“A secret message lay concealed beneath the bookplate,” Theo continued, unperturbed by their tittering. “The sender is wanted in connection with serious offences. He may be a spy passing messages to an operative in London.” It was not a lie. The villain could be a foreign agent using Miss Darrow to deliver his communications.
“A spy?” Lucille Bowman frowned. “For whom?”
“We’re not at liberty to say. But we need to know why you requested two copies of that book. The London operative would have known the note was hidden inside.”
Mrs Dunwoody chuckled like the notion was farcical. “For goodness’ sake, you really are your father’s son. Always looking to bring others down to your level. I ask you. Do I look like a woman who would entertain a spy?”
While Theo battled to keep his temper—finding answers was the priority—Miss Darrow jumped to his defence.
“You don’t look like a woman who would lie to her friends. You’re hardly in a position to accuse others of dishonesty.”
Cheeks aflame, Mrs Dunwoody scowled. “Mind your tongue, gal. Get out. Get out before I have Tribbings throw you out.”
“Tribbings hasn’t the strength to hang a coat on the stand,” Miss Darrow countered. “If you insist on us leaving, we must place you under arrest. The Home Secretary granted us the power to take any suspects into custody. And you have not answered our questions sufficiently.”
Theo looked at the woman whose kisses could start a war. It was good to see Miss Darrow’s confidence return. He admired her tenacity. Most women would still be abed, nursing a head injury.
“I’m to blame,” Lucille Bowman confessed. “I suggested we all read the same book and compare notes. After borrowing one copy of The Vampyre from the Minerva Press, I asked Mrs Dunwoody if Pickering had two copies. We were surprised he did, but the man has his sources.”
Theo glanced at the lady who turned his stomach. “Did you slice through the bookplate and remove the hidden letter?”
“I wouldn’t dream of defacing another person’s property.”
He wasn’t sure he believed her.
Hadn’t she proved to be false-hearted?
“What was your opinion of the book?” Miss Darrow asked. “I’m surprised you would want to read about a monster who preys on the upper classes. But then the fiend is a member of the aristocracy.”
All three suspects turned as pale as the vampire in the tale.
It was apparent none had read past the introduction.
“It’s utter twaddle,” the viscount said.
“It’s against the laws of nature,” Mrs Dunwoody was quick to add. “Who’s ever heard of a man thirsting for blood? Well, except for that barbarian you call a brother. Aaron Chance is like a rabid dog. I hear his body is littered with scars.”
A heavy silence descended.
Theo could barely see through anger’s red mist.
Every muscle tensed, primed to attack.
No one criticised Aaron, not in Theo’s company.
“None of us tampered with the silly book,” Lady Lucille said in a panic. “None of us intercepted this hidden letter. Surely someone borrowed the book after us. Speak to them. Now, I think you should leave.”
The devil’s own fury burned in Theo’s veins.
Had a man slandered Aaron, he’d be picking his teeth off the floor. As much as he despised Mrs Dunwoody, he would not threaten a woman.
He didn’t need to.
Miss Darrow leapt to his aid.
“Connections are everything, are they not?” Miss Darrow said, glaring at the matron who possessed Lucifer’s tongue.
“What would a modiste know about connections?”
“You would be surprised what secrets ladies share with their modiste. I know the identity of the person who writes the Scandal Sheet. Do purchase next week’s copy. There will be a delicious story about a cad who left his wife to live in Hastings with an opera singer half his age.”
Mrs Dunwoody’s cheeks ballooned and her eyes bulged like saucers. “Spread lies about me, gal, and I’ll have you hauled to court.”
“You should spend less time making idle threats and more on your appearance.” Like a goddess of war, she pointed at Theo’s cowardly cousin. “Perhaps consult with Lord Wrotham’s valet and have him demonstrate the use of a blade. You have more whiskers than your Persian cat.”
Miss Darrow did not bid them good day but took Theo’s arm and marched through the hall before exiting onto Caroline Street.
“That woman would drive a priest to murder,” she growled, releasing her frustration. “If I made her a gown, I would sew fleas into the hem. They’d bite her whenever she sat down.”
That’s when Theo laughed.
He laughed so hard his sides ached. “Fleas into the hem?”
She started laughing, too, and they had to hold on to each other lest they fell to the pavement, giggling wrecks. “Or lice to the inside of a bonnet.”
He was crying now. Tears of joy streamed down his face.
Miss Darrow brought light to the darkness. She was a source of strength in trying times. A muse that stirred his passions. She was utterly unique.
