Blood Bond

by Alicia Ryan

  Mr. Padworth scanned her from head to toe. “Well, she’s comely enough, Jack, but you know I’ve no place for a singer. My customers come to eat, drink and gamble, and I don’t want them distracted from any of those. Those are our bread and butter, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Just listen to her, sir,” Jack asked. “I know what you mean, but what if we had an attraction that would bring in customers from the other clubs—White’s, Boodle’s. They don’t have anything like her either—and I don’t think they’re likely to find it.”

  Padworth dropped his head and regarded her with a wary eye. “Well, out with it girl. Let’s hear what’s going to make men drop their legacy club memberships in favor of the treat of coming to Padworth’s.”

  Sticking to what had worked before, Roxanna did the same two songs she’d sung for Jack.

  When she finished, Padworth looked speculative. “Some of the members won’t approve...”

  He stared at her. “But the ones that do certainly won’t be going anywhere else for their entertainment for some time. Not if you’ve got more like that to deliver.”

  “I can deliver whatever you want. For as long as you want.”

  He smiled. “Maybe I’m just growing lax in my old age, but I rather like the idea of setting these boys on their ears. It’s a new century, after all. At least until it starts to hurt my bottom line, it is, anyway.” He eyed her again. “That’s a good song. Reminds me of my late wife. She was a stunner and temperamental as a beehive, but I wouldn’t have had her any other way either.”

  “I’ll need new clothes,” Roxanna said, not giving him time to change his mind, “and they’ll need to be out of the ordinary—something the men can’t see at the ‘opera or any old house party’. Something to go with the nature of the songs. Trust me, I can bring in customers. You won’t be sorry you hired me, Mr. Padworth.” She shrugged. “And if you are, you can always fire me.”

  “Jack tells me you have no money and no memory of how you got in such dire straits. Do you think you have family looking for you?”

  Roxanna bit her cheek and shook her head. “I really can’t be certain.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “No respectable woman would know songs like those.” He eyed her again. “But you don’t look or sound like a trollop.” He nodded his head, jowls jiggling. “You may keep the room for the moment, and I’ll escort you myself this afternoon to a dressmaker for a private fitting. I want to get my money’s worth. And my money’s good at Madame Graham’s.”

  Roxanna curtsied, hoping it was the right thing to do. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Is there anything else you’ll require? We can set you up in the sitting room easily enough. If Graham is on her game, we might be able to have you up there tonight.”

  Of course. Nothing in a dream ever took very long. She thought for a moment. If she was dreaming, she might as well ask for whatever she wanted. Maybe it would appear. “A piano player would be nice.”

  Padworth frowned. “A piano player. Well, we have a piano in one of the back rooms. The boys occasionally use it for some of their old school songs, but I’m sure I don’t know where to find anyone who would play here—for you.”

  Roxanna ignored the insult and looked to Jack for help.

  “What about Phillip Branham, sir?” he asked.

  “Oh.” Padworth paused. “Well, that might work. God knows he needs the money, and I’ve heard him play here before.” He looked at Jack. “Send a runner to young Branham’s house.”

  Jack nodded. “Consider it done, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll pay him a decent wage to start, but there’s no guarantee. His job’s only good as long as we keep the girl on.” He looked at her. “And you can decide whether to split any gratuities with him. I’m sure if you get any, they’ll be meant for you.”

  “Sounds fair,” she said.

  “He doesn’t need the money any worse than you. At least he’s still got a roof over his head, if only just.”

  That settled, Roxanna and Mr. Padworth made their way in his carriage to the dressmaker, Madame Graham. She was a serene, older woman, with silver-gray hair. Roxanna could imagine she had once been a great beauty, which surprised her. She thought great beauties married rich lords.

  When Mr. Padworth explained their purpose, the woman’s brows rose, and her nostrils flared. “I do not clothe strumpets, Mr. Padworth, not for any purpose.”

