Smoke clouded the gloomy interior of the Three Goats' Heads, a pub in Wandsworth Road where Horatio often met with J. W. Clark, a former cook and sometime layabout who had earned over the years a reputation as a friend to all, a trusted confidant, and an inveterate drinker.

He had other facets to recommend him as a companion, however. Though he hid it well, he was a man of deep conviction, and thus when it appeared that a bit of information might be useful in certain noble endeavors, J. W. Clark could be counted upon to discover that information.

His ability to do so seemed to know no bounds. In truth, whenever he and Horatio sat down for one of their regular chats, J. W. inevitably had stories to tell.

Tonight was no exception.

The laughter in the pub was loud and raucous. A barmaid cut across the floor through an ocean of wandering hands, bringing a tray of pints to a table just opposite the one Horatio and J. W. shared. She didn't so much as glance their way, which suited Horatio just fine. J. W. was in the midst of his latest account, and it was fascinating indeed.

"You're sure it was the earl of Claridge?" Horatio asked, knitting his brows.

J. W. ran a hand across the stubble on his chin and studied the table in front of them. There were two empty pints, as well as two others not entirely drained. The one in front of Horatio was half full yet, and J. W. eyed it thirstily.

"The earl, aye. That's the word. Went mad, he did. In the middle of a dinner party hosted by the bishop of Manchester. An august occasion if ever there was one, I'd say. That's the word. Claridge went a-bedlam, apparently. Got himself alone in the library with the bishop's niece. Her screams brought the rest at a run and they caught him, red-handed like, trousers down, trying to pluck her maiden flower, as it were.

"Or, at least, that's the-"

"-word, yes. So you've said," Horatio finished rather impatiently. He cleared his throat. He was no stranger to a woman's garden of delights, but had never approved of such cavalier talk. There was such a thing as propriety.

"Of course, it's all been hushed up, hasn't it?" J. W. continued.

"I wish I could be astonished," Horatio sighed. "Have you heard any further? What's to be done? I can't imagine the bishop would press the matter, given the black mark such idle talk would leave on his niece's virtue."

J. W. tapped a finger against the side of his head. "Right you are, Admiral. A clever sort, you are. Always said so. The earl's been put under lock and key. Sanatorium, they say, but not one where you'd ever find a commoner."

"Please don't call me that. I haven't been an admiral for quite some time."

The man nodded sagely. "Aye, well, none of us have been much of anything, have we? It's been far too long since I manned the stove aboard ship, sir. So you'll forgive me if I fall back on old habits, yeah?"

"Of course, J. W." Horatio nodded. "And you'll let me know if you hear anything further about this, won't you? It might be simple madness, but we know all too well that oftentimes such things are more complex than they appear."

As he spoke, he watched the barmaid cross the floor again. She ignored the fingers that grazed her bottom and thighs, but swatted away any hand that crept too near her breasts. Horatio thought it must make it difficult for her to navigate among the tables with her tray laden with ale and whiskey.

"Indeed we do, sir," J. W. said, his attention returning to the unfinished pint on the table before him. He ran his tongue out to wet his lips. "Say, how are the young ones coming along, the new Protectors?"

Horatio smiled. "Quite well, I think. It's no simple task, adjusting to having such responsibility thrust upon them-not to mention the magic. Can you imagine having that sort of power burning in you, more than any mystic master, and yet having only the skill and knowledge of a novice?"

"Think I'd be scared of me own shadow, if it was me," J. W. said.

"That's why they're remarkable," Horatio replied proudly. "They have so very much to learn about the supernatural and about how to wield their magic, but they both have natural skill and discipline that have kept them alive until now."

J. W. stared once more at the pint on the table. "It's good to hear you've so much faith in them. I only wish we could raise a glass and drink to their health."

The barmaid came toward them. Horatio smoothed his jacket and attempted to appear as though they had been discussing something more mundane. The woman didn't even glance at him as she cleared the glasses from the table. J. W. gazed longingly after the half-full pint as she set it on her tray, but he said nothing.

