The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

I went home to dress and arm myself for a visit to Whitechapel. Once home, I learned that Florence didn't have any evening plans. Blast it! She'd be in all night, making it difficult for me to sneak out . . . and she would also want to ask about my visit to the museum with Miss Bane. She would also be filled with gossip about Miss Hodgeworth's death. Even though it had been a week since the girl was killed, the tragedy was still a topic of conversation and worry.

I resigned myself to eating dinner with my family.

Naturally, Bram was at the Lyceum Theatre. But Noel, who was ten, ate with Florence and me. In fact, he managed to steal the last piece of apple bread right out from under my hand. He gave me a big, satisfied grin as my fingers closed over an empty plate. I glowered at him, but at the same time, I wanted to tousle his thick, dark hair.

"How was your visit to the museum, Evvie?" Florence asked, adding sugar to her after-supper tea. The Sweet-Loader whirred softly as its wheel turned and three lumps plopped into the cup. "Mrs. Yarmouth made a point of saying how much she missed you today. And last week as well." She raised an elegant brow meaningfully. "And your appetite seems to have returned."

"The museum was crowded. And Miss Banes didn't make it after all." I realized I'd eaten two beef short ribs, a large pile of roasted parsnips and potatoes, a generous serving of greens . . . and a piece of apple bread. I was going to have to loosen my corset before going out tonight. I eyed a plate of slivered pears.

"Mrs. Dancy asked after you as well," Florence said, hand-stirring her tea with small, neat circles. "She mentioned her son Richard. Apparently, there was a mishap with lemonade? At the Cosgrove-Pitts'." Her spoon clinked sharply against the side of the cup.

Drat! I forgot about the pears. "Uhm . . ."

"That's not a particularly polite or ladylike sound," my surrogate mother said. She speared me with her gaze. "I was under the impression you hadn't received an invitation to the Roses Ball, Evaline. You knew how much I was hoping to attend with you." Along with the displeasure in her eyes was a note of regret.

I bit my lip. "I'm sorry, Florence," I said, trying to think of an excuse . . . and a way to remove that disappointment. She loved parties and gowns and frothy things. "I . . ." The problem was, I never spoke a direct falsehood to her. That was why I'd hidden the invitation in the first place so I could tell her I didn't see it-because I hadn't actually opened and read it.

Being a vampire hunter who didn't lie was impossible.

"I know you don't care for those formal occasions," she said in a milder voice. "But it's a necessity, dear Evvie. Bram and I promised your parents we'd make sure you were taken care of, that you'd be married off well to a nice young man from a good family. One that could take care of you."

I could take care of myself. But Florence-and the rest of the world-would never understand that. "I'm sorry," I said again.

"I'm utterly confused as to why you attended the ball anyway, but without a chaperone. What if you had met someone completely inappropriate? What if something had happened to put you in a compromising position with him? Then what would I tell your parents-and Bram?"

An image of Pix rose in my mind. Could there have been anyone more inappropriate at the ball? Or a more compromising position than hiding behind a heavy curtain with a thief?

Thank St. Pete that Florence hadn't chaperoned me.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Evvie. To that end, I've asked Mrs. Gernum to save all of the mail for me in the future. And you and I will review all of the invitations and determine which ones we will attend. Together. I take my commitment to your parents very seriously. And your well-being too."

Right, then. How many vampire hunters got reprimanded about attending balls and being chaperoned? Surely I was the only one.

"Yes, ma'am." By now, my head was pounding and my stomach roiling, so it wasn't a lie when I said, "I'm not feeling well. I'm going to go lie down."

Florence gave me a shrewd look, then nodded. Her lips were flattened, once again reminding me how much I'd hurt and offended her. "Very well, Evaline. But I expect you to be awake and breakfasting by nine tomorrow morning. You'll be going with me to the milliner's and Madame Varney's."

Drat. Madame Varney was a seamstress, but going there was more of a social excursion than a shopping trip.

"Of course," I said. And fled.

Once in my chamber, I rang for Pepper, hoping she'd returned from her afternoon walk with her beau, Chumly. I needed assistance to prepare for tonight's excursion. I'd be leaving as soon as I could climb out the window, even though the sun wouldn't be setting for another two hours. She was the only other household member who knew about my secret life. She was clever and enthusiastic when it came to arming and equipping me for my dangerous tasks.

Pepper placed a two-finger-wide stake in its mechanized sharpener and flipped the switch. It whirred as the small wooden stick spun in place, a long peel like that of an apple falling away from the new point.

"M'great-gramma Verbena allays said to hide an extra stake in yer coy-fure," she said, sliding a slender wooden pike down into the mass of braids she'd already done up in a tight knot. "An' keep an' extry one in yer sleeve." She handed me the newly sharpened stake.

"I'm going to need more than stakes tonight, Pepper. I'm hunting a mortal, not an UnDead. Where did you put my pistol?"

My maid's strawberry-blonde hair bounced as she selected other implements to slide into my tool belt. She kept her hair cut short, because its wild, frizzy curls were impossible to confine in any sort of hairstyle. I wanted to cut my hair short, for long tails were a liability when in a fight, but my maid always argued otherwise. "An' where would I put the stakes if ye did that?"

She produced the pistol, and I slipped it in a holster beneath my man's coat, followed by a supply of ammunition. A knife went down inside one tall boot, and other useful items dangled from the insides of my coat.

Instead of wearing a tight corset beneath a split-skirted ensemble, I'd chosen to dress as a lower-class man in trousers and boots. I donned a loose neckerchief around my neck, arranging it beneath the open collar of a dingy shirtwaist. Tonight I wore a special corset that flattened my curves instead of enhancing them. A piece of string tied the coat together where the buttons would have been, and one of the cuffs was missing. The stake and another knife had been slipped inside the lining of each sleeve. A soft, slouching hat hid my tightly braided hair, which Pepper had pinned painfully in place.