Vanity and Vampyres Read online

  Vanity and Vampyres

  Manners and Monsters book 4

  Tilly Wallace

  Copyright © 2020 by Tilly Wallace

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Also by Tilly Wallace

  1

  Late May, 1816. Westbourne Green.

  * * *

  “I am married to a hellhound,” Hannah announced upon entering the library.

  She strode across the Persian carpet and kissed her mother’s proffered linen-covered cheek, before claiming her customary spot on the window seat. Hannah and Wycliff had returned the previous evening from their rather eventful stay at the Pennicott estate in the country. Since her mother had been ensconced in her turret, Hannah had been unable to interrogate the mage and had to wait until morning.

  “I am glad you have returned to us, safe and well. Now, did you uncover the information about your husband’s condition for yourself, or did Wycliff find a dollop of that common sense he so lauds and tell you?” Seraphina—Lady Miles—glanced up from her work. The desk’s large surface was covered in letters and small notes, as though she created a patchwork from the information they contained.

  Hannah let loose a sigh. Of course he hadn’t told her. The man held his secrets tighter than an oyster hiding a pearl. “I pieced together the clues. Including scorched paw prints outside our window and the fact that my husband sprouts smoky fur when his hackles are up.” Hannah picked up a cushion and ran her fingers through the tassels. She recalled the tingling sensation when she’d stroked the phantom fur that had erupted along Wycliff’s bare spine.

  “I did advise him that such secrets wouldn’t stay buried for ever, no matter how much he might wish it.” Seraphina set down her silver pen and the paper, and turned her bathchair.

  Hannah continued to torment the fringe on the cushion, until Lady Miles waved a hand and it tugged itself free of her grip to settle on the other side of the window seat. Straightening her shoulders, she faced her mother. How she wished she could peer into her blue eyes instead of at the cream linen that concealed them. “Did you arrange the marriage between us because he is a hellhound, the legendary guardians of the dead?”

  Seraphina wheeled herself forward and took Hannah’s hands between her cotton-covered ones. Today, Seraphina wore no outer ornamentation to relieve her linen covering, and resembled a marble bust placed in a niche. “No. I consented to the marriage because I know he is a good and loyal man, despite his prickly exterior. His being a hellhound is a potentially interesting development in our search for a cure for the Affliction. Since you are back, you need to tell me all about your stay with the Pennicotts and how you found Mage Tomlin.”

  Hannah screwed up her face at the mention of the mage—the grandfather of their ward, Timothy. “I did not like him and he was horrid to Timmy. Although I grudgingly admit he had his use in subduing Miss Edith Stewart.” While she had only been away for ten days, there was much to tell her mother. Then Hannah’s story would need repeating for Lizzie, although her friend would be privy to a somewhat different version.

  “And what of your husband? How do you find him upon closer inspection?” Seraphina shook Hannah’s hands as though her secrets were apples to be shaken free of their branches.

  “I find he is quite good company and entirely tolerable when he stops frowning. Although I am not sure how to proceed.” Hannah would keep Wycliff’s kiss firmly to herself. The memory warmed her insides and it seemed too precious and delicate to share with anyone else. When she was ready, she might venture to ask Lizzie’s expert opinion on the subject. It certainly was not a topic she wished to discuss with her mother. Putting aside Wycliff’s kisses, that left his otherworldly nature to consider.

  Even Wycliff seemed unsure how to act after their close time together. He had kept his nose in a book on the return journey and been polite, but distant, when they stopped at the inn for a night. When they returned to Westbourne Green, he had bidden her an awkward good-night (without any attempt at a chaste kiss on her cheek) and then crept to his suite of rooms. Hannah had yet to brave the breakfast room. Interrogating her mother seemed a far greater priority than a cup of hot chocolate and toast.

  “I find that when one is on uncertain ground, one day at a time is the best way to proceed,” Seraphina said with a chuckle.

  “Have you heard what will become of Miss Stewart?” Hannah pulled her thoughts away from the bare chest of Wycliff and to the visage of the lady’s companion at the recent house party they’d attended. The one who hid the unthinkable under her turban.

  “She is to be interred at the Repository of Forgotten Things until they decide what to do with her. Poor thing. Such a terrible situation, but perhaps she might find some peace now.” Seraphina let go of Hannah’s hands.

  The library door cracked open and little Sheba rushed in with Barnes clinging to her back. The disembodied hand rode the puppy like a monkey on a miniature pony. He leapt down as they crossed the rug and scuttled to the sofa, where he jumped up to perch on the back. Sheba launched herself at Hannah and she picked up the squirming puppy.

  “Hello, girl. I did miss you.” Once the puppy had thoroughly licked her face and been cuddled, Hannah set her on her lap so that she might stroke the silken ears. Hannah pointed to Barnes. “I do hope you behaved yourself and didn’t terrorise Mary.”