Balancing the tray precariously, she wiped the table down with a rag. A loose tendril of hair fell across her face and she blew at it, but kept at her task. Horatio watched the line of her jaw, the icy blue hue of her eyes, and the way her bosom heaved with the effort.

"You are lovely, my dear. Why do I have the feeling it's been far too long since anyone told you that?" he asked.

She reacted not at all, standing up to survey her work. Her eyes narrowed in consternation as she at last looked in Horatio's direction, and he felt a moment of triumph. Had his words touched her?

Then she leaned forward and ran her rag over the back of the chair, wiping it down, her hand and forearm passing entirely through Horatio's chest as though she were made of nothing but smoke and starlight.

But that wasn't the case, of course, and he knew it all too well, sitting there in the back of the Three Goats' Heads. For a few minutes' time, with all the talk and the laughter and the companionship, Horatio had allowed himself the illusion of life.

Though more than thirty years had passed, Admiral Lord Nelson didn't like to dwell on the lingering tragedy of his own death.

MORNING MIST MOVED in patches across the lawns of Ludlow House, yet the sky revealed scattered islands of blue. The sun had begun to combat the gray cover that attempted to throw its influence over the land, and William Swift was just optimistic enough to believe that it would succeed, at least for a time.

Two of the tall windows in the breakfast parlor were open, and he found that he was grateful for his frock coat. There were roses in a vase on the buffet, and their alluring scent whisked about the room, mingling with the smells of breakfast.

As a child, William had loved breakfast the most. He could recall with utter clarity the sort of grand event that each morning had brought, with his grandfather Ludlow and his mother and father gathering around the table, doing their level best to keep William and little Tamara from making a shambles of the entire proceedings. Mother, God rest her, had indulged her husband and father-in-law in equal portions to her children, so that every surface in the room was laden with food. The dumbwaiter would be arranged neatly with marmalade and jams, and there would be fresh cider, coffee, and tea atop the pier cabinet.

There would be oatmeal with sweet cream, cold veal pies, sardines with mustard sauce, grilled kidneys, bacon, and beef tongue with hot horseradish. An entire sideboard would be dedicated to half a dozen varieties of bread and rolls of differing grains, with butter and honey beside them, complementing the orange marmalade and assortment of jams on the dumbwaiter. William's favorite had been the cherry jam.

Father and grandfather had indulged in Spanish brandy, eschewing the French for reasons born more of politics than of taste.

Servants had hovered around them, one cadre to serve and another to remove the detritus.

He had loved the structure to the whole proceeding, the very orderliness of it all, the way all of the dishes had been arranged with such precision. And the food itself, of course . . . the multitude of textures and flavors. What he had loved best, however, had been the way that this breakfast tradition had brought the family together around the table. Young William had listened to the adults talking, and merely the sound of their voices in conversation had given him a sense of safety and security; the confidence his grandfather had always exuded had planted a seed of confidence within William himself.

Ah, how times had changed.

Mother had been gone so long that she was little more than bittersweet echo in William's heart, but in her memory the traditions of the house had continued. Until the previous year, of course. Until Ludlow had been murdered in his own bed by hideous beasts of unnatural origin, and Henry Swift had been taken by the evil that presently occupied his flesh. William did his best to continue tradition within the household, for Tamara's sake and for his own.

His efforts were undermined by the presence of the demon upstairs.

Oblis.

William didn't like to discuss his suspicions with Tamara. Not because she was of the fairer sex-he had never confused fairer with weaker, at least not where Tamara was involved-but because he was frightened that she might concur.

William thought his father was gone. He believed that the Vapor, the cruel demonic presence that lived within his father's flesh, had cored the man in order to take up residence. He feared that if they ever found a way to exorcise the demon, Oblis, all that would remain would be the brittle shell of a man who had once loved them.

But as long as he did not raise such fears with Tamara, she could not confirm them.

And so, as he did each morning before setting off to Threadneedle Street, William finished his own breakfast, then took a clean plate from the buffet. It was damnably hard to keep servants in his employ of late. The ghosts frightened them. Their current staff consisted of Farris, the butler and head of household, and Martha, who was Tamara's lady's maid. Martha oversaw three other maids, none of whose names William could remember. They rarely stayed long enough for him to bother.

