“…you might join me for a picnic later? Just the two of us?” Purcell was saying.
Max’s ears sharpened and he frowned. A vampire on a picnic? But when he heard the rest of the conversation, he set his jaw grimly. A picnic under the moonlight would be the perfect time for a vampire to strike, and seduce, and—oh hell, to be seduced by—a lovely young woman.
The good news, however, was that he’d have plenty of time to scout out the layout of the house and grounds, as well as determine the number of other undead currently in residence. The hardest thing for him would be to keep his stake put away should he encounter one—for the minute anyone scented undead ash or noticed a missing vampire, suspicion would surely fall on the newcomers.
Not only that, there was always the excellent chance Max would be recognized. He wasn’t concerned about being taken by surprise of course, but by having their mission disrupted.
Above all, the most important task at hand was to obtain the coded letter with information about Macey. A stark wave of nausea rippled through his belly. What if the code had already been broken?
What if they knew where she was?
Max gave a sharp shake of his head to dislodge the thoughts. He couldn’t allow himself to be propelled or paralyzed by that fear. Keeping the emotions far away from his consciousness was the only way he could accomplish this mission.
Apparently, Savina would be safe from Purcell’s fangs until at least dusk, so Max took the opportunity to familiarize himself with the area. Under the guise of finding the best locations for Savina’s—or, rather, Miss Ellison’s—outdoor photography studio, Max prowled around the exterior of the manor house and out onto the grounds. He would have to wait until the evening to do a thorough investigation of the interior, although he did manage to determine the location of the bedchamber to which Savina had been assigned (two windows above the main floor, east side, adjacent to a porte cochère). (Max, of course, had not been assigned a bedchamber, but was relegated to sleeping on a pallet in a backroom of the garage with the other chauffeurs.)
After that, he decided it would be prudent to at least discover the location of Purcell’s private suite for future reference. There were a number of reasons that could be helpful—the least of which was to give him the chance to snoop around when he had more time later.
Max slipped up the servant’s stairway and climbed to the second floor. He was carrying a small duffel bag and a brolly so if he were discovered, he could convincingly pretend he’d gotten lost looking for Miss Ellison’s room to deliver her items.
Though it was past noon, Max was surprised at the amount of activity in these upper rooms. It was like being at the train station all over again: people coming and going, carrying trunks and piles of bedclothes, clothing, and cleaning supplies. He had to dodge into a wardrobe once and ducked behind a tall statue in an alcove as two of the housemaids breezed past, chattering madly.
Nevertheless, he remained undetected by the busy household staff and at last turned the corner into a new, more modern wing of the home. His suspicion was correct; here was where the master of the manor slept. The double doors leading to what could only be Purcell’s suite were ajar, giving Max the opportunity to peer through the opening. With one quick glance down the corridor to ensure no one was in the vicinity, he angled himself so he could observe, but not be seen.
He could make out sumptuous violet and gold furnishings, all lit with artificial light rather than the natural illumination from the sun. Heavy drapes obliterated the only window he could see from his vantage point, and there was a tall dressing mirror situated near one corner. It was positioned perfectly, enabling Max to see the other side of the chamber through its reflection.
Muffled voices rose and fell from somewhere in the room, and Max caught only snatches of the conversation.
“…Ten, at least…Tomorrow.” Purcell gave a delighted laugh. “And tonight, as you might have heard, I have the unexpected pleasure of a new arrival…”
His companion replied, but Max couldn’t make out the words from the low, rumbling voice. He frowned, adjusting his position in an effort to see a different angle of the room. The damned blue-tinted glasses were a nuisance—they kept him from pressing his face close enough to the crack, and they changed the bloody color of everything. He shoved them into the pocket of the trousers he’d changed into and turned back to the opening. Now he could see someone’s shadow on the floor and the hint of movement.
Max scanned the room. There was nothing from his vantage point that resembled a desk or any place that might have paperwork. Perhaps he should break into Purcell’s study as well as gain access to this suite at a time when the master of the house would be out of the way.
While they are on their moonlight picnic.
Dare he leave Savina unattended with the vampire? I can handle myself, she would tell him. She was prepared to deal with Rastingard already, and Purcell—well, he was a newly-minted undead. They were always filled with cheap bravado and foolishness related to their fresh immortality.
Possibly, she could handle the infant vampire…but perhaps Max dared not chance it.
Dammit. It would be the best opportunity to snoop around.
The shadows moved, but Max was still unable to see either of the chamber’s occupants. Just then, he heard a noise from down the corridor.
Quickly, he scooped up his props. He had just stepped away from the door and out into the hall when a man who could only be Purcell’s valet came striding down the corridor.
“Excuse me, but may I help you?” asked the valet, who was holding several jackets draped over one arm. One was a hideous purple and gold paisley. The valet was looking at Max as if he found him malodorous. “What are you doing up here?”
Max shrugged. “No English,” he said in a thick accent. He lifted up the duffel and brolly in explanation, and tried on a confused expression. “Miss Ellison?”
“What’s going on out here?” Purcell strode out of his chamber just as Max remembered he’d taken off his glasses. Dammit.