  “We only had one incident that saw Barnes incarcerated in a birdcage and left dangling from the ceiling for the day. Since then, he has been on his best behaviour. His reading is coming along rather well and he often sits with Timmy during the lad’s lessons.” Seraphina gathered together a stack of papers and moved them to a corner of her desk. Her actions revealed a portion of a map underneath.

  Hannah’s mind seemed to bound from idea to idea, rather like the puppy when let loose outside. “Now that we have a hellhound in the family, what do you propose we do with him? Does he change form like a lycanthrope? The fur I saw seemed insubstantial, as though it were made of mist and shadow.” Her hand had passed through the red-tinged tips as though she disturbed smoke. Then it had reformed itself.

  Seraphina finished shuffling papers and placed her hands in her lap. “In my studies, I have not encountered any other instances of a hellhound shifter. But I rather think those are questions best directed at your husband, who would know more on that subject. Perhaps you can make a start over breakfast?”

  Hannah snorted. She had developed a certain sense of bravery around Wycliff, but it wasn’t yet substantial enough to ask about his transformation process over chocolate and toast. “I shall work my way up to that topic, Mother.”

  Setting down the puppy as she stood, Hannah gripped t
he handles of the bathchair and pushed her mother along the hall to the breakfast room. Sheba trotted at her heels, and then darted ahead to settle on the rug in a sunbeam cast through the window. Barnes scuttled into the room, launched himself at the drapes, and began climbing up to the curtain rod.

  Hannah’s father sat at the head of the table. Wycliff sat to Sir Hugh’s right, where he could angle his chair to stare out the window that overlooked the side garden. Now, he had the addition of a puppy close to his booted feet. Both men rose as the women entered. For a moment, Wycliff’s stern features softened as he nodded to Hannah, and he flashed her a smile that made her stomach perform a somersault.

  Hannah pushed her mother to her position on her father’s left and then took her own seat. She poured a hot chocolate and reached for a piece of toast. Wycliff resumed his seat, holding the newspaper in one hand while he ate with the other.

  “When you have a moment, Wycliff, come down to my rooms and we’ll take a look at this hole in you. I’m sure Hannah did an excellent job of stitching you up, but we’ll see how much longer the stitches need to stay in,” Sir Hugh said between mouthfuls of kipper.

  Wycliff rolled the shoulder in question. “My wife is rather skilled and handy in a tight spot. I thank you for all you have taught her, Sir Hugh.”

  He turned to Hannah and she found herself unable to meet the intensity of his black gaze. Instead, she concentrated on her toast. “Do you think I could visit Miss Stewart at the Repository, Papa? While she did a heinous thing, I cannot help but find myself sorry for her situation. Given she is an educated woman, is there perhaps some task she could undertake during her incarceration?”

  Her father beamed at her and his bushy eyebrows shot up. “By Jove, there is an idea, Hannah. Most residents of the Repository are not fully in control of their mental faculties. If she were agreeable, there are secretarial duties she could perform. Although it depends what the magistrates decide to do with her. They may yet sentence her to hang.”

  Hannah touched her throat. How unfair it was that another life might be added to the sad tally resulting from one man’s horrific actions.

  “I am given to understand that Mage Tomlin wants to cut off the other snake heads in her hair, to see if that reverts her victim Robins to flesh and blood. It seems a likely hypothesis, since the one I severed reverted Stannard to his human form,” Wycliff said.

  “I assume then that Tomlin did not rustle up a spell to achieve that?” Seraphina murmured over the rim of her empty teacup.

  “No. He seemed rather vexed by the task.” Wycliff folded the paper and turned his chair so he sat fully at the table rather than to one side. He took two slices of toast and heaped scrambled eggs on top.

  A heavy tread heralded the arrival of Frank carrying a silver tray. “Mail,” he intoned as he walked to Sir Hugh, pausing only to growl a warning at Barnes, who perched on the curtain rod.

  Her father took the mail and waved the hulking man away. “One for you, Lady Wycliff,” he said with a smile as he sorted the letters and passed one along to Hannah.

  The new title no longer sat uneasily upon her. With each day, and her growing relationship with Wycliff, she became more accustomed to it. Hannah turned the heavy envelope over and recognised the delicate cursive hand—Lizzie.

  She lifted the seal with her knife and extracted the sheet within. Rather than finding the usual gossipy missive from her dear friend, Hannah discovered a more formal invitation—her second in a month. Butterflies took up residence in her stomach and she briefly wondered if they were social butterflies?

  From under half-lidded eyes, she glanced at Wycliff. Her husband was engaged in a similar task of opening and reading his mail. Oh dear, what to do with Lizzie’s invitation?

  Hannah tormented the edge of the envelope. The contents might not be well received and she was loath to break her new accord with Wycliff. While she shared her husband’s aversion to most social events, the invitation was from Lizzie and her loyalty to her friend ran deep. But…a wife was supposed to obey her husband. The idea of going against his wishes so early in their marriage made the butterflies inside her up and flee, only to be replaced by a turbulent ocean.

