Not a subtle man, Mr Theris. Curious that he should be so resentful from the start. One would think that as the sole remaining drone, he would be eager to share the burden of vampire feeding and maintenance with new prospective candidates. Yet he sounded almost jealous of their presence.
“How fancy are your southern ways, then?” He waggled his eyebrows at them.
“Mr Theris, is it?” Dimity took point. This was what she did best, after all. She reached the top step and offered a dainty hand.
Mr Theris seized it with alacrity and bowed low over it. She was horribly afraid, for one moment, that he might clutch it to his breast or kiss it.
But with a quick glance at Sir Crispin, who was now looming behind Dimity, he backed away slightly. Dimity glanced under her lashes sideways. Her safety had folded his arms and was not-quite-glowering. Really, did he have to impede her progress so?
She back-kicked him in the ankle.
“Mr Theris,” she tittered, gently withdrawing her hand. “The actor? How delightful.”
The man instantly brightened and relaxed, looking almost schoolboyish. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Word of your brilliance has reached even London, I assure you, good sir.”
He seemed to remember himself and came over all seductive. “Honored to hear it, Madame.”
“Mrs Carefull, painter,” Dimity introduced herself brightly, and then allowed a certain dismissiveness to enter her tone, “My husband, Mr Carefull. Of whom you won’t have heard – he’s only a dancer.”
Sir Crispin nodded at Mr Theris.
Mr Theris tilted his chin after the vampire. “His lordship won’t wait for you. Best not lose him in this wretched tomb of a house.”
Sir Crispin nodded and trotted after Lord Kirby.
Dimity batted her eyes at Mr Theris. “My bags will make their way to me eventually, won’t they, Mr Theris?”
“A few might make their way to my room, Mrs Carefull. Should you like to come searching for them?”
Dimity disguised her repulsion easily – she’d been prepared for this style of man. “That would entirely depend on which ones, now, wouldn’t it? Not all baggage is created equal.” With which she gave his nether regions a speculative glance and waltzed past him to trail Sir Crispin down the hall.
The vampire waited for them at an off-kilter, scratched door. Behind which their room was a picture and not in the right way.
It was big enough, but cluttered with broken antiques of varying kinds. All the cushions and blankets were dusty and threadbare. There were framed and embroidered poetry samples hung on the walls, mostly Biblical, mostly exemplifying the sins of the flesh. These were complemented by thickly pigmented paintings of Greek and Roman ruins.
There was no fire in the grate and the room was glacial. Dimity supposed that vampires didn’t feel the cold and the chimney was no doubt clogged. Still, it was the very opposite of welcoming.
When she placed her apothecary kit on the bed, there being no other empty surface, a puff of dust drifted upwards, illuminated by the dim light of the room’s one gas lamp.
“Charming,” she said, enthusiastically.
“Mmm. Surely better than what you’re used to. I’ll have Theris see to your trunks.” He left them alone, muscling the door closed behind him.
“This place is a mausoleum.” Sir Crispin poked at the bed, from which another puff of dust emerged.
“It is utterly ghastly, isn’t it? I half expect ghosts to appear ’round every corner.” Dimity said this knowing supernatural hearing meant they might be overheard, but there appeared to be such interest taken in appearing as moribund as possible, no doubt her feelings of horror would be taken as a compliment. They couldn’t possibly be serious about this place, could they?
“Too depressing for ghosts,” said Crispin, his lip curled.
“Oh, do buck up, husband darling, we’re clearly in the midst of a badly written yellow-back novel of a particularly sentimental variety.”
“That doesn’t inspire confidence, dearest wife. For that would make me the hero of this novel, and the hero always dies in yellow-backs.”
“You’re sure you’re the hero?”
He arched a brow at her. “Don’t get all confident yourself, darling. There are always two heroines and one of them always dies. We don’t know which one you are, yet.”
Dimity giggled. “You read the Gothics, do you, husband dear?” Sometimes it was rather fun to play a character. She did like being Sir Crispin’s flirtatious artist wife.