There were a groundskeeper, two cooks, and a new stable boy. But there were no more servants attending to breakfast at Ludlow House. He and Tamara had decided it. Perhaps part of their decision was a reluctance to pretend to the happiness of a bygone era, though William preferred to attribute it to simple practicality.

He considered himself quite the pragmatist.

These days William rose much earlier than Tamara, and was generally out of the house before she deigned to descend for her own breakfast. This morning the breakfast buffet consisted of oatmeal, kippers, bacon, and bread. William did still enjoy his cherry jam, and there was always orange marmalade for his sister.

Upon the fresh plate, William placed a small portion of each item. He poured a small glass of cider, unwilling to bring a hot beverage upstairs, given what had happened the last time he had done so. The coffee stains still lingered in his gray twill trousers.

Rather than walk past the parlor out to the front entrance, so that he might use the grand staircase, William went through the kitchen and up the narrow servants' steps. The house was very quiet this morning, mercifully devoid even of the usual ravings of the demon. It ought to have been peaceful for him, but there were times that the quiet haunted William.

It should not have turned out this way. Even in the wake of their grandfather's death, even without Father being in control of his senses, there ought to have been more life here.

A spark of something. Of family.

William hoped that one day soon he, himself, might alter the state of things, with a wedding to Sophia Winchell. That there would be children, and that perhaps Tamara might find herself a suitable husband. Perhaps the house would be filled once again with the orderliness, the hope, and the confidence that it had once had. Despite the truth of their lives, their status as Protectors, and the evil that lingered in the very air around them, he held out this hope.

Despite his practicality, he still dreamed.

Nearly quiet as a ghost himself, William made his way up to the top of the house, to the corridor that led to the room where his father was imprisoned. Where his father was the prison, for the demon Oblis.

The mist had continued to burn away outside, and as he passed open doors he could see sunshine splashing into the rooms on that upper level. Yet the end of the hall remained in shadow, and at first glance Queen Bodicea seemed solid as any woman, fully fleshed. Her Majesty stood with her back to him, her spectral hand propped upon the door of the former nursery as though she was listening to something within.

For a moment, William allowed his gaze to linger upon the breathtaking curve of her backside and the languorously heavy weight of her breast as she leaned forward. This latter he caught only in side view, yet it was enough to bring a rush of blood to his cheeks.

He averted his gaze, never comfortable with her nudity. There was nothing brazen about it. Rather, it was an expression of her defiance to the dark forces arrayed against them all, a bold statement of her confidence. And it was also somehow a facet of her mourning. William had never had the audacity to inquire further.

"Bodicea?" William ventured, almost in a whisper.

The phantom queen glanced over her shoulder, wild hair tumbling in front of her face. Her eyes were alight with intelligence and curiosity. She extended one ghostly hand and beckoned him with a long finger. William balanced the plate in his hand and went to join her at the door.

Bodicea made room for him. Though he would have been able to pass right through her insubstantial form, neither of them would have been comfortable sharing space.

As he neared the door he heard a pair of voices engaged in energetic conversation, or some semblance of dialogue at least. Both of the voices were familiar.

One belonged to the demon, Oblis, and the other to William's father. But where Oblis most often spoke in Henry Swift's voice, rather than his own horrid tones, there was a difference. For when Oblis spoke, and the voice of Henry Swift answered . . .

"Father," William whispered.

". . . them alone, I beg you," Henry pleaded, his voice muffled by the door.

"I'll do with them as I please," the demon replied.

In his mind's eye, William could picture the two of them speaking with the same lips, facial expression changing with each shift of persona. He glanced at Bodicea, arching an eyebrow curiously, but she only nodded toward the door, indicating that he should continue to listen.

"I can see it in your mind. Do you think I am asleep, when you suffocate me here inside? I witness every bit of your filth. I suffer the torture of knowing how you conduct your depravity with my voice, using my hands."

