Ravensclaw (7 page)

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Dinwiddie,” Cezar Korzha said. “And now, if you will excuse us—” Andrei Torok’s watchful eyes scanned the room.

A frown marred the perfection of Lisbet Boroi’s brow. “We will see you later, Val? Never fear, Miss Dinwiddie. I will return your ‘old friend’ to you safe and sound.”

Emily watched them disappear into the crowd. She shouldn’t be surprised to learn Val had a
petite amie
. Probably he had several of them. Mistresses who knew what he was like when he
wasn’t
being civilized. Auburn hair tumbling down around his shoulders. Candlelight gleaming on his perfect pale skin.

All
his perfect pale skin. Every glorious inch.

Maybe she should bind Ravensclaw in chains and toss
him
into the River Forth. She’d soon be a candidate for Bedlam at this rate.

She couldn’t possibly be jealous, Emily assured herself. This queer feeling in her stomach was due to the miracle of engineering that made it appear she had a bosom, which was crushing her ribs. As soon as this matter of the d’Auvergne athame was satisfactorily resolved, Emily would return to the business of the Society, and Val would return to the business of being a supersensual — did ever a label fit so well? — and their paths would never again cross.

Drat.

Ravensclaw tucked his fingers under her chin and turned her face up to his.
Lisbet Boroi is of no consequence. You will not be disturbed by anything she may do or say.

She would not— He dared to— Anger stained Emily’s cheeks.
I will be disturbed by whoever I wish whenever I please!
You
will not tell me what to do.

Val’s fingers tightened.
Do that again. If you can.

Lady Alberta pinched his arm. “Ravensclaw! Remember where you are.”

Emily stared up into his startled face. “I don’t know if I can or not.”

An approaching figure caught her eye, and she drew back from him. “Michael Ross has just arrived.”

A cat in gloves catches no mice.

(Romanian proverb)

Oh, perdition!
Ravensclaw could hear her thoughts. Hopefully, not all of them, or he would know of the strong attraction that Emily felt for him. And of her equally strong desire to see Lisbet Boroi trip and fall on her oh-so-perfect face.

No time to wonder about that now. Emily turned away from her companions to watch Michael Ross tread his way through the crowd. The young man was no less handsome than she remembered, pale and poetically brooding in the fashion made popular by the unfortunate Lord Byron, a lock of dark hair draped artfully upon his forehead, a worldweary expression in his charcoal grey eyes. He was cropped and curled and clad in trousers that fitted without a wrinkle, a fashionable tailcoat with French riding sleeves and cuffs, and shoe buckles of polished cut steel.

His demeanor was not that of a gentleman unexpectedly glimpsing the object of his affections. Not that Emily supposed herself to be the object of his affections. Not any more.

The music changed to a lively tune played on hammered dulcimer with bombarde accompaniment. Ravensclaw and Lady Alberta withdrew to the refreshment table as Michael approached.

Be discreet,
Emily told herself.
Remember what’s important: the d’Auvergne athame.

Thought of the athame in the wrong hands chilled her to her bones.

Although, truth be told, there were no
right
hands as regarded the d’Auvergne athame.

If only the thief had also taken the lead-lined chest.

The fact he had not argued an ignorance of the athame’s power.

He, or she. Emily was trying to give Michael Ross the benefit of the doubt.

But Michael had been frequently at the house in the days following her father’s death. Sticking his nose into everything. Preparing to take his place as head of the Society, as he had every reason to expect he would. Causing her to wish she might kick him in the arse.

He raised his voice to be heard above the music. “Hell mend it, Emily! What are you doing here? Has there been some new development?”

Really, the man needn’t grimace like he’d bit into something sour. “Any number, since you ask. Portable gas cylinders have been introduced in London, at thirty atmospheres. The
Raith
from Leek was wrecked. Prinny has begun building the new Royal Apartments. Unless you were inquiring about something else?”

He frowned. “What the devil’s wrong with you? I was referring to the circumstance that you are here instead of being closeted with your grief like any normal young woman should be.”

