A man of his circumstance – handsome demeanor, elevated status, inordinately fat purse – was allowed any trespass, and Bea had little doubt that if he suddenly ran his host through with a sword, Skeffington would promptly apologize for bloodying the blade.

Yet even as Beatrice tried to convince herself that her anguish varied greatly from the disappointments the beautiful widow had endured, she recognized the act as a futile attempt to elevate her own suffering to something greater. She wanted to believe her sorrow transcended ordinary misery, that it was in some way hallowed, but in reality it was just sadness, as common as dirt and as familiar as the sky.

Rather, she feared her distress had its roots in the unexpected amiability of the enterprise, the sense of camaraderie that had sprung up between them as they sat quietly by the fire in her room discussing suspects in Mr. Otley’s murder. In those moments, she’d felt known by the duke in a way she hadn’t been by anyone else, and it made her sad and unsettled to realize how quickly he would cease to know her.

I mean no offense,” he added, “but you have appalling taste in archnemeses.

Like all bores, he preferred his own thoughts and opinions to the exclusion of others.

It was baffling to her that anyone would seek out a condition that consumed so much of one’s reading time.

For centuries, vampire philosophers had argued that their treatment of humans was kinder; they took only the blood in their veins. Nonvampires took the sweat of their brow, the fire in their belly, and the joy in their heart.

All through dinner Miss Beatrice Hyde-Clare imagined tossing food at Damien Matlock, Duke of Kesgrave. The projectiles varied depending on the course – fish patties with olive paste, stuffed tomatoes, veal cutlets, poached eggs, fillets of salmon, meringues with preserves – but the impulse remained steady.

Recklessness is just stupidity pretending to be bravery. No one is fooled.

No, my love, if we miss our opportunity to break into [his] residence tonight, the consequences will be grave, for I’m convinced you would never let me forget it was my fault. Then you won’t invite me to help the next time you break into a gentleman’s apartments and I will be forced to sneak up on you whilst you are hiding in a dark corner, and your shout of alarm will alert the butler, which will cause a great ruckus involving Runners and magistrates. And that must be avoided at all costs.