Lady Marie Blake stepped into the apothecary shop, shaking her umbrella and then removing the hood of her cloak. The rain in Coleshire had been relentless for two weeks—not altogether odd in the springtime, but irksome nonetheless. Marie’s patience ran short regarding things over which she had no control.
She ran a hand over her midsection, straightening the ties on her burgundy corset and adjusting the neckline of the ruffled white shirt that fit snugly beneath it. She shook out the black lace–trimmed burgundy skirts, thinking she ought to have opted for riding breeches, even though she hadn’t arrived by horseback.
If she couldn’t manage the rain, she could at least see about curing her sister-in-law’s mysterious illness. Marie took stock of the shelves at the back of the shop, not quite certain what she was looking for, but feeling the urge to do something. Clara Appleton Blake, Miles’s new American bride and the Countess of Blackwell, was afraid of her own shadow and had fallen ill with some indefinable malady.
Marie had not approved of Miles’s decision to marry Clara, but it was done now, and Marie certainly hoped the young woman would eventually display the fortitude necessary to bear children. Marie loved her older brother and wanted to see him content. Miles was unhappy, and had been long before his return from deployment to India with Her Majesty’s finest. Marie had been wracking her brain to find a solution to ease her elder brother’s disquiet. She had hopes that perhaps the thought of a young heir on the way might bring him a measure of peace.
The apothecary shop was warm and cozy, the walls lined with shelves that hosted a wide assortment of cures for nearly everything under the sun. The containers varied in size and shape, and the glass bottles ranged in color from green and blue to brown and black.
Marie rubbed a hand across her forehead and regarded the medicinal bottles with some frustration. She had no idea what she was looking for. When she spied the apothecary, she made her way across the room to his side.
“My sister-in-law, Lady Blackwell, is suffering from an illness that has left her weak and often nauseated,” she began.
The man regarded her for a moment, his face reddening slightly.
Marie refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. “She is not expecting a child,” she told him, wanting to be clear about the symptoms so that Clara wouldn’t be treated with wrong kind of medicine. Marie didn’t tell the man how she knew her sister-in-law wasn’t carrying a blessed bundle of joy; Clara had yet to allow Miles into her bed. The staff gossiped, even the ’tons, and they were loyal to Marie. There wasn’t much that transpired in the house without Marie knowing all the details.
“Very good, my lady,” he said and lightly cleared his throat as he tipped his head up to meet her direct gaze. She stood a good two inches taller—but he was slightly short for a man and she was tall for a woman. Had she been wearing her favorite black top hat with the hunting goggles and green feathers, the height difference would have been even more pronounced.
“Perhaps this might ease Lady Blackwell’s discomfort,” the man said, reaching for a bottle on a high shelf. “And I do have one other herbal mixture due to arrive this afternoon. It treats nausea and fatigue quite well—if it pleases you, I can have it delivered to the manor.”
Marie scrutinized the bottle he handed her, nodding absently. She would see to it personally that Clara at least tried it. Miles and Clara had been married six weeks, and Marie had little patience with the young American’s reservations about taking her place as lady of the estate. Marie had an estate of her own awaiting her, a home thirty minutes to the north that had been part of her mother’s holdings. Marie had hoped to move there, renovate the place, and begin her life as a truly independent woman of means when Miles married. Clara had had ample time to familiarize herself with Blackwell Manor, but she still made no move to take on her responsibilities. Perhaps if she were no longer ill, she might be more willing to become a proper wife to Miles.
Miles needed a companion, someone who might provide a supportive shoulder and listen to his troubles at the end of a long day. There had been a time when he had confided in Marie, when they had been the very best of friends. That had changed one night in his eighteenth year. He had come home with a frightening gash across his face that had taken weeks to heal and left behind a jagged scar in its place. He had withdrawn, had laughed less with Marie, and any kind of meaningful conversation ceased altogether.
