Prologue
Dublin, 1886
My dearest Miss Tetley,
Enclosed you will find the final draft of Viviana Dioli’s “The Countess’s Dark Lover,” a story within which you will no doubt find numerous additional faults. Signorina Dioli turns an indifferent profile to you, her harsh editor. I’m afraid she simply cannot find it in her cold heart to remove the balcony scene and subsequent mortal fall. Gothic romance, my dear Miss Tetley, so rarely comes to a happy end. And after all, what would be your actions when pursued by the grim monster which Warwick was revealed to be?
As for your other inquiries, rest assured I am no better or worse than when last I wrote. If I am completely honest, Lenore, I seem to be in some terrible stasis. The physicians know I am not so foolish as to hope for a cure, nor am I morbid enough to welcome my inevitable end peacefully. Part of me wishes that the sanatoriums they continue to suggest were possible, but I cannot bear the thought of leaving Father alone, even if I am ill.
So I trudge on, writing my stories, traveling to take the sea air when possible, and worrying about Father. No doubt you’ve heard of his own failing health. I know he wrote to your dear parents only last week, and I do hope he was frank. He is not well.
I have no worries about his businesses, for he has spent the past few years affixing the most competent men in positions of authority. But my own failing health, combined with his inevitable retirement, means that he does worry about the continuance of his legacy. Shaw mills have employed hundreds, but the boat works are poised to be entirely more impressive than the mills. And you know, for your father has the same honorable bent, how much the well-being of those many men and women weighs on his mind.
Would that I were a healthy son!
But alas, then I would have been forced to turn my head to business instead of literature of questionable moral value, and the world would have been robbed of Miss Dioli’s and Mister Doyle’s brilliance. (You know, of course, that I speak in false pride, for my own wit does amuse me too much.)
While I wish my cousin were of a mind to manage the businesses in good temper, I fear he is not. Neville eyes my every discreet cough with a kind of manic glee. Or is it my own morbid fascination that finds his expression so? I confess I am not impartial, having never liked the boy. I like even less the man he has become.
I do believe Father will seek to sell if his health shows no sign of improving. There are more than a few eager speculators, but he will sell only to someone who sees the boat works as he does. Not only industry, but the realization of a dream. If he could find an honorable benefactor to carry on his legacy, I believe he would happily sell.
For now, my dear Lenore, think of me and the dark depths of madness I must plumb to write this next horrible tale. I do say living in Miss Dioli’s fanciful (if morbid) mind makes your friend a far pleasanter companion for poor Mrs. Porter. While Mr. Doyle’s terrible imagination provides more pennies per word, he does take a terrible toll on the household staff. There will be no living with me, I am afraid, until this next monster has been exorcized on the page.
Wish me happy ink stains, Miss Tetley. No doubt you will see the beginnings of horror, though not the ghastly results, within the next fortnight.
Yours always,
Josephine Shaw
Chapter One
“THE MILLS AND THE BOAT works are both profitable,” Tom Dargin said. “The business is well run, and his workers even like the man. Foremen have naught to say against him.”
Tom waited as Murphy read the report Declan had drafted. Tom didn’t want to rely on the numbers alone, but the report, combined with his own discreet inquiries about how Shaw ran his businesses, had led him to believe his sire was making the right move pursuing Shaw’s boat works.
“I like all of this,” Murphy said, raising his head. “The mills and the boat works are both profitable. So why are there rumors he’s looking to sell?”
“Health,” Tom said. “That’s what some are speculating. He’s gettin’ on and his health isn’t what it was. That’s the rumor, anyway.”
Murphy frowned. “And no children?”
“A daughter,” Declan said. “Josephine Shaw. But she’s consumptive. Rarely seen out in society, not for the past five years. There’s a nephew, but they’re not close.”
“And a sick daughter means a son-in-law is hardly likely,” Murphy mused, rubbing his chin. “Has he said anything publicly?”
“No,” Tom said. “Though it seems pretty common knowledge among his foremen.”
“Beecham’s sniffing,” Declan said. “As are a few human investors.”
William Beecham, the vampire lord of Dublin, would be happy to pounce on the struggling company. They’d have to tread carefully.
“Has Shaw a manager?” Murphy asked.
“He did, but the man was hired away.” Tom tried not to let the smile touch his lips. “I believe by one of Hamilton’s works in Belfast.”
“That bloody woman,” Murphy said. “Why am I not surprised? At least it wasn’t Beecham. Buying with a manager installed would be a hell of a lot easier.”
“It would,” Tom said, “but I can see two or more of the men I talked to rising to the position if given the proper incentive. Shaw hired lads for brains, not just strong backs.”
“Smart,” Declan said. “What do you think, boss?”
Murphy tapped his pen for a moment, fiddling with the new watch fob his mate, Anne, had given him. Tom wished the woman were there that evening, but she was visiting a friend in Wicklow that week. Murphy always made up his mind more quickly when Anne was around.