One Bite Per Night Page 2

  Two

  Lydia awoke to a loud rapping on her cabin door. The wooden floor bobbed under her feet as she stumbled like a drunkard to answer the knock.

  The first mate greeted her with a gimlet gaze. “There’s been a change in plans, miss. Ye’re ta depart here at Plymouth.”

  Confusion warred with relief that her long voyage had come to an early end. “Ah…do you know why, sir?”

  He shook his head and chewed on his pipe. “Ye’ll have to take that up w’ the cap’n. All I know is he received a note. Put on yer warmest frock, an’ I’ll get yer trunks loaded up.”

  Lydia sighed and donned her black traveling dress and woolen cloak. Her mind raced as she struggled to pin up her thick black hair. Why Plymouth rather than London? Did Grandmother take ill? Or did she retire to the country to take the opportunity to meet me sooner? Praying it was the latter, she hurried out of her cabin to the captain’s quarters.

  The captain grumbled impatiently. “All I know is a carriage is waiting for you here, so you’d best run along and pack your things. I have work to do.” Before Lydia could respond, he walked away, barking orders to his crew.

  Lydia deftly avoided the rushing people on deck and returned to her cabin. The crew had already begun hauling her trunks, grumbling at their weight and number. She shoved her charcoals and sketchbook into her valise as her mind raced with excitement to at last meet her English grandmother. Perhaps Lady Morley would be interested in hearing about her adventurous voyage…and all about her papa and their life in America. Perhaps she had even forgiven him.

  As she returned on deck, moisture filled her eyes, blurring the spectacular vista of the bustling port city before her. Limestone cliffs gave way to a turbulent blue-green sea. Never before had she seen such a beautiful place. And the people, so lively and animated, their lilting voices echoing like a new song. Stevedores shouted and hauled crates up and down winches. Ships of all sizes crowded the harbor. Carriages and carts of all kinds lined the road beyond.

  Oh Mama, Papa, I wish you could see this. With a deep breath, Lydia swallowed a lump in her throat and joined the line of passengers on the gangplank.

  All was chaos as couples and families shouted joyous greetings and exchanged tearful embraces.

  Lydia looked left and right for someone who appeared to recognize her. But the melee of reunion continued around her, indifferent as the waves lapping against the pier.

  She hugged her valise tight and fought to stay calm. The cold, salty sea breeze assaulted her body, competing with the creeping chill in her heart. It will be my turn soon. A kind face will smile my way and beckon me—

  There she was. A tall, regal matron accompanied by a maid and footman beckoned near the end of the docks.

  Forgetting the weight of her valise, Lydia rushed forward. “Grandmother?” she cried, breathless with joy for the first time since her parents died.

  The woman shook her head and Lydia’s face burned in humiliation. She had approached the wrong person. Now that she was closer, she saw that the woman was too young to be her grandmother. There was more blonde in her hair than gray, and she couldn’t be older than fifty.

  Before Lydia could apologize and make a hasty retreat, the woman spoke. “Are you Miss Lydia Price?”

  She nodded, dread sinking into the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong.

  “Welcome to England. I am Miss Hobson.” Her narrow face was stark under her gray bonnet. “Your guardian, the Earl of Deveril, has hired me to be your chaperone and educate you in social graces.”

  “Deveril?” Lydia repeated dumbly. Had there been another Miss Price aboard the ship? “I-I was under the impression that the family name was Morley.”

  Miss Hobson bowed her head, but not before Lydia caught a glimmer of pity in the woman’s eyes. “Let us have you settled into the carriage, and I will explain what has transpired.”

  Oh God, my grandmother has died. A lump formed in her throat. Am I cursed? Is all my family dead?

  Oblivious to her grief, the footman gathered her trunks and loaded them onto the carriage. The maid adjusted her starched cap and approached her with a tremulous smile on her mousy face.

  “My name is Emma, Miss Price. The earl has hired me to be your maid.” Her lilting accent was so different than the chaperone’s clipped cadence.

  Lydia smiled. “I am pleased to meet you, Emma.”