Sitting on the shelf, he meant, like some trinket set aside until he decided it should be retrieved. Traditional rites of mourning lost much of their meaning when one was aware that the dearly departed didn’t always remain snugly in their graves. “There is nothing ‘wrong’ with me, Michael. A year has passed since Papa’s death.”

He ran his hand through his hair, disarranging his carefully styled curls. “Has it been so long? I didn’t mean to infer— Dash it, Emily, I didn’t expect to find you in Edinburgh.”

Obviously, he hadn’t. The last time Emily had seen Michael he was promising he would return speedily to London, after which she’d heard not a word. “I daresay you didn’t. Had we been in communication— I know! Your letters went astray.”

A muscle clenched in his cheek. “I can explain.”

And a pretty pack of lies
that
would be, she’d warrant. “You owe me no explanations. It’s not as if we are betrothed.”

Michael looked at her as if she were a loony. “I
was called away on family business. Of course we are betrothed. The formal announcement was delayed due to your father’s death.” Belatedly, he smiled. “I am delighted that you have joined me here. You merely took me by surprise.”

The wretched man was looking smug. He assumed she had pursued him to Edinburgh in hope of resuming their romance. Granted, he had reason. The Professor had been grooming Michael to be his replacement, and she had believed he knew best.

Well, he hadn’t, had he, if she was correct in believing Michael was responsible for the thefts?

Michael hadn’t even had the decency to wait until they were wed to start removing things from the vault.

Emily wondered what else her Papa might have been wrong about.

“I too am in Edinburgh on business.” She smoothed her black kid gloves.

“Oh? And what business might that be?”

Had he always been so condescending and she too blind to see it? “Society business, of course. You do recall that the Society can only be overseen by a Dinwiddie?”

Michael crushed her gloved hands in his. “Blast it, Emily, don’t go off on one of your queer starts now. Your father intended that we marry. I am to take the Dinwiddie name.”

You may take your fine self to the nether regions.
“Are you trying to break my fingers, sir?”

Michael did not relax his grip. “The Professor and I discussed the matter of our union at some length. Yours and mine, that is. I had meant to allow you sufficient time to recover from your loss, but since you’ve recuperated sufficiently to come to Edinburgh—” He squinted at her. “Something about you is different tonight.”

If only she hadn’t been persuaded to leave behind her umbrella. It would have been immensely satisfying to jab her suitor with its sharp tip. “So are you different, Michael.” What had become of the courteous young man who courted her?

Again, Emily tried to free herself. Michael gripped her all the harder. “Tell me where you’re staying. Clearly we must talk.”

Here was a conundrum.
Don’t put him on his guard.
“Since you make your home in Edinburgh, you may be acquainted with Lady Alberta Tait.”

Michael glanced at that worthy, who was hovering near the punch bowl. “Everybody knows of Lady Alberta. What has she to do with you?”

Very little, truth be told.
Emily thought quickly. “Lady Alberta is my aunt.”

“Your
aunt?
The Professor never mentioned her.” In his astonishment, Michael relaxed his grip.

Emily snatched her hands away from his. “Why should he have? They were estranged. Lady Alberta, um, doesn’t approve of the supersensible.” Before Michael could question her further, Emily pulled the vraja
from her reticule
.
“I believe this is yours.”

He frowned at the talisman. “Where did you find that?”

“In the Society vaults. It has me in quite a puzzle, since Papa didn’t permit anyone to enter the vaults other than myself.”

Michael wrenched his eyes away from the talisman. “Following your father’s death, there were countless people wandering through the house. I told you at the time that we should put more stringent security measures into effect. Perhaps the vraja belonged to one of those people. Or even to the Professor. At any rate, it isn’t mine.”

“Oh? Where is
your
vraja,
then?”

Michael’s hand moved to his waistcoat. “It didn’t seem appropriate for an occasion such as this.”

Since Emily had never seen Michael on an occasion such as this, she couldn’t quibble with his statement. “You’re certain that this vraja
isn’t yours?”

Michael scowled. “Are you accusing me of something? I’ll tell you what, Emily: grief must have unhinged your brain.”

