The Zeppelin Deception Read online

  “Alvermina Holmes, the Metropolitan Police are placing you under arrest for the murder of Frederick Boggs.”

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Invitation from a Murderer ~

  The day the invitations to my wedding were sent (and delivered; the Oligarys don’t wait on the post) was a horrid day. And I don’t just mean the weather (which was cold, sleety, and windy).

  I felt as if I were Anne Boleyn, having her execution date set.

  There’d been no escape for her.

  There was no escape for me.

  The last two months had been a blur of activity. Dress fittings. Trousseau fittings. Guest lists. Invitation design. Wedding theme. Blasted flower choices.

  And then, somewhere in there, Florence had had the idea of a masquerade ball for my eighteenth birthday. (It was partly my fault, because she’d asked me what kind of celebration I wanted. I was not in a good mood—there had been three meetings in a row about what sort of stockings I was going to wear under my wedding dress—so I’d made a flip comment about everyone walking around with masks on so I didn’t have to talk to them. And the next thing I knew, there was going to be a masquerade ball.)

  And as if the meetings and planning wasn’t enough, there were also all of the required social calls. That was so everyone could swoon over my “choice” of fiancé.

  Which I despised. (The social calls, not my fiancé. Honestly, Ned was a nice enough man. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t want to get married.)

  To make it worse, my sister-in-law Florence had been floating around as if on air since everything had been finalized. And now she had moved on to badgering me about what I was going to wear at the masquerade ball in three days’ time.

  (Did I care? No. No, I did not.)

  And so, on the day my wedding invitations were hand-delivered all over the city, all I wanted to do was hide away and sulk.

  Or to hit something. Hard enough to shatter it.

  So that was what I did. I locked myself in the large, empty ballroom that I used for practicing my vampire-fighting skills. Florence didn’t know about this side of me, of course. And now that I was getting married and saving him from financial ruin, Bram pretended to have forgotten about it—because, of course, once I was an Oligary, I would no longer be able to slink around on the streets at night and slay the UnDead.

  Not that I had been doing that anyway, for the last two months.

  Grimacing at the thought, I turned on the Sure-Step Debonair Dance-Tutor, which was supposed to be used to teach young ladies to dance. But in my case, it had been reformulated by my trainer, Siri, to help me learn to fight better.

  I was so angry and upset that it took only a single, rounding blow from my leg to send the Sure-Step clattering across the room. It ended up in a heap of groaning cogs and steaming mechanics that hissed into silence.

  Drat and blast! Now what was I going to do?

  I fumed, spinning, kicking, and punching at invisible vampires and society matrons and bill collectors and floral designers until I was a sweaty, panting mess.

  And just as I gave one last furious stomp, someone knocked on the chamber door.

  “Miss Evaline?” It was Brentwood, our butler.

  “Yes?” I limped over to the door (I’d stubbed my toe in a fit of pique) and cracked it open. There was no need for Brentwood to see that I was wearing very unfeminine clothing, and how much of a bedraggled mess my hair had become.

  “There’s a message come for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said unenthusiastically. I accepted the message slipped through the small opening. Probably another invitation to tea or to a fête or to the theater.

  “The—er—messenger is waiting your reply.”

  I closed the door firmly. My reply? Simple: No thank you.

  A gust of wintry wind rattled the window, and I glared at the sleet and ugliness outside. Then I glared at the message.

  Now that I was going to marry the most famous, wealthiest bachelor in the city—excluding Ned’s brother Sir Emmett, of course—the invitations had poured into our house. I’d had social engagements aplenty before, and I’d avoided as many of them as possible. But they’d increased tenfold since the announcement in the Times, which Ned, Bram, and Florence had published without my agreement.

  The reminder of what they’d done infuriated me every time I thought about it. But it was too late. The damage had been done. And in three weeks, I was going to be a very rich woman.

  A wife.

  Tears stung my eyes, and before I could stop myself, I pulled back my fist and punched the wall.

  It went through the plaster so hard and fast that my knuckled slammed into the inside of the wall on the other side.

