“Darius?”
No answer. At least I would find some food. To my surprise, he’d left a message to tell me he’d spent some of the money on groceries. Fresh bread, apples, salted meat, and potatoes competed for space in the pantry.
A full pantry. That was a novelty.
For lack of space, Odette’s portrait sat on one of the shelves, and before grabbing the meat, I held it. She would have been proud of my job. She would also have said something odd, like that centuries ago, she’d been a princess, or something similar. Mama had believed the seizures had put those strange ideas in Odette’s head, but I wasn’t so sure.
I bit into a piece of meat as a knock came from the door. Instant cold slithered down my neck. Not Riley. It was too early for him to ask for the monthly pay.
I swallowed. “Who is it?”
“I’m here to see Miss Hart.” The deep, accented voice wasn’t familiar, and who would come here to call on my late sister at night?
Curiosity won over suspicion, and I opened the door. “Who are you?”
A six-foot-tall man towered over me in a finely tailored charcoal-grey coat, top hat, and white silk neck-cloth. His face was half hidden, but the semidarkness didn’t hide his pale, pale skin. The chap hadn’t seen the sun in a while.
He removed his hat, revealing curled blond hair and deep blue eyes. They seemed to see my secrets. “Is this Miss Odette Hart’s house?”
“Yes, but?—”
“May I come in?”
What a pain in the neck. I held the door open, but he didn’t move.
“I need a formal invitation.” He tilted his head. “It’s a custom of my country.” He pronounced ‘country’ as ‘kontry.’
I just couldn’t have dinner in peace.
I flourished a hand mockingly. “My lord, I invite Your Excellency into my humble house.” I hoped he caught the sarcasm.
He stepped inside and gazed around. I’d seen that gaze on the faces of ruthless killers in the rookery, and a shiver pebbled my skin. Yet a foreign gentleman couldn’t be a thug like Riley, could he?
“This place is terrible.” He exhaled through clenched teeth. Sharp teeth, that is. “Miss Hart shouldn’t live in such poverty.”
“She doesn’t.” I was starting to get annoyed. “Who are you?”
“Where is she?” Eagerness rang in his voice. “For I very much desire to speak to her.”
“Who are you?” I repeated slowly and more loudly in case he didn’t understand me.
“I’m Matthias Corvinus Andrássy, Count of Bethlen.” He smiled, and I wanted to tell him not to. His canines were pointed, and the result was a chilling grin.
“Why on Earth would you see my sister?” It was more a question addressed to myself than to him.
“Tell me where she is. I can pay you.” He put a hand over his pocket. “I can give you everything you want if you let me talk to her.”
Why did everyone want to give me money as of late? Not that I was complaining, but it was odd.
“I don’t want your money, but if you want to see my sister, you’ll have to visit one of the common graves in Kensal Green. She died four years ago during the flu outbreak.” And I was certain she’d never mentioned a foreign count.
He remained so still I was worried he might have a fit. The air vibrated, and a shout of pure desperation rumbled out of him. It was a punch in the stomach and made me want to cry.
I stepped back. The instinct to run caused me to quiver.
“My lord?” I took the portrait of Odette and handed it to him to make sure we were talking about the same person. “This is my sister. Are you sure this is the girl you’re looking for?”
He snagged the portrait with such speed I didn’t see him moving. “My Isabelle.” His voice changed, becoming soft and charged with sorrow. “Dead. I am late.”