Marie signed her name to the purchase slip and thanked the apothecary with a nod. The paper bag crinkled as she folded it closed and made her way to the door. She didn’t bother with the umbrella, but simply pulled her hood back up over her head. She braved the deluge of rain and quickly crossed the street to her waiting Traveler. She climbed inside, slamming the door and gritting her teeth against the cold before settling behind the steering wheel. She fired up the vehicle by twisting a crank and pushing a series of buttons on the dash.
It wasn’t entirely unusual for a woman to operate a Traveler herself, but Marie was well aware of the image she presented to society. Mid-twenties, unmarried—she did as she pleased without a man by her side. She was fairly certain most of her friends, if not her family, were baffled by her. She had had her choice of suitors but found them all lacking. Marie had decided at a young age that she would marry for love or not at all.
Sitting for a moment to allow the coils in the seat to warm, she flipped on the window-washer blades and sighed, feeling weary. Miles’s “accident” had been years earlier, and he had never once spoken of it. She had pestered him about it once, and, at his angry, abrupt response, had resolved to leave it be. She had felt his withdrawal keenly at the time, but she still occasionally saw a spark of his old self in him. Miles had his secrets, things he didn’t want her or their younger brother, Jonathan, to know.
Their mother had died giving birth to Jonathan, and their father had passed several years ago; the former they missed greatly, the latter engendered no tender emotions whatsoever. Although not the eldest sibling, Marie often felt the urge to fill the gaping hole left by their mother’s death, and her self-imposed responsibility likely contributed to her unmarried state. She adored her brothers and had decided she would be the favorite aunt to their future children, the one person who would serve dessert before dinner and take them to the carnival.
She thought of her own aunt who was in residence at the Blackwell estate, along with her two cousins, and grimaced. They were visiting despite the lack of an invitation and showed no signs of departing any time soon. She pulled the Traveler onto the road and headed for home. One bright spot, she supposed, was the fact that Miles’s three best friends from his military deployment were also visiting. They helped diffuse some of the familial irritation that made Marie want to disown the lot of them.
As she passed Coleshire Airship Field, Marie glanced out at the rows of airships in the process of either landing or preparing to lift off. Standing head and shoulders above the rest in both structure and quality was the Pickett Airship line, owned and operated by none other than Miles’s military friend Daniel Pickett. His quick engineering and entrepreneurial talents had created a small empire, built on transporting England’s citizens all over the globe. He was handsome as sin, and Marie might have expressed an interest in forming an association with him had he not been rather remote and unapproachable.
She continued along the heavily wooded paths that stood between Coleshire proper and the Blackwell estate. The thick vegetation sheltered the Traveler from the rain, but the darkened interior of the tunnel-like paths made for a poor trade. She always felt slightly uneasy making the journey, and she experienced a sense of relief when Blackwell Manor’s tall turrets came into view.
Marie drove the Traveler to the stables and garage, leaving the Traveler with the garage master. As she made her way up the sloping lawn to the manor, she clutched her purchase from the apothecary shop tighter in her hand. Miles was away from home for a few more days—Parliament, he’d said—and Marie hoped Clara’s health might begin to show some improvement before his return.
Something wasn’t right. Marie sat by Clara in the library after dinner and examined her sister-in-law. Clara was paler than before, and while the doctor who visited that afternoon had praised Marie’s herbal purchases, he had expressed privately to Marie that he doubted they would do much besides ease some of Clara’s symptoms. He was still baffled by the nature of the illness and could offer no new insight despite examining her for the third time in as many weeks.
Marie frowned at the burst of harsh laughter sounding from a small gaming table where Aunt Eustace Charlesworth sat with her two adult children, Arthur and Candice, and two of Miles’s friends, Oliver Reed, a Bow Street consultant, and Dr. Samuel MacInnes. Eustace was in hostess mode, attempting to charm the gentlemen without realizing, apparently, how dearly she lacked social graces. His friends didn’t seem to mind Miles’s absence. They had even said that, given Miles’s expected return in a couple of days, they would be happy to wait, if it wouldn’t be a bother for Marie, Clara, and Jonathan.