A terrible sadness gripped William's heart. His father had rarely spoken with such strength of conviction, yet it offered no comfort. If this was real, and not merely Oblis toying with him, then he knew he ought to rejoice at the idea that his father still lived.

Yet to know what he was experiencing, every moment of this damnation . . . William could scarcely breathe.

"Of what importance is that to me?" Oblis mocked. "There is nothing you can do. You always were a very small man. That's why there was so much room in here for me."

"What are you hiding?" Henry demanded. "You listen to the voices in the ether. I know, because I hear them, too, though I cannot understand the languages they speak. Yet I have seen the way you flinch at their words, the way they trouble you."

"Of course you cannot understand, rodent. The tongues of devils are not for human ears. But to me . . . Your offspring might cage me, old fool, but I am not alone.

"The masters of the deepest pits speak my name, and I heed them. All the merriment of Hell unfolds for my amusement. I am eternal, sir. And if I desire it, I shall occupy this tender, rotting husk of yours until it stumbles its last, and the rush and throb of blood subsides.

"Darkness is patient, Henry Swift. Ever patient. Ever vigilant."

There was a pause that followed, long enough that William became concerned. He wanted to look upon his father's face, to see if he could locate the man behind those eyes, instead of the demon. But when he reached for the doorknob, Bodicea grabbed at his wrist.

Her fingers were cold upon his flesh and he looked up at her, startled. It required constant focus for a ghost to make contact with the physical world. Their yearning for the richness of life caused most ghosts to concentrate upon the senses, so that they could see and hear and smell. Taste was possible, but only briefly, as their ephemeral substance could not contain food or drink more than a moment, if at all. Touch was the most difficult. It required intense focus for a specter to make contact with the natural world.

The supernatural, however . . . that was different.

The Protectors of Albion were human, but they were suffused with the supernatural. It required far less concentration for a ghost to touch William or Tamara than an ordinary man or woman. The touch was fleeting, for maintaining that concentration was difficult, but it was possible. The knowledge was what caused William to be so unsettled that Tamara had allowed Byron such access to her boudoir.

Now, though, Bodicea's grip on his wrist was like cold iron.

And then her fingers passed through his flesh and bone, insubstantial again. But her message was clear. He should be silent and listen. There might be something to be learned, here.

When at last Henry spoke again, William was surprised to hear laughter in his voice.

"Do you mean to tell me that your masters-these things from the deepest pits, as you say-they know where you are?"

"Of course. Nothing escapes their notice." Oblis snorted.

"And yet they do nothing to free you? Apparently you are even farther beneath their notice than I had thought. I'm both amused and disappointed. I'd hoped I warranted a more fearsome devil. Not some hellish court jester who-"

"Enough!" Oblis roared. "You speak only at my sufferance, fool."

"And why is that?" Henry asked. "Why allow me my voice at all? Could it be that you know the truth? That you have been abandoned? You want to be quit of your prison just as much as I wish to be free of mine. Perhaps, if you agree to leave me, Tamara and William will permit your departure."

The demon laughed then. The sound was sickening, so that William felt bile burn up the back of his throat. He could barely hold on to the plate of breakfast he had brought for his father. For the demon, so that his father would survive.

Now he glanced at Bodicea. Her eyes had narrowed, and rage danced in them. If she had a voice in the decision, Oblis would not be allowed to leave. Not after what the demon had done to her daughters, those long centuries ago.

"You are a fool, Henry Swift," Oblis sneered. "Whatever you have seen in the depths of your own soul, you are mistaken. I enjoy the company of your children. I enjoy the pain in their eyes, every time they see me. In fact . . . William, it would be lovely if you would abandon your eavesdropping now, to bring me my breakfast before the kippers have gone entirely cold."

William froze. He held his breath. Oblis knew he was here. Perhaps he had smelled the bacon, or the kippers. Perhaps that meant the demon had known he was listening to the entire exchange. Which, in turn, called into question all that William had gleaned. How much of what had been said was for his benefit? Was it all an act? Did his father really still have a voice? A mind?

A soul?

"Damn you," William whispered as he balanced the cider glass carefully and turned the knob. He shoved the door open with the toe of his shoe and entered the room.

