The Ripper (The Vampire Diaries 17)

“Thank you . . . brother!” Violet exclaimed, kissing me on the cheek.

“Of course,” I murmured. We were just going to a picnic. It would be broad daylight. Violet had the vervain, gleaming at the hollow of her throat. Nothing could happen, right?

An hour later, Violet and I were traipsing through the manicured lawns of Regent’s Park. I had pulled a sheet from the bed and was holding it over my arm as an improvised blanket. My stomach was growling yet again. Violet glanced at me funnily, and I wondered if she’d heard it too. I coughed to mask the sound.

The park was dotted with children playing, kites

flying, and several large mansions rising from the green lawns like oversized statues. I glanced at the sun. We were supposed to go to Grove House, which the front desk porter at the hotel had told me was at the eastern end of the park.

“There they are!” Violet exclaimed, racing across the park, her auburn hair flying behind her.

I slowly followed her. Ahead of me was an enormous limestone structure with Grecian columns. The lawn held several tables covered with white linen. I dropped my sheet on the ground. This wasn’t a picnic; this seemed to be a feast. And vampire or not, I’d been acting like a country bumpkin by toting the oversized sheet along with me, as if this were one of the church socials that Damon and I used to attend as boys.

By the time I walked over, Violet was already sipping a glass of champagne as she gestured animatedly to Damon. She was trying too hard to do her American accent, pronouncing my name as Stef-ain, and even trying to coax a y’all out of her Irish brogue, even though I’d told her multiple times on the way over that wasn’t a common phrase in the American lexicon at large.

“Brother, welcome,” Damon said grandly, as if he were inviting me to his private home. For all I knew, he was.

“Are you living here now?” I asked, glancing at the building, which seemed even bigger than some of the museums I’d seen back in New York City.

“No,” Damon scoffed. “He is,” he said, gesturing to the slight, cream-suited, ginger-haired man standing next to him.

“Lord Ainsley,” the man said, offering his hand.

“Hello,” I said, still amazed at the vastness of the house. It was clear Damon was traveling in an incredibly powerful circle. Compared to Damon’s friends, George Abbott would seem like a little boy playing make-believe.

“This is an old friend from the States, Stefan Salvatore,” Damon said quickly. I stiffened. Hadn’t he heard me last night introducing myself as Stefan Pine? I didn’t want to drag the Salvatore name into any business relating to my nature, especially not now. I knew that no one would know the Salvatore story—it was a minor footnote even in our home state of Virginia—but I still wanted to protect the name—and myself—whenever I could.

“Stefan, it’s nice to meet you. Are you a steel man? Railroad?” Lord Ainsley asked, giving me a once-over.

“Um . . .” It was a good question. Who was Stefan Salvatore? I gave a pointed look in my brother’s direction, eager to hear what he’d come up with.

“He has a farm back in the States,” Damon interjected. “He’s visiting here. Imagine my luck when I ran into him last night at the Gaiety party.”

“A farm,” Lord Ainsley said, instantly losing interest. “And how long will you stay in our fair city?”

“That depends,” I said, locking eyes with Damon. But before he could say anything, Samuel sidled up to us, a glass of lemonade in his hands.

“Hello,” he said, his voice welcoming. “I see you weren’t turned off by us degenerates. Late-night parties, lots of champagne . . . that’s why I’m glad Lord Ainsley had this picnic. It’s refreshing to not always be a creature of the night. Isn’t that what you always say, Damon?”

“I do indeed,” Damon said, smirking at me. I fumed silently. Everything about Damon, from his waistcoat to the top hat he insisted on wearing to his affected European accent, annoyed me. Damon seemed determined to prove he was above everything—even bloody attacks that seemed to be committed solely as a warning toward him. Didn’t he remember what Klaus had done to us back in

New York? Didn’t he care? Or was he simply going to

distract himself with sandwiches and champagne, society gossip and women, until it was far too late?

“And, Stefan?” Samuel asked, staring down his aquiline nose to peer at me. “What did you think of the party? I imagine it’s a change from . . . wherever you came from,” he said, barely concealing a snicker.

“Yes, we enjoyed the party. Violet was especially taken by it,” I said, forcing a smile.

“And are you taken by the young Violet?” Samuel asked curiously, setting his empty crystal glass on one of the white tables. Almost instantly, the empty one was whisked away by a white-suited butler. It could be easy to get used to this lifestyle. But I knew from experience that this type of existence always came with a price.

“Violet’s taken by the stage,” I explained. “I have no interest in her, other than as a friend. I only want to make sure she’s safe.”

“You only want to make sure she’s safe,” Samuel repeated. Was there a slight trace of mockery in his tone or was I imagining it? “That’s very noble of you.”

“Ever since I’ve known him, Stefan can’t resist playing the hero to a damsel in distress,” Damon said languorously. I shot him a look, but he only smiled back at me. I shifted from one foot to the other and eyed him suspiciously. Here in London, it seemed everyone, and Damon especially, never said exactly what they meant.

“Well, you’ll find that there’s no shortage of distressed damsels in our city,” Samuel said wryly. “I assume you’ve heard about our murderer?”