  And it hurt, blast it.

  Venators—vampire hunters—can be injured. We heal quickly, but we can feel the pain.

  I glared at my bruised knuckles and blinked back the tears. How could I give up my responsibility as a vampire hunter now that I was going to be a wife?

  In my fury, I’d dropped the new message on the floor. Still frowning, I swooped down to pick it up. One of the benefits of being a Venator was that I often went without the tight stays other women wore. Thus, I could bend and twist with ease.

  The thick crème packet was heavy between my fingers. I gave it a dark look. If Mina Holmes were here, she’d probably look at it and be able to tell me exactly who it was from and what they wanted—without even opening it.

  Mina Holmes.

  I gave the same sort of sniff she did when she didn’t want to admit she was wrong about something.

  I hadn’t heard a thing from Mina since that night at The Carnelian Crow—the night I’d learned Pix’s real identity.

  The night he had been arrested.

  For murder.

  Mina hadn’t so much as sent me a note since then. Even after the engagement announcement was published.

  And I saw no reason to contact her if she ignored me. In fact, I told Florence not to bother to send her an invitation to my birthday masquerade.

  I wanted to tear the message into pieces. I almost did.

  And then I saw the seal on it.

  Cosgrove-Pitt.

  My stomach flipped.

  I turned it back over. My name was written on it in a feminine hand: Miss Evaline Stoker.

  Before I realized what I was doing, I’d removed the coppery wax seal.

  * * *

  Miss Stoker:

  Felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.

  Would you be so kind as to join me for tea today? Three o’clock at Cosgrove Terrace.

  —Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt

  I stared at the beautiful handwriting. Then I yanked the door back open. “Brentwood!” I rushed into the hall, uncaring that I looked like a harridan. I was engaged to be married, after all. It no longer mattered what I looked like, I thought bitterly. It only mattered what I did—or, more accurately, didn’t do.

  “Yes, miss?” He appeared quickly, and it was a testament to his station that he didn’t even wince at the sight of me.

  “Is the messenger still waiting?”

  “No, miss,” he replied. “I took your response to be—a—er—negative.”

  Drat. “Send word to Cosgrove Terrace, to Lady Isabella, that I accept her invitation.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, I flew up the stairs to my bedchamber, calling for Pepper. It was nearly one o’clock. I hadn’t a moment to waste.

  Why was I so excited about this particular invitation?

  Because Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt was, according to Mina Holmes, the Ankh. (I supposed, after the events at The Carnelian Crow, I must agree with her. I had, after all, seen her there with my own eyes.)

  The Ankh was the woman who’d nearly electrofied me to death, the woman who’d killed at least two other young ladies, the woman who’d purposely caused her own husband’s death, the woman who kept getting away from me and Mina.

  A first-rate criminal.

  A cunn
ing villain.

  Why was she inviting me to her house?

  I couldn’t wait to find out.

  This was the sort of thing I loved. Adventure! Mystery. Action. Danger.

  “Pepper!” I shrieked, punching the two buttons on my wardrobe so fast that the revolving racks started and stopped with great, clattering jolts. A bangled peach frock fell from one of its moorings, landing in a glittery heap on the floor.

  “What is it, miss?” cried my maid, bursting through the door.

  “I’m going to tea!” I was pawing through the selection of wraps and gloves.

  “All right, then, miss,” Pepper said. But she was looking at me as if I was going mad.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized she might have a point. My hair was a wild mess. My eyes were bright and intense. My face was flushed from my activities.

  And I hadn’t been interested in any social event for months.

  “Sit ye’self there, then, and let me see to your hair, Miss Evvie,” Pepper said in the sort of voice one might use to a cornered, hissing cat. “And then we can talk about which frock you want to wear.”

  I was glad to put myself into her capable hands. She helped me out of the loose trousers and simple linen tunic I wore when practicing. Beneath, I was wearing only a short, tight chemise that kept my bosom from flopping around but allowed me to move, and a pair of knickers.