“Perhaps you will find your paintbrushes inspired by our current predicament, my sweet.”
“Perhaps I shall. Do you think they’ll feed us? Or will they have forgotten we eat like humans do?”
“Mr Theris apparently still lives here. They must keep some kind of kitchen running for him at the very least. Or perhaps they buy in from a local bakery. There must be some food. Somewhere.”
“I’m freezing.” Dimity shivered.
“I don’t think it’s safe to light a fire.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll simply have to keep you warm.” He said it to sound husbandly, no doubt, but he looked rather pleased about it.
Dimity was a little too pleased herself. Sir Crispin was normally so staid and reserved around her, it was nice to see him get into a role for a change. Might give her an opportunity to pry him out of that armour of his. What was he really like when he actually liked someone? And could she get him to like her?
“Shall we to bed, then?” She thought she sounded brave.
CHAPTER FOUR
Why Not Be Tidy?
Cris was already finding it an awkward business, pretending to be married to someone he actually would like to marry – including all the carnal advantages indicative of such a union. In other words, he was forced to acknowledge to himself (at the very least) that it was challenging not to touch his Sparkles as he wished, with desire, when they were sharing a room and a bed. All his noble intentions and efforts to stop himself from becoming his father were about to be tested. Because he was certain his Sparkles, for all her machinations, was still a comparative innocent and he refused to take advantage of her or the situation.
Eventually their luggage – well, Dimity’s luggage – made its way to their room. Then, much to their surprise, a tray of food appeared on the floor outside their door, an offering for the weak humans. Cris brought it in, only a little suspicious, and for lack of any other clean, flat surfaces, put it on the bed. Sparkles went rummaging in her copious bags and produced a fist-sized spiky apparatus that looked exactly like two tuning forks sticking out of a crystal.
“Is that a...?”
She held up a hand to silence him. He held his tongue and watched her precise, elegant movements. Her hands were small and fine, but not thin. Concentrating and focused, she flicked one of the metal parts with a dainty white finger, waited a moment, and then flicked the other. The two prongs produced a discordant, high-pitched humming noise, amplified by the crystal. She placed the device carefully on the floor near the door jamb.
She gave him a wide, genuine smile, pleased with herself. “Harmonic auditory resonance disruptor, the very latest design. Quite newfangled, but supposed to be particularly challenging to sensitive supernatural hearing, especially werewolves. It should work on vampires as well. Muddles them enough to make overhearing a trial. Should allow us to talk in our room, so long as we keep it vibrating.”
“Ingenious,” said Cris, crouching down to examine it, careful not to touch. He wondered where he could get one for himself. The sound was annoying, but not being constantly on guard when in the comparative privacy of their room would be a blessing.
Dimity cleared off an old vanity and placed their supper on it. Cris rose and went to help her. The tray contained nothing even approaching palatable – two bowls of savory porridge featuring unidentifiable meat blobs that might have started life as sausage – but
at least it provided sustenance. Certainly Cris had eaten worse when on campaign, and he tended to require quite a bit of fuel.
Dimity made a face, but seemed resigned and managed half her bowlful. He worried she hadn’t eaten enough, but when pressed she only shook her head.
“It’s more than sufficient, I assure you. I’m neither as big nor as active as you, husband.”
Cris pretended offense. “I’m sure I’ve no idea what you mean.”
The room had a dressing chamber attached, so they each made use of it in an attempt to preserve the dignity of a working relationship. Crispin hardly knew what to do with a nightshirt, since he normally slept in the altogether, but at least his valet had known to pack something.
Sparkles emerged shrouded in a respectable muslin nightgown with ruffles at the hem and a small train. The elaborate thoroughness of the garment told him, more than anything else could, of her genuine nervousness surrounding intimate sleeping arrangements with a man. He yearned to reassure her of his good intentions, and self-control, but was at a loss as to how to do so.
Crispin’s nightshirt was an ancient white cotton affair. Goodness knows where his valet had found the bally thing. He was grateful for the warmth, and its role in protecting both his and Dimity’s sensibilities, but annoyed at the prospect of the darn thing getting tangled about his thighs while he slept.