  Emma curtsied. “What beautiful hair you have, miss. It’s like spun onyx. I will be pleased to dress it.”

  Miss Hobson silenced her with a stern glare. “It is time we were off.”

  Once settled in the carriage, the chaperone cleared her throat. “I do not know how to say this easily, Miss Price, so I apologize for my forthright manner. Due to the scandal your father caused with his marriage to your mother, Lady Morley refuses to have you in her home, so the Earl of Deveril will be acting as your guardian. There was an old alliance between the families.”

  Lydia discovered that it was indeed possible to feel worse. Her grandmother didn’t want her. She’d heard that English folk were snobbish, but she hadn’t expected this. Her heart felt as if it were cleaved in two. Now I understand why Papa never returned home.

  Lifting her chin and blinking back tears, Lydia faced her chaperone. “Well, I daresay, she does not sound like a person I would like to know.” Forcing a smile, she spoke past the lump in her throat. “Please, tell me about the Earl of Deveril. Was he a friend of my father?” Please tell me he is kind. He’d have to be, to take in a complete stranger.

  Miss Hobson’s eyes widened a moment at Lydia’s cheery tone. “I know little about the earl as I have only recently come under his employ. It is doubtful he knew your father. His lordship resides at Castle Deveril in Cornwall and is known to be a recluse.”

  “A castle?” A measure of her dismay fled at the prospect. It would be just like a gothic novel. What sorts of secrets resided within its stone walls? Were there hidden passageways? Ghosts?

  Before her imagination could take flight, Miss Hobson began questioning Lydia on her accomplishments. The woman did not smile. The only indication of approval Lydia received was a placid nod at the mention of her painting.

  Displeasure, on the other hand, seemed to be the chaperone’s forte. Her brows rose to her hairline in outrage when Lydia spoke of shooting with her father.

  “In England, an unmarried lady does not handle firearms,” the chaperone said sternly.

  Lydia sighed. “I suppose that means fishing is out of the question as well.”

  Miss Hobson’s lips twitched slightly before she sniffed. “Quite.”

  As the carriage rolled down the rutted road, Lydia gazed out the window in rapt fascination at the Cornish landscape. Stone houses perched among the rolling green hills on one side and cliffs fell away to the sea on the other. Ruins of castles dotted the horizon like aging sentinels. Something within her awakened at the sight. There was something magical about this land and its wild beauty. She stared for hours, absorbing the colors and textures, her fingers itching to capture it all on canvas.

  Night had fallen by the time they reached the castle. The carriage rattled and shook violently as it rolled down the rutted, rocky path. Lydia clung to the leather straps, terrified that the conveyance would topple over. When the wheels ground to a shuddering stop, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Thunder sounded in the distance as the footmen helped the ladies from the carriage.

  “You had best hurry inside,” the driver grunted as the trunks were unloaded. “A storm approaches.”

  Lydia only half heard him as she stared up at Castle Deveril. Iron-gray stone gleamed in the waxing moonlight. Wind howled through ancient arrow slits, and shadows engulfed the turrets. A thrill rushed through her body at the realization that she would live in a real castle, just like a princess in the stories Mama used to tell.

  Mama… L
ydia’s eyes stung with unshed tears. She blinked and focused once more on the castle. Could this place become her home? Much of that would depend on her guardian. She peered toward the towering entrance.

  “Come now, Lydia,” Miss Hobson urged as the wind picked up and clouds raced across the face of the moon.

  Lightning flashed, and a figure seemed to materialize before them on the stony path. Emma let out a cry that was immediately drowned out by a crash of thunder.

  Miss Hobson remained composed, though her voice cracked. “My lord, you startled us.” Straightening her spine, she continued. “As you can see, Miss Price has arrived safely.”

  The Earl of Deveril stepped forward with a bow. Long, wild hair fell forward to shadow his face. “Miss Price, welcome to my home. I hope you will be happy here.” His accent held the same musical cadence as Emma’s.

  With shaky legs, Lydia managed a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Entranced, she looked up at her new guardian. Tall and lean, he loomed over her like a specter, his greatcoat flapping in the wind. Lightning illuminated his silvery-blond locks sweeping across sharp, angular features.