With difficulty, Emily kept rein on her temper. Silently she dropped the charm back into her reticule.

Michael’s eyes moved from her reticule to her face. “I am anxious to speak with you at greater length. What is Lady Alberta’s address?”

Be conciliatory,
Emily told herself again
.
“At the moment, my aunt and I are guests of Lord Revay-Czobar.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open. “Ravensclaw? But why? Unless—” His gaze sharpened. “Is his name on the Dinwiddie list? What is he, werewolf, shapeshifter, the devil’s spawn? You are not qualified for this work, Emily. You must leave his house at once.”

What was it about her that made people try and tell
her what to do? “Now who is unhinged, Michael? Ravensclaw is nothing of the sort. Ah, Lady Alberta is beckoning. You will excuse me.” Michael pressed his lips together. Without further protest, he let her go.

At last the interminable evening ended, after a series of ballads sung in a sweet soprano voice, which — having progressed from
Loch Lomond
(“and me and my true love will never meet again”) through
The Three Ravens
(“she was dead herself ere evensong time”) to
Mary Hamilton
(“the land I was tae travel in, or the death I was tae dee”) — left many of the revelers in a somewhat somber frame of mind.

Ravensclaw’s carriage was waiting at the door. Lady Alberta climbed inside.

Val lifted Emily into the carriage as if she weighed no more than a feather. “I will speak with you tomorrow, little one.”

“Tomorrow? But I must tell you what Michael said.” Or
hadn’t
said, but that was beside the point. Emily lowered her voice. “I think he may suspect what you are.”

Val smiled. “If Mr. Ross’s suspicions are on a par with yours, I’ll not tremble in my boots just yet.” He stepped back and closed the door.

Emily sank back on the carriage seat. Had Ravensclaw admitted what she thought he had? And if he
had
admitted it, then how dare he leave her here with a thousand unanswered questions buzzing about in her poor beleaguered brain?

“It may be unchristian of me to say so, but Lisbet Boroi is
not
a nice woman,” remarked Lady Alberta. “And I have my doubts about Cezar Korzha as well. I don’t mean to say that Korzha is a woman, because any fool can see he’s not, which isn’t always the case.”

Counts who were Other, dogs that were werewolves — that sort of thing Emily could accept. But men who were women? Her companion must have imbibed more than was prudent of the champagne punch.

As, perhaps, had she.

She should be searching for the athame — but where to start? And so here she sat, twiddling her thumbs while Ravensclaw— Was where? Doing what? With whom?

Foolish questions. Ravensclaw was probably even then nuzzling and nibbling and sinking his teeth into Lisbet Boroi’s throat.
Fangs!
Yes, and why had she been able to speak silently with him?
Did
Michael have the d’Auvergne athame in his possession and, if so, what did he mean to do with it? Emily leaned her head back against the carriage seat and closed her eyes.

Do not all you can; spend not all you have;

believe not all you hear; and tell not all you know
.

(Romanian proverb)

Faint fingers of dawn crept across the somber sky. The early morning air was damp and chill and noxious, the sanitary arrangements in Edinburgh’s Old Town being considerably inferior to the New, which made not a whit of difference to footpad or resurrectionist, randy young buck or supersensible creature or Lady Alberta’s ghosts.

Ravensclaw wondered how Miss Dinwiddie felt about ghaisties. She would doubtless tell him in good time.

He climbed the exterior stair to his front door. His servants, accustomed to their master’s nocturnal habits, were long abed. Val made his way up the inner stairway to his own chamber, where he found Drogo stretched out on the hearth, and Machka and Miss Dinwiddie stretched out on his bed. One of them was snoring. He doubted it was the cat.

Drogo rolled over on his back. Val paused to scratch the creature’s belly before he walked closer to the bed. Machka opened one incurious eye and yawned.

Emily’s spectacles lay abandoned atop a stack of correspondence. Society business, he gathered from what he could read upside down. A water kelpie had been sighted, in the form of a handsome man with seaweed in his hair instead of a bullish black beast with two horns.

Val wondered who had written the account. Water kelpies were prone to lure the unwary to watery graves.