Drake Chronicles: 02 Blood Feud (23 page)

The houses became palatial, with gleaming brass door knockers and giant urns overflowing with every kind of flower.

Maids walked smal pet dogs on leashes and the occasional cat. Delivery boys, fish carts, and muffin sel ers made their way to and from back doors. She stopped a rag man.

“St. Croix house?” she asked in halting English.

“Eh, Frenchie? Speak up?” He cupped his hand to his ear, barely stopping as he pul ed his cart past. She helped him maneuver it over a protruding cobblestone.

“St. Croix?” she repeated.

“You mean St. Cross? House at the end of the street with the blue door.” He waved in its direction and continued on his way without a backward glance. Her heart started to race again.

without a backward glance. Her heart started to race again.

Part of her wanted to run toward it, another part briefly considered running in the opposite direction. She would never let that part win. She forced herself to pick up her pace, though she did pause at the end of the walkway to catch her breath.

The townhouse loomed over her, several stories high, with a freshly painted blue door and brocade curtains in every window.

Carriages rumbled behind her. An oak sapling dropped acorns on the street and sidewalk. Roses bloomed in copper urns. A lane led along the house to the back, where the gardens and stables and servant entrances were located.

She climbed the steps, which were swept clean of even a single petal. The door knocker was in the shape of a lion with a cross in its mouth. Isabeau ran her fingers over her family crest before letting it fal with a thud against the door. It swung open and a man with thick gray hair looked down his nose at her. His black jacket was perfectly pressed, his cravat immaculate.

“
Oncle
Olivier?” she asked tentatively. She’d never met him before but she’d expected he’d have some family resemblance, her father’s cheekbones perhaps, or the famous St. Croix green eyes. This man was tal er than any of her relatives and sniffed disdainful y.

“Lord St. Cross does not receive muddy boys who smel like you do,” he informed her. “Off with you.” He went to shut the door. She shoved her foot against it.

“
Attend, s’il te plaît!
” Her cap dislodged in her agitation, letting her hair spil out. She knew she must look half wild with her babbling in another language and her pleading, watery eyes. “
Non! Monsieur!
”

“If you go to the back door Cook wil feed you, child. And then on your way.” He shoved the door shut. She yanked at the handle but it was locked. She bit back tears of frustration.

Weeping wasn’t going to help her. She’d just have to find another way in.

The butler had pointed to the lane along the house. She tromped along it, gathering mud on her boots. A light rain began to fal , further muddying the lane. One of the windows was partial y open, the curtains bil owing in the wind. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her before diving into the rosebushes to get a better look. Thorns scraped the back of her hands and pul ed at her hair. Stupid roses. Petals fel over her, cloying as perfume under the warm rain.

The parlor had several chairs with embroidered cushions and a pianoforte in one corner. The ceiling was painted with cherubs. She shuddered. How was a person supposed to relax with fat floating babies staring at the top of her head al day long? Between the angels and the gilded candlesticks and shel -encrusted lamps, the room was hideously overly decorated.

But at least it was empty.

She pushed the window open a little more and then shoved her leg through the opening, hugging the sil as she squirmed her way inside. She could smel lemon wax and more roses.

The house was remarkably quiet for one so large. She wondered if she had any cousins banished to the attic nursery.

No dog came to greet her, no cat slunk out from under the table.

Her heart resumed its regular pace.

She went out into the hal way, wondering where her uncle might be. If he was awake he’d surely be in his study. That was where her father had spent most of his time when he wasn’t on horseback or escorting her mother to some soiree. Even the hal was beautiful, with framed paintings, gilded sconces, marble-topped tables, and urns of flowers. She had to fight the urge to slip a smal silver snuffbox into her pocket.

She turned a corner and walked straight into the butler.

He yelped but was much faster than she’d anticipated and hauled her off her feet by the sleeve of her coat before she could dart out of his reach. Her instinct was to run and hide but that was hardly going to get her what she wanted. The butler shook her.

