Page 13 of The Vampire's Guide to Wooing a Curator
Felicity fell back into her chair and wrote the names of the chosen hunters with aggressive swipes of her pen. It wasn’t fair. The mission was perfect for her. Unlike her male cousins, she would not need to sneak into the houses during the night. She could simply wear the outfit of a maid, and no one would look at her twice. That was not an option for her cousins, who were all well known in Mayfair and would be recognized immediately. Nor did she expect they would ever agree to pretend to be servants.
But of course, her great-uncle wouldn’t see things from her perspective. If she raised her valid points, she’d risk her already tenuous position. So, she said nothing as the meeting proceeded, until Great-Uncle Ezra picked up his hat from the floor, a signal that the group was dismissed. Her cousins parted to let him walk through, then followed the old man out, leaving Felicity alone with the faint sound of dripping and hazy light streaming through a dirty window near the ceiling.
She adjusted her notebook until it was firmly in the light and then flipped back several pages. Someone—she suspected Benedict’s four-year-old son, Richard—had doodled along the center margins with butterflies and hearts. She would have to be sure to store the book somewhere he and the other four children who lived in the townhouse could not reach it.
When she finished cleaning up her notes, she skulked up the stairs, carefully avoiding everyone, as she had no desire tosuffer jeers from her cousins about her tardiness. There was one task left for her to complete before she could leave for the Sloan House. She crept through the house until she reached the back door, then hefted a twine-wrapped bundle under her arm. Great-Uncle Ezra would not approve of this, either, but if he asked why she was interested in day-old newspapers, she’d tell him she was searching for gossip to share with her friends. That would make him lose interest immediately.
She returned to her room, used a letter opener to cut the twine holding the bundle, then spread the first newspaper over her desk. She had described this approach to investigation to the other hunters, but they’d dismissed it as inefficient. They were more concerned with pursuing their quarry on foot instead of applying their minds to the problem.
She slid her fingertips over the printed words until she landed upon a small article tucked in the middle of theLondon Evening Standardthat mentioned another dollymop found murdered in Whitechapel. She carefully snipped out the article and set it aside. In her experience, reports of unexpected deaths meant a newly created vampire had broken free of its maker. Fledglings were incredibly dangerous, as they lacked any ability to control their hunger. They would consume as much blood as they required without concern for human life.
She glanced at her clock and cursed. If she was going to cast the warding spell and secure her exhibit against vampiric interference, she needed to depart for the Sloan House immediately.
She changed into a severe black day dress and left the base. If she brought her suspicions to Great-Uncle Ezra, he would likely assign someone else to the task, or he would demand that she leave the vampire hunting to her cousins. He might even do as he’d threatened and ban her from attending morning briefings.
There was no other option. She’d have to investigate the potential rogue fledgling herself. When she was finished working, she’d go on patrol.
But as she approached the Sloan House, the streets became crowded, as if she were approaching the scene of an accident.
“Did you hear they found it written in blood?” a man near her asked. She stepped closer.
“That’s ridiculous,” another man replied. “I heard the message was carved on the wall.”
She wandered through the crowd seeking more information, but no one else was talking. They were mostly peering around each other, trying to get a better look at the museum. Rather than fight through them, she went around back and rapped on the door until a member of the cleaning staff opened it. She hurried through the halls until she arrived at her exhibit, where a man wearing the navy uniform and domed hat of a constable narrowed his dark-brown eyes and pursed his lips. “You can’t be here, miss. This is the scene of a crime.”
Her tongue tied itself in knots. “B-But I…”
“Miss Sorrow, there you are!” A beaming Mr. Blackwood shoved past the constable. “We have been waiting for you!”
She looked back and forth between the constable and the curator. “What do you mean?”
The surrounding voices faded to a dull roar as the crowd parted, and she made out a piece of paper stuck to the window. On the paper, there were words in capital letters:THE ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT WILL BE MINE.
“You will have a larger space, of course,” Mr. Blackwood said, speaking so rapidly that she could almost not follow him. “Our guests will want to see the item that has caused such a fuss.”
She felt as if she’d swallowed a stone. This had to have been Winifred’s doing, an attempt to force Felicity to close her exhibit before it opened to the public. Then again, if Winifredhad placed the notice, then she’d miscalculated. Whereas before, guests might have walked right past her exhibit, now the collection would have a certain mystique that would draw attention. Felicity had difficulty believing her cousin would make such an egregious mistake. It would have been easier to steal the manuscript or send an anonymous letter to Great-Uncle Ezra, alerting him to the fact that the item had been taken out of the archives.
Mr. Blackwood dragged her into the cramped space. Several more constables were inside, peering at each of the items she had carefully placed on tables. The illuminated manuscript was the object of the most scrutiny, of course. A short, bald man wearing white cotton gloves stood with the manuscript in his arms. He frowned as he flipped through the pages.
“We’re delaying your opening two nights so we can improve security,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I’ve reassigned my assistants to help you relocate to the conservatory.” He grasped her hands. “You should be excited! The public will be clamoring to see your exhibit.”
He was right. She could use the unexpected threat to further her cause of educating the populace. But as she tried to summon her excitement, nothing happened. It was as if she’d gone completely numb at the sight of the constables poking at her family’s artifacts.
“As for security,” Mr. Blackwood continued, “a most timely opportunity presented itself to me this morning.” He turned to the side and gestured to a familiar figure in the doorway.
“Mr. Jonathan Drake,” the curator said, “allow me to introduce my assistant curator, Miss Felicity Sorrow.”
Chapter Six
Jonathan would neverforget the look on Felicity’s face when her employer presented him. Her lips puckered and her eyes widened, as if she’d bitten into a wedge of a particularly sour lemon.
“Is something the matter, Miss Sorrow?” Mr. Blackwood asked. “I hope you are not feeling unwell.”
Jonathan tried not to laugh as she jerked her head rapidly back and forth. Then she visibly pulled herself together and gave him a smile that was so rigid, it could have graced the face of a marble statue.
“Not at all.” She dipped into a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Drake.”
She was an exceptional actor. He’d half-expected her to demand he be removed from the premises, but she must have known doing so would only create tension between her and the curator.
