Simon stepped behind the string quartet and asked a nearby servant for a pen and ink. Looking around, he could not spot Nick in the crowd. He hid his frustration at finding one man but losing the other. When the servant brought what he had asked, Simon penned a quick note and laid it on a passing serving tray. It wasn’t long before it was picked up. The note was addressed to Lord Oakham, and Simon watched as it was delivered. The man read it, excused himself from his present company, and departed the ballroom.
Simon waited a moment, then followed. He wanted his lordship as far removed from the guests as possible for a few polite questions to determine if he was indeed their quarry. Sir Thomas emerged from the crowd to fall into step beside Simon.
“Just in time,” Simon said to his friend.
Sir Thomas grinned a broad, eager smile most unlike the flaccid ones typically offered by his namesake. “I wouldn’t miss our entertainment for the evening. It beats a tired game of cribbage any day. Where is he heading?”
“He is meeting Sir Thomas Wolfolk in a private drawing room upstairs.” Simon’s attention remained riveted on the distant lord.
“That was intelligent of me,” Sir Thomas said smugly.
The number of people thinned out as they went upstairs. The sound of the party grew muted and distant. They approached the drawing room. The door was ajar. The large room had a crackling fireplace on the far wall, and in the dimly lit interior, they could see the figure of Lord Oakham standing by an ornate Chinese mirror, checking out his reflection. He was a sizeable man, florid-faced and thick. Simon stayed outside the door, while Sir Thomas entered alone.
Lord Oakham turned expectantly. “Good evening, Sir Thomas. I had thought you were in Jamaica.”
“I returned home,” Sir Thomas replied politely. “It was ghastly hot. Had you any idea the tropics were so tropical?”
As the two men conversed, Simon studied their quarry, searching for some proof that the man in front of them was the werewolf from the Rookery. Beatrice could have been wrong although he doubted it. Lycanthropy was fairly unmistakable. He ran the fight back through his mind, trying to determine where the beast had been struck. Oakham’s neck had been burned black where Nick had grabbed him by the throat. That wound should still be healing in spite of a werewolf’s fabled regenerative properties. Lord Oakham’s high cravat prevented an easy inspection. Simon’s eyes narrowed, trying to peer closer as Lord Oakham questioned Sir Thomas’s etiquette.
“I hardly think this is the proper time to discuss Catholic emancipation.” Lord Oakham scowled. “Though I would never favor such a thing. Beastly papists.”
Lord Oakham caught a glimpse of the man at the door, and Simon saw his nostrils flare slightly. Both Simon and Nick had been uncharacteristically liberal with their cologne to mask their scent, but they had no concept of a werewolf’s olfactory powers. The lord took a step back suddenly, his eyes widening in confusion, glancing quickly between the two men. The shifting of the man’s head revealed a hint of red scar tissue on his neck covered by the cravat. A glow began in Lord Oakham’s pupils.
The flush of furious revenge swept through Simon. His jaw tightened, and his mouth went bone dry. He stepped out of the shadows. “Perhaps you would rather discuss the murder of Marie d’Angouleme.”
Sir Thomas cursed unbecomingly at Simon’s hotheadedness as a low growl emanated from inside Lord Oakham’s chest. Incredibly, Oakham grabbed a towering life-size marble statue and thrust it at the two men. Simon and Sir Thomas threw themselves out of the way of the shattering chunks of marble.
The man in front of them transformed into a menacing, dark shape. His chest broadened to double the width and his clothes rent with an audible tear. Arms lengthened and treacherous claws grew out of his fingertips. His head grew larger, and with a loud cracking, the bones of his jaw displaced and extended. A creature stood large and hunched, snapping two luminous red eyes in their direction.
Simon rose to his feet and pulled the blade from his stick in a fierce jerk. The beast lunged forward with claws raised to strike. Simon parried the blow, twisted, and stepped in close, forcing the arm down and out. He leaned back and kicked the beast in the chest, staggering it onto its haunches. Pulling the blade back, Simon prepared to thrust, but the werewolf leapt to the side and the blade plunged through empty air.
The glamour spell dropped from Sir Thomas Wolfolk, and Nick Barker lifted his hands, both engulfed in flames. Twin fiery orbs crashed against the creature, eliciting a howl. Smoke curled around its furry head and long snout. Bony, clawed fingers clenched, then extended in pain as the beast staggered back.
A butler knocked and entered with a stern face, prepared to lecture the raucous guests. He stopped cold at what he saw. What was once Lord Oakham turned toward him.
“Run!” shouted Simon, hoping to distract the beast as well as motivate the terrified servant.