His father sat in his chair, as always. For just a moment, a sliver of an instant, really, he thought he saw the true Henry Swift in those eyes. Then the demon twisted Henry's lips up into a smile.

"I do so love breakfast," Oblis said in his father's voice. "Do you remember, William, those wonderful breakfasts we had when your mother was still alive? Each one a celebration of family."

It was as though Oblis could see right inside his mind, inside his heart.

"Damn you," William snarled again.

With a dark chuckle, Oblis lowered his chin so that he was staring up at William from beneath a heavy brow. "Something nasty in the air, young Master William. Something ugly. A plague of poisoned souls and twisting hatred. The darkness sings with it, and rejoices. Another strain of magic takes the stage and all the foot soldiers of Hell sit back and watch, waiting for the curtain to rise and the show to begin. Oh, you and Tamara are going to be very busy soon, William. There is going to be screaming, and blood. So very much blood."

William wanted to strike him and force him to be silent. Oblis often muttered about the voices of Hell, about the workings of devils that would threaten Albion soon. But there was something in his tone this morning, something out of the ordinary. Usually he intimated that he would be a part of the mayhem, but not this time. In his ravings this morning, he implied that some other force was at work.

A tremor of dread went through William.

"What do you know, demon? What is this plague you speak of?"

Oblis laughed. "I do like you, boy. You and Tamara both, though obviously for very different reasons. I could help you. Might be that I could be indispensable. But what pleasure would there be for me in that?

"Unless . . ." Oblis grinned obscenely with Henry Swift's mouth as he let the sibilance issue into the room.

"Unless what?" William glared at him.

"I have enjoyed the intoxicating scent of your Miss Winchell, whenever she visits. She is unique. I can tell that I should like to see her face, to meet her."

"Absolutely not!" William replied, fumbling with the breakfast plate so that a slice of bacon dropped to the ground.

"No?" Oblis asked playfully. "Ah, well. I can afford to be patient. Of course, so many will have died by then . . ."

William refused to allow the demon the satisfaction of a reaction. So he picked up a kipper and popped it into Oblis's mouth, preventing any further response. He fed his father's possessor as quickly as possible, but the conversation was over.

The very idea that he would expose Sophia to the horror of what his father had become, to the perverse tongue of Oblis, was madness.

And yet even when William at last left the room, numb and exhausted from his emotional sparring with the demon, Oblis's words echoed in his mind. What if some terrible darkness was afoot?

Could the demon actually be of use to them?

TAMARA AWOKE WITH an idea.

For weeks she had been scribbling away at a lurid tale of murder and damnation, a brand-new penny dreadful concerning a man, possessed by a demon, stalking women of ill repute and dragging them to a cavernous lair beneath the city. Into the shadowy recesses where the Fleet River-namesake of her nom de plume-traveled underground.

In the months since Ludlow's death and her inheritance of the power, she had written very little. This new tale, Underneath, was intriguing to her, yet it was a chore to write. She seemed to have difficulty finding the words.

How could she make thrilling fiction, portraying the darkest fears of humanity, knowing that the truth was darker still?

Yet this morning she fairly bounced from her bed and slid into her robe, tying it tightly around her. Through the window, she saw that the day had begun as gray as most Highgate dawns, but there seemed promise of sunshine, and the promise was ever and always enough for her.

The lace curtains danced in the breeze that slipped in through the narrowly open windows. It occurred to her that she didn't know the hour, that there must be breakfast awaiting her downstairs. But Tamara didn't have time for such concerns this morning.

Her muse had spoken.

Though she had plenty of space in her own chambers for a writing desk, Tamara had worked only in her late grandfather's rooms, ever since his death. She went out through her anteroom and opened the door to the hall, where she nearly collided with one of the maids. Melinda, she thought.

"Oh, miss, pardon me," the girl said quickly, backing away as though afraid Tamara might bite her. Melinda carried heavy, embroidered draperies in her arms.

"Not at all," Tamara said, smiling. "My fault entirely. Not looking where I was going."

