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Synopsis

It is 1793 and the French Revolution is in full swing. Vampires--usually rich and aristocratic--have slaked the guillotine's thirst in large numbers. The mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, a disguised British noble, and his League are heroically rescuing dozens of aristocrats from execution, both human and vampire. And soon they will have an ace up their sleeve: Eleanor Dalton.

Eleanor is working as a housemaid on the estate of a vampire Baroness. Her highest aspiration is to one day become a modiste. But when the Baroness hosts a mysterious noble and his wife, they tell Eleanor she is the spitting image of a French aristocrat, and they convince her to journey to France to aid them in a daring scheme. Soon, Eleanor finds herself in Paris, swept up in magic and intrigue--and chaos--beyond her wildest dreams. But there's more to fear than ardent Revolutionaries. For Eleanor stumbles across a centuries-old war between vampires and their fiercest enemy. And they're out for blood....

Excerpt

1

"You mean they don't even wear no trousers?" Sarah asked, shocked.

"They don't wear any breeches," Melanie corrected her. "All the aristos-that's what they call the nobs over there when they're being rude about it-called the ordinary people sans-culottes because of how they weren't wearing nice knee-breeches. But frilly clothes don't do them much good now they're all getting their heads cut off. Ain't-isn't that so, Nellie?"

Eleanor didn't look up from drying the china. Slacking at one's job in the Baroness of Basing's household was a bad idea, even among her fellow servants in the kitchen downstairs. She'd spent enough time working her way up to an indoors maid position, and the possibility of serving as an actual lady's maid was almost within her grasp. She wasn't going to ruin her chances now.

"That's pretty much it," she agreed, picking up another fancy plate, one of the set with pink designs and gilt edging. "Though the papers say the citizens are all in rags mostly anyhow, except for the ones in their Assembly."

"It tears my heart," Mrs. Dommings said, kneading the dough with powerful hands, "to hear you talking about what they're all wearing and not about what those evil Frenchies are doing. A nation what kills their own king is cursed by God and man alike." She punched the dough again. "If it weren't for that heroic Scarlet Pimpernel saving the poor persecuted nobility from the guillotine, hundreds more of them'd be dead. Dead for good, if you count the vampire ones. I don't know how he does it."

Eleanor and Melanie rolled their eyes at each other, suppressing sighs. Mrs. Dommings was the world's worst bore when she got onto the subject of the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel and how he rescued innocent aristocrats from having their heads cut off. What was the point of discussing the man when the only thing anyone knew about him was that he was mysterious? Even rescued French aristocrats knew nothing about him-or claimed to know nothing.

Sarah began to peel carrots for the servants' supper. She and Melanie were part of the mansion's day service; the night service would come on duty later. Lady Sophie rarely ate . . . regular meals, but servants needed sustenance, like any other human. Still, when you had a vampire for your mistress, you worked by night and you didn't complain. "I wish we didn't have to learn French. It doesn't make no . . ." She paused and corrected her grammar at a glare from Mrs. Dommings. "That is, it doesn't make any sense."

"The Baroness likes having the household able to speak French for when she has French visitors," Eleanor said, conscious of her position as the senior maid of the three. "Besides, with all the aristocrats leaving France, maybe we'll end up working for one of them." More importantly, if one couldn't speak French, then one had no hope of rising in the household to work abovestairs. Eleanor had no intention of spending her entire life in the kitchen.

"That's a proper attitude, Nellie," Mrs. Dommings said. "Not that her ladyship ever likes to have staff leave, but who knows? We all said that what happened in France couldn't happen, and it did. Just goes to show. Their king dead, their poor queen and prince and all their friends prisoners. Shocking."

Eleanor nodded and kept a tight grip on her thoughts. I just need to keep working. If I can learn French like her ladyship wants, if I can be good enough at embroidery, good enough at serving, then perhaps someday I can get out of this kitchen . . .

Her ladyship the Baroness of Basing might be a good mistress-but it was true that she didn't like staff to leave. And Eleanor wanted more than life in Basing. A lady's maid might travel to London with her ladyship, and might even be able to find a situation there with one of her ladyship's friends or-in Eleanor's wildest dreams-employment as a modiste and embroiderer. Nobody could accuse her ladyship of not having friends, both living and vampire. There were two of them visiting at this very moment, and the gentleman was definitely wearing breeches. Embroidered satin ones too.

