As far as Sam was concerned, no one should be out there. Whatever titles they bore, the Viscount and the Duke were experienced field agents. They had gone into the night hunting monsters, had defended themselves with salt and iron, and still, they had been taken. What hope did the rest of them have against that?
They needed to develop those photographs.
Before Sam could say so, however, Hel’s posture sharpened, and she put a hand to Sam’s shoulder. Sam looked up at her, but the other woman shook her head minutely. “Pretend to be engaging me in conversation.”
“Weareconvers?—” Sam started, turning to look at whatever had caught Hel’s attention.
“Don’t turn around,” Hel cut her off. “Talk about anything, so long as your lips are moving.”
“Have you seen the latest fashions out of Paris?” Sam said, continuing a light patter as she glanced in the reflections of the window glass. In it, she could just make out the watery reflection of a man with unruly blonde hair in a bronze tailcoat. A man she was surprised to find she recognized from the papers: Lord Lusk. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, harried by a man in a black wool cloak.
“...have me do?” Lord Lusk was saying. Sam studied his reflection. He had the look of a disheveled academic trussed up for high society, which might not be far from the mark, if the rumors about him were true. “They’ve made their decision.”
“You could intervene on my behalf.” The second man’s voice had a haunting intensity to it. He had the sort of face that looked as if it had more bones than it ought, his dark brown hair swept back and his eyes a fathomless black. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with?—what she’s capable of.”
“Listen, I am not unsympathetic,” Lord Lusk said, his voice firm. His accent was unmistakably Irish, as was not always the case with the Irish peerage. “But?—”
Sam nearly yelped as Van Helsing brushed past her, the leather scent of him washing over her. This spending time together was dangerous; Sam was starting to ignore the sound of his spurs.
“What ishedoing here?” Van Helsing scowled at the dark-haired man, not bothering to lower his voice. The least subtle man in the Society, and they’d sent him to be a spy.
The two men stiffened, whatever they’d been about to say lost.
“Do you know him?” Sam asked as the men turned to regard Van Helsing, and Sam gave up all pretense of not listening in. She hadn’t thought Van Helsing paid attention to things like people, had thought he had no room in him for anything but monsters. “The man with Lord Lusk?”
“Everyone knowshim,” Hel said.
“Do you now,” the second man drawled. “And just what do you think you know?”
“Your name is Éamonn Bishop,” Van Helsing said, not bothering to keep the disdain from his voice. “I fear your reputation isn’t fit for a lady’s ears.”
Hel leaned against a Connemara column. “He was banned from Rome.”
She was right. Sam had heard of Éamonn Bishop. A hundred years ago, women had burned at the stake for the things of which he’d been accused.
Born Edward Bishop, the disgraced heir to a shipping fortune had branded himself with the Irish version of his name because, Sam was given to understand, it sounded more mystical. That he wasn’t Irish was, apparently, beside the point. The, Sam hesitated to say,gentlemanwas known primarily for three things: writing the sort of poetry even Lord Byron wouldn’t have dared, playing three people at once in chess, and a fortune-ruining obsession with the occult.
She felt a burning ache in her chest, not because she yearned to do the things he was rumored to have done, but because hecould. Because he could be wicked, indulge in the occult, and yes, get banned from Rome, but otherwise live his life freely, while Sam had to tiptoe on eggshells to avoid being sent to the asylum or worse, simply for being who she was.
“Oh, be honest,” Mr. Bishop said, his eyes dark cutouts in the pale mask of his face. For a moment, Sam could have sworn she saw somethingmoveunderneath the skin of his throat, bulging and sinuous. Her breath caught?—but it was already gone, his flesh unburdened with whatever dreamed beneath it. “I was kicked out of Rome because they’re afraid of any power that does not come from them. They have such ungraceful minds when it comes to the Otherworld.”
“I apologize for my companion,” Lord Lusk said, resting both hands on his cane?—a dark length of wood topped with a brass fox. “He was just leaving.”
“Was I?” Mr. Bishop laughed, and he gave a mocking bow. “Well. As my lord says. If you realize the folly of your pursuits... I’ll find you.” And he left, his cane punctuating his departure.
Mr. Bishop, Sam noticed, had no fear of the curfew. Van Helsing seemed to have noticed the same thing, as he moved to follow. “Come on.”
“What are you doing?” Sam hissed, grabbing his arm. “We can’t just follow him.”
“It’s him. It must be,” Van Helsing said.
“A moment ago, you were convinced it was Miss Shinagh,” Sam pointed out. “Is this how you solve cases? By accusing everyone who crosses your path of being the villain?”
“No.” Van Helsing’s eyes were locked on Mr. Bishop’s back. “Typically, there’s a monster, and I kill it. But in a case that’s less straightforward, I have to gather evidence first. Which I won’t be able to do if he slips away.”
Was that what Van Helsing had thought he’d been doing in France, when he’d stalked Sam through the streets of Paris?Gathering evidence?The gall of the man?—that was prejudice, not just cause, even if shehadbeen channeling when he wasn’t looking.
“I thought you said there was a curfew,” Sam pressed.
