Lord Albert gave a heavy grunt, pressing his foot against his valet’s chest to allow the man a better grip on his boot. The drink had bloated him tonight, clearly, and Miles Reeve was beginning to fear he’d have to find the shoe horn.

  Miles was taken quite by surprise by the sound of a knock on the bedchamber door. He hesitated, hands still fixed on one of Lord Albert’s feet.

  “Someone at the door, my lord,” he whispered, careful not to rouse his master’s short temper. Lord Albert could be quite unpredictable when too deep in his cups. Had Miles not known the man since they were both in swaddling clothes, he might not have lasted long as the man’s valet.

  “See to it, man,” the baron mumbled through drink-heavy lips. He was just barely managing to support himself in the sitting position in bed, his head giving up the ghost and lolling forward. This was accompanied by another grunt to match the one he’d given earlier.

  Miles gave a curt nod, acknowledging his master’s order. “Right away, my lord,” he said softly. He gently settled Lord Albert’s foot to the ground, boot slightly loosened, and rose to his feet. Tomorrow he hoped Mrs. Pragajh would have ample coffee prepared to account for this endless night. Reaching for a candlestick on the baron’s bedside table, he carefully protected its flame with a guiding hand as he went to answer the door. It was well past time that everyone in the house retired.

  He pulled the door open, spine stiff and composure dignified. He intended to give a stern wording to anyone who might be on the other side. Likely a nosy servant up too late for their own good.

  “Now, see–” Miles began, when gloved hands lashed out to grab him by the throat. His eyes widened considerably, the desire to sleep evaporating instantly in the face of sheer terror. With a sputter, he dropped the candlestick and stumbled back. The pitiful flame of the thing died, eliminating half of the sparse light in the room. Droplets of wax mingled with the tapestry beneath his feet. He was pushed across the room, and the hands about his neck squeezed even harder, bruising tender flesh. It all happened so fast. Too fast to even understand what was happening.

  Were Miles not fighting to stay alive, he might have recognized the viscount’s servant. Anyone would. The silent brute of a creature wore very fine, expensive livery, but it did little to disguise his terrifyingly large frame. Dark eyes framed by a gaunt, horrible face stared down at him. Greasy strands of dark hair plastered his brow. His lips twitched, revealing glimpses of yellowed teeth behind them. By now, Miles was beginning to lose consciousness. His fingers scratched weakly at the hands crushing his throat, then quickly fell to his sides.

  “Reeve,” Lord Albert called out to him wearily, “what the devil are you doing?” With no small effort, he managed to lift his head. His bedroom door was still open. He might have remarked on it were it not for the violent scene playing out in front of him. Sobriety attempted to rage through his veins, quickly followed by adrenaline and fear.

  “Reeve!” Lord Albert bellowed, seizing forward from his bed on shaky legs. He stumbled, having forgotten his loosened shoes, and fell.

  “Mind your steps,” a calm, cool voice remarked. Miles had fallen to the ground beneath his assailant in that instant, consciousness and will quickly fading. In the doorway, the viscount stood. He didn’t so much as glance at the two servants. His eyes were fixed on Lord Albert’s.

  “Wh–” Lord Albert tried to wheeze out, hefting himself up, “what–”

  The viscount smiled, and what Lord Albert had originally taken for warmth appeared all at once as something very cold and cruel. A monster. He’d invited the devil into his home.

  “Close your eyes, my friend. Rest,” Lord Grace advised. No, it was something more than that. It was a command. “This is all a dream, you’ll forget it soon enough.”

  The Baron attempted to protest. To move. To weep. Instead, he fully collapsed on the ground beside what was now a very dead Miles Reeve. The valet’s empty eyes stared back at Lord Albert’s face in the dark. A final unanswered prayer for help unanswered.

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  Lord Grace looked down at the pair of them, then towards the baron’s bed. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Once you’re done with that,” he told his servant, who had released his victim by now and was now on his feet, “make the bed.”

  Aldman reached towards his own face with a shaky hand and brushed back the strands of loose hair. He looked at his fingers, flexing them thoughtfully. A dark expression crossed his face when he looked at the index and ring finger on his right hand, withered and rotted.