  “I assure you, Madame Graham, the girl is simply an unfortunate with a singular talent—just as you are. I intend to give her a way to earn her keep in the world. Would you deny her that?”

  The woman’s brows came down, but she still frowned at them.

  “Yes, she will be singing for a roomful of men, and she will need clothes designed to entice, but she is no strumpet. I’ve not taken to that business. Her singing is for sale, nothing else, I assure you.”

  “Mr. Padworth, I do this only out of acknowledgment of your generosity in helping me to purchase my shop. You’ve made a tidy return, but you took a chance on me, and I’ve never forgotten it. For that reason, and that reason alone, I will do as you ask.”

  “Good, Greta. I was hoping I hadn’t fallen so far in your esteem. She will need several gowns. I like the new Grecian styles, myself, but whatever you think will look best on her. And it goes without saying this is a rush job. I want her working as soon as possible. If you can have one gown ready for this evening, I’ll pay double.”

  He stood as Madame Graham nodded. “Roxanna, I must return to the club, but I’ll send the carriage back for you within an hour. Don’t leave here without a dress for tonight.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving Roxanna to the tender mercies of Greta Graham, the disapproving seamstress.

  Who only got more disapproving when Roxanna, now standing on a short stool behind a discreet screen, disrobed from out of her maid’s uniform to reveal she was completely nude. Her underwear had still been wet when Jack summoned her, so she stood in front of the now gaping Madame Graham wearing nothing but her tan.

  She didn’t bother to explain, but the first thing the woman did was rush into a back room and come out with what she called a “chemise”. It looked like a babydoll nightgown to Roxanna—made of plain white linen, dropping to just above her knees, and too thin to be of any practical use.

  Madame Graham then proceeded to take her measurements, which for Roxanna was an unusual experience. She’d never had anything custom made for her before. She was strictly “off the rack”.

  When she was finished making notes, the woman turned to her. “You can keep that chemise. I’ll have a camisole, garters and stockings sent over with the dresses.”

  Roxanna thought about that for a moment. “Just one pair will be fine—to go with the day dress. For the performance dresses, I won’t be wearing anything underneath.”

  The seamstress’ eyes widened in what Roxanna could only describe as alarm.

  “Nothing? You can’t mean nothing.”

  “Nope. Nothing. And you should design the dresses accordingly—sleek, slits up to the thigh, low fronts, low backs—in whatever combination you want, but that’s what I need.”

  The woman’s hands shot up to cover her face. When she lowered them, she glared at Roxanna. “Fine. I’ll make what you require, but I want your word you’ll never tell a soul such clothing came from my shop.”

  Roxanna nodded. Really, who would she tell? “That won’t be a problem. I promise I won’t rat you out.”

  “Why are you talking about rats? I most certainly do not have rats!”

  “Oh—no. I’m sorry. I just meant you have my word I won’t tell anyone you made the dresses for me.”

  “Good.” Madame Graham turned away from her, grabbing up her notepad. “I’ll be in the back getting started on these...dresses. I think I have something I can adjust and give to you in just a bit.”

  “Should I wait out front?”

  “No. I’d rather you stayed here. I don’t want an
y other customers to see you.”

  Roxanna stripped off the chemise and folded it small enough so that it didn’t scream “underwear” and then re-donned the maid’s uniform she’d arrived in. With the buttons on the front already under strain, there was no way they would have closed over another layer of clothing.

  Not knowing what else to do, she sat down on the little stool, put her chin in her hands and waited. She didn’t think time had ever passed so slowly, but the clock on the wall told her only an hour had elapsed when Madame Graham came back out.

  She carried a square-ish parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. She held the package out but didn’t hand it over.

  “Your dress for tonight is in here, as John requested. If he asks about the bill, you can tell him I had to alter one of the more expensive French designs to meet his—and your—requirements. There’s also a gray wool dress for you to wear when you’re not performing. It is a conventional, respectable style. Also, one pair of stockings, a garter, and a camisole.”