"How're you getting along with young William, Nellie?" Mrs. Dommings asked. She tried to make it sound casual, but her beady eyes were sharp and alert. "Haven't heard much from you about him lately."

"Haven't been seeing him much lately, miss," Eleanor said.

"Well, you know what her ladyship says," Mrs. Dommings pressed. "It's better to marry than to burn."

"That may be so, but it wasn't me who was burning," Eleanor said. She put down the last of the dishes, aware of Melanie and Sarah trading glances and suppressing sniggers. She wished she could direct the conversation back to the mysterious Pimpernel. "Honest, miss, he was the one as did all the running, and I've been doing nothing but telling him no."

"That's as may be, but no man ever went running after a woman without her leading him on," Mrs. Dommings said firmly. "If it wasn't for your mother being so far away in her ladyship's country estate, I'm sure that his mother would already have been talking to her."

A chill ran down Eleanor's spine. She'd thought that she'd been clear with William the last time they spoke. All it had been was a couple of strolls together. He wasn't a bad man-but if their parents, or worse, her ladyship, wanted them married, then she wouldn't have a choice. She was already twenty-two. A lot of the maids were married by that age. The walls of the old house seemed to close around her like the sides of a tomb.

Of course she could say no; marriage in church needed both man and wife to say yes to the vicar, after all. But her life wouldn't be worth living, with her mother against her, all the older servants saying she'd led him on, her ladyship frowning on her behavior-small chance of Eleanor ever getting a higher position or going to London if that happened. It was easy for people to say you just had to stand up for yourself, but harder actually to do it when you had to live with the consequences. Maybe rich ladies could write pamphlets about the rights of women-but Eleanor would lay money they didn't have to spend their time cleaning the grates, drying the dishes or peeling the carrots . . .

Her black mood was broken by the creak of the kitchen door swinging open. She hastily grabbed for the final plate to give it an unnecessary polish, not wanting to look idle, before glancing over to see who it was.

Mr. Barker, the butler, surveyed the kitchen like a general looking over his regiment of soldiers, thumbs lodged in his waistcoat pockets. His nose was red; he must have been at the gin again and still thinking nobody noticed. "Her ladyship has called for wine, ratafia and biscuits for her guests," he announced, "and the usual for herself."

"It's your turn, Sarah," Melanie said, her tone somewhere between glee and malice. "Go fetch the lancet and cup. I showed you where they were."

White around the lips, Sarah scuttled over to the cupboard which held her ladyship's private cups. Eleanor didn't really want to watch, but there was a perverse fascination to the whole process. Charitably she fetched a clean linen rag as Sarah quickly cleaned the long, thin knife with water from the boiling kettle on the hob. The new maid might still be coming to terms with French and proper grammar, but she'd grasped this part of her job fast enough. After all, her ladyship was a vampire-and vampires needed more than biscuits to sustain themselves.

"Get a move on," Mr. Barker scolded. "Do you think she's going to wait all day? And you, Nellie, mind that you don't get any of the blood on your clothing. You'll be taking it up to her."

"Me, sir?" Eleanor was delighted-this was a chance to prove she could manage the work-but also surprised. Waiting on her ladyship with guests present was usually reserved for the upper housemaids and servants. Despite her best efforts, she'd never yet been granted the opportunity.

"Her ladyship asked for you specially," Mr. Barker said. He patted her on the shoulder in an avuncular way. "Now don't get panicky, girl. Just remember your lessons and your manners and you'll do perfectly well. The drinks are on a tray outside in the corridor-I've set the glasses ready. All you need to do is put the tray down on the table, make your curtsey and leave."

"Yes, sir," Eleanor said, already imagining all the things that could go wrong.

Sarah gasped as the lancet went into her vein. She gritted her teeth as the blood trickled out into one of the little glass cups that the Baroness liked to use.

"That's it, dearie," Mrs. Dommings said gently. She always turned motherly when she was supervising the girls letting blood-probably because she never got asked for it anymore, Melanie once said spitefully. Her ladyship preferred the younger girls. "That's right. Now put the knife down and make sure you bandage yourself properly."

