Cordon scraped the cloying taste from his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was strip down and have Adams scrutinize every inch of his pale flesh, but he had to know how far the mate atrophy had progressed.
According to his vampire physician—and Marguerite’s journal—a fledgling vampire could survive for fifty years without forming a telepathic bond with their fated mate before symptoms began. The first stage included bleeding in the nose or in the mouth. This Cordon had experienced this for some decades and was of no great concern. He carried scented, scarlet handkerchiefs to disguise such incidents.
The second stage started around a hundred years after mortal death and presented much like the dreaded consumption with a gradual weakening, blood in the lungs, and a persistent, fearsome ache of the muscles. Cordon kept a ready supply of laudanum, morphia, and animal blood to sustain himself during the worst of these fits. His physician had cautioned against long-term use of such medicines, but there was nolong termfor Cordon. Given his condition, he would be lucky if he survived another year.
The third stage, which he had not yet reached, was marked by redness, swelling, and the inability to catch one’s breath. Sores formed on the skin, as well as distinctive bruises that bloomed like spilled red wine and oozed black blood.
What happened after that, Cordon did not know, because his maker had torn out the last page of his her journal before she had given it to him. His physician had offered to enlighten him, but he had declined. He wasn’t afraid to learn what came next—it simply didn’t matter. Why torture himself when his fate was inevitable? He had spent fifty long, boring years scouring the world. Years he would never get back. Now that he was done searching, it was time to set aside the strict rules his maker had told him that were necessary to identify his fated mate and enjoy what little time he had left.
As Adams helped him disrobe, Cordon kept his gaze on the window above his writing desk. The sun would soon rise. He could feel it in the gradual tightening of his muscles, his vampiric instincts warning him to find shelter. When he rested, his already unnaturally slow pulse would become almost undetectable. The combination of that and his pale, cold skin meant he had once awoken buried in the ground by humans who had stumbled over his resting body and had assumed he was dead.
“Up, my lord,” Adams said.
Cordon curled his toes in the thick Egyptian rug beneath his feet and lifted his arms so Adams could peer beneath, feeling like a bowstring drawn and ready to fire at any moment. Adams worked in silence, walking around Cordon several times before finally stepping back.
“Nothing,” Adams said.
Cordon’s shoulders sagged. One day, likely soon, Adams would report a different result. On that day, Cordon didn’t know what he’d do. He preferred to focus instead on the present.That was how he’d come to the idea of his list. If his time was coming to an end, there would be no more cold, lonely nights spent contemplating his death. He would occupy every minute possible enjoying himself to the fullest, starting with smoothing things over with Miss Griffith—or finding a new mistress.
“Have you heard from Madame Rosalie?” Cordon asked.
Adams pressed his lips into a thin line. “No. If you pardon me for saying so, my lord, she is not worth your time.” Adams did up the buttons on the front of Cordon’s nightshirt. “She is insufferable.”
Cordon couldn’t deny that, as the dressmaker had dismissed his mistress as a client in favor of creating gowns for attendees of the upcoming Sultan’s Ball. That would not have been a problem, except it had thrown Miss Griffith into a temper, and she’d refused to visit him until he sorted it out.
As Adams busied himself putting clothes into the wardrobe, Cordon stared at the disembodied clothing in the reflection of his mirror. He could not see his face, but from Adams’s description, he knew there were more fine lines around his eyes and mouth, and several strands of silver in his hair. With each passing year, his youth faded.
He picked up a stack of envelopes sitting on his writing desk. Perhaps he could find the answer to the problem within them. If he knew Society, news of Miss Griffith screeching in the street in front of Madame Rosalie’s shop had already spread through London. There were sure to be at least a few casual mentions of potential replacement dressmakers.
He flipped through his correspondence until he found one written in an unfamiliar hand. He set the rest aside and cracked the wax seal. When he unfolded the letter, his eyebrows rose, and by the time he’d finished, he was intrigued.
Miss Carter.
Why was that familiar?
It took a moment, then a startled laugh bubbled out of his throat. The box he’d taken at the market had that name carved on the lid. The woman he’d stolen from wanted him to visit her shop. It must have been coincidence. The only other possibility was that she’d somehow broken through the mental block he’d placed on her, recognized him, and intended to try blackmail him.
Either way, here was the answer to his problem, and exactly what he needed to shake his mental fugue. If her letter was innocent, he wanted to see the flush on her cheeks when she realized what she’d done. If she had more nefarious purposes, wearing the scarf would show he did not fear her and might give him an edge.
He was suddenly eager to get moving. The way she had reacted to his touch had stirred something deep inside him, a particular sensation he hadn’t felt in decades.
Excitement.
And he wanted more.
He tapped his toes on his carpet as he withdrew his list from its place in his writing desk, uncapped his ink, then added a new item to the bottom of the sheet.
#101: Woo a dressmaker.
Chapter Three
“Just a fewdays,” Mrs. James Carter said. “You can spare that, can you not? Betty misses you terribly.”
Kitty pinned the hem of the white, organdie day dress she’d assembled that morning as her mother whined and tugged at the pale-yellow curls framing her narrow face. Two hours had passed since Mrs. Carter had arrived at Kitty’s shop and every minute of that time had frayed Kitty’s patience. First her mother had voiced her usual critique, insisting the furniture was too worn, the windows were dingy, and the walls covered in dust. Then she’d taken to scrunching her stub nose and gingerly lifting the skirts of her absurdly expensive linen day dress as she walked, as if Kitty’s assistant hadn’t just washed the floor.
Mrs. Carter plucked a stray thread from her bodice, held it away from her body, and let it flutter to the floor. “I simply cannot understand this obsession of yours. I should never have allowed your father to apprentice you. This is all so unnecessary. You should be home with your family.”
Kitty closed her eyes. “The Sultan’s Ball is quickly approaching. I will not leave my shop and give up on potential clients.”