“He’s lost, I think, Mr. Purcell,” said the valet with a sneer. “I believe he’s looking for your newly arrived guest.”
Max didn’t wait. He’d already turned and walked away unhurriedly, shaking his head as if in confusion and frustration. The back of his neck was prickling wildly and he felt the eyes boring into his shoulders, and then it eased as the two men fell into conversation about which smoking jacket Purcell should wear to greet his guests tomorrow.
Max shoved his glasses back on, and just as he turned the corner into the other corridor, he caught a snatch of conversation that nearly made him stop short.
“…don’t want Rastingard to get her skirt all up in a twitch.”
Max’s eyes goggled behind the blue lenses.
Rastingard was a woman?
Well, that certainly changed things.
CHAPTER 9
~ Rehearsal ~
As it turned out, dusk came much sooner than Savina anticipated—and along with that came a wrinkle in her plans.
Purcell had been turned undead. She had another vampire to contend with? And how had their informants not come across that relevant piece of information? Had Max realized it yet or not?
But Savina didn’t have the opportunity to find him to discuss the matter, for though she was an unexpected guest at Crenshaw, the red carpet had been rolled out for her. She found herself so fully occupied after her arrival that she didn’t see Max again.
First, Purcell insisted she have tea in the parlor. He excused himself for a business meeting and explained he had a subsequent fitting for tomorrow’s ball afterward, but told her, “You will find the staff quite accomplished at making you feel at home, Miss Ellison. I will meet you here at half eight this evening for our rendezvous.”
While she was taking tea, her bags were brought to a guest room, and as soon as Savina was finished with her small meal, a housemaid escorted her to the chamber. All of her clothing had been unpa
cked, and she was pressed upon to “freshen up after your long drive, miss.”
Once she’d freshened up and taken a nap (really, she hadn’t realized how tired she was), Savina washed her face again and made her way downstairs. She went outside, ostensibly to walk through the gardens but more in hope of encountering Max. He was nowhere to be found.
Savina found their motorcar in the garage, and after a casual inquiry, learned that her servant Aziz had been assigned his sleeping arrangements, but no one had seen him recently. She could only assume he was doing something productive like learning the layout of the grounds and manor house.
She did the same, skirting the H-shaped building and walking purposely through the gardens—all the while keeping an eye out for her companion. Really, didn’t he think it would be prudent for them to have a brief tete-a-tete now that they’d arrived?
By the time Savina finished her exploration of the house and nearby grounds, it was after seven-thirty and she thought it best she return to her chamber to prepare for the evening. Her belly felt a little squirmy when she thought about what she had to do, and for a moment she considered whether there was another means to an end that didn’t require her to submit to the touch—and kiss—of not one, but two vampires.
She shuddered a little then shoved away the thought. It’s just one night, and what’s the worst that can happen?
At the top of the stairs, Savina huffed out a breath and closed her eyes briefly. Well, the worst that could happen was best not dwelled upon. She was as well prepared as she could be, Max Denton’s backup presence (if he ever reappeared) notwithstanding, and she’d been anticipating this opportunity for months.
She had to do whatever she must to get the key to the safe—including lull Purcell into complacence with her—but more importantly, she had to see what was under his wristband. Once that was done, all bets were off and the man could—and should—poof to ash for all she cared.
She would deal with Rastingard when the time came.
Still, Savina felt more than a little unsteady as she opened the door to her chamber. It was dim and silent inside, for the drapes had been pulled nearly all the way closed, and the frock and overcoat she’d chosen for the evening picnic was laid out on the dressing rack. She turned on the lamp, then walked over to switch on a second one. Damn. She supposed she’d have to ring for the maid to help her dress. That would be expecte—
She spun around just in time to see a figure detach itself from behind the dressing screen. “Good grief, Max, you nearly frightened me to an early grave!”
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” he said in a low voice. “I’ve been waiting here for hours. I had to hide under the bed, for God’s sake, and there’s a bloody chamber pot under there.”
“Well, I don’t see any dust bunnies clinging to you,” she managed to respond, deadpan. Then, when he looked as if he were going to choke—or laugh—she continued, “I’m meeting Purcell at half-past eight for a twilight picnic—”
“I know.”
“Then you’re probably aware he’s been turned.”
“Of course.”
He stalked over to one of the windows and adjusted the curtains to allow in a little more of the lowering sunlight, but not enough that anyone could see him in the window. Nope, no dust bunnies on his trousers or the back of his shirt. Where was his coat? And glasses? And when had he changed from his galabiyyah? The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, with no tie in sight. He did look a little rumpled—as if he’d spent quite some time under the bed. She bit her lip to hide a grin at the thought of him hiding under there like a naughty child. For hours.
“The damned housemaids have been in and out of this room three times since I got here, and that’s all they’ve been chattering about—how romantic it is, how lovely Miss Ellison is, what should she wear and how should she do up her hair, and—”
“What are you doing here anyway?” she interrupted. “And why did you waste ‘hours’ waiting here?”
He glanced warily at the door. “You’re not expecting another damned maid, are you?”
