His gut roiled in terror at the thought. The scenario was too similar to Polidori’s tale to be a mere coincidence. Perhaps that was how the ancients operated… and if that were the case, his time was limited, for another soul was in jeopardy.
To his everlasting frustration, Ben couldn’t get close enough to the duke or to his social circle to discover the truth, one way or another. He was barred from entry to every gathering and every club, no matter how fashionable his attire. The hunter grimaced as he recalled the fancy waistcoats and cravats he had purchased for his hunt. Damned waste of money they were! It was as though those paragons of high society had an uncanny extra sense about them, as though they could actually smell that he was nothing but the son of a poor Irish baron… and Catholic at that.
Ben sighed as he mentally calculated his remaining funds. If things kept on the way they were, he would only have enough money left to remain in this decadent city for two more months, three perhaps, if he scrimped carefully. Surely he could get closer to his quarry by then. He had to, for the duke’s wedding was in only three weeks.
As he doused the vampire’s smoldering ashes with his remaining jug of holy water, Ben straightened his shoulders in determination. He was a vampire hunter, and by all that was holy, he would do his God-given duty with no further sniveling. A young lady’s life—and soul—might very well depend on it.
Thirteen
Angelica groaned as the carriage lurched and bounced on the rutted country road. Pendlebur Park was only a two-hour drive from the city, yet already every part of her body felt bruised and battered. She sighed and flipped through a newspaper. Truly, this trip could not have come at a better time. Everyone and their servants had already heard about her incident at Almack’s.
Lady Dranston had even had the gall to come calling at an uncivilized hour this morning to ask if the engagement had been called off. Angelica hid a smile as she remembered her mother’s triumph in relating Ian’s side of the story and her final thrust in telling Lady Dranston about their trip to inform the Earl of Pendlebur about the upcoming nuptials.
“Put down that newspaper,” Margaret admonished. “If you keep trying to read that rag with all this bouncing around, you will get the devil of a headache.”
Angelica heaved another sigh and reluctantly obeyed. The advertisements for rooms for rent were blurring in her vision with every bump and sway of the carriage, and what she had managed to read was not encouraging. The cheapest rooms she could find were still far too expensive. Even with the average salary she could expect if she sold a new story every month, paying for food, clothing, and writing materials would be difficult.
A niggling voice in the back of her mind whispered that running away was a very bad idea. The cost of living in London, as portrayed in the newspaper advertisements, seemed to echo the warning. While the carriage rolled up the drive toward Pendlebur Park, her optimism sank as memories of previous visits to this cold place and its chilly owner came back to her.
Margaret retrieved her hand mirror and began making adjustments to her gown and coiffure. Her shoulders lifted and her already perfect posture became almost grotesquely straight as she forced her body to an angle that looked agonizing and impossible.
Angelica sighed and straightened her spine just as her mother seized her shoulders and forced her into the same uncomfortable position. This was only the beginning of the ritual torture that a visit to Grandfather’s house entailed.
“Lift your chin a little higher,” Margaret commanded, panic creeping into her voice. “And stop pouting. A future duchess does not pout.”
Every time she and her mother visited the Earl of Pendlebur, who may as well have been the King of England for all the fuss involved, Angelica felt as if she were being picked apart and crushed at the same time. Her mother heaped more than the already unbearable pressure upon her to be a perfect lady, and Angelica could taste the tension between Margaret and the earl as he scrutinized seemingly every hair on Angelica’s head in an effort to detect the “common blood” that tainted her and barred her from perfection.
Every time, Angelica broke under the oppressive conditions, either by saying the wrong thing—meaning whatever was really on her mind—or by being caught reading something deemed “inappropriate” in the earl’s library. Thus, the visits were always mercifully short.
“I wish Papa could have come with us,” she said despondently.
Margaret sighed. “You know how your grandfather feels about him, Angelica.” Then, she brightened. “Of, course, now that we have made such a brilliant match for you, there could be a chance that your grandfather will soften and give your father an opportunity to get on his good side!”