Eustace laughed again and snorted as well, and Marie briefly closed her eyes. A bother? Were it not for Oliver, Sam, and Daniel, Marie would be obliged to entertain the relatives herself. The presence of Miles’s friends was anything but a bother. She never would have believed it possible that she would prefer Clara’s company to anyone, but the thought of joining her aunt and cousins at the gaming table set her teeth on edge.
The fire was warm and crackling, casting a cozy glow and warding off the springtime chill. Clara didn’t seem to be benefitting much, however; she shivered despite the blanket Marie had draped around her shoulders. Marie glanced at Daniel Pickett, who sat near them at the hearth. He met her gaze, and his eyes flicked to Clara and back. Marie lifted her shoulder in a small shrug, and Daniel’s brows knit in a frown.
“Is there something I can do for you, Lady Blackwell?” he asked Clara softly. “Perhaps some tea?”
Clara shook her head but managed a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pickett, but I find I haven’t an appetite for much of anything.” She looked at Marie, and added, “And thank you ever so much for the herbal concoction. It settled my stomach quite nicely.”
Marie nodded and felt a tug on her heart when Clara managed to hold her gaze for longer than her customary two seconds of eye contact. There was something almost pleading in her expression, but Marie was at an utter loss to help her.
“When Miles returns,” Marie said, “I will see to it that he takes you to London for a thorough examination.”
Clara smiled, but it lacked any genuine sense of joy. “Dr. MacInnes mentioned the same thing to me earlier,” she murmured. “He said he has access to laboratories with the latest equipment and associates with many years of experience.”
She coughed, and Marie winced at the sound. Sam looked up from the gaming table along with Eustace and the others, his expression tightening as he glanced at Clara. He excused himself, rose, and joined them at the hearth. He placed the back of his hand to Clara’s forehead and pressed his fingertips to the pulse point at her wrist.
Sam said something to Clara, but Marie missed it. She made her way across the room to the massive bank of windows that opened out onto a large patio at the back of the house. Sam’s instincts as a personable doctor would probably never fail him, but he couldn’t hide the anxiety in his eyes when examining the sick young woman. Marie looked out into the night but saw only her reflection in the glass. Her face was stoic enough, but the emotions roiling beneath the surface had her heart increasing its rhythm uncomfortably.
Miles needed to come home. He could fix things, she was sure of it. But he would be gone for at least one more day if her suspicions were correct. For years now, his pattern of activity had taken him away from home on a monthly basis like clockwork. He often used business and Parliament as excuses—which were valid enough—but she knew that, more often than not, he’d spend at least three days at the family hunting lodge on the coast.
Marie glanced at Clara’s reflection in the dark window and felt a familiar surge of frustration. If only the girl were stronger! Clara was perfectly kind and lovely, and Marie knew her disdain of the girl might be misplaced, but Miles needed someone strong. Life wasn’t kind to those who lacked the strength to fight.
Two of the household’s ’tons entered the room and noiselessly cleared the teacups and small dessert plates. They were perfect replicas of humans, programmed to have personalities, traits, and physical abilities that were often deceivingly human from a distance. They would finish their duties in the kitchen and then retire to their chambers where they would plug in to the Tesla connectors in order to be fully charged by morning.
Marie turned when she saw Jonathan’s reflection in the window. He crossed the room to her with a smile, and she felt her heavy mood lift. He was dashing with his dark hair and his poet’s soul, and he smiled as he placed a kiss on her cheek. He was nearing twenty-two and had plenty of prospects for marriage, but he had yet to settle on a significant pastime. He had written volumes of poetry, but she couldn’t convince him to submit any of it for publication in London. Their father would have thought it a vulgar display, and Marie was afraid his memory loomed large over Jonathan.
“Out courting?” Marie asked him.
“Regrettably. Another money-grubber.”
“You’re finding those in plentiful supply of late.”
Jonathan nodded. “And I tire of it. Would it be so much to ask that I find a woman interested in me rather than Miles’s deep pockets?”
“Take comfort in the fact that you do not suffer alone. Nor will you be the last.”
