Alexandra Ivy - My Lord Vampire

Her chin tilted. “No.”

He gave an exasperated sigh as he firmly led her down the sweeping staircase.

“Foolishness. I should lock you in the nearest dungeon for your own good.”

She offered him a chilly glare. “That is not amusing.”

“It was not meant to be,” he assured her darkly, leading her across the foyer and out the door.

He paused just a moment to ensure that the urchins he had hired were indeed hidden in the nearby bushes before he was escorting her down the street toward her own home.

She maintained her proud silence, but Gideon made no effort to soften her temper. He had managed to battle back his demons of need for the moment; however, he was not at all willing to test his control on a second occasion this evening.

Not easy for an arrogant vampire to admit, even to himself.

Avoiding the various drunken bucks that stumbled down the walk toward their houses, he at last managed to bundle her to the back of her home so that she could slip through the servants’ entrance.

She paused just a moment, as if about to speak, but noting the unrelenting lines of his countenance, she contented herself to a loud sniff before entering the house and closing the door with a deliberate bang.

Gideon could not help but smile wryly at her display of temper. She would not be satisfied for long at his refusal to reveal the truth of himself, but for now he could do nothing but hope that she did not allow her curiosity to lead her into more trouble. He preferred her anger to fear. That he could not bear.

With a shake of his head at his ridiculous behavior, Gideon turned and headed down the street. He still had the stews to scour before morning arrived. The sooner he could trace Tristan and be done with this mess, the sooner he could ...

He clamped down on the alarming thoughts that raced through his mind. Thoughts of him and Simone entwined in bliss.

There were more than one means of trapping an unwary vampire.

Stroking the smooth ivory of his cane, Tristan watched in pleasure as his minions stalked the unwary maid. It was a pity that he had been forced to command them only to frighten the girl and not kill her. He enjoyed watching others drain the life of filthy humans nearly as much as he enjoyed the task himself.

Tonight, however, was not for pleasure.

After days of futilely attempting to discover some means of wrenching the Medallion from Lady Gilbert he had at last forced himself to acknowledge that it would take stealth rather than brute force to achieve his goal.

His near white fingers tightened on the cane in disgust.

Nefri would pay for his aggravation, he swore. To even think he must play these foolish games with beings that were as insignificant as roaches made his teeth clench.

He should already be ruling this world. Not sneaking about like a coward in the dark.

Watching the maid pass the high hedge Tristan gave a nod of his head. In a blinding flurry three roughly attired men bounded from the bushes and grasped ahold of the startled maid. There was a shrill scream that was abruptly cut off as one of the men placed a hand over her mouth.

Tristan waited until he was certain the woman was properly terrified before casually strolling forward and waving his cane in a threatening manner. As arranged, the servants released their hold upon the maid and promptly vanished into the shadows.

On her knees, the maid was shivering with fear. Ignoring his distaste, Tristan forced himself to reach down and pull her to her feet.

“Here, my dear, allow me to help you,” he murmured in soothing tones.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she babbled, tears running down her round face.

“Are you harmed?”

“I don’t think so.” She gave a scared glance over her shoulder. “They gave me a good fright, though.”

“Shameless louts. Shall I follow them and have them handed to the Watch?”

“Oh no.” She reached out to grasp his arm in a tight grip. “Please, do not leave me alone.”

Shuddering in horror at the filthy hands that threatened to wrinkle the fine fabric of his coat, Tristan firmly pried her fingers from him.

“If you wish.”

She pressed a hand to her throat, so rattled she did not seem to find it odd that an obvious gentleman would bother to help a mere servant.

“Do you ... do you think it was the St. Giles Butcher?”

Tristan hid a smile at the garish title that had been given to him by the newspapers. He enjoyed the knowledge that he had managed to send terror through the city. A terror that was only a taste of what was to come.

“I fear it might very well have been.”

“Oh ... oh ...” the maid blubbered.

Tristan gave an impatient click of his tongue. He could not use her if she continued to moan in such a foolish manner.

“Calm down.”

“But I might have had my throat ripped out.”

Ignoring the powerful urge to do just that, Tristan managed to offer a cold smile. He wished to ensnare her with Inscrollment and be done, but he had never managed to learn the more subtle means of manipulating the human mind without destroying it completely. He did not wish anyone to know he had spoken with the maid. Not while she might be of use.

“You are quite safe now. Shall I escort you home?”

“Oh, would you?” she breathed in relief.

“It would be my pleasure.”

“You are so kind.”

Tristan shrugged. “Think nothing of it. Which way?”

Pointing down the street, the maid offered him a shy glance. “To Lady Gilbert’s.”

“You are employed by Lady Gilbert?” he demanded in mock innocence as they moved together down the darkened street.

“Yes, sir. A fine lady.”

Tristan’s lips twisted. Lady Gilbert would some day pay for the troubles she had given him. Pay in blood.

“A fine lady, indeed,” he smoothly retorted. “I suppose, however, that like most beautiful women she is temperamental and difficult to please?”

“No, sir.” The maid loyally defended her mistress. “She is always kind to the staff.”

He gripped his cane with impatience. “Highly commendable. But no one is a paragon. Surely she has some faults? A few hidden sins?”

Obviously culled by the beautiful Lady Gilbert, the maid gave a reluctant shrug.

“Well, she does insist that no one be allowed to enter the house without her approval. She is quite particular about that.”

“Is that all?” Tristan shot her a cold gaze. He would have the information he desired. “No odd fancies?”

“Odd fancies?”

His desire to do away with the idiotic wench was nearly overwhelming.

“Any secrets that she keeps from society,” he at last bluntly demanded.

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “None unless you count the fact she makes her own gowns.”

Hardly the shattering secret that Tristan had hoped to discover. He could hardly blackmail the woman just because she happened to make her own gowns.

Still, there was something about the unusual behavior that caught his attention.

“How peculiar. She does not approve of dressmakers?”

The maid ducked her head. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”

Certain that the maid was concealing something, Tristan lightly touched her arm.

“You can confide in me, my dear.”

There was a pause before the maid nervously cleared her throat.

“I ... I think it has something to do with the scars I seen on her back.”

Tristan raised his brows in surprise. “Scars? From a burn?”

“No. It looked more like she had been whipped. Badly whipped. Terrible scars they are.”

A stab of pleasure curled the edges of Tristan’s lips. So, the stubborn woman had been beaten. Not surprising. Her sharp tongue alone should have seen that she was put into her grave long ago.