Yet the idea seemed to panic the girl. "No, miss. I can be very clumsy. I'm sure you-"

"I tell you, it was my own clumsiness. Really. Don't give it another thought, Melinda."

In her uniform, with her straight brown hair and narrow features, the girl seemed plain. But when Tamara called her by her name, she positively glowed. The maid lowered her head in a sort of curtsy, accomplished in a way that wouldn't drag the drapes on the ground.

"So tell me, how are you finding Ludlow House?" Tamara asked. "Do you like it here?"

The girl's eyebrows shot up. "Miss?"

Tamara grinned. "A simple question, Melinda. Do you like it here?"

Once again the girl refused to look her mistress in the eye. "Very much so. It isn't . . . well, it isn't like any other house I've ever been in, is it? Never quite know what's around the next corner." The maid looked up now, clearly anxious to find if she had offended her employer.

"You're not frightened then?" Tamara asked. "So many of them are."

"Frightened?" the girl asked, as if she had forgotten her place. "Whatever the nature of those who come to stay at Ludlow House, miss, everyone's been quite kind to me. I've known what it means to be frightened in my life. This house is far more welcoming than my father's, I daresay."

The final words escaped her lips as though she wished to hold them back, but could not. Even before she finished speaking, her eyes widened with the fear that she had been too bold.

"I'm sorry, mum. I don't know what got into me."

Tamara uttered a tiny gasp, as if horrified. When she saw the alarm in Melinda's eyes, she laughed softly. "Don't worry, Melinda. It's not your outspokenness that caused me to react, but the fact that you called me mum. Dear Lord, don't ever do that again, I beg you. I'm hardly older than you are.

"As for your thoughts about Ludlow House, I'm pleased to hear them. And to have you here. Now you'd best get on with your work. Those drapes are for the rear guest room, I suspect. The room Mr. Townsend uses when he is here."

With a tender smile, the maid nodded. "Yes, miss. They've only just arrived this morning, but Mr. Farris has asked me to hang them straightaway."

"Off with you, then," Tamara said warmly.

She watched Melinda hurry away toward the rear stairs, and then turned in the other direction, following the corridor past the master bedroom that had once been occupied by her parents, and later by her father alone. Other rooms stood empty, ready to receive visitors. William's quarters were at the opposite end of the house, but that wasn't her destination.

Tamara reached the door to Ludlow's quarters and did not hesitate.

Inside, she crossed the outer room and paused at the interior door for only a moment before opening it. Dust motes danced in the brightening daylight. The room was precisely as they had left it subsequent to his murder. The servants had seen to it that the blood had been scoured from the place, the damaged furniture removed, and the broken glass replaced. Even so, the place resonated with the terror of those moments, just as it did with decades of love and laughter. Such things were now intrinsic to the memory of Ludlow Swift.

Tamara turned her back on the bedchamber and went to the writing desk that had belonged to her grandfather. All around her were the mementos of his career as a stage magician. The craft was only now beginning to earn respect. As a gentleman, Ludlow had risked public humiliation because of his passion for illusion and prestidigitation. For magic. But he loved the showmanship of it, and would have given up all of the lands and wealth he had inherited before he quit the stage.

There were items from all around the world in this room, from the smallest artifacts to the largest sculptures. There were tribal masks of North Africa and weapons from the Far East. Some of his tricks were there as well, black boxes that Tamara was still unable to make work.

Someday, she vowed, she would teach herself some of Grandfather's old tricks, if only to remember him better.

Tamara sat down at the desk. She pulled out a fresh piece of paper and dipped her pen in a bottle of ink, then smiled to herself. All the troubles she had faced trying to write Underneath dissipated as she considered her new mission.

She would come back to that story. But she had realized that the way to shatter the obstacles that had been built up in her mind was to stop attempting to ignore the dark truths she had learned over the past few months, and to embrace them instead.

What better way to do that than to write them down?

Ever since the previous day, when Oblis had intimated that some evil was rising, Tamara had been haunted by his words, and by his tone. Sinister, yes, but also curious, as though the demon actually wondered how it would all turn out. She had meant to mention it to William on their carriage ride to the Wintertons', but their disagreement regarding Sophia had caused her to put it off. She would have to tend to that today. It was probably nothing, but certainly it bore some investigation.

