Winifred shuddered. Before her family had moved to Toronto, Vincent’s infatuation had become so unbearable that she’d taken to keeping her father’s hunting dogs at her side when he’d visited. Forwhatever reason, he despised the animals. She wished her father hadn’t sold the hounds. The next-best defense she’d come up with was outright ignoring Vincent.
She stepped over his legs and joined her cousin on the settee, which was far enough away that he might not hear if she whispered. “I’ve hardly had time to compile a list. You’ve seen my mother. She insists on trotting me out like a prize mare at every event.”
Felicity toyed with a loose thread in her gown. “At least you have parents. Uncle Ethan hardly knows I exist.”
Winifred winced. “I’m sorry. I should have spoken with more care.” After Felicity’s parents died and Ethan Sorrow had become her guardian, she’d changed. Winifred distinctly remembered wondering why her once-energetic friend had started refusing invitations and tensing every time a suitor approached her at a ball for a dance. Felicity had denied anything was wrong, but the more Winifred had observed her cousin, the more she’d realized Felicity’s behavior wasn’t fear, but a kind of cautious anticipation. Like a street cat pressing itself to the ground and holding perfectly still while a mouse slowly crawled out from a hiding place.
“I forgive you,” Felicity said. “Are there any other criteria you are considering?”
Winifred blew out a long breath. “I would like him to be kind. Intelligent. Most importantly, open-minded enough to allow his wife to pursue her own interests without being so poor that my parents would never approve.”
There was one other criterion, but she did not dare speak it aloud while Vincent might hear. She hoped to find a husband who would allow her to rescue Felicity from the clutches of their uncle by hiring her as a companion.
Thus far, she’d failed to locate anyone who would suit. Possibly because she had restricted her search to other historians. Any man wealthy or powerful enough to be acceptable to her mother was invariably preoccupied with the acquisition of more wealth or power. If only she could meet someone who respected herlove of research.
Except… she had. In a manner of speaking.
Several months ago, she had purchased the latest edition of a journal that had contained a well-written but inaccurate article regarding the Aleppo earthquake of 1138. Incensed by such flagrant disregard for historical fact, she had penned a complaint to the editor of the journal, which had miraculously been routed to the owner of the publishing company. His contrite response and follow-up retraction in the next issue had impressed her enough that she’d continued writing to him long after her grievance had been settled. It was terribly scandalous, given the intimate nature of their letters, and would have shocked her mother into a faint. From their correspondence, she judged he was well-read, empathetic, as devoted to the pursuit of knowledge as any proper scientist, and most importantly, unmarried.
She retrieved a letter from her pocket and flipped it around in her hands. “Well, there might beoneman.”
July 4th, 1867
Dear Winifred,
I hope the season was as uneventful as you wished and that you enjoyed the time you had with your cousin to the fullest. I must express my tremendous gratitude regarding your suggestion to use centrifugal force in my experiments. After some consideration, it occurred to me I could apply the same rotational force of a tornado through the construction of a machine. After months of failure, I am hopeful this newest invention will allow me to create more effective concoctions to treat my cattle.
Regarding your latest subject of research, I have attached a list of books that might suit your interests. Please inform me if you have difficulty acquiring them and I can make inquiries on your behalf to my suppliers.
Yours,
Marcus
Chapter Three
August 20th, 1867, Scotland
Marcus hefted acast-iron flywheel from his desk and carried it to where a half-constructed device waited, bathed in faint light shining through the single narrow window. He blew a wet clump of hair out of face as he lowered the wheel and slotted the square hole in its center into the shaft with a dullclank. Despite his hair being drenched in sweat, his throat was painfully dry. There was a pitcher of water within reach, but it would not quench his thirst.
He crouched and peered into the heart of the machine he had spent the last month creating, thanks to Winifred’s advice. The problematic components were the central pinion and the bevel wheel it turned against. He had meticulously crafted both out of high-quality bronze, but the fitment wasn’t close enough to ensure smooth operation. As a result, a bolt had loosened during his last experiment, causing several expensive glass vials in the latched spinning top of the machine to crack.
If his hypothesis was correct, the reason his concoctions failed to prevent his attacks was because the animal blood he used to create them possessed a component that inhibited healing. That would explain why when he mixed human blood with that of his livestock, the resulting compound formed clumps. As he had no intention of changing his diet, even if it meant remaining in seclusion forever, he needed to identify that toxin and remove it.
Unfortunately, separating blood into its constituent parts was proving far more difficult than he’d expected. By sheer chance, he’ddiscovered that agitation resulted in a subtle change in the appearance of his samples, but he’d yet to find a reliable method of producing this phenomenon without shattering his fragile glass vials.
“Damned thing,” he whispered. He got onto his knees and peered into the motor. His fingers were too thick to move the delicate components. He reached inside until his thumb brushed over the bolt he needed to remove. Then a trembling started in his fingers and the bolt slipped out of his grip and dropped into a machine with a series of clinks.
What he needed was an assistant. Preferably one with smaller hands. He might have tried luring a maid into his workshop with the promise of higher wages, but he could not trust himself to behave in a gentlemanly manner when his vampiric instincts were so close to the surface. It was the same reason he kept away from his own kind; any vampire dominant enough to tolerate his presence would invariably discover his weakness and attempt a coup.
A soft knock provided a welcome distraction. He removed his grease-stained canvas apron, hung it on a peg on the wall, and opened the door to find a trembling maid with bright-red curls barely tucked beneath a bonnet standing in the hallway holding a domed tray in both arms.
“Y-Your evening meal, my lord.”
He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “Did Mrs. Grange instruct you to climb all the way up here to bring it to me?”
His foolishly eager new cook seemed determined to get him to consume her increasingly elaborate recipes. The only reason he’d hired her had been to feed his other servants and maintain the semblance of a normal estate. His body had not required human food in centuries, although he could tolerate it in small quantities.
The maid bobbed her head.