  Her spine tingled. Never had she seen a more striking person. Though his hair was the color of moonlight, his face and form were those of a young man. Lydia choked back a gasp. She longed to render him in charcoal…no, oils.

  Lord Deveril interrupted her thoughts, his lyrical voice holding her captive. “Please, go inside before the storm strikes. A warm bath and a hot supper await you.” Genuine kindness filled his tone, a soothing balm from the coldness and pity she’d faced from others. “We may further our acquaintance tomorrow evening. Tonight you must rest from your long journey.”

  “I am well, my lord. Where are you going?” The thought of this mysterious stranger who held her entire fate in his hands leaving her so suddenly was alarming.

  Her grandmother’s rejection taunted her. Perhaps she was cursed. As if to concur, a lock of her hair slid from its pin to slap her cheek in the biting wind.

  Paying the weather no mind, Lord Deveril regarded her calmly. “I am going for a walk.”

  The absurdity of his statement made her chuckle. “But it is dark out, and a storm is coming. Surely you should not risk your health in such inclement conditions.”

  Miss Hobson made a small sound, no doubt to scold her for such pertness. Lydia didn’t care. She didn’t want him to leave. He was to be her only link to her new life, her only sense of stability. What if he didn’t want her either? Was that why he was so eager to remove himself?

  Lightning flashed again, illuminating his eyes. A captivating shade of blue tinged with gray, they glittered like the turbulent sea. Her breath halted. It was as if his eyes were the storm.

  Lord Deveril smiled, displaying gleaming white teeth. “Your concern is most touching, though unnecessary. I have taken my nightly walk every evening for many years. The weather never stops me.”

  He stepped closer, gently lifted the loose lock of her hair with long, graceful fingers, and tucked the strands behind her ear. Lydia’s heart pounded at his whisper-light touch. The earl bowed once more and departed with smooth, powerful strides. Lydia’s stomach quivered as if she were back aboard the ship.

  Three

  An old man stumbled out of the pub, singing an ancient Cornish love song, oblivious to the torrential rain. Vincent was upon him in a heartbeat. As soon as Vincent’s thirst was slaked, the drunkard shambled on, still singing. A catchy tune—Vincent found himself humming as he entered the smoky establishment. Silence fell for a breath as the patrons gripped their mugs and stared, followed by the usual whispers of the “Devil Earl.”

  Ignoring them all, he made his way to a shoddy table in the rear corner where his second in command waited.

  Emrys Adair raised a brow at the puddles of rainwater trailing behind him. “You forgot your umbrella again.”

  Vincent sat and shook out his sodden hair. A reluctant smile tugged his lips as he recalled Lydia’s concern for his well-being in the storm. No one had cared for him in centuries.

  His second in command sipped his ale and related his weekly report on Cornwall’s small populace of vampires. Aside from a rogue being chased off to Devon, all remained placid and dull. Vincent only half listened, pondering his ward.

  “Has the girl arrived?” Emrys asked suddenly.

  Vincent cocked his head to the side. “Are you invading my thoughts?” he jested, knowing full well that the vampire lacked that degree of power.

  “Of course not!” his second huffed. “I only remembered that the chit was due this week.”

  He smiled. “Yes, she is here.”

  “And?”

  “She is comely enough that I have every confidence in seeing her settled with no trouble.”

  Truly, Lydia Price was far more than comely. With that silken onyx hair and eyes so pale brown they appeared gold, his ward was a breathtaking creature. And her voice…he’d expected Americans to have brash accents, but hers was liquid music. The suitors would line up in droves just to hear her speak.

  Emrys shook his head, interrupting his thoughts. “I cannot believe you are doing this.”

  “Why? You’ve known for over a month. I distinctly remember you being awake when I announced it at the gathering.” Vincent leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table. “All that aside, I have been in charge of looking after the misfits of our kind for seventy years. An unwanted mortal is not too much of a stretch.”

  He frowned. Truly, unwanted should not be a word used to describe Lydia Price.