Jonathan offered her a half smile and turned his attention to the room. “Are they ever going to leave?” he muttered and gestured toward their relations, who sat at the gaming table with Oliver Reed and now Daniel Pickett, who must have filled Sam’s vacant seat. Sam was still conversing with Clara by the hearth.
“I suspect they are waiting to see Miles,” Marie told him. “Eustace likes to be able to tell her friends she spent ever so much time with her darling nephew, Earl Blackwell.”
Jonathan nodded toward Clara. “And how does she fare this evening? She wasn’t looking well this morning at breakfast.”
“She’s not looking well now,” Marie said with a frown. “Jonathan, I am concerned about how this will affect Miles.”
“How what will affect Miles?”
“Her death.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”
Marie pulled him by the elbow to the far side of the library. She felt the absence of warmth from the fire but she wanted the privacy the dimmer corner of the room offered. “I do not believe she possesses the fortitude to conquer this illness. I suspect something nefarious may be afoot, and society is suspicious enough of Miles as it is. The scar on his face, his dismissive demeanor, his unwillingness to participate socially in circles that befit his station.” There was more, of course, but Marie was not about to share the true nature of her concerns with her younger brother. Not yet.
Marie spent the next morning in the Tesla control room, reading through the transcriptions of telescribed messages that had been sent and received by all of the manor’s guests. She then perused the programmable tin punch cards that served as the brain functioning for the ’tons. There were a few missing, and Marie’s suspicions grew.
The lunch hour was at hand, and Marie had only just left the Tesla control room when a high-pitched cry sounded from the second floor. Her heart filled with dread, Marie rushed to the front hall and up the stairs. Mrs. Farrell, the human housekeeper, rushed from the west wing, eyes wide and fists clenched. Marie grabbed the frantic woman by her shoulders and ground her to a halt.
“Is it Lady Blackwell?”
“Yes, my lady,” the older woman choked out. “She is dead!”
Marie’s head spun, and she tried to pull her thoughts together. “Summon the doctor and the constable,” she said. “And gather all the guests in the library. I must speak with them.”
Mrs. Farrell shook her head, her eyes still wide with terror. “The Charlesworths left for London after breakfast and will not return until late evening. And Mr. Pickett has also departed. Something about trouble with one of the airships at the landing field.”
Marie felt her nostrils flare. She ought to have looked earlier, ought to have investigated the Records Room when she first suspected something was awry. She clenched her teeth and briefly closed her eyes. “Find Mr. Reed, then, and send Dr. MacInnes to me in the countess’s chambers. And instruct the maids to stay out of the guest rooms until further notice. I do not want anything touched.”
Mrs. Farrell nodded, her pulse throbbing noticeably at her throat, and hurried off.
Marie clutched at the banister as she stumbled her way up the stairs. She ran the length of the hallway to the massive doors that led to the earl’s and countess’s suite. Mrs. Farrell had left one of the doors open, and Marie entered, weaving through the sitting room and into a small hallway on the left that housed the countess’s chambers along with dressing rooms and maid’s quarters.
The room was dark. The curtains had yet to be opened, and Marie impatiently flung the fabric to the side, wondering if she were merely postponing the inevitable. She needed to look at Clara, and she didn’t want to.
The figure on the bed lay horribly still. As Marie approached her, she held her breath and hoped that Mrs. Farrell had been mistaken, that Clara was still alive and hadn’t died mysteriously under the same roof that had sheltered Marie her entire life. Her throat thickened as she looked upon Clara’s face, no paler in death than it had been the night before. Thoughts of the missing ’ton programming cards swam through Marie’s head. She reluctantly placed two fingers against Clara’s neck.
“She is gone, then?”
Marie jumped at the intruding voice. Sam MacInnes stood in the doorway and regarded the young countess. He shook his head and approached the bed, checking for a pulse as Marie had done and opening one of Clara’s eyes with his thumb.
“Who discovered her?” he asked.
Marie shrugged. “Probably one of the ’tons. They would have checked on her when she never rang for a tray or to dress for the day.” She looped an arm around the footpost and leaned against it, surprised to feel faint. She had seen death before—her parents had both passed—but they had died of natural causes. Marie harbored strong suspicions that someone in the house had murdered Clara. And the most difficult part of all was that Marie now had no idea who to trust. Guests had been in residence for weeks, people had come and gone, and her suspect list was long.