  Roxanna wasn’t even sure what a camisole was, but she took the package and thanked the woman all the same. All she got in reply was a frowning grunt and a request that she see herself out—using the back entrance.

  Luckily, she wasn’t left to wait around or wander the street, as Padworth’s carriage had returned and was waiting right out in front of the shop. The driver hopped down and held the door for her, but she refused his hand and scurried into the carriage without looking at him. She’d had enough disapproving glances for one day.

  Chapter Four

  When it was well and truly dark, Darren went to his club. Part of him hated that he was a vampire and yet still lived like all the other aimless nobility of the day. A century ago, he’d secured an earldom from a grateful king for an act of espionage no human could have accomplished, and over the years, he’d managed to keep the estate and the fortune in the family, so to speak, by alternately passing his decades in England or at an out of the way castle he owned in Wales. But things had changed; it was only him that remained the same. Him and Andrew.

  Once he’d been a trusted advisor to a king, but to keep his secret, he’d distanced himself from the heir and the prince regent. Come what may, no one could know he was a vampire. He didn’t think the days of mobs with flaming torches had passed in regard to things like him. The world wasn’t ready for what he’d become. He doubted it ever would be.

  So it was that he passed his days in slumber and his nights gambling, attending the theater or the opera or the occasional ball. The only thing different about him was that he ate nothing, preferring to dine on the blood of the young men and women in the other parts of town. Having learned to feed without killing had made his life much simpler. He could stay in one place for long periods because, once they recovered consciousness, his victims remembered little to nothing of the strange man they’d spoken to, and they bore no physical evidence of attack. He had his own means now and so no need to rob them into the bargain.

  All of which increased his boredom with the current age. His enforced hours meant he couldn’t be a soldier or a member of Parliament. There was little left to him but the inveterate lifestyle of the young rich of the day. Part of which included belonging to the right club and playing cards with the right people. That was the vice he’d chosen for himself. He gambled to extreme, usually winning, but occasionally losing to stroke the egos of influential men. But he paid his debts in due course, and so his reputation as a decent gentleman of means remained intact, and no one gave much thought to the fact that he was never seen indulging over much in drink or the company of women.

  The mahogany door of Padworth’s gleamed in the lamplight as he ascended the stone steps up from the street. Inside, Harker, the butler, took his coat to the cloakroom and muttered a brusque greeting. Darren wasn’t offended. He’d long ago learned that Harker was just grouchy by nature. The man never had a smile for anyone. Darren couldn’t imagine what debt Padworth owed him that allowed him to keep his job greeting the club members, but the old codger was a fixture of the place as much as the brass knocker on the door outside or the thick red carpet in all the downstairs rooms. Which always made him think of hell, as these were the rooms where sins were committed—though not very interesting ones: gambling, drinking, the occasional slander or bout of fisticuffs. The second floor—home to the tea room, the dining room, the library, the billiards room, and several sitting rooms—offered a less ostentatious atmosphere of yellow and cream, while the third floor, which was where the private bedrooms were located, surrounded its guests with serene shades of blue. Reminiscent of the levels of hell, he’d often thought.

  But the allegorical humors of Padworth’s decorator didn’t hold his attention for long. Neither did the inevitable odors of cigar smoke, whiskey, and steak dinners.

  About half of the card tables were in use, as it was a bit early yet for the ball-going crowd of younger men to have shown up. At the middle table on the left side of the room was seated a lord of his acquaintance and a young man he knew by reputation. Feeling charitable, he approached and asked one of the other gentlemen if he could have a seat for the next hand.

  “Fine,” the man said. “I want to check out the new entertainment anyway.” He got up and offered Darren his chair.

  “Many thanks,” Darren replied.