  “Why are you torturing that letter, dearest?” Seraphina asked.

  Hannah placed it on the table and dropped her hands to her lap. Be bold, she scolded herself as she sat a little straighter in her chair. “It is an invitation to a dinner party. I know Wycliff is not fond of such events and I do not wish to impose upon him by insisting he accompany me.”

  Wycliff glanced up from the letter in his hands. A frown ploughed a shallow trench across his forehead. “An invitation from whom?”

  “The Duke of Harden. It is a dinner in honour of their forthcoming wedding and as his future duchess, it will be Lizzie’s first time as hostess at his table. I understand if you do not wish to participate and would rather remain at home. Lizzie is my closest friend and it would be rude of me to decline. I am fully prepared to attend on my own, so you need not inconvenience yourself.” Hannah laced her fingers to still the nervous shake. Part of her wanted Wycliff to attend at her side, and conflicting loyalties pulled her in two different directions. Lizzie would win, of course—such was their sisterhood that no man would come between them.

  Wycliff made a noise in the back of his throat and the frown filled itself in. “I have no objection to attending. I am somewhat acquainted with the duke and he is a rare type of man.”

  “What type of man is that?” Hannah heaved a silent sigh of relief that she didn’t have to challenge her marital vows after all. She would have attended regardless of his feelings on the matter. She would never abandon Lizzie on her first foray as a hostess, regardless of how Hannah felt at being inspected during such events. Society waited to dissect the evening with the eagerness of her father with a new type of Unnatural on his laboratory table.

  “The duke is the rare sort in possession of a title, a fortune, and common sense. I have found most men only possess two out of those three attributes. Naturally, I will take my place beside my wife at the duke’s table.” Wycliff flicked the paper and returned to his review of the previous day’s events.

  “Thank you,” Hannah murmured, and her heart lightened. Each day they fell more in step with one another.

  Then a shadow flowed across her. Would they still be amenable to each other once she probed him to reveal more about his hellhound’s nature?

  2

  After breakfast, Wycliff descended the narrow, dimly lit steps to Sir Hugh’s basement rooms. In his mind, he walked a very different set of stairs. His ancestral home in Dorset, Mireworth, contained a staircase designed to impress visitors. There, the sinuous curve of the double stairs hugged each side of the rounded grand entrance. The wood had once glowed like honey before firelight, and the newel posts were griffins with their wings spread. The stairs met in the middle at the first floor to create a balcony that overlooked the foyer. Above that, a domed lightwell with stained glass depicted another griffin in full flight with a red sunset behind it.

  Wycliff worried that damp and woodworm would destroy the imposing staircases. Most of the furniture left in the draughty house had been moved to a drier corner and stored in the corridors, draped in sheets and blankets to protect them. There had been no such insulation he could offer the balustrades and stairs before he had locked the door and left the manor.

  An odd sensation wormed its way into Wycliff. Each passing day grew his desire to see his home, and to dirty his hands clearing paddocks and fixing fences. There was another reason, too, deep inside. He wanted to show his bride the estate. But what sort of reaction would the desolate house with its broken windows, crumbling plaster, and leaking roof evoke in Hannah?

  Pride burned inside him. He wanted to impress her and, if he admitted it to himself, to create a home that was theirs. Not the roof they shared with her parents. The gothic mansion was roomy and convenient to London, but it would never be his. He longed for the fre
edom of the wide-open landscape and the beaches that hugged the cliffs.

  The season was edging into summer—the perfect time to help Hannah overcome her fear of the ocean and to teach her to swim. Perhaps there were other things he could teach her in Dorset. The memory of the softness of her pressed to him when he kissed her fuelled his hope that their marriage would develop into something far more than convenient.

  He rapped on the metal door to Sir Hugh’s laboratory and then entered. The surgeon turned from the workbench and gestured to the autopsy table.

  “If you could remove your shirt and jump up,” Sir Hugh said.

  Wycliff eyed the cold slab and a shudder worked down his spine. He’d prefer not to lay himself out on an autopsy table just yet. “I’d rather sit on the stool.”

  Sir Hugh huffed a soft chuckle. “Fair enough. We don’t normally have bodies sitting up and chatting on the slab down here.”

  Wycliff removed his waistcoat and pulled his shirt over his head before taking a seat.

  Sir Hugh peeled back the edge of the spiderweb bandage and examined the wound. “Our girl is far too hard on herself. Hannah makes a neat stitch. This will heal with barely a scar to show for it.”

  “I have no complaints about her care of me, and found her better than some surgeons I’ve had the misfortune to encounter.” A thread of pride in his wife’s abilities wove its way through him. With the exception of Sir Hugh, some battlefield surgeons were no better than butchers. Many a soldier learned how to stitch his own wounds and keep them clean with maggots, to avoid their brutish ministrations.