Page 1

Chapter 1

London, April 9, 1817

The cold eyes of a silent crocodile stalked Henry Branok as he strode down the gallery. A bear was next, staring motionless at him before Henry passed by an orangutan, followed by a mountain goat, then a shrew, then an emperor penguin. More than five hundred animals, more than a thousand eyes, all of them surveying his every move.

His footing was swift, though not because of their watchful eyes. The animals would not attack—they wouldn’t even move a limb. Henry’s safety was secure due to the sole fact that each and every one of these animals now watching him was long dead.

That was why he flew down the gallery as swiftly as a swooping sandpiper. Taxidermy, while an accepted and admired practice to most in Society, was Henry’s version of a living nightmare.

Or dead nightmare, he supposed.

Hundreds of heads were propped up on shelf after shelf, and gulls with their wings outspread hung from the ceiling above. Muted lighting cast frightening shadows across their faces to distort the animals further.

Lord Blackstone—the viscount who owned the monstrous creations—was quite proud of his collection, hence why every inch of the long corridor leading to the man’s study was filled with animals from around the world.

“Each of these animals died a natural death,” the viscount often said. “We honor them without placing them behind glass cages. Free in life and in death.”

The man was likeable enough, but he was clearly living in a world of his own making.

Henry could never understand the appeal of staring at animals once living. He was fortunate enough to have seen many of the wildlife in their natural homes, and nothing—nothing—could compare to that. Especially when it came to birds.

Birds that blinked, breathed, and possessed a heartbeat.

Henry lived for observing them, writing about them, and sketching them. Unfortunately, it was Lord Blackstone who made such things possible for Henry—which was the only reason he now walked through this corridor of corrupted creatures.

He gripped his leather satchel tightly in his right hand, walking past the last of the long-gone animals before finally reaching the end of the corridor and tapping lightly on the thick, wooden door.

He ignored the feel of the eyes searing through his back as Lord Blackstone finally responded.

“Yes, yes, do come in,” came his muted voice from within the study.

Opening the door and stepping foot into the room, Henry was instantly set upon by the overwhelming scent of tobacco and leather, and he stifled a cough.

More animals adorned the study in various locations—muntjacs behind the desk and a hare close to them—while books lined the shelves from top to bottom. A single, closed window to the right of the desk produced enough light to showcase the smoke swirling in the air.

“Ah, Branok,” Lord Blackstone greeted, lowering his pipe and beckoning Henry forward with two fingers close together. “Come in, my friend. Come in.”

His gray and white hair curled up at the tips, making room for a broad receding hairline that brought to mind the tufts of feathers the guan boasted on its head. Henry had only just seen the bird that had resembled a skinny, black hen two months past in the West Indies.

He’d hold his tongue about that, though. Henry had learned his lesson that men did not take kindly to being compared to birds. The last time he’d done so, he’d been blackballed from every club in London, never again to be allowed in Boodle’s, White’s, or Brooks’s.

This had worked in Henry’s favor, however, as Lord Blackstone had subsequently sought him out and invited him to join the viscount’s own club meant solely for misfits and other blackballed gentlemen.

“How was your journey back?” Lord Blackstone asked.

“Uneventful, my lord.”

“Fine, fine.”

“I trust you are well,” Henry said next, his boots thumping against the floor as he approached the man seated behind his large wooden desk.

Books, papers, and various golden instruments for measurements and writing were splayed out across the surface. But what stole more attention than anything else was the portrait behind the desk—the painting depicting a badger, bearded and sporting a mourning coat.

The viscount certainly had…unusual taste in décor.

“Yes, yes, very well, indeed.” Lord Blackstone waved him closer. “Are you come to deliver something of mutual interest to us?”

Henry ignored the purple water-hen accosting him with its beady eyes and cleared his throat. Would Lord Blackstone notice if he just reached over and propped the window open, letting in just a touch of the cool, spring air?