Chapter Two

London, October,1881

Simeon Crow left the party, brushing ashes off his good coat. The jeering caws of his fellow guests, interspersed with mocking laughter, followed him out into the cold. Thin, pale, consumptive, and clever, Simeon had never cut a swath through high society. It was only because of his cleverness with Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and other languages that he earned a toehold in Sir John Heatherington’s esteem. The paranoid playboy financier and baronet invited his personal secretary to any party where learned men might try to whisper behind his back, for everyone knew Heatherington was hopeless at languages.

With his low rasp of a voice caused by frequent illness and his unfortunate last name, Simeon had grown used to being mocked with caws and people bursting into “Sing a Song of Sixpence” throughout his adolescent years. As an adult, he endured the same taunts from his “elders and betters” whenever Heatherington was not around.

And lately, even when he was.

Simeon wiped his face on his sleeve, which undoubtedly smeared it with soot. Too late, he realized his error. In the next breath, he realized that the hot, angry tears would wash the grime away. Tonight, Heatherington had gone too far.

Simeon knew his employer was growing resentful of relying on the younger, poorer man who had scraped his way up in the world through his wits and education. Heatherington had taken to making little digs about Crow’s fatherless state and the fact that only the charity of a vicar had placed Simeon in a decent school where his talent and drive saw him outpace many others with brighter futures. When alcohol entered the picture, Heatherington began to mock him, joining in with the others who imitated the unpleasant screech of crows whenever his back was turned.

None of that had mattered tonight when Simeon walked into the party, because Anna Wharton would be there.

Anna Wharton was employed by Lady Heatherington, Sir John’s recent concession to convention. Anna fell somewhere between a friend and a lady’s maid. She was what the gentry simply called “a companion.” Surely a man’s personal secretary and a woman’s companion were not socially mismatched? They were thrown together often at these parties, and Simeon had believed the pleasingly plump brunette with laughing brown eyes felt something special toward him.

A choked sob escaped Simeon’s lungs as he turned blindly down an alley.

After being stuck together at several house parties over the summer, Simeon had been sure of his suit. He allowed himself to forget that he was pinched and thin and had a permanent nasal quality to his voice. Tonight, he had poured Anna some punch, joined her by the mantle, and had just been ready to ask her to accompany him into the hall to see Lady Heatherington’s new portrait.

That was when a perfect symphony of raucous cawing broke upon them—and a full ash bin had been dumped down his back, all over his new fawn-colored coat. John Heatherington was in the forefront of the mocking, crowing band, laughing as he declared, “The dandy’s life doesn’t suit you, Simeon. Stick to your inky feathers, Crow!”

“I could have borne that. I could have borne it if he’d sacked me on the spot—but not when she started to laugh, too,” Simeon wheezed into his coat sleeve and realized that he was only making matters worse. His mouth and nose would be covered in soot now, too!

“Who laughed at you, dear boy?”

Simeon stopped dead. A brunette vision in a beautiful blue and cream dress was approaching him from the other end of the alley. “Madam! Miss? Why are you alone and unescorted at this time of night?” Simeon stopped a respectful distance from the entrancing beauty and quickly wiped at his face. By now, his hands were black, too.

“I could ask the same thing. Why is such a handsome, intelligent man wandering London alone, covered in ashes, when anyone can see that he holds such fire in his heart?” She swayed closer to him, golden-green eyes wide, locked on his.

“I...”

“Anyone can see it. Anyone with eyes. Look at how you carry yourself. Fury and fire, anger and passion. You’ve been kicked and beaten, my sweet starling, but you rise up, flapping your wings like a phoenix. Ready to soar away from all of those that hurt you.”

By God, she spoke the truth! “That’s right! I am. I am ready to leave them all. I’ll give my notice, no! No, no notice at all, and let him squirm the next time his father-in-law comes over and wants to converse in German! Let Anna find a husband among that fat-headed lot that thinks it’s fine to pick on a man because of his birth. They’ll never manage without me, but I shall be fine without them !” Simeon shook his fist and roared (as best he could) in the direction of Heatherington’s townhouse.

When he turned his head again, the woman was standing intimately close. Far too close.

“I’m Lilith,” she murmured, smiling, lips pulled taut, eyes half-lidded. She never showed her teeth, and there was something playfully coy about it. Something mysterious.

Too late, Simeon drew back. “Madam, I have no wish to offend you, but... You are not one of those women who seeks company from men who pay for your favors, are you?”

“No, no, dear starling. I give something to you, quite freely. Or at the very least, I feel it is an even exchange.”

“What is it?” Simeon asked, voice rather breathless, even by his standards.

Suddenly, she smiled, but it was too late to cry out when her fangs slid into his neck.

And as she held him, pressing herself to him the way he dreamed of holding Anna, so many things became clear. His miserable little life flashed before his eyes.

“Take a sip in return, my sweet, and you’ll have a whole new life. One far, far better, I promise you.”

On November 1st, 1881, the London paper reported a shocking tale. Police were stunned to discover the bodies of Sir John Heatherington, Lady Beatrice Heatherington, and her companion, Anna Wharton (who some now believed to be the mistress of Sir John Heatherington) slain in the drawing room of the Heatherington townhome in Westling Square. Their bloodless corpses were found in a state of disarray as if a struggle had occurred. Most shocking was the fact that a quill pen had been shoved in the eye of the late financier and baronet and a bottle of ink poured down his throat.

The papers never mentioned that a well-dressed man and woman entered the house very late on October 31st and that only a man left the house just before dawn.

No one mentioned that a pile of ashes was found beside Miss Wharton, whose body had been arranged carefully, even tenderly, upon the settee, as if she were only sleeping.