  “Aldman,” the viscount said his servant’s name. The man lowered his hands and bowed a little too quickly, giving one last look at the body near his feet before setting about his task.

  Within a few hours, most of the work was done for the evening. Aldman attended to his master quietly. He’d brought two large trunks into the room. It didn’t take long to lay out a very old and very stained white sheet on the ground to roll the dead body onto. From there he arranged several bottles, funnels, a large bowl, and a variety of knives and needles which he kept wrapped in a leather roll bag.

  Lord Grace reclined in what must have once been a very grand wooden chair beside the window, graceful fingers toying with the golden ropes that tied the drapes back. His hair was washed and in an emerald silk head wrap that might very well have covered a years’ wages for the measly staff of the crumbling manor he found himself in. His matching banyan robe and fine sleeping gown underneath would have covered ten times as much.

  “Aldman,” the viscount called out to his servant, “my nails have never shone so beautifully. Your skills are improving,” he complimented him, unconcerned by Aldman’s silence. A man without a tongue had very little to say, after all.

  The viscount silently watched his servant go about his task, strategically slicing into the dead man’s skin and coaxing his limbs just so to allow blood to drip into the bowl he prepared. Messy work. Practice made perfect, however, and little was wasted. The room was dark, but they did not need light to see.

  Before he finished with his work, Aldman retrieved a singular wine glass from one of the trunks and extracted blood from his victim’s wrist with a sharp blade, pouring it directly into the glass. He had done this enough times that it was a simple matter to keep any from pouring out and going to waste. After bringing the fresh drink to Lord Grace, he resumed his work. He managed to stopper and fill a little over five wine bottles.

  There was little satisfaction in preparing meals like this. Lord Grace was bored with the whole ordeal, but thankful there was a wine cellar below the kitchen for storage. They’d likely put the body in some barrel if they could find one and deal with it later.

  His task done, the servant quietly rolled Reeves body into the sheet he’d laid out, somewhat respectful of the dead man in the process. He laid coins over the valet’s eyelids, and gave him one last long look before covering him in the cloth.

  Stifling a yawn, he lost interest in Aldman’s work and looked out the window instead. His eyes landed on a trio of girls down in the gardens fast at work by a well. Maids. He’d seen one of them earlier that night, he realized. Quiet. A nervous creature, he mused. Rather like a small bird.

  “My, my,” he whispered to himself, “such lovely hair.” Glancing back at his servant, Lord Grace smiled as warmly as he could - - which was to say very coolly, but without the promise of murder, “Aldman. Prepare some letters for my tailor as well. The tight-lipped one in London. Have him bring along a modiste. Someone who doesn’t talk too much.”

  Aldman bowed in ascent, kneeling at the foot of the bed to open a large trunk retrieved from their carriage. He pulled out several cotton sachets which he placed strategically about the bed. In them were mixtures of earth and flowers. Night-blooming jasmine and foxglove were some of Lord Grace’s favorites. They allowed him to be more restful, while imparting a little strength. Or so he liked to believe. It was an elegant solution to sleeping on a pile of grave dirt, if anything.

  Once the bed was properly made, Lord Grace gestured for his servant to leave without so much as another word. They’d been together for nearly two decades. Some things simply didn’t need to be said. He carried the body with him over his shoulder and gently closed the door.

  Just to the side of the window, behind his chair, there was a small table with a tray on it. He’d placed a half-finished book there to enjoy before retiring. Reaching behind him with elegant fingers, he snatched up both and looked back out the window. The girls were still there. Two of them, at any rate. He pondered how many maids he would need to fill the staff. There was so much dust caked into the very walls of this room alone, it might very well take an army to properly scrub the place clean top to bottom.

  “Now, where was I,” he whispered, flipping through his book until he found the cloth ribbon marking his spot. “Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred…” He read aloud to himself. The Castle of Otranto. He’d been meaning to finish the damned thing for some years now, perhaps this little visit to the countryside would be just the excuse he needed. A far cry from the religious and philosophical texts he voraciously consumed in life, these modern stories could be quite entertaining. At least one wasn’t expected to believe what was written in them.