The aristocracy, ever-restless, flitted between country estates like swallows with the seasons, trailed by retinues of servants. Uninvited visitors often found only echoing halls and polite butlers murmuring, "The family is abroad until autumn."

  The "Wolfsbane" had summoned Yvette to a Chigrinwell estate—a pastoral jewel nestled in woodlands, ideal for escaping London’s grime. In Albion, forests were ancient fiefdoms; even Ulysses’ foreign wealth couldn’t secure hunting rights. But the Chigrinwells’ woods now teemed with imported American foxes, their invitation promising sport.

  Such whimsy proved commonplace. Nobles had slaughtered native foxes to near-oblivion, necessitating overseas shipments to sustain their barbaric pastime.

  Armed with Ulysses’ rifles, Yvette arrived by carriage. The Baron and his wife were absent, leaving "Wolfsbane"—Faulkner Chigrinwell—and his sister Veronica to host literary-minded guests.

  As Yvette’s coach neared the gates, a rival carriage veered into view. Through its window glimmered a noblewoman swathed in jet adornments. Yvette yielded the prime stopping point—gentlemanly courtesy the Viscountess Pelersh acknowledged with a melting glance.

  Faulkner blinked at his aunt’s arrival. "Clarice?"

  "Solitude chills the blood," the widow drawled, assessing Yvette. "Your acquaintance, nephew?"

  Introductions ensued. Yvette’s lips brushed the Viscountess’s gloved hand—a ritual mastered through vigilance. The widow purred approval: "Had such gallantry graced my youth…"

  "Your youth endures, madam. Time itself kneels before beauty." Flattery bloomed laughter like claret spilled on silk.

  Miss Moore, the Viscountess’s drab companion, trailed behind—a professional sycophant leaching prestige. Faulkner dispatched them to chambers while Yvette wrestled vertigo. Hallucinations resurged: marble floors yawned into whirlpools.

  "London’s miasma," she claimed when Faulkner frowned. He snorted: "Winter’s coal-fog turns skies to bile. Forget gloom—our guests await!"

  By dusk, the parlor brimmed with macabre chatter. London’s gutters lately coughed up mangled corpses—girls mauled as if by beasts, limbs stamped with hand-shaped bruises.

  "Ghouls!" cried one guest. "Graves burst open—"

  "Rot-gas," another sneered. "This is science’s century! Likelier lycanthropes—"

  (Ulysses’ pet fiction: feral children raised by wolves.)

  Yvette, uninformed, steered theories toward gangs and fighting dogs. Faulkner countered: "Why slaughter profit-bringing harlots? These wounds… inhuman strength snapped bones. Imagine clawed things feasting under moonlight—"

  Ladies fluttered fans, feigning horror. Yet come supper, they devoured blood-rare venison with relish. Yvette’s neighbor—a baronet’s wife—gnawed meat with carnivorous vigor, ruby droplets staining her smile.

  "Truly, Albion’s steel-stomached breed," Yvette mused, retreating from her plate.

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  "Very well," she conceded inwardly. "Let them feast. I’ll nurse my French sensibilities."

  After dinner, when card games were proposed and eagerly accepted, Yvette slipped away with a detective novel, seeking a fireside nook to read undisturbed.

  Near the scullery, she found Miss Moore—Viscountess Perche’s timid companion—frozen outside the door as servants’ voices drifted out:

  “Machine lace? Why waste time washing this rubbish?”

  “Miss Moore’s, no doubt.”

  Though cheaper machine-made lace now flooded markets, servants in grand houses still sneered at it. Yvette silenced them with a cough and summoned Joseph, the overeager footman who’d carried her trunks.

  “Assist Miss Moore as you did me,” she said mildly. “I’d hate for the butler to hear about your… tips.”

  Pale-faced, Joseph obeyed. As Yvette departed, she overheard:

  “The viscountess wants her saddle polished…”

  Odd task for a companion, she mused.

  In the parlor, Viscountess Perche lounged like a pre-Raphaelite odalisque, nibbling grapes from her maid’s hand. “Not a card player, Mr. Fisher?”

  “Books suit me better.”

  Their stroll through the hedge maze took a startling turn when the viscountess pierced her disguise: “You’re Faulkner’s Chevalier, aren’t you?”

  Yvette’s flinch drew a laugh. “My nephew’s hermitic—he’s no French friends. And Veronica’s besotted with that fictional knight.”

  “Please don’t reveal it. Chevalier is an ideal. I’d feel a fraud.”

  “How chivalrous! Most men would milk that fame. My husband certainly preferred fantasy to marriage…” Bitterness edged her tale of infidelity—maids, actresses, a secret love-nest.

  “You’re lovelier than any stage siren, madame,” Yvette protested.

  “Men crave forbidden fruit. Youth. Danger.” Her sigh carried centuries of disillusionment. “Stay naive, dear boy.”

  As Yvette offered solace, the viscountess brightened. “You’ve lifted my gloom. Might we talk again?”

  “Whenever you wish.”

  The adapted version tightens dialogue, enhances atmosphere, and employs more vivid descriptors (e.g., "pre-Raphaelite odalisque") while preserving key plot points and period tone.

  The following morning, "Ironwood" organized a hunting party - though "hunting" proved far removed from Yvette's expectations of stealth and sport.

  A small army of servants rounded up game with hounds and horns, herding panicked creatures into shooting galleries. Liveried attendants stood ready with pre-loaded shotguns, turning nobles into mere trigger-pullers. At each crack of rifle-fire, spaniels bounded through bracken to retrieve fallen quarry.

  Like shooting ducks at a carnival stall, Yvette thought dryly. So much for sportsmanship. Modern gamers crave realistic simulations, while these lords reduce bloodsport to point-blank target practice.

  Come evening, their "conquests" would adorn walls as taxidermy or plates as gourmet fare. Yvette joined the riding excursion briefly, sidesaddle chafing both physically and symbolically. Though virtue meant little to her beyond social currency, stained riding habit could spark unwanted rumors.

  Returning early, she discovered Viscountess de Perche nursing a twisted ankle, her companion flustered with remedies. "Mr. Fisher, might you render assistance?" The noblewoman's dulcet tones belied the serpentine fingers caressing Yvette's collar as she was lifted effortlessly.

  "Strength belying that sylphlike frame," purred the viscountess, breath warm against Yvette's jaw. "Like some woodland spirit besting mortal brutes."

  When pressed about slaying Duran, Yvette mechanically recounted Ulysses' fabricated duel - blade clashes ending in shoulder thrust and suicidal plunge.

  "Tsk. You recount battles like tax ledgers." The noblewoman's lips brushed an earlobe. "No fire describing how you pinned your prey? Forced through defenses? Sank steel deep into quivering..."

  Yvette nearly dropped her burden.

  Depositing the viper on brocade cushions proved no refuge. Teeth caught Yvette's coattail as she turned. "You Franks! String women along like game..." The viscountess lamented with theater-worthy anguish. "Even when we spread silken nets, you dance just beyond reach."

  "Madame, I swear—"

  The sudden hiss chilled more than winter panes. "Decline me? A viscountess? Cry out now, and your precious reputation—"

  Yvette's hand flew to the nightmare-forged ring at her throat. Shadowed corridors. Unwitnessed struggles. So easy to erase this venomous rose...

  Shock burned through her at the instinctive murder calculus. When had human life become chess pieces? Each dark choice etching deeper into her soul...

  "Chose wisely, my lady." Yvette's glacial tone frosted the chamber. "Threats ill-suit survivors."

  As she gripped the door handle, brass turned under another's hand.