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He cleared his throat. “Though Ian surely meant well, I can no longer ignore the fact that he may well have brought ruin down upon us all when he put the Spaniard, Rafael Villar, in charge during his absence.”

Most of the vampires nodded in agreement. However, a few exchanged skeptical glances. Clayton paused and straightened his spine. This would be the tricky part.

“I truly wanted to believe that Villar was a wise choice to lead us. Despite his foreign title, he lived as humbly as the rest of us. I believed he would do a better job looking after the interests of those of our unprivileged standing, which at times the Duke of Burnrath, being a blue blood, could not help but overlook.” Heaving a mournful sigh, he met their gazes. “Tragically, I was wrong. From the moment Villar was declared interim Lord, received his wealth, and moved into the duke’s palace, he has taken his place among the Quality and thus seems to think he’s above the lot of us!”

Another vampire stepped forward. “I wouldn’t say he’s all bad. He’s provided many of us with gainful employment and generous wages.”

Clayton hid a grimace with a stiff nod of acknowledgment. There were bound to be naysayers. He anticipated such, and now he finally had the means to subdue them.

“That is true, but now I must tell you what the Spaniard has done.” Pausing until he was certain he had their undivided attention, Clayton formed his features into a mask of regret for his next line. “Do you recall the several instances in which intruders were rambling about the St. Pancras cemetery? Intruders that may very well have been vampire hunters?”

Again, the majority nodded. A tentative voice inquired softly, “Wasn’t Lord Villar supposed to have looked into the matter?”

Clayton infused his tone with sympathy. “Of course you all remember this frightening time. After all, a number of you take your day rest within the cemetery’s crypt. Well, Rafael Villar has caught the culprit.”

A cacophony of voices shook the rafters. Most sounded jubilant, though concerned about why they had not yet heard. Others sensed the ominous tone.

“Was it a hunter?” many voices echoed. “Did he kill the intruder?”

“No, he did not kill her.” Clayton gestured, ignoring the first question. “William, come forward and tell them what the Spaniard has done.”

William stepped out from the assembly as the audience processed the information that the culprit had been female. Clayton warned him with a glare and slight shake of his head to wipe the smirk from his face. Now was not the time for jubilance at this treason.

William complied, clenching his fists in mute rage. “He ain’t treating her like a prisoner a’tall! Then he’s treating Anthony and me like mortal footmen, ordering us to dust and fetch things for her. And he’s allowed her to bring a servant to cook and wait on her, as well as all her gowns and frippery. Not only that, he’s placed her in his own chamber! I think he means to have her as his fancy piece.”

The vampire’s testimony accomplished more than Clayton had hoped for. The assembly snarled and cursed in outrage, their affronted roars rattling the dusty windows.

Clayton held up a hand for silence and faced them with a sneer of his own. “Do you see the utter and complete negligence in Villar’s actions? In failing to kill this woman when he caught her, as he was well within his rights to do, he has failed to protect you. It was his duty to destroy anything that threatens the blood drinkers of this city, but he has disregarded that duty.”

He paced before them like a general, looking each vampire in the eye as he passed by. “The Spaniard has put us all in grave danger. Such callous behavior must be stopped. Alas, there is only one thing we can do, although it makes my heart ache with regret to say it.”

“What can we do?” the vampires chorused, dangling on his line like caught trout.

Spine straight and stature firm as the times he played Julius Caesar, Clayton lifted his chin and said one word, projecting his voice to reverberate across the chamber like thunder: “Revolution.”

Seven

7 October 1823

“My lord?” Anthony poked his head into Rafe’s study. “A man is here to call on Lady Rosslyn. What should I tell him?”

Rafe set down Cassandra’s copy of Frankenstein and fought back a grimace. He despised being interrupted when reading a good book. “I’ll talk to him and decide what to tell him. Did you take his card?”

Anthony shrugged. “No, I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Some butler you’re shaping up to be,” Rafe muttered, drawing deeply on his cigar.

“I am a vampire, not a butler,” his third retorted. “Perhaps you should hire Clayton instead. He is far more educated on the mores and rituals of the upper classes than I am.”

Rafe raised a brow. “Would you truly wish to have him under our roof?”

Anthony shook his head vigorously. “Good God, no! I was only jesting. I can scarce abide that pompous ass for the duration of our meetings. And I know you can’t either. Why didn’t you replace him when you took over?”

“I couldn’t risk inciting further malcontent. You know very well that my designation as interim Lord of London was not well received by many.” He rubbed his temples, blowing out a cloud of smoke. However, now I am reconsidering that decision.

Clayton was doing a poor job as second-in-command. Not only was he neglecting to deliver reports on time and communicating only when pressed, but Rafe couldn’t tamp down a wave of revulsion whenever he was near the vampire.

Anthony folded his arms and leaned against the door. “You shouldn’t have to please them at the cost of ruling efficiently.”