He turned back toward the dance floor and grimaced at the sight of Jane and the baron’s carefree smiles.

“I intend to have the next dance with your sister . . . and however many more after that I can,” he said. “May God strike me down dead if I allow her to be his partner twice in a row.”

Elizabeth stared at the young officer a moment, amazed by how handsome, how pure hearted, how incredibly thick he was. She looked around the room at the other men and saw none to match the lieutenant on the first two counts, and many who far surpassed him on the last.

She was supposed to be introducing herself this night, making herself known to society. Yet she felt, instead, that society was making itself known to her.

Somewhere outside lurked a menace as close to pure evil as God or Satan could possibly produce, and only a few brave souls—men like her father and Geoffrey Hawksworth—were out in the darkness to face it. Meanwhile, here were Hertfordshire’s leading lights laughing and skipping in circles under the glimmer of crystal chandeliers.

“Why are you at a ball instead of out hunting dreadfuls?” she’d asked the lieutenant. And it was a good question. For everyone.

Especially herself.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I find there’s something I’ve forgotten to attend to.”

Lt. Tindall turned to her just enough to offer a perfunctory bow. His gaze never left Jane.

As she walked from the ballroom, Elizabeth was acutely aware how her sudden departure must look. “There goes poor, perverse, ruined Elizabeth Bennet—snubbed by every man in the place, now she flees to cry her tears of humiliation alone.” And the beautiful thing about it was that she didn’t care.

“Belgrave,” she said, though the man was nowhere in sight. “Bel-grave.”

She didn’t need to say it a third time. He appeared at her side, matching her stride for stride.

“Yes, Miss Bennet?”

“There is a package in my family’s carriage. Beneath the backseat. Would you send someone out for it, please?”

“Right away, Miss.”

The servant fell away, then somehow managed to beat Elizabeth to the foyer.

He was waiting for her with the package in his hands. It was long and narrow, wrapped in rough hessian.

Elizabeth took it and cradled it and folded back the burlap covering, gazing down like the Madonna on her wrapped katana.

“Thank you, Belgrave,” she said. “I won’t be needing anything else.”

ELIZABETH HAD ONE CALL to make before she went out to find Master Hawksworth and her father and whatever dreadfuls they’d managed to find. There was someone she wished to say hello to and, depending on how things went, perhaps good-bye as well.

The guard outside the door to the attic was as quick to level a Brown Bess as Pvt. Jones, only he had even more reason to do so. Elizabeth could deduce as much from the dark stains the maids hadn’t quite managed to scrub from the floor and wall.

“Good evening,” she said, and that was enough for the soldier to lower his musket, sighing with relief. No passwords were needed to tell friend from foe in this war. Any word—that was enough.

“Evening, Miss. Here to see His Queerness, are you?”

“Dr. Keckilpenny. Yes.”

“Need an escort up?”

“No,” Elizabeth said firmly. “That’s quite all right.”

“Suit yourself. It certainly suits me. Oooo, the awful sounds his pet makes. If I had to actually see the thing . . .”

The soldier shivered, then stepped aside to let Elizabeth pass.

Halfway up the dimly lit stairwell, she began to hear some of those sounds the man had mentioned. Groaning, grunting, the clomping of heavy footfalls.

Only, when Elizabeth reached the top of the steps, she saw it wasn’t “Mr. Smith” making the noise at all.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaance,” Dr. Keckilpenny said as he spun and capered about the attic. “Dance. Dance!” He waved his arms in time to the muffled waltz filtering up through the floorboards. “Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuusic. Music. Music!”

Mr. Smith watched him from a few feet away, black drool dripping from his open mouth, arms swept back to the sides, straining against his chains.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” he said.

“No, Smithy. Muuuuuuuuuuuusic. Daaaaaaaaaaaance.”

Dr. Keckilpenny threw his gangly form into a slipshod arabesque and performed a wobbly spin that left him staring, eyes wide, at Elizabeth.

“Oh! Miss Bennet! What a wonderful surprise! And here I was just thinking of you.”

“Really? I’m honored that the mere thought of me should make you want to dance.”

Dr. Keckilpenny put on one of his sideways-crescent grins. “You’re not far off there, actually. May I tell you about it? What I was thinking, I mean?”

When Elizabeth didn’t answer straightaway, his smile sagged.

“Of course, you may,” Elizabeth said. “I need to be elsewhere tonight, but I can certainly delay my departure long enough to hear why a dignified man like yourself should wish to perform ballet for a dreadful.”

“Dignified? And here I thought we were getting to know each other so well.” The doctor held out his hands toward the chest in which Mr. Smith had been hauled up to the attic. “Please, have a trunk.”

Elizabeth walked to the chest and took a seat atop it.

Mr. Smith swayed in her direction.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“No, Mr. Smith. Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl,” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “Or, I suppose, young laaaaaaaaaaaaady.”

Mr. Smith made a sound that was part snarl, part wail and not “girl” or “lady” in any way whatsoever.

The doctor sighed.

“You see how it’s been . . . and this is Smithy at his best. Last night he was positively wild. Flinging himself at me, shrieking, yowling. One minute he was being a perfect gentleman, as zombies go, the next it was nothing but snort snarl slobber howl.”

“Was that around the time the other unmentionable got loose in the house?”

Dr. Keckilpenny tapped a long finger against his chin. “Now that you mention it, it was. Most curious. I wonder if they can sense each other’s presence. By smell, perhaps?”

“I hear you lost your guard.”

“Yeeeeesss,” the doctor drawled, still tapping away, eyes squinting up at nothing. “Pity, that. Good thing I didn’t step out for a midnight snack or I’d have been one.” He clapped his hands together and focused on Elizabeth again. “But that’s neither here nor there. I was about to tell you about Mr. Smith’s re-Anglification.”

“His what?”

“Re-Anglification! That’s what I call my process. Or plan to call it. If it works.”

Dr. Keckilpenny darted over to a dark corner of the room. On the floor was a jumble of assorted bric-a-brac, and the doctor knelt down next to it.

“Mr. Smith isn’t just a dead man, Miss Bennet. He’s a dead Englishman. And if—as we’ve discussed before—some part of his mind still survives, then this is how it might be reached, and even revived.”

Dr. Keckilpenny began grabbing dishes and holding them up to display their contents.

“Trifle. Currant scones. Cup of tea. Good! Mangled viscera? Bad.” He pointed at a small stack of books. “Shakespeare. Milton. Dr. Johnson. Good!” He reached out for a plate covered with a stained napkin, then changed his mind and simply pointed at it. “Body parts? Bad . . . when they’re not attached.” He swung his finger to a pile of framed portraits. “The king. The prime minister. The Prince Regent. Good! Sort of.” He gestured at a sealed jar in which a loaflike mass floated in brackish brine. “Brains? Bad bad bad.”

“Grrrrrrrrrrrr,” Mr. Smith said.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrr, bad,” Dr. Keckilpenny replied. “Words, good!”

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“I hope you’ll forgive the observation,” Elizabeth said. “But Mr. Smith doesn’t strike me as any more English than when we captured him.”