The blood-whore straightened away from the wall. “Won’t find ’im ’ere, gov; ’e’s got enough of ’is own ta slurp from.”
“Yes, I am well aware of that fact. But I am wondering if you might know his current whereabouts.”
The man bit his lip.
Professor Lyall handed him a penny. There weren’t a lot of vampires in London, and blood-whores, who made it their livelihood to service them, tended to know a good deal about the local hives and loners as a matter of survival.
The lip was nibbled on slightly more.
Professor Lyall handed him another penny.
“Word on the street is ’e’s left town.”
“Go on.”
“An’ how. Didn’t suss a master could be mobile like that.”
Professor Lyall frowned. “Any idea as to where?”
A shake of the head was all Lyall got in answer.
“Or why?”
Another shake.
“One more penny if you can direct me to someone who does.”
“Ya ain’t gunna like me answer, gov.”
Professor Lyall handed him another copper.
The blood-whore shrugged. “You’d be wantin’ the other queen, then.”
Professor Lyall groaned inwardly. Of course it would turn out to be a matter of internal vampire politics. “Countess Nadasdy?”
The young man nodded.
Professor Lyall thanked the blood-whore for his help and flagged down a seedy-looking hansom, directing the driver toward Westminster. About halfway there, he changed his mind. It wouldn’t do for the vampires to know so soon that Lord Akeldama’s absence was of interest to either BUR or the Woolsey Pack. Banging on the box with his fist, he redirected the driver toward Soho, intending to call upon a certain redhead.
* * *
Professor Lyall alighted from the hansom at Piccadilly Circus, paid the driver, and walked a block north. Even at midnight, it was a pleasant little corner of the city, swimming in young people of artistic propensities, if perhaps a bit dingy and lowbrow. Professor Lyall had a good memory, and he recalled the cholera outbreak of twenty years earlier as though it had happened only yesterday. Sometimes he thought he could still smell the sickness in the air. As a result, Soho always caused him to sneeze.
The apartment, when he knocked and was duly admitted by a very young maid, proved to be neat and tidy if a tad gleefully decorated. Ivy Tunstell bustled forward to greet him in the hallway, her dark curls bobbing out from under a large lace cap. The cap had blue silk roses clustered above her left ear, which gave her an oddly rakish appearance. She was wearing a pink walking dress, and Lyall was pleased to see he had not disturbed her at rest.
“Mrs. Tunstell, how do you do? I do apologize for calling at such a late hour.”
“Professor Lyall, welcome. Delighted to see you. Not at all. We keep to a sunset schedule. After he left your service, my dear Tunny never could manage to break the habit, and it does suit his chosen profession.”
“Ah, yes. How is Tunstell?”
“Auditioning as we speak.” Ivy led her guest into an absolutely tiny receiving room, with barely enough space to house a settee, two chairs, and a tea table. The decor seemed to have been chosen with only one theme in mind—pastel. It was a resplendent collection of pink, pale yellow, sky blue, and lilac.
Professor Lyall hung his hat and coat on a spindly hat stand crowded behind the door and took one of the chairs. It was like sitting inside a bowl of Easter candy. Ivy settled herself onto the settee. The young maid, having followed them in, gave the mistress of the house a quizzical look.
“Tea, Professor Lyall, or would you prefer something, uh, bloodier?”
“Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Tunstell.”
“You are certain? I have some delightful kidney set aside for a pie tomorrow, and it is getting on to full moon.”
Professor Lyall smiled. “Your husband has been telling you things about living with werewolves, hasn’t he?”
Ivy blushed slightly. “Perhaps a little. I am afraid I have been terribly nosy. I find your culture fascinating. I do hope you do not think me impertinent.”
“Not at all. But, really, just tea would be perfectly fine.”
Ivy nodded to her maid, and the young girl scuttled off, clearly excited.
“We don’t get many visitors of your caliber,” lamented Ivy.
Professor Lyall was too much a gentleman to remark that Miss Hisselpenny’s elopement, and consequent loss of what little status she’d had, made her a less than desirable acquaintance for most. Only a high-ranking original, as Lady Maccon had been, could afford to continue such an association. Now that Alexia herself had fallen from grace, Ivy must be a veritable social pariah.
“How is the hat shop coming on?”