For the moment, however, she wanted to set pen to paper while the creative flame still burned. It had occurred to her that the way to dispel the mental obstruction that had interfered with her writing was, simply, to write from experience.

To the reading public, they would seem like nothing more than the latest outlandish tales from the pen of T. L. Fleet. No one would ever believe that they were true. She would write about the Protector of Albion, about the inheritance of great powers and great responsibilities, and all she need do was change the names, embellish the details.

After a moment's consideration, Tamara touched pen to parchment, whispered under her breath, and then took her hand away. She dictated, and the pen began to write, to transcribe her words:

There are things in this world that do not belong here-evil things.

Supernatural creatures that are neither myth nor legend. They are, in fact, quite real. These Enemies of Humanity would like to claim the world for themselves. Yet, in every corner of the globe, there are those who stand in their way-mystical guardians who protect the primeval essence of the Earth.

The soul of England-its mystic spirit-is called Albion. Throughout the centuries it has had many champions-brave men and women who fought to maintain our freedom.

For many decades, one man kept Albion's enemies at bay. Using magic and intelligence, Ludlow Swift protected England from the encroaching darkness.

But change is in the air-

With a deep satisfaction, Tamara sat back and regarded the paper. She read the words again, then frowned at her own error. Quickly she gestured and the pen dipped into the ink again and then flew to the paper, where it scratched out her grandfather's name.

Yes, wouldn't William simply love it if I told the tale of our legacy with the family name intact?

She contemplated what name might suffice to take the place of Ludlow's. Not to mention her own, and William's.

As she considered the question, there came a knock. Tamara gestured to the pen and it lay down, even as she rose from her chair. She opened the door to discover Farris standing there.

"Good morning, Farris."

"Good morning, Miss Tamara. I apologize for the intrusion, but Miss Winchell has arrived, in search of Master William."

Tamara might have been concerned that some crisis had arisen, but since the death of her own father the infuriating trollop had made it her practice to visit Ludlow House whenever the urge took her, always with her lady's maid in tow.

"Hasn't William already departed for Threadneedle Street?"

Farris shook his head. "No, Miss Tamara. I'm to drive him shortly. He has gone up to deliver breakfast to the elder Mr. Swift."

"Ah, I see," Tamara said. She pulled her robe more tightly around her, perhaps due to the chill in the air that eddied through the house, or perhaps due to the mention of her father.

Farris had done precisely the right thing in coming to fetch her. Had he simply told Sophia where William was, she might have been bold enough to seek him out. And though the Swifts had few secrets from Sophia Winchell, after the horror that led to her father's demise it would be ill advised for anyone to be in the presence of the demon Oblis unless it was absolutely necessary.

"Well done, Farris. I shall come down right away, and attend to my own breakfast at the same time. Let us see if we cannot distract her until William joins us."

Farris nodded, and turned to depart.

Tamara considered putting on a more appropriate housecoat, but decided against it. So she put away her scribblings, followed Farris to the stairs, and descended with him. Sophia would be inside already, no doubt, in the sitting room, with her chaperone standing by at the ready to testify to her virtue. And, sure enough, that was exactly where Tamara found her.

Sophia glanced up quickly at her approach, only to be crestfallen at the sight of her host.

"William is not at home then?" Sophia demanded.

"Good morning to you, as well, Sophia," Tamara said archly.

"Yes, good morning," the other woman said.

"My brother will be down shortly. He hasn't yet completed his morning regimen, I'm afraid."

Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Nor have you, it seems."

Tamara smiled, showing more teeth than necessary. "I have a more relaxed approach to such things. In fact, I was only now about to have my breakfast. Please join me, won't you? For a cup of tea, at least."

There was a moment's hesitation, a moment during which burning embers would have frozen in the frosty air between them. Then Sophia stood.

"I'd be delighted."

