffith, had lost his favor as of late. Like most of the women he chose to pursue, she inevitably expected more of him than he could give. He was not quite ready to dismiss her but would likely do so soon.
Adams lifted a silver tray of glass bottles from atop Cordon’s bed and brought it toward him. The sight of the awful concoctions immediately soured his mood.
“Your evening repast, my lord,” Adams said, setting the tray on his writing desk. Then he stood there, statue-like, as if he had been tasked by Cordon’s physician to ensure the patient consumed his medicine.
Cordon picked up the first of the bottles, removed the stopper, and downed the coagulated sheep’s blood inside. Whenthe liquid touched his tongue, he shuddered. The only good thing about dying was knowing he wouldn’t have to continue taking the tonics intended to extend his existence for much longer.
The journal tucked beneath his mattress had told him how to make the awful concoctions. It also described many other things he wished he hadn’t learned but could no longer forget. His maker, the woman who had turned him into a vampire, had left the journal to him after she’d abandoned her nest to die alone of the same affliction that now plagued his entire nest.
“Shall I check for blemishes?” Adams asked when Cordon had consumed the last of the blood.
