London, 1819

“My lady, your mother is wearin’ a hole in the floor,” Verbena said as she twisted a final curl into place at the top of her mistress’s coiffure. “She claims y’ll be late for the masquerade ball if y’ don’t hurry. And something about the Marquess o’ Rockley attendin’ and wantin’ to see ye?”

Miss Victoria Gardella Grantworth looked in the mirror, eyeing her maid’s creation in the form of a tall—very tall—coiffure. Her dark hair had been piled to an impossible height, and then powdered so that her black curls looked more gray than white. A small bluebird perched at the side of her column of hair, and a bejeweled comb rested at the top. Pink and yellow flowers and a variety of jewels further decorated the powdered curls.

“I don’t know that Marie Antoinette’s hair was ever this particular hue,” Victoria said, “but I think it looks lovely. And perhaps I’d best go down before Mother comes up to drag me off.”

She stood, and the skirts of her gown rose with her as if they had a life of their own. Victoria was used to wearing the high-waisted, clinging skirts of contemporary styles, but these wide panniers and heavy brocaded layers of fabric at least left her legs free to move beneath without getting too caught up in the skirts. The only other benefit of the yards of material dripping from her body was that there were plenty of places to slip a wooden stake into or between ruffles, lace, or gathers. She felt for the one that rested just to the right side of her torso, cunningly hidden behind a pouf of lace.

“I do hope there aren’t any vampires at Lady Petronilla’s ball tonight,” Victoria said, drawing on her gloves. “It will be impossible to fight them in this costume.”