Mrs. Farrell returned to the room with Jonathan and Mr. Arnold, the butler. Jonathan looked at Marie with huge eyes and made his way to the bedside.
“What . . . what has happened?” he managed.
Marie shook her head.
“I must call Miles home,” Jonathan said. “Is he in London today?”
“I believe he is at the hunting lodge.” Marie left the room and crossed the sitting room, her emotions in turmoil. Perhaps the only silver lining in the tragedy was that Miles probably wouldn’t be implicated in Clara’s death should Marie be able to prove foul play. He hadn’t been in residence for more than one or two weeks since marrying the young woman, and he clearly wasn’t present when the poor soul passed.
Marie heard someone knocking at the front door as she passed the second floor landing but she was on a mission. The visitor could wait. She approached the guest rooms in the east wing, looking for signs of the spent tin punch cards or anything that might give her a clue to the killer’s identity.
She heard voices in the hallway as she moved from one room to the next and spied Oliver speaking with the local constable. She considered sharing her suspicions with Miles’s friend, but he might be the guilty party, Bow Street consultant or no.
Marie made a quick examination of each guest room, using a hairpin to unlock those that were locked. When she found the spent punch cards and slipped them into her telescriber to read the programming instructions, her heart pounded in her chest.
And near the punch cards was an equally damning piece of evidence in the form of an illegal medicinal aid.
“Well, well,” she murmured, stunned, “we have a vampire among us.”
Miles returned to the manor that night and, after briefly acknowledging Marie and Jonathan, went straight to his study. His eyes were bleary and his expression more drawn than Marie had ever seen. She’d determined to tell him what she’d discovered, but she wanted to wait until they had a moment alone.
The house was swarming with people, and Miles had his hands full speaking with the constable and Oliver and handling preparations for Clara’s burial and notifying the family. Marie had been on pins and needles the entire day but had stayed busy helping the frantic Mrs. Farrell.
The night wore on, and as the home finally began to clear of people, Miles disappeared. Marie searched for him but to no avail. He was home a day early, after all. She supposed he needed to get away from the house. Her nerves were strung tight, and her heart ached as she thought of her brother facing his demons somewhere alone. Things had to change. She would talk to him, tell him that she knew of his condition and convince him to allow her to help shoulder the burden.
As the hours crept onward, she returned to her room, exhausted but pacing the floor. She heard a commotion at the front of the house; her relatives had returned. She placed her fingers to her temples. Taking a seat at her vanity, she opened a drawer and pulled out her diary and pen. Scribbling furiously, she tried to make sense on paper of what she had discovered. Her diary was her release, her one safe place to write everything down and see it all before her in black and white. She flipped through some of her earlier entries—observations of the household, the guests, Clara’s worsening illness—and realized the clues had been there all along. The evidence was definitive, and she felt a grim sense of satisfaction that the guilty party would suffer.
A knock on her door sent the pen flying from her fingers, and she cursed under her breath. Opening the door with a little more force than was strictly necessary, she eyed the ’ton on the other side. He held out a paper to her and bowed. Marie grabbed it with a mumble of thanks and closed the door.
It was a note from Miles, telling her that he needed to speak to her privately and to meet him at her garden gazebo around midnight.
She looked up from the missive and stared out the window into the dark night. Perhaps Miles had decided to take her into his confidence after all. The timing made sense—if rumors were accurate, midnight was the magic hour. Marie glanced at her pocket watch that was attached to her hip pocket with a copper chain. She had less than fifteen minutes.
Quickly selecting a cloak from her wardrobe and grabbing a Tesla torch from a table near the door, she made her way through the house and into the night. Her cloak did little to protect her from the damp cold that accompanied the thick pockets of fog hovering over the ground. The path behind the gardens wound through a dense, darkly wooded area, and the beam from her torch scattered in the heavy mist, offering little guidance.