“I’m cal ing the magistrate. We don’t take kindly to intruders here in England. I don’t care if you
are
a girl!” Isabeau did the only thing she could think of.

She opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs.

“
Mon oncle! Mon oncle!
”

The butler recoiled at her impressive volume. The chandelier overhead rattled. Footmen came thundering toward them. A door burst open, slamming into the wal .

“What the devil is going on here?” The voice had only the faintest traces of a French accent. The man wore a gray silk waistcoat straining subtly over his bel y. His graying hair was swept off his high forehead.

“I beg your pardon, your lordship,” the butler wheezed. “I caught an intruder.”

“
Mais non, arrête.
” Isabeau struggled to get out of his grasp.

She blew her hair out of her face. “It’s me,” she said. “Isabeau St. Croix. Your niece.”

“My niece?” he echoed in English.

Silence circled around them, thick as smoke. Her uncle blinked at her. The butler blinked at her uncle. The footmen blinked at al of them. A woman she assumed to be her aunt made a strangled gasp from another doorway. She wore a lace cap and a morning dress trimmed with silk ribbon rosettes.

“Your lordship?” The butler was no longer sure if he was apprehending a criminal or hauling an earl’s niece about by the scruff of the neck.

“Let her go,” Lord St. Cross said. “Let me get a look at her.” Isabeau straightened her rumpled and stained coat. Her uncle stared at her for another long moment before he clapped his hands together.

“By God, it is her!”

“Are you certain?” his wife asked, her fingers fluttering at her throat. “You’ve never met her.”

“I haven’t, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. Just like Jean-Paul.” He shook his head. “Remarkable. Where is he?” Isabeau swal owed. “He’s dead.”

Olivier’s mouth trembled in shock. He went pale as butter.

“
Non,
” he slipped into French. “How?”

“Guil otine.”

His wife fanned herself furiously.

“And your mother?” he asked quietly.

“Same.” She swal owed hard. She couldn’t lose her composure now. She’d fought too hard for her father’s sake to be the strong girl who survived. Her uncle’s warm palm settled on her shoulder.

“Oh, my dear child.”

His wife lowered her hands from where they’d been trembling at her mouth. “My Lord, look at her, she’s terribly thin.”

“You are rather scrawny, my girl. We’l send for tea. Bring extra biscuits,” he told the nearest footman. “Our cook is French. We’l have him make your favorite for supper.”

“Come by the fire,” his wife urged kindly, leading her into the parlor. “I’l ring for a bath after your tea.” Isabeau fol owed, slightly dazed. She’d expected more of a fight. She felt off center, thin as dandelion fluff. She was shown to a deep comfortable chair by the hearth. The fire snapped cheerful y. Warmth made her cheeks red, her eyelids heavy. It was a far cry from the fires in the metal bins on street corners, or the flames from piles of broken wooden furniture used as barricades.

“She’s in shock, I think,” her uncle murmured. He shook his head. “Poor Jean-Paul.”

“Oh, those terrible French.”

“Careful, love. You married one,” he teased her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You barely even have an accent anymore. Only a fondness for that awful pâté.” Isabeau pinched her leg to keep from dozing off. “Father was Isabeau pinched her leg to keep from dozing off. “Father was planning to bring us here. Before we were caught.”

“Don’t worry, my dear, we’l take care of you.”

“You are nothing like he said,” she blurted out, bewildered.

He chuckled. “No, I imagine not. We never did see each other plainly, even as children.” He sighed. “Lady St. Cross and I weren’t able to have a family of our own.”

“Oliver, real y,” Lady St. Cross murmured, flushing. “What a thing to say.”

He patted her knee, his arm big enough to knock her over, but she just smiled at him. He turned to Isabeau. “What I mean is, it wil be nice to have a young lady in the house.”

“Oh yes,” Lady St. Cross exclaimed. “We’l take you to al the bal s, my dear. We’l need gowns, of course, and the dancing master, a lady’s maid to do your hair.” Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. Isabeau wasn’t sure whether she should be nervous.

