"Yourself?" Margaret said with an arched brow.
"Yes, actually!" Bridget said, looking around the table. Her eyes glowed as green as Callie's, but with her petulance on full display, she no longer reminded me of my lost love. "I still don't know why I ran out on the party. "
Margaret rolled her eyes. Lydia shook her head.
"I mean, you should have seen the looks I got!" she started up, waving her knife in the air for emphasis. "Flora's dress was the worst, especially considering she's a newly married woman. And my new sash - oh no, was it ruined last night? I would hate to have it ruined! Mama! Was it on me when Stefan brought me home? We have to go back to the park and look for it!"
"How about we go back to the park and look for the person who tried to kill you," Margaret suggested.
"We've already had a discussion with Inspector Warren about it. He promises a thorough investigation," Mrs. Sutherland said. "But, Bridget, you must promise not to run off from the Chesters' ball this evening or I will be forced to stand watch over you in your bedroom. "
Bridget crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.
"And neither shall you run off," Mrs. Sutherland said more pointedly to Lydia. The middle sister blushed.
"Lydia has fallen in love with an Italian count," Bridget confided, her pout evaporating as she indulged in gossip. "We all hope he asks her hand in marriage - wouldn't that be splendid? Then we'd all be like royalty, sort of, and not just rich merchants. Imagine, Lydia a countess!"
Winfield laughed nervously. "Bridget . . . "
Bridget fluttered her thick eyelashes. "It's so wonderful that Lydia has a suitor, much less a count. After Meggie was wed, I was afraid Mother and Papa would become traditional and not let me marry until Lydia did and who knew how long that was going to take. "
"Lydia is . . . particular," Mrs. Sutherland said.
"Oh really, Mama," Bridget rolled her eyes. "As if anyone even had an interest before. And now she has a count. It's really . . . it's really not fair, you know, if you think about it . . . if I had a proper coming out . . . "
I shifted in my seat, at once embarrassed for everyone, and yet glad to be involved in something as ordinary as a family squabble. This was the first time I'd been among company since leaving Lexi in New Orleans.
"So many handsome, strange men in our lives these days," Margaret said, somewhere between whimsy and warning. "What an odd coincidence, Mr. Salvatore. Perhaps I needn't make the grand tour, after all. "
"Hush now, Margaret," Winfield said.
"And actually I have no one to go to the Chesters' with anyhow, Mama," Bridget was continuing, actually growing red in the face as if she was trying quite hard to cry. She looked at me sidelong the entire time. "I am sure Milash won't escort me after last night. . . . I am in dire need of rescue. . . . "
Bridget widened her green eyes at her father. Winfield frowned and stroked his muttonchops thoughtfully. In that moment, Bridget seemed as powerful as a vampire, able to compel her father to her every wish. Margaret put a hand to her head as if it ached.
"Mr. Salvatore will take you," Winfield said, gesturing at me with a fork full of biscuit. "He's rescued you once; I'm sure he's a gentleman who wouldn't leave you in distress again. "
All eyes were turned on me. Bridget perked up, smiling at me like a kitten just offered a bowl of cream.
I balked.
"I'm afraid I haven't the proper attire . . . " I began.
"Oh, that is solved easily enough," Mrs. Sutherland said with a knowing smile.
"Once again," Lydia murmured, too low for anyone else to hear, "we are holding poor Mr. Salvatore at our mercy. With pants. "
Chapter 5
At the close of breakfast, maids whisked away the Dutch china and jam, and Winfield retreated to his study, leaving me with the Sutherland women in the sunlit parlor. Bridget, Lydia, and Mrs. Sutherland had installed themselves on the brocade couch, while I perched at the edge of a green velvet chaise, pretending to gaze at an oil portrait of the family when in truth I was calculating the best way to make my escape. My last, paltry feeding seemed a distant memory, and the sweet symphony of beating hearts in this grand mansion was becoming difficult to resist.
During the meal, I'd tried several times to free myself from the Sutherlands' presence, with the aim of slipping out a window or escaping through the servants' quarters. But as though my intentions were written plainly across my forehead, I was unable to shake my company for even two minutes. When I'd excused myself to the facility, the butler had insisted upon escorting me. When I mentioned I'd enjoy lying down in my room, Mrs. Sutherland had pointed out that the couch in the parlor was the perfect place for a repose. I knew that they were grateful to me for returning Bridget to them, but I couldn't explain their acceptance of me into their home. Especially given the state I was in when I first entered it: dirty, torn clothes, disheveled, and bloody.
"Mr. Stefan," Margaret said, leaning against the column that separated the parlor from the foyer. "Are you entirely all right?"
"Fine, fine," I said. "Why do you ask?"
"You're shaking your leg so hard you're rattling the chair. "