  I sat down and began to relax as Pepper pulled the pins from my dark, curly hair.

  Why did Lady Isabella want to see me? Her husband—before he died in December—had been the Parliamentary leader, the most important man in the governing body. I’d only met them (officially; not counting when Lady Isabella was acting as the Ankh) two or three times, during large parties or balls. We’d only ever exchanged a few private words—once at the funeral of Richard Dancy, and only briefly at the Roses Ball and Yule Fête—both at Cosgrove Terrace.

  The answer came to me. It was obvious. I was going to be an Oligary. A member of a very powerful family in England—even more powerful than the Cosgrove-Pitts, perhaps.

  So Lady Isabella wanted to be friends.

  The Ankh. A criminal. A murderer wanted to be friends with me?

  I shook my head, and Pepper tsked when she lost her grip on a curl she was pinning at my crown.

  Should I send word to Mina?

  Maybe Mina had been invited as well.

  I sneered inwardly. Mina Holmes. She hadn’t even bothered to congratulate me—or berate me—on my wedding announcement.

  She couldn’t have failed to see it. It had been in every dratted newspaper in the city, blast my sister-in-law.

  Why hadn’t Mina contacted me?

  Why hadn’t she helped me figure a way out of this mess?

  The anger I’d been feeling for weeks bubbled up inside me again. I curled my fists tightly and felt one of my joints creak. My fingernails left deep, bloody wounds in my palms. (Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.)

  I forced the thoughts away.

  I would go to Lady Isabella’s for tea. I’d assess the situation. If, as I suspected, Mina was there as well, I would be cool, remote, and very, very pleasant to her. Extremely pleasant.

  And then I’d leave and that would be it.

  I nodded to myself, accidentally moving my head again. This time, I was jabbed in the scalp by one of the pins. I yelped.

  “Sorry, miss,” Pepper said. But she didn’t sound sorry at all. “Shall I fix up a bit o’ weaponry for you, then, miss?” There was a gleam in her eyes.

  Besides Bram, Pepper was the only one in the household who knew about my secret life. She enjoyed the challenge of outfitting me with stakes hidden on my person—in my hair, or in secret pockets of my skirts—as well as other vampire-hunting equipment. Crosses. Salted holy water. And, once, she’d even experimented with a way for me to carry a sword (useful for beheading a vampire, but not so convenient when one was trying to waltz).

  I opened my mouth to say no, but then I heard Mina’s exasperated voice in my head: When are you ever going to learn to be prepared for any eventuality, Evaline?

  Right.

  Well, today. Today was the day I was going to learn to be prepared for any eventuality.

  After all, I was going to Lady Isabella’s house—presumably the lair of the Ankh. It would be foolish of me not to go prepared.

  “Yes, Pepper. That would be excellent.”

  Pepper’s eyes lit up as brightly as her frizzed coppery hair. She spun and crouched, flipping up the rug that covered the secret compartment in the floor where we kept all of my vampire-hunting equipment.

  I couldn’t stop a wave of grief.

  When I moved to Ned Oligary’s house, I wouldn’t have a secret hiding place like that. I wouldn’t be able to bring that chest of equipment.

  I wouldn’t need it anymore.

  As Middy navigated my carriage up the broad, curving drive of Cosgrove Terrace—which was the name of the mansion where Lady Isabella had lived with her recently deceased husband—I couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d been here.

  That was the night Lord Belmont Cosgrove-Pitt had jumped to his death in the middle of their Yule Fête. He’d landed with a splot on the ballroom floor.

  Pix had been there that night too. I’d almost missed him—he’d been dressed as a maidservant, of all things.

  I coldly steered my thoughts from Pix—better known as Mr. Edison Smith.

  He was in jail. For murder.

  For the murder of Ned’s brother’s business partner, Hiram Bartholomew.

  It didn’t surprise me. Not really. Pix—Mr. Smith, I mean—had always been mysterious and dangerous, with an underlying aura of violence. I’d seen evidence that he could take care of himself, physically. I suppose it wasn’t a stretch to imagine him killing someone.