Her breathing sounded loud to her own ears as she picked up her pace. She ran along the twisted path until she saw the familiar tall stone walls of her own sanctuary, her garden. Enclosed on four sides, the garden had been unofficially hers since childhood, and she had spent hours there, tending it with Mr. Clancy, the gardener. Her mother had loved it, had spent hours in it herself, which was probably why Marie adored it so much.
There was a lock on the gate, but it was never employed. She swung the gate open wide and frowned. The fog had a light, eerie quality to it that lifted some of the darkness, but she was unable to see more than a few feet. The gazebo situated at the back wall was lost in the mist, but she felt fairly certain she would have seen the glow of a lantern or a Tesla torch if Miles were already there.
She made her way to the gazebo, the familiarity of the garden offering scant comfort as her torchlight bounced in the fog but offered no real help. It was so incredibly, awfully quiet. She hoped desperately that Miles would hurry; the sense of urgency she felt at having discovered that Clara had been murdered weighed heavily on her. She needed to speak with him.
She climbed the steps into the gazebo and turned. A faint light appeared in the fog as she rubbed her arms, and she wished she’d have taken the time to find a better wrap. She felt her heartbeat in her throat, and chided herself for allowing the eerie night to try her nerves.
“Miles?” she called softly and heard a twig snap as the light grew ever closer. She stood at the edge of the steps but drew back into the gazebo when the torch shined directly in her face so she was unable to see who held it.
“Miles!” she repeated, her tone sharp as she continued her retreat, feeling a surge of anger that finally had her standing her ground in the center of the structure. “Take the light from my eyes, I cannot see you!”
Her corset felt tight as she breathed harder, and she moved to smack the torch away when the one who wielded it clutched her by the throat. Her head spun as she gasped, trying to draw a breath through her crushed airway. She grasped at the wrist that first lifted her from her feet and then released her, hurling her down onto the stone floor.
Marie rolled to the side and tried to crawl away when she felt a slash come down across her face, raking from her forehead down to her neck. She reached up desperately as she fell back to the ground, blood obscuring her vision as she clawed wildly at her attacker. She ripped a button free, but when her head made contact again with the unforgiving floor, her arm flung outward and the button slipped free.
Her gaze followed along the length her arm to her extended fingers where the button rolled to a stop. Her thoughts were scattered, frantic. She tried to move her limbs but found them unresponsive. Conscious, coherent thought dimmed as the world slowly enclosed her in blackness and searing pain sliced across her midsection and chest.
Miles . . .
Her lips formed the name but no sound issued forth as she finally registered a blissful deadening of the pain, a measure of peace. Feeling as though a hand had reached down and pulled her into the air, she looked around wildly to see who had rescued her even as the choking, blinding pain ceased altogether.
She hovered in the gazebo, her vision suddenly sharp and clear. She saw through the dark, through the fog, noting her attacker leaning over a prostrate and bloodied form. Fury bubbled in her chest as she lashed out, only to realize that her hand passed ineffectively through her assailant’s head.
Marie looked down again, her senses reeling, as she regarded her own earthly end. Stunned, she watched as her attacker rose, straightened clothing, and turned and left the gazebo. The Tesla torch, dropped and forgotten, rolled slightly and then was still, the light casting a ghostly glow over Marie’s mortal remains.
Sorrow replaced the fury in her chest, and she screamed, hearing it echo only inside her head. She sank down next to her battered body, noting the direction her eyes had taken in those last, frantic moments before her corporeal form had succumbed to the assault. Her mortal, sightless eyes gazed down the length of her arm, the line of her bare hand pointing to the one piece of evidence she had managed to take from her murderer.
Alone . . . She was utterly, devastatingly alone. She heaved breaths that weren’t breaths at all, felt the frantic, ghostly heartbeat of an organ that lay still and lifeless on the floor before her. She welcomed the surge of anger that swelled around her until the air fairly pulsated with it. She would not leave. She would remain at her home until she and her sister-in-law were avenged.
As she felt her eyes burn with tears that weren’t really there, she thought of her brothers and sobbed.
