"I am here!" As if on cue, the parlor door opened and in sailed the Duchess of Farnham. She jingled and clunked.
"What on earth is that?" asked Melly, staring in askance at the large crucifix that hung from her waist like a chatelaine's ring of keys would have done in medieval times. Only the crucifix was much larger than any ring of keys. "And that?"
"It's her stake, of course," Petronilla explained as if Melly had lost her mind… when, in fact, it appeared to Lady Grantworth that it was her two dearest friends who had done so. "Winnie, I do hope you haven't any thought of using such a thing! That would be so cruel!"
Winifred plopped down in her favorite seat in Petronilla's parlor, somehow managing to slide four finger cakes and three lime biscuits onto a plate and pour herself a cup of tea in the process. "I am not foolish enough to be prancing about without protection, and you two ladies would be wise to do the same!"
"No, no, no, no!… Winnie, do not tell me you are still afraid that a vampire is going to jump out of the shadows at you some night!" Melly stuffed the rest of the orange finger cake into her mouth and swallowed a gulp of tea, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
"I should say so!" Winifred poured a generous amount of cream into her tea, disdaining the sugar, and stirred with gentle, elegant strokes to disperse it. "You did hear about the incident at that gentleman's club last night, Bridge and Stokes, did you not? When I heard about that, I went right out to one of the footmen and demanded that he take one of the duke's old walking sticks and make it into a stake for me. I'm going nowhere without it!"
"Incident at Bridge and Stokes?" echoed Petronilla, her pale blue eyes wide with interest. "Whatever are you talking about? Were there vampires there? Did anyone get bitten?" There was a breathy note to her voice at this last.
"Those were not vampires, Winnie!" Melly shook her head and smoothed her skirts. "I know the incident you are talking about—and it was not vampires. How many times must I tell you that they simply don't exist? They are the product of Polidori's imagination, fueled by legend and ghost tales."
"What happened at Bridge and Stokes?" asked Petronilla again.
"How can you not have heard about it? It has been roaring through the servant gossip mill faster than a fire in a dry field!" Melly replied archly.
"I have been indisposed all morning," Petronilla replied delicately.
Melly snorted, but Winnie deigned, at last, to explain. "Five men were found dead after some passersby reported to the Runners that there had been a loud altercation there early this morning. No gunshots were reported, and from what I have heard, the bodies were found quite destroyed, torn up, even. Very messy." She reached for another biscuit, thought better of it, and set it back on her plate. Apparently there were some things that affected her appetite.
"Lord Jellington, my cousin, called on me first thing this morning," Melly interceded. "Because the marquess belongs to the club in question, and had, in fact, been there last night. But apparently he left before the incident occurred, and Jellington wished to assure me that he was not involved."
"Knowing Jellington, I am quite sure that was not all he wished to accomplish by calling on his attractive third cousin," Petronilla commented slyly.
"Oh, do go on! Jellington has never looked twice… well, perhaps twice, but definitely not thrice… at me in that fashion," Melly replied, burying her face in a cup of tea.
"It was vampires that did it." Winnie steered the conversation back on track. "That's why there were no gunshots! They don't need guns to get what they want."
Melly was shaking her head. "No, Jellington says it was likely one or two people with knives who attacked the members of the club. Perhaps in some sort of vigilante manner; for all of the ones found dead—except one, who may have been an accidental casualty—were quite in debt and owed much money to some of those nasty moneylenders they speak of from St. Giles. The Runners believe it was an attempt to collect funds due them, or to make an example of those men for not paying back their debts." She sniffed and set down her teacup.
It was Winnie's turn to snort. "That is what the Runners are saying. But I don't believe them. They don't want there to be a mass panic from everyone in London believing that there are vampires running about."
"If there are vampires causing all of this," Melly returned, "why has no one reported seeing one?"
"They are very careful… they sneak about in the dead of night," Winnie replied. "Make certain your bedroom windows are closed and bolted."
"I shall ensure that mine are locked up tightly," Petronilla replied a bit too earnestly. "They do sneak around in the dead of night, don't they? But I heard they can change into mist or fog and slip through the crack of your window… and then turn themselves back into men. Right in your bedroom! Oh, dear, and Mr. Fen worth sleeps in his own chamber across the hall! I will be quite alone and unprotected!" Her voice was pitched loud, as though to make certain any vampires lurking about might hear.
"If they sneak around in the dead of night, then that is most definitely an indication that vampires—if they do exist—weren't responsible for the attack at Bridge and Stokes." Melly leaned forward to drop a small lump of sugar in her tea.
"And what about that incident at Vauxhall Gardens the night before last?" Winnie commented. "Did Jellington tell you anything about that?"
"No."
"There was some sort of altercation there, but no one was hurt or injured."
Melly raised her eyebrows. "No one was hurt, injured, or—heaven forbid!—bitten… and you ascribe the incident—whatever it was—to nonexistent vampires? Winnie, my dear, you really are taking those gothic novels too seriously. Everything violent or unexpected that happens in this city cannot be attributed to creatures like vampires. There is enough evil perpetrated by man that we don't need to invent paranormal beings to blame it on.
"Now, let us dispense with this nonsense and talk about something much more interesting… such as how soon we might have a little marquess on our hands!"
His wife was mad. She had to be mad, for the alternative was terrifying.
For the first time he could remember, Phillip de Lacy, Marquess of Rockley, did not know what to do.
He left St. Heath's Row and drove his curricle into town. He stopped at White's, another of the clubs he frequented, and sat at a table by himself. He had several glasses of whiskey, a large hunk of beef that tasted like sawdust, and a slab of bread that could have carried weevils for all he noticed.