  Murder.

  I’d kissed a murderer.

  And now I was about to visit and take tea with another one.

  I was thrilled.

  As I’d expected, the massive Cosgrove Terrace was draped in the black of mourning. Two huge black banners hung from the uppermost balconies down four stories, puddling on the ground behind the bushes. Each window was covered with a sheer black drape. The banners must have been weighted on the bottom, for though the fabric danced and shivered in the wintery wind, it remained in place. A massive black velvet bow hung on the front door, with a wide ribbon striping from top to bottom behind it.

  The mansion looked gloomy and forbidding in the cold, colorless day. I couldn’t control a shiver.

  Middy helped me down from the carriage as the sky spat sleet and snow. My sea-green skirts swirled neatly into place beneath the heavy green velvet cloak I’d worn. The fashionable over-corset I’d chosen was flexible enough that I could bend and twist. My slippers had soft but thick soles covered with something that kept them from slipping on wood or marble, and I was grateful someone had sprinkled white sand over the drive so I wouldn’t ruin them in the wet. The gloves I’d chosen were of thick forest-green wool, with little cog-work frog connectors all along the back of the hand, wrist, and halfway up my arm. I loved those gloves.

  Thanks to Pepper’s ingenuity, I didn’t clatter or clink as I made my way up the steps to the main entrance (a footman had appeared and was protecting me with a three-sided umbrella), but I was well armed.

  Mina would be proud.

  I soured again as the door opened for me. I didn’t care what Mina Holmes thought. Or didn’t think.

  But I couldn’t help but realize: often when we’d attended a gathering at places like Cosgrove Terrace, we’d ridden together.

  Except, now, I usually attended balls and parties with Ned, in his carriage. And once in his brother’s very amazing steam-car.

  Oh, drat.

  I pushed away the monstrous thought of my wedding and walked into the foyer.

  “Miss Stoker, welcome. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt is expecting you.”

  The butler led me up the s
tairs to a small parlor tucked deep in the rear of the mansion. Although I’d done my share of snooping at Cosgrove Terrace—including in Lady Isabella’s private office—I’d never seen this elegant room.

  Although small, the chamber had been furnished with elegance and taste. It was breathtakingly lovely and exuded comfort and luxury. It was feminine without being fussy.

  The divan and two armchairs were upholstered in a rich sapphire blue. I guessed you’d sink down several inches when you sat on them. The walls were covered with silken fabric—not paper—of midnight blue that shimmered gently from the gold and silver threads woven through it. The movement was subtle, and I realized there was some sort of low fan mechanism behind the wall that caused the fabric to shiver ever so slightly, always causing some delicate movement without it being distracting. It was almost like being underwater, with the constant, gentle movement.

  Beads and sequins created ornate images on the fabric walls: swirling vines and flowers, a celestial sky with stars and planets, a forest with tall, graceful trees embracing a glittering pond and grasses that seemed to sway. Though the furnishings were dark, the ceiling was high, so the chamber felt cozy instead of enclosed. There were five tall, slender windows that allowed in the gray light—and today the wind tossed the black mourning banners back and forth, offering even more illumination.

  A massive five-tiered chandelier in the shape of an inverted pyramid hung from the ceiling. Countless tiny gaslights flickered behind crystals and cut glass. It was so tall that the bottom layer, the narrowest, hung only three feet above the seating arrangement of two chairs and a round tea table. The light it cast was soft and patterned.

  “Miss Stoker. Come in.”

  Lady Isabella was alone in the chamber. She rose as I stepped into the room, her taffeta skirts and petticoats rustling. Her entire ensemble was in unrelieved black, but it was trimmed and embroidered beautifully.

  She was an attractive woman. Not stunning, but beautiful in her own striking way. According to the latest edition of Kimball’s British Peerage, Lady Isabella was thirty-five. She had dark brown hair, although today it was covered by a flat lacy cap in mourning black. Her eyes were gray, a fact that Mina insisted helped Lady Isabella conceal her identity as the Ankh.