  “Good to see you, Highmore,” offered Lord Clayton, now seated to Darren’s right. He was an older gentleman with a passion for cards that rivaled Darren’s pretended one. “Though if you plan to sit here and take my money again, I might have to see about getting your membership revoked.”

  Darren returned the man’s good-natured smile. “I’m one of the few left who’s brave enough to play with you, Clayton. You’d better re-think that.”

  “Quite so.” Clayton nodded across the table. “Do you know Mister Branham?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Darren said, smiling, but not offering his hand. “Darren Highmore,” he said by way of introduction.

  “Pleasure to meet you, your Lordship.”

  After also being introduced to the man opposite him—a sturdy, but well-respected, member of the gentry named Sherwood, the next round of play commenced. Since Clayton dealt, Darren laid the first card—his strongest, but the rest of the rounds he skillfully underplayed.

  Clayton and Branham split the winnings on the hand.

  “That won’t do you for much, Branham, but maybe your luck is changing, eh?” Clayton said.

  “He’d be better off leaving here and trying to convince some matron he’d make a good match for her rich daughter,” Sherwood put in.

  “Hardly likely,” Branham muttered.

  “And hardly worth it,” Darren added. “What’s the point of a wife if you’re going to spend all your time here?”

  Clayton gave a full-bellied laugh. “Quite right, except it can make one’s household more convenient.”

  “Is that really how you see your wife?” Branham asked.

  “Oh, I suppose I’d call her a friend at this point. We’ve been married twenty-three years, you know. You either come to like a person or hate them in that amount of time. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

  “You never loved her?”

  Clayton shrugged. “It wasn’t a question of love. We’re distant cousins, my wife and I. My father wanted to unite the two branches of the family under his name. So it was long expected, our marriage.”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Branham,” Darren said. “Look around. Half the men here have wives at home, and most of them supposedly in happy marriages. Some of them, I’d imagine, even thought they were marrying for love.”

  “You’re saying there’s no such thing?”

  Darren shrugged. “How can there be? We forbid young women to do anything of interest before they are married, and then marry them and expect them to turn into Aphrodite and Athena overnight.”

  “I see there remains no danger of you tying the knot,” Clayton put in.
/>   Darren quirked a brow.

  By the end of the next hand, when Clayton and Branham won once more, Sherwood was eyeing Darren with suspicion and Clayton with shrewd speculation. It appeared he wasn’t underplaying his hands as deceptively as he’d thought.

  He congratulated himself on doing a good deed for young Branham, but willed him to get up before his ruse became obvious and he had to start winning his money back.

  Luckily, Branham did give up his place, excusing himself from the table just as Darren detected a new scent in the air—the one that had lately haunted him even into his dreams.

  “I think it’s time for the new singer to start,” Branham said. “Padworth asked me to observe her performance.”

  “New singer?” Darren asked.

  “Yes,” Clayton responded. “Next room. Padworth’s had the daft idea to bring in a vocalist.” He looked around at the emptying tables. “I trust as soon as the novelty wears off, I’ll again be able to get up enough hands for a game of cards.”

  Darren stood. “Sorry, Clayton. This sounds like something I have to see.”

  “Good lord, Highmore. Not you, too.”

  “Like you said, I’ll be back. I’m sure you can find someone’s money to take in the meantime.”

  Clayton kept scowling, but Darren turned and followed Phillip Branham into the downstairs sitting room.

  Anticipation coursed through him as, with each step, her scent grew stronger.

  When Phillip stopped in the doorway, Darren wanted to throw him across the room, but he could still see what he needed to over the shorter man.

  Much as always, leather chairs were occupied by young lordlings holding drinks with one or both hands. Only tonight things were different. Few of them were engaged in conversation across their tables, and all the chairs were turned to face a makeshift stage.

  And as she stepped onto it, the scent of her was so overwhelming, he had to fight to keep his eyes open from the sheer pleasure of it. It swirled and eddied around him, making him feel as powerless as a butterfly in a whirlwind.