Sparkles, of course, went up against her fears with flirtation. “Oh, you do have nice legs! All that dancing, I suppose?”
She was sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing her hair. This was the first time he’d seen it entirely down and it was remarkably thick and long and fluffy. Also, clearly, quite a task to brush. Apparently he was staring, because she paused, gave him a shy smile, and waggled the brush at him. “Would you?”
He swallowed hard, sat next to her on the counterpane, keeping his body loose and welcoming, and took the brush from her hand. “Turn around, then.”
She did so without comment. He began pulling the brush through as gently as he could, working out the tangles and extracting forgotten hairpins – careful to keep his knuckles, where they curled around the brush handle, from touching her skin.
“How will you put it up tomorrow, without a lady’s maid? I’m afraid I haven’t the skill to do it for you.” He tried not to lean into her rose-milk smell, stronger now, so she must have applied a skin cream of some kind.
“Oh, I’ll keep it simple or even down. I’m only a poor artist, after all.”
“Not down, please.” Cris marveled at the softness, and took up a hank with his left hand, squeezing it gently. Her hair smelled amazing too. Like lemon, perhaps? Yes, and it was also the source of the honey scent.
She’d bent her head forward under his ministrations. He could not resist the urge to stroke her hair back with his free hand, running a finger along her cheek and neck. Realizing what he’d done, he jerked to a stop.
She shivered and turned to him, taking the hairbrush away. Her lashes were lowered and he felt like a cad.
The muslin of her nightgown wasn’t thick enough to hide the fact that she was either cold or aroused. Crispin’s nightshirt was likely to be similarly strained if he stood at the moment. Only his would definitely be arousal. He sighed at his own lack of control.
She had a fine figure, under the shapeless peignoir. He knew it from years of study, certainly not because the one light was behind her and her silhouette clearly visible. Curved, soft, and round everywhere she ought to be. And he shouldn’t be thinking about it.
This was what came of brushing a woman’s hair.
He climbed into bed.
Dimity puttered about the room a bit longer, putting away various bits and bobs, not unpacking, more making room so she might start. He noticed her shivering.
“Come to bed. It’s cold and late. You can do that tomorrow.” She was nervous. Good at hiding it, of course, but by nature she was a chatterer, not a putterer.
He curled his shoulders trying to make himself seem smaller and less threatening. It was not a big bed at all, and they’d be in proximity soon. He raised a knee, to ensure his continued interest wasn’t evident. Didn’t want to frighten her further.
Steel set her spine and she give him a glare. “Oh, very well.”
She took a little sip of air and climbed under the counterpane next to him, stiff and resolute – and firmly on her side of the mattress. She also started shivering in earnest.
He cursed his fate and ceded his scruples to his need to ensure her well-being. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sparkles, we are to spend a fortnight like this. Shift over.”
He stayed on his back, but looped one long arm around her and tugged her up against his side.
She stiffened further and then gave this adorable tiny mewing noise and rolled to curl tightly against him, throwing one arm over his chest and nestling into his shoulder.
“You’re so warm. How are you so warm?”
He didn’t bother to answer. Just lay as still as he could, so as not to scare her away. He resisted tucking her even closer. He stopped his own hand from covering hers on his chest. He tried desperately not to absorb her.
His restraint was rewarded when he felt her go boneless against him. Warmth would do that to a girl. And then her breathing became regular and deep.
He lay, wide awake, and ached at having her there, so close. Yes, his prick ached too, but the worst of the ache was in his chest, under where her arm rested. Two layers of thick cotton between them. The ugliest room in the world around them. And he ached for something he wanted and didn’t deserve to have.
They didn’t meet the final hive member until the next evening, after sunset. They’d both slept the bulk of the daylight away, not uncommon in a vampire hive. In the north at this time of year, sunset came early and the days were short, just as the supernaturals liked it.
Making their way downstairs, the first thing Dimity noted was Mr Theris, entering stage left down the hallway towards what must be the kitchens. He was escorting a buxom young shepherdess-type human.