Delighted to leave your watchdog in the sitting room, Tamara thought, noting that Sophia made no attempt to bring her maid into the breakfast parlor. And the old woman offered no protest. Either she possessed little sense of propriety herself or she was paid well enough not to notice the liberties Sophia took.

The kippers were cold. Tamara was used to that, of course. She might have demanded a fresh batch be fried for her, but she never liked to trouble anyone about such trivial things. And, in fact, she had come to like them cold.

She sat at the mahogany table with a plate of bacon and kippers, ignoring the oatmeal that was coagulating in a tureen on the buffet, and sipped from a cup of coffee. Martha saw to it that there was warm coffee in the breakfast parlor for as long as it took Tamara to wander downstairs in the morning.

Sophia wanted tea and seemed entirely put out to have to fix her own. She chose the Indian blend, which Tamara had never liked. As she prepared her cup, she glanced over at the table.

"You really ought not to sully yourself with the company of John Haversham."

Tamara blinked twice, then turned to stare at her.

"Pardon me?"

"Please, Tamara, don't feign ignorance with me. My cousin John is as amiable a companion as one might find. He is an artist and a philosopher, and women find such things irresistible. Yet if he is enlightened, then he is an enlightened rogue. A true scoundrel, whose reputation is so unsavory that to appear in public with him might be enough to besmirch even your reputation."

The words were insulting enough, but it was the tone that almost pulled Tamara out of her chair and across the room with the urge to slap Sophia across the face. For several moments she breathed through her nostrils, not daring to open her mouth for fear of what rebuttal might issue from it.

"I thank you for your concern," Tamara finally said, wondering if her disdain was as evident in her manner as she hoped. "Nevertheless, I find your scandalous relation quite charming, and intend to accompany him to an art exhibit this evening. Provided I have the appropriate chaperone, I am certain a single excursion won't be enough to entirely dismantle my social standing."

Sophia sniffed. "Or so you hope. Well, I did warn you."

"And it was so thoughtful of you," Tamara cooed.

Sophia carried her teacup and saucer across the room and went to sit in the chair opposite her hostess. Tamara tapped her right foot twice and slipped her left hand beneath the table, contorting her fingers into a bizarre arrangement.

"Caveo," she muttered.

The chair in which Sophia had intended to sit slid backward half a foot. Young Miss Winchell's slim derriere narrowly missed the edge of the seat, and she plopped onto the floor, spilling tea all over her cashmere shawl and spotting her bodice and wide skirts.

Tamara allowed herself a tiny smirk while Sophia was out of sight beneath the level of the tabletop. She heard the woman curse in a very unladylike fashion. Sophia's hands gripped the top of the table, and she hauled herself upward, her eyes ablaze with fury and humiliation.

"How dare you, Tamara Swift?" she demanded.

"How dare I? Why, I haven't moved from my chair, dear Sophia. Are you feeling all right? It isn't like you to be so ungainly."

The woman's face turned a deep shade of purple.

"I know exactly what you're capable of," Sophia whispered through gritted teeth.

Tamara met her gaze without blinking. "Darling, trust me, you have no idea. Perhaps you'll consider minding your own business in future."

Sophia sputtered. At any moment William would appear, and Tamara both dreaded and relished the idea of his arrival in the midst of this repartee. One day, perhaps, he would see Sophia as the bitter, belligerent cow that she was. Until then, however, he would continue to blame Tamara for any and all friction between the two. Tamara was resigned, yet seeing the expression on Sophia's face was worth any recrimination that might be forthcoming from William.

Before either of them could speak another word, Farris entered the breakfast parlor and cleared his throat. Sophia fumed, breathing heavily even as she snatched up a lace napkin and began to dab at the tea stains on her clothing.

Tamara daintily sipped her coffee and raised an eyebrow, looking toward the entrance.

"Yes, Farris?"

"Miss Tamara, you have another visitor. A gentleman caller. If you'll pardon my presumption, given his comportment I suspect he arrives with unpleasant news."

Unpleasant news. Tamara didn't like the sound of that. Given what her life had become, she had acquired a new definition of unpleasant news. It was with some trepidation that she went out to greet her mysterious guest.