“Don’t fret,” her uncle said jovial y when Lady St. Cross was distracted by the arrival of the tea cart. “You survived the Terror, you’l survive being a debutante.”

CHAPTER 21

Isabeau

Greyhaven.

The last time I’d seen him was at the Christmas bal , his frock coat immaculate, his smile charming. I had no experience with men like him, had given in to the magic of the night and one glass too many of champagne. I thought I’d seen al sorts of monsters in my eighteen years: prisoners, rebels, cruel power-hungry guards, pimps, and earls with too much money.

But how did you defend yourself against a monster you had never imagined could actual y exist?

He’d tainted my first real moments of comfort, of trusting the first happiness I felt since the mob had stormed my family château.

I wanted to kil him al over again.

I struggled against my restraints, heedless of the raw gashes I was digging into my skin, of my blood smearing the iron manacles. Logan was saying something but I couldn’t understand him over the roar in my ears. It was as if my head was being held underwater.

Greyhaven sounded just as cultured and smooth as he had two hundred years ago. The scars on my arms ached. “One of the Drake princelings,” he said pleasantly to Logan. Logan didn’t reply. “Rumor has it our girl here has murdered you.” Logan sneered. “Are you going to fix that oversight?” He didn’t sound afraid, only faintly bored.

I was starting to be able to concentrate again. Blood pooled in my hands. My fangs stung my gums, hyperextended.

“Certainly not. You’re worth far more to me as a hostage.

These little revolutions aren’t easy to bankrol , you understand.”

“I’l pay double what you get for me if you let Isabeau go right now.”

Greyhaven laughed. “You’re eighteen years old, Logan, and hardly a self-made bil ionaire. You can’t afford her, even were I inclined to give her up.”

Logan yanked at his chains. If he pul ed any harder, he’d dislocate his own shoulder.

“Logan, don’t,” I said. My voice was dry, as if I hadn’t spoken in years.

“Ah.” Greyhaven turned toward me. I tried not to move, not to flinch, or to lean closer snapping my fangs. If I reacted now, it would only give him pleasure.

And he would never get a single moment of pleasure from me.

“Isabeau St. Croix,” he said, “you’ve certainly caused me no end of trouble.”

I hadn’t seen him since that night in my uncle’s garden. I had no idea what he meant by that.

“What does Montmartre want with me?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. The same thing I wanted with Greyhaven: I knew the answer. The same thing I wanted with Greyhaven: revenge. I’d foiled his plans to kidnap Solange Drake and had taken down his Host. And I was a Hound, something that was an affront to his sense of power and entitlement.

Even if he kil ed me—again—I wouldn’t be sorry for it.

Greyhaven folded his arms, leaning negligently against the wal paper, as if we were stil at that bal . “This isn’t about Montmartre, it’s about you.”

“What? He isn’t attacking the courts?” Logan asked.

“Yes.” Greyhaven smiled. “He is. And probably wondering where I am. But I just had to stop in to see you.” He approached me slowly. I lifted my chin defiantly. “I had to know if you remembered me.”

“Hard to forget my murderer,” I spat. “You left me in that coffin for two hundred years.”

“Yes, regrettable. If I had any idea just how strong you were, I’d have made more of an effort to retrieve you.” He flicked a dismissive glance at my leather tunic and tal boots. “Though you dressed much better in 1795.”

I snarled. “Why did you bring me here? Just to amuse yourself?”

Greyhaven shook his head sorrowful y. “It would have been better if you hadn’t remembered me. Now it’s messy, and I can’t abide a mess. I never could.”

I was confused. Al my dreams of finding Greyhaven involved my driving a stake through his gray, withered heart, not partaking in annoying chatter.

“You did al this just to test my memory?” I asked, perplexed.

“The ribbon from my mother’s dress,” I added slowly. “The painting in the courts, the wine bottle.
That’s
why?”