Dimity and Cris stood and watched, wondering if this were a blatant seduction or something less sinister. Or something more sinister.
Evaluation of sinisterness notwithstanding, Mr Theris and his shepherdess disappeared together and returned by the time Dimity and Cris had settled into stilted conversation in the sitting room with Lord Kirby. Dimity talked a great deal about the paintings hanging about, and enquired after the one she’d ostensibly come to see. Lord Kirby mostly ignored her. Dimity watched the young couple walking back. Surely ten minutes was too quick for a proper seduction? Not that Dimity would know for certain – but for Mr Theris to have such a reputation and to take less than twenty minutes about it seemed unlikely. And terribly uncomfortable for the lady.
The shepherdess did look rumpled. The neckline of her gown was slightly torn, and she was smiling. She was also far more pale than she had been going in.
Dimity was somewhat relieved to see a set of neat punctures on her neck – not a seduction, but a meal. There was only a small trickle of blood coming from the wounds, but it was enough to make Dimity feel faint.
She’d never liked blood, not when it was coming out of someone. It was so final and so red.
Sir Crispin gave her a concerned look and put a steady hand to her arm.
“I’m all right. I won’t succumb, I promise.”
“Shall we go in,” Lord Kirby instructed, rather than asked. He stood and marched towards the dining room, sleeves trailing.
Sir Crispin helped Dimity to rise and escorted her to the hallway in time to see Theris letting the human nibble out the front door. The drone gave the shepherdess a handful of silver coins, a rather nice paisley shawl to cover her marks, a steak and kidney pie wrapped in cheesecloth, and a highly decorated Valentine’s card, presumably full of instructions for her health.
The young lady left looking tired but happy.
“Well,” sa
id Dimity, “someone in this hive has quite the appetite.”
Mr Theris noticed them then. “Her highness must be looked after.”
Dimity exchanged a glance with Cris. The vampire queen was eating regularly. That was the first good sign they’d had concerning the Nottingham Hive. She might have retreated from the world, but she wasn’t starving herself into insanity. That was something. The fact that she wasn’t in the hive house, though, lording it over her hive-bound menfolk and generally bossing everyone around, that was still bad. Still un-queenlike.
Mr Theris’s eyes flicked to where Dimity clutched Crispin’s arm.
She immediately dropped said arm, as though inspired by his covetous look, and gave him a sweet smile. “Will you escort me in to supper, Mr Theris?”
The drone gave a dramatic shrug. “Sooner you be supper than me.” His tone grated. If he was unhappy with his drone status, why was he still here? Especially when everyone else had left. And why was he the only one in the hive allowed to see the queen and bring her supper? What made him so trusted by the hierarchy?
“Oh, it’ll be you, still, Mr Theris. I’m nowhere near well enough known to your gentlemen vampires to be a meal this evening. My husband and I may be artists, but we are good, honest, hardworking folk and we do not offer our necks on short acquaintance, I assure you!”
“Of course you don’t. Silly me. It’ll be me alone again for snacking, then, always and only me,” Mr Theris grumbled, but also looked smug. Was that it? Did he like having all the power and all the control over the hive as sole drone? Did he want the hive dependent upon him, and him alone?
Dimity allowed her eyes to soften in sympathy. “Yes, so sad you must be under such strain. Quite the burden of responsibility for you alone to withstand. Whatever happened to your fellow drones?”
“They’ve passed on to better places.” Theris sounded as morose as Finbar all of a sudden.
Dimity shuddered. He made it sound as if they’d all been killed. Yet a hive never intentionally killed its drones, so that made no sense. The hive motto was always to practice restraint and never drain a human dry. Corpses did no one any good. It was not only the law, it was also a vampire’s sacred oath. After all, they were proper British citizens, not monsters! Clearly the queen, at least, had control left. The shepherdess had been fine and dandy when she departed. Was one of the other vampires going mad? Had one of them drained all their food stock? Had it been Lord Finbar? Lord Kirby?
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