Chapter 3

William

Long after my nephew had led the country girl away, the ladies' chatter showed no sign of dying down. Nor did the scent of green grass she'd left behind.

Four centuries of living had dulled my interest in most smells. The layered perfumes of proper ladies, Cuban cigars—even blood and garlic, to me, one of the first of our kind—none of it was worth a second glance. Yet Anne Hill's scent caught me off guard. Grass, sun-warmed linen, and the faint sweetness of cream, all woven through her russet hair. It clashed with this ancient manor entirely.

When she lowered her head, she looked innocent, pitiable. I reached out with my mind, lifting her face as though with a finger, meaning to see through whatever trick she used to win sympathy. But the moment I met those green eyes, a line surfaced unbidden in my thoughts:

Her scent of green grass is an endless curse; I shall repent in an eternity of death.

Those words in Latin are carved upon my tombstone. I have never known who she was meant to be—my beloved? My enemy? That memory belongs to the man I was before I became a vampire, and it is long lost to me.

Anne Hill seemed foolish enough. She led with the wrong foot when she curtsied, and nearly trod on her own hem as she left. Beyond a pretty face, she had nothing to recommend her. And it was for her sake that Margaret had fired off sixteen telegrams, hounding me home. Such a fuss over nothing. To link my epitaph to her on the strength of a scent alone was surely a stretch.

I had no wish to go on listening to the ladies complain, so I rose and withdrew to the study, where Leon was already waiting.

"My Lord." He held out a letter sealed with wax. "Thomas confesses he kept false accounts while overseeing supplies for the naval fleet, and, as you instructed, has named Prince Kent's private account as the final destination of the funds. His full testimony is here."

I broke the seal and skimmed past the first few pages of confession. The interrogation had run two full days—longer than I'd expected. It seemed Leon had not been gentle with his hospitality.

"Have two copies transcribed. One to the Privy Council, one to Her Majesty's private secretary. The original stays with me."

Leon did not take his leave. After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Thomas also says you promised him—that if he confessed, you would let him live to be reunited with his wife and daughter."

"Of course." I raised my glass and inhaled lightly. It held the fine plasma the Crown provided—my payment for doing their dirty work. "The next edition of The Times will run his scandal. I confess I'm curious what expression will cross the face of that colonel, his prospective son-in-law, when he reads it. But should Mr. Thomas happen to die of heart failure tonight, I shall, out of mercy, send his wife and daughter to France—with a dowry generous enough for the girl."

Leon pressed a hand to his chest and bowed. "Understood, My Lord."

I had scarcely settled into my chair when the butler knocked at the study door. "My Lord, Lady Spencer has fainted from weeping. She begs you to come."

"Send for the doctor."

"She says she would rather see you first."

It seemed no doctor could cure what ailed the Spencer marriages.

Only Edith and Margaret were in the tea room. The instant she saw me, Margaret threw herself sobbing into my arms.

"Edward is starving himself to force us to accept that country girl! She could simply have taken money—made her family rich overnight. What on earth are her parents thinking? And what of Edward's engagement to Catherine? Catherine is the daughter of the Lord Chief Justice of Truro. If Edward breaks it off, he ruins more than his own prospects—the whole family will become the laughingstock of England."

I stroked her back. She was past forty, yet still, when troubled, she fled into the arms of her elders. When I had chosen a mistress for the Spencer household all those years ago, perhaps I had overestimated her.

"Is weeping all you can manage?" Edith rapped her cane against the carpet, the lines at the corners of her eyes crowding together with her words. "The Duke has come home. Do you truly doubt Edward will heed him?" She turned to me. "My Lord, Edward is the only son of his generation in the Spencer line. His wife cannot possibly be a milkmaid. You must set this right."

Edith wore a severe expression—she carried a grandmother's authority well. But I remembered her as a babbling infant, and I could not help but smile.

"When your husband was young, he once drew swords over an opera singer. In the end, he still married you. So what is all this fretting for?"

Four centuries ago, I was the second son of the Spencer family. The so-called ancestor of this branch was, in truth, my elder brother. To save me when I lay dying, the family chose to grant me eternal life by turning its back on God. The follies of the young are nothing new to me. Edward would soon come to understand that, weighed against family duty and his own future, love was nothing at all.

"The marriage registration can be revoked. Mr. Truro will be given a reasonable explanation. As long as I live, no man will refuse to marry his daughter into the Spencer family. As for the girl—if she will not take the money and go, then she can simply disappear."

"I beg you—go and speak to Edward alone before the dinner. We cannot disgrace ourselves any further." Margaret's eyes reddened once more.

If I did not go, she would weep on and on, which was disgraceful in its own right. So I made my way toward the east wing, where Edward lived.

I had only just reached the second floor when the scent of green grass returned. This time it carried something else—the sweet, heated smell a young woman gives off only in the throes of desire.

Women who wished to be taken by me could line up from London all the way to Paris. However demure they appeared, that scent would betray them soon enough in my presence. Only when I was bored did I ever bother to satisfy them. Yet Anne's scent, once again, drew my attention away with the greatest ease.

My throat tightened. I already knew how far the two of them had gone. So eager, then? Even after five days of hard travel? Even under the weight of the family's pressure?

I too had once loved a girl. At least, some trace of it lingered in my memory. But all I could find there now was pain—even her face had been blurred by four hundred years. For me, sex has nothing to do with love. And yet now I wanted to know: what was it about this country girl that could make a gentleman of my own making so utterly abandon himself?

I walked toward their room. Inside, the moans rose like swelling waves, and I felt her reach the very peak of pleasure amid her trembling. Fierce, genuine—it left me confused, even angry.

"Edward, no—I'm already soaked."

That was her voice.

I raised my hand and reached for the brass door handle.