“They’ll want to help me dress,” she said, then added smoothly, “unless you have a burning desire to play lady’s maid.” She gave him a thoughtful smile, remembering how he’d been gawking at her ankles and sniffing her hair…and of course, that delicious kiss. And there’d been a few moments when they were on the train that she’d thought…well, that something was there.
Max’s reaction to her suggestion was comical: his eyes widened, and he gave a noticeable double take. “I don’t think you’d be very satisfied with my work,” was all he said.
“Are you suggesting you aren’t able to satisfy a wom—”
“Savina!” he hissed, his mouth flattening into such a thin line it disappeared beneath his beard and mustache. “Be serious. We have things to discuss.”
“Well, then you’ll have to talk while I dress—unless you want me to ring for the maid. It won’t do for me to be late for my assignation, and a lady can’t rush her toilette. Plus, I have no idea how I’m going to do my hair.”
He muttered something and settled into a plush rose wingback chair. “Suit yourself.” He flapped a hand toward the dressing screen.
“Only if you promise to do the buttons I can’t reach,” she teased, then darted behind the screen.
It was good, this banter between them. The little sizzle of interest and awareness took her mind off the fact that in less than an hour, she was going to be at the mercy (hopefully that was an exaggeration) of a handsome, charming, but demonic vampire.
And if Max appeared a little put-off by her sassiness, well, that was his problem. Flirting never hurt anyone, and he looked as if he could use something a little more intense than mere flirtation anyway.
“Did you want me to run a bath for you?” Max said with exaggerated sweetness as he gestured toward the adjoining room. There was a deep, white claw-footed tub on a floor covered by small black and white tiles. “Brush your hair? Trim your nails?”
Now it was Savina’s turn to pause. She couldn’t tell whether he was joking or merely being aggravating, and the expression on his face was bland. Very bland. “What am I? A dog? Wait, don’t answer that.” She was rewarded by the faintest twitch of his lips beneath his whiskers. “I will need help with my corset, though,” she added archly. “One of Estevan’s unique creations—I can’t seduce a vampire without it. I didn’t think I’d need it until tomorrow night, but…”
“Right, then. Perhaps you’d better call a maid for help with that.” He grimaced and rubbed his beard. It sounded like he was using sandpaper.
Savina had finished unhooking her current undergarment and flung it over the screen, where it landed on the floor in front of him. “Surely the great Max Denton isn’t intimidated by a few hooks and laces,” she taunted.
He’d bent to pick it up, so she couldn’t see his face—and he didn’t deign to respond. By the time he stood, she’d already begun to struggle into the special garment Estevan had created for her, inspired by a model that had been worn by Victoria Gardella back in 1821. That particular corset had been designed by the ingenious Miro. Fortunately, Estevan’s corset hooked up the front with surprising ease, and her nimble fingers made short work of the task. She would add the final accessories once the back was laced up properly.
“What was so important you had to lie next to a chamber pot for four hours?” she asked, fastening the last connector. “I’m all ears.”
“I’ll tell you about that in a minute…but are you certain you want to go through with your plan tonight?” Max asked—instead of explaining why he was there. “Remind me again why you feel it’s necessary to seduce the man. Who, I might remind you, is now a vampire.”
She looked at him from over the top of dressing screen. “How else am I going to gain his trust? You know how skittish Rastingard is. This is our only chance to be in a place where he’s not on his own turf.”
“Speaking of which.” Max had an
odd expression on his face. “I’m assuming that when you devised this plan of seduction, you weren’t aware that Rastingard is a woman.”
Savina stilled. “A woman? Rastingard is a woman? That’s impossible. I saw him.”
“From a distance.”
“Well, yes, but, he was wearing trousers and a coat and tie and…” She realized how ridiculous that sounded. “Well. So Rastingard is a woman who dresses like a man. Maybe to hide her identity? Either way, that puts a damper on things.”
“Ah. Yes, well, I was beginning to wonder if you had—er—Sapphic tendencies.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Isn’t it obvious—” She snapped her mouth closed before she said something much too revealing. Heat rushed up from her chest to her throat and cheeks.
He lifted his brows as if to encourage her to continue, but she remained silent. After a moment, he said, “Well, then, that must necessarily change your plan to get close to Purcell in order to get into Rastingard’s boudoir. I suppose the moonlight picnic must be cancelled.”
But Savina was shaking her head. “Definitely not. Regardless of how this new information impacts my plan to obtain Rastingard’s key, I still need to get to know Purcell in…er…in a private setting.”
She stopped abruptly and bit her lip, returning her attention to adjusting the cotton and whalebone corset that stretched tightly across her breasts, flattening them into a smooth line. The garment made her torso one long, sleek shape to just above her hips. Four tapes hung, two on each side, front and back, to which her stockings would be attached.
She held on to two of the ornamental finials on top of the divider screen and said earnestly, “And, incidentally, I’m not going to actually seduce him. Not that it’s any of your business what I do or don’t do in the privacy of my boudoir—or anyone else’s. I only want to find out why Purcell wears that leather wristband all the time. What he’s hiding beneath it.” She saw the moment Max understood, for his intense eyes became even sharper.
Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 106
