Chapter 1
October 1830
Lincolnshire, England
* * *
To some, the Wedgeworth soirée might appear a splendid crush of debutantes, dandies, and music, but to Miss Elspeth Ramsay—inveterate bluestocking, indifferent spinster, and, most damning of all, tradeswoman—the evening’s crush was simply her latest assignment. She’d been commissioned to enter the world of the ton.
If Ellie were a fidgeter, she might have been nervously smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the nicest of her outdated gowns. She did not fidget. If she were a coquette, perhaps she would be twining one of her wayward curls about her finger whilst simpering at the eligible bachelors. Ellie did not simper. If she were socially ambitious, she might be near to a swoon at being invited to a High Society fête by the daughter of a viscount.
She did not swoon.
Instead, Ellie stood in the farthest corner from the orchestra, surreptitiously surveying the crowd and hoping none of them would notice her in the shadows. After mentally cataloguing and discarding each of the revelers as harmless, she turned to her benefactress with a raised brow.
“Well?” she said, impatient to calm her client’s irrational fears and escape the oppressive splendor of the ball. “Where is he?”
Rather than being affronted by this impertinence, Miss Lydia Breckenridge beamed with self-satisfaction. “He has not yet arrived.” Miss Breckenridge nearly bounced on her satin-slippered feet. “I knew you’d be able to discern human from inhuman upon sight, you being an authority on the paranormal?—”
“I am no such thing!” Ellie was unable to bear this speech with continued calm. “I am a woman of science, Miss Breckenridge. If anything, I am a ‘professional skeptic.’ To date, every such claim I’ve investigated has been quickly proven false, and I don’t doubt this one shall unfold in the same way.” As much as she and her mother desperately needed the coin, Ellie couldn’t help but give a slight shake of her head. “Vampires, indeed.”
“But don’t you see?” Miss Breckenridge insisted, eyes shining. “That’s what makes your involvement perfect. When even you are forced to admit true evil walks amongst us, the rest will be obliged to take heed.”
“And do what?” Ellie asked sensibly. “Drive a stake through his waistcoat?”
“What a horrid image.” Miss Breckenridge’s brow creased. “To be honest, I had not thought so far in advance.”
Ellie forbore mentioning she doubted her client had thought over any portion of her preposterous belief. Rudeness was never warranted, and besides, she planned to earn the promised ten-pound note. “At what point did you first suspect the new earl in town to be a vampire?”
“No, no,” gasped Miss Breckenridge. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
Ellie blinked. “He’s not a vampire?”
“He’s not a lord.” Miss Breckenridge sniffed. “Despite his sobriquet. He’s a younger son of a family in the Scottish Highlands, distantly related to the head of some forgotten medieval clan. He’s no member of the peerage whatsoever. How could he be, if he’s an undead immortal?”
“How indeed,” Ellie said faintly. “How, then, did he cut such a swath?”
For a moment, Miss Breckenridge’s eyes turned dreamy. “Mártainn Macane may be penniless and a cursed bloodsucker, but he’s devilishly handsome.”
“Penniless!” Ellie exclaimed, forming a much sharper impression of her quarry. His motive might not be much different than hers, but his method stood in stark relief. She had never feigned bloodlust for gain. “I deduce he puts himself forward in order to take advantage of innocent debutantes.”
Miss Breckenridge gestured at the swirling crowd. “No need for such actions, when young and old alike throw themselves and their purses in his path at every opportunity.”
Ellie’s lip curled. “I presume a ‘gentleman’ cannot be expected to resist such temptations. Are the women aware of his... nature?”
“Aware? He’s nigh irresistible,” Miss Breckenridge confessed in a whisper. “Undoubtedly part of his dark magic. The competition to be the devil’s chosen has eclipsed the judgment of every otherwise sensible woman who finds herself caught in his gaze.”
Ellie’s client clearly thought herself the heroine of a gothic novel. Either the higher the social rank, the lower the intelligence, or this Mr. Macane was an extremely skillful magician indeed. She’d bet he was nothing more than a two-bit actor who had changed his venue from the streets to soirées. “How can he be such a successful villain?”
“How?” Miss Breckenridge blushed prettily. “Because he’s bad in a very, very good way. They’ve gone so far as to dub him Lord Lovenip. My brothers tell me the betting books overflow with wagers as to which female he shall claim next.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, I do hope you yourself do not fall prey to his wicked charms!”
“Oh, for the love of—” Ellie coughed daintily into her fist. Money earned for a fool’s errand was still money earned. She’d be wise not to let her mouth get in the way of the Breckenridge coffers. “Have no fear on that front, Miss Breckenridge. I have yet to find the man capable of turning my head.”
Her benefactress cast a discerning eye at Ellie’s drooping curls and woefully out-of-fashion gown, managing to convey without a single word that Ellie’s spinsterhood was far more likely due to Ellie’s own inability to turn heads, rather than to any fault inherent in the eligible gentlemen.
Be that as it may, Ellie’s distinct lack of position in Society afforded her the perfect disguise: insignificant wallflower. Unlike third-daughter-of-a-viscount Miss Breckenridge, Ellie had the ability to stay both in sight and unnoticed at gatherings such as this. Granted, this was the first time she’d been commissioned to investigate a vampiric Scotsman, but she held complete confidence that she would definitively refute such nonsense in short order.
Her spine straightened as a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom like froth chasing the tide. An unnatural hush immediately followed.
