Did Dr. Polidori know of the existence of vampires? She resolved to use this opportunity to question him and learn what she could. Perhaps Ian wouldn’t be angry with her if she could solve the mystery, and she resolved to do the best she could in gleaning information from the man.
Angelica was so excited that she could hardly sleep that night, and the next day she agonized over her wardrobe, struggling to decide which outfit would make her appear most like a serious gothic authoress. She finally decided on a dark blue satin gown with a matching hat and dyed ostrich plume. Then she went to her writing room and endured another battle with indecision as to which of her writings she would share with him. After nearly two hours, she decided on the one where a witch’s curse awakened corpses from the grave.
Her heart beat harder in anticipation as the carriage approached the district of Soho. She felt a momentary pang of pity that he had to live in such an impoverished area and wondered if it would hurt his pride if she offered to sponsor him as she had a few other writers. She looked down at her gleaming gown, thankful she wasn’t wearing jewels.
“We are here, Your Grace,” Felton called as the carriage slowed.
The address at which they stopped was nicer than many of the residences they passed. Maybe the meeting would not be awkward after all. She adjusted her gown and straightened her hat as Felton helped her out of the carriage.
“I hope everything goes well, Your Grace.” He returned to his seat, taking out a book for the wait.
The man who greeted Angelica at the door was surprisingly young and handsome. With his darkly sensual Italian features, he was nothing like she had pictured a writer or physician. His full lips twisted into an awkward smile as he bowed. “Your Grace. I am glad you were able to come to my humble abode.”
She curtsied and returned the smile, hoping to put him at ease. “It is a great honor to finally meet you, Dr. Polidori.”
Her greeting seemed to fluster him further. “The honor is mine. However, I am no longer a practicing physician,” he mumbled. “Please, do come in.”
The furnishings of the flat were humble yet tasteful. Still there was a stale quality to the air that seemed to indicate the place hadn’t been lived in long. And something else was wrong. The house was quiet. Too quiet for a soiree.
“I hope I am not too early,” she said, shifting on her feet.
“Not at all, you are right on time. Would you care for a glass of wine, Your Grace?”
“That would be nice.” She eyed a vase of Venetian glass on a stand near the settee and wondered which question she would ask him first.
He nodded, running a hand through his thick black curls as if flustered. “Then please have a seat and I shall fetch your drink.”
When she turned to sit, he grabbed her from behind and shoved a handkerchief in her face.
With a muffled shriek, she struggled. She had almost succeeded in twisting away from him when her limbs suddenly weakened. The stench of the cloth was so thick that she felt like she was swallowing it. The cloth was soaked with a pungent substance and her head swam with dizziness. Angelica gagged as blackness tinged her vision. Her lips formed a question, a protest. But no sound came.
“I’m very sorry, Your Grace,” Polidori whispered as she sank bonelessly into his arms. “If all goes well, this ordeal should be over before you know it.”
Angelica tried to laugh because he really did sound sorry. But the noxious fumes took her away to blackness.
Thirty
Ian paced the stone floor of the underground anteroom of the Elders’ motherhouse in Amsterdam. The ancient faces looking down on him had been intimidating the first time he’d come before the governing force. They sat in folds of darkness so thick that one couldn’t tell if shadows framed their solemn faces or executioner’s hoods. But they frightened Ian no longer. He was impatient to get this over with and return to London and his beloved bride. His petition to Change Angelica had been approved, and now all that was left was to discuss Rafe’s succession.
It seemed an unnecessary chore to come all the way to Amsterdam for this formality, Ian believed, though he would never dare voice such a defiant thought. A sideways glance at Rafe’s impatient expression confirmed that they were in accord. The Elders gazed at them knowingly from their raised podiums as if they knew what both were thinking.
“Lord Ashton and Rafael Villar, thank you for coming so quickly,” they chorused as if they truly were the single mind they represented.
“Thank you for responding to my request with alacrity,” Ian said with a bow. It was strange being addressed by his surname for the first time in a century. But the Elders cared nothing for mortal titles.
Marcus, the Lord of Rome, looked up from a pile of parchment. “Raphael Villar, please come forward.
Rafael approached the Elders, looking up at them expressionlessly, which was as close to respect as he could muster.