Mr. Barker turned Eleanor around to inspect her. Eleanor was frantically grateful she was wearing her better gown today-a nice gray-blue muslin with a clean white collar. Her white apron was still spotless, despite the summer heat and the kitchen work, and her hair-pale blonde which refused to turn golden, however many times she washed it with chamomile-was neat and tidy. "Yes," he said. "You'll do. Have you got the biscuits ready, Melanie?"

"All ready, sir." Melanie's tone was deferential, but the glance she shot at Eleanor was pure jealousy. "Here they are."

Eleanor collected the plate of biscuits, the side plates, and the cup of blood. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"That's all of it," Mr. Barker said. "Now get a move on-it's been five minutes since her ladyship rang."

Eleanor hurried up the stairs, halting in the servant's corridor to arrange the refreshments on the tray. It also gave her an opportunity to overhear the remaining conversation in the kitchen.

"I don't see why she got asked," Mrs. Dommings snapped. "It's not like Nellie has talent for anything other than sewing. Why not Jill or Susan?"

"Her ladyship asked for her specially," Mr. Barker said in a tone which shut down the conversation. "And I'm not going to argue with her ladyship. Are you?"

Her ladyship was in the front lounge with her guests; that was where she always received visitors in the afternoon. Eleanor paused outside the room to put down her tray and check that her hands were clean. It was a pity that there weren't any mirrors around, as there would be in houses owned by people who were-well, alive-but one got used to it.

Eleanor took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Her mind was unhelpfully supplying images of all the things she might do wrong. She might trip over the carpet the moment she entered the room. She might spill the ratafia and biscuits all over the guests-or worse, the blood all over her ladyship. She might say something she shouldn't. She might not say something she should. She might slip on a rug, slide all the way across the floor, crash into the windows, tear down the curtains and break the glass. And any of those furnishings were worth more than a year of her salary.

A bray of inane male laughter burst from the room, audible in the corridor and probably in the next few rooms as well. It gave Eleanor a sort of courage; she might be just a maid in this household, but at least she wasn't stupid. Pulling herself together, she walked in.

Light fell across half the room from those windows which had their curtains open, so that the guests sat in a burst of sunlight. However, her ladyship was shielded from the brightest rays with heavy velvet drapes. Vampires might be able to walk in the sunlight, but they didn't like it. As her ladyship caught sight of Eleanor, she gestured for the maid to come forward with the tray of refreshments. Her ladyship's hair was heavily powdered-no changes in fashion for her-and her skin was just as spotlessly pale, like cream. She wore light gray and lavender silks, her wide skirt spreading out in a sea of complex embroidery, and her face was so perfectly serene that one would never imagine she couldn't use a mirror to paint it in the morning.

The two guests, by contrast, wore the height of current fashion, and both were living, breathing humans. The man was tall-no, positively gigantic, Eleanor decided, at least six foot-with gleaming blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, but a stupefied look of vagueness which spoiled the otherwise polished effect. His cream silk coat and breeches were as expensively cut as her ladyship's own clothes, and embroidered with an elegance which made Eleanor wish she could examine it more closely. He lounged in his chair, apparently never having been told that it was polite to sit up straight.

The woman with him was very modern, with her hair barely powdered. Its natural red-gold glowed in the sunlight in a way that made Eleanor burn with envy. She was wearing the latest style of dress: a high-waisted flowing muslin frock and silk sash in the same shade of cream as the man, with not a single pannier to bulk out her skirt. She laughed in response to something, and the man-her husband?-smiled at her.

Eleanor desperately ran through the rules of etiquette in her head. Guests first, then her ladyship. She bobbed a curtsey to the man and offered the tray.

He looked up at her with a lazy smile as his hand closed round one of the glasses-and then his face froze, the smile slipping off it like butter from a hot plate. His eyes narrowed with sudden, sharp intelligence. But seconds later that focus was gone, and he was blinking vaguely again, ferrying glasses and decanters from the tray to the side table. "Deuce take it, my dear Sophie," he said to her ladyship, "you might have warned us!"

His female companion followed his gaze, and her eyes widened. "Pardieu!" she exclaimed, in a distinctly French accent. "She's the spitting image. Who would believe it?"

Copyright © 2023 by Genevieve Cogman

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