Page 12 of Vampire's Breath

“That’s Lady Isobel’s journal. My mother devoted a great deal of time to researching female convicts. Lady Isobel was alwaysdifferent.” Her fingers traced the edge of the journal as she looked just past me.

I nodded slowly, my nerves jangling, selecting my words with care. “Why Lady Isobel in particular? What drew your mother to her?”

Briar hesitated, her voice softening as if the admission carried more weight than she intended, especially in a country where the convict heritage was cherished. Although a convict who, in this case, many deemed insane. “She’s my ancestor,” she said simply. “She’s the reason my family is here. Her journal has been handed down through generations.”

“So you’re…” She looked so much like Lady Isobel that I didn’t need the confirmation.

“Yes.” Briar nodded. “My mother dedicated her life to studying female convicts. She identified many of them for her clients, but couldn’t find the history of Lady Isobel. And, truthfully, Lady Isobel didn’t quite fit the mold of the traditional convict.”

“How so?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, for one, she survived the journey to Australia. But she wasn’t assigned to a typical work placement when she arrived. She was assigned to the household of the Colonial Secretary of New South Wales. He was a recent widower, and she became a governess to his children because of her social standing.”

I nodded, remembering the people I had to compel and the letters I wrote to place Lady Isobel in the home of Sir Reginald Fitzwilliam. “I could see how that might happen. What about after that?”

Briar hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. “From what we can tell, they married several years later, and she lived her life peacefully. She never spoke of vampires again.”

I couldn’t help but let out a faint chuckle. “Not that you know of.”

She acknowledged the point with a light shrug. “We always thought the vampire story was just an excuse Lady Isobel made up to get away with killing the man—someone she wanted dead for reasons of her own.”

I leaned back in the chair, mulling over her words. “It would be a sensational tale that certainly could create hysteria and sway a trial.” I traced the rim of my glass, the edges of the story we discussed stirring old memories.

Briar nodded. “If it had worked, my life might be completely different. I’d have been born in England.” She paused, a wistful look crossing her face. “With all the information I wanted on my ancestors at my fingertips, no matter what kind of minor nobility they were.” She looked at the journal, placing her hand over it. “Someday,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Someday I’ll find it.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest at her words. The details hadn’t faded with time. The rage with which Lady Isobel struck down Lord Ashdowne was born out of her deep love for her husband, Lord Aldric Harrowmont, but the trial twisted her actions into tales of infidelity and jealousy. Lord Ashdowne’s faction started a misinformation campaign, fearing being hunted. Their stories destroyed the poor woman’s credibility.

“Minor nobility?” I asked as the words finally sank in. Lady Isobel Lyon Blackcairn Harrowmont Fitzwilliam was anything but minor nobility. She had married a Duke and held a barony of her own. She was a significant figure at court.

Briar smiled, her expression lighting up despite the shadows falling across her face. “My mother figured that was why she couldn’t find any further information on her. Isobel Blackcairn was listed as a murderess on the ship theBroxbouneburyin 1813, but there is nothing online about her in any of the records. She checked the National Archives, Old Bailey, and even the Irish National Archives.” Her voice dropped low. “That’s whymy mother always wanted to go to England. She believed the answers were there, waiting in the trial notes.”

I watched her for a moment, saying nothing. The past stretched between us like a gossamer thread connecting her curiosity to truths she couldn’t imagine and memories I could never forget. Lady Isobel’s story wasn’t just in that journal; it remained etched into my past, a piece of the tangled tapestry I had tried so hard to leave behind.

The distant hum of the party barely reached us here, but it seemed to grow louder in my mind. The laughter, the music, the relentless beat of human life all pressed against me like an unseen tide. Yet here, in this quiet space filled with the scent of lavender, old books, and earth, I felt the faintest pull of something I hadn’t expected: the warmth of connection, as fragile and fleeting as the flame of a single candle.

I finally broke the silence, my voice hushed. “Some histories are better left buried.”

Her gaze held mine for a long moment, her eyes crowded with unspoken questions. Then she nodded, her fingers still resting on the journal. “Sometimes, I think the past finds its way to us anyway.”

Briar

“Should we finish my order?” Lorcan lowered his glass from his lips. His brow furrowed over his darkened eyes. They were still handsome, but now stormy. All over a convict from generations ago?

Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I could hardly concentrate as I sat forward. I cleared my throat and pulled in closer to the laptop. “I’ll need your address and phone number.”

“The phone is 0491 571 804, and the address is 5 Belongil Beach.”

I keyed his information into the system. “Alright,” I said as I clicked the submit button. “It says it should be here next week, so I’ll call you when it arrives.”

Lorcan dipped his chin, pulling out his wallet. “Should I pay now?” He raised a brow, already unfurling a couple of notes.

“Cash?” A slight laugh rose in my throat. “It’s the twenty-first century. Who are you hiding from?”

His eyes danced with humor. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Heat coated my cheeks. “Sorry! It’s just something Amy and I say to each other. Can I blame the drinks for my lack of professionalism this evening?”

His lips curled at the corners, and his gaze bore into me, making my pulse race. “Just the drinks?”

---