  “And you’ve done an admirable job,” Emrys replied levelly. “You’ve saved countless vampires from giving themselves up to the fatal dawn, and you’ve never had to execute any, no one denies that. Yet what exactly are you saving this human from?”

  “An insane asylum, if her horrid grandmother is to be believed.”

  The vampire gasped. “Is the girl cracked?”

  “Not as far as I’ve discerned.” Vincent rubbed his temples, weary of the discussion. “Speaking of which, we need to look in on the Siddons sisters. I have found something for them to do. How were they the last time you saw them?”

  “Much better. Maria says that Sally’s bouts of depression have grown shorter, and reports that her own blue devils are much more tempered.”

  Vincent nodded. “That is good news. Whom do you have supervising their hunts?”

  “Bronn for now. I think he’s become smitten.”

  “Poor lad. Those two will probably refuse to entertain any romantic entanglements for at least a century…if they survive that long.” He adjusted his damp greatcoat. “Shall we be off?”

  Emrys rose reluctantly from his seat and grabbed his umbrella.

  The rain had abated somewhat as they left the pub, coming down in a cold drizzle. The second huddled beneath his umbrella, cursing under his breath. The moment they were out of view, Emrys folded his umbrella, and both vampires took off in a burst of preternatural speed.

  The sisters lived in a secluded cottage some ten miles outside the village of Portloe. Before Vincent could knock, the door opened to reveal a frail vampire resembling a girl of sixteen. She’d been nineteen when she’d been illegally Changed. “Good evening, Maria.”

  Maria Siddons, daughter of the infamous actress, Sarah Siddons, curtsied deeply. “M’lord. Mr. Adair.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Please, do come inside.”

  The cottage was warm and cozy with a blazing fire in the hearth and myriad embroidered cushions and lacy doilies. The sisters had taken the hobby of sewing to an astonishing level. It seemed to ease their minds.

  Sally Siddons rose from the plump sofa, setting her sewing aside. “My lord!” She gazed at him with wide gray eyes, wringing her hands. “Is everything all right?” The tips of her fangs were revealed through parted lips.


  “Everything is fine. I only wanted to look in on you both and beg a favor.”

  She sat back down and resumed stitching the hem of a dress. “Oh, we are quite well, aren’t we, Maria?”

  “I understand you are going to London soon, to present that human girl.” Maria eyed him with sudden intensity.

  Vincent held up a hand. “Do not trouble yourself by asking. You cannot accompany me.”

  “But—”

  “You’re supposed to be dead, don’t you remember? It’s been only twenty years. You cannot run the risk of being recognized.” He met her angry gaze with all the authority of a Lord Vampire.

  Dying from consumption and devastated by the heart-wrenching end of a scandalous three-way love affair with the portrait artist Thomas Lawrence, Maria Siddons had charmed a rogue vampire into Changing her without sanction from the Elders.

  Five years later, she’d found another rogue and convinced him to Change her elder sister.

  One of the rogues had been caught and executed by Ian Ashton, the Lord Vampire of London. However, that didn’t stop the sisters from scheming to kill the painter who’d broken their hearts. Ian had caught the vengeful sisters before they succeeded. Not knowing what else to do with the frail, half-mad pair, he’d delivered them to Vincent.

  Vincent himself had been suddenly Changed, with no vampire to mentor him through even basic methods of survival and no one to help him keep the madness and grief at bay. He’d had the deepest sympathy for the Siddons sisters, who’d endured their first years without guidance.

  When the Siddons sisters came under his care, they’d seemed to be a lost cause, alternating between bouts of suicidal depression and murderous rage. With Vincent’s patience and sheer unwillingness to see such sad creatures put to death, they’d made progress over the years and were at last able to live and hunt independently. Slowly he’d been easing them into interacting with mortals, and now he would attempt the next step.

  “What is it you require of us?” Sally asked, wringing her hands once more.

  He eyed the stacks of La Belle Assemblée on the table, the mannequin in the far corner, and the gowns the sisters wore. Both rivaled garb made by the most coveted seamstresses.