Ravensclaw by Maggie MacKeever

Oh, never mind.”
    “She’s in a fankle,” explained Jamie. “Dinna fash yersel’, Miss Emily. How wid ye ken such things, bein’ unkenand lak ye are?”
    “I’m no such thing!” Emily snapped, exasperated. All eyes turned on her. Zizi, Bela, and Lilian tittered. Lady Alberta paused with her oatcake halfway to her mouth. Emily demanded, “ What ?”
    “Young Jamie said that you were unknowing,” explained Lady Alberta. “You said that you were not. We were talking about gentlemen and their preferences. You understand our astonishment.”
    Bright-eyed Zizi added, “You admitted you weren’t a virgin, miss.”
    “What’s a virgin?” murmured Bela. Lilian giggled.
    Emily ignored them, and Jamie’s gap-toothed grin. “I meant I’m not in a fankle, whatever that is. At least I think I’m not. Where did the roses come from, Isidore?”
    “You have a visitor.” The old man squinted at the calling card he held between forefinger and thumb. “A Mr. Michael Ross. Shall I send him up?”
    “You’ll bring him up and announce him properly,” Lady Alberta said sternly. “Pretend for a moment that this is a properly run household.” She snatched the book off Jamie’s tray. “We will need more tea.”
    Zizi hurried off to the kitchen. Bela and Lilian darted around the chamber, setting things to rights. The carpet was already in pristine condition, Drogo — exhibiting a fondness for oatcakes rivalling Lady Alberta’s — having gobbled up all the crumbs.
    “Jamie, wait.” Emily followed the boy to the stair. “When Mr. Ross leaves, I want you to follow him. Don’t let him see you. Then come back and tell me where he went.”
    Jamie shook his head. “I hae ma doots ye’ll be unkenand long, miss, if ye keep on lak this.”
    Did the entire household know she’d fallen asleep in Ravensclaw’s bed? “Mr. Ross may have something of mine in his possession. I mean to have it back.”
    Jamie brightened. “Shall I mak’ the dive? Pick his pockets, miss?”
    Emily was tempted. However, she had no great faith that Jamie was any more adept at picking pockets than filching candlesticks. “No. Just tell me where he goes.”
    She returned to the drawing room. Lady Alberta picked up her magazine and resumed where she’d left off . “ ‘... the tale of the living vampire, who had passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties, forced every year, by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence for the ensuing months ...’ ”
    Isidore reappeared in the doorway, announced: “Mr. Ross.” Michael entered the room, a vision of sartorial splendor in a violet-colored coat, cream-colored breeches, and gleaming leather boots. In one hand he carried a tall beaver hat and leather gloves, items he tried to give to Isidore. Flapping his hands as if to fend off flies, the old man backed away.
    Lady Alberta continued reading. “‘... the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart...’ ” Michael peered around the room, taking in every detail of his surroundings from the plaster ceiling to the perpetual almanac in its frame. Emily was not unhappy to see him so ill at ease.
    Her wits had gone wandering. She had forgotten to warn Lady Alberta that they had suddenly become kin.
    Hopefully, Lady Alberta’s faculties were in better working order. Emily said, meaningfully, “Michael, I don’t know if you have met my aunt , Lady Alberta Tait. Aunt, uh, Bertie, may I present Mr. Michael Ross.”
    “How do you do?” ‘Aunt Bertie’ shot Emily a speaking glance. “The roses are lovely, young man.”
    “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Alberta.” On the hearth, Drogo stirred. “That’s a wolf!”
    “He’s nothing of the sort. Drogo is a rare Carpathian sleuthhound.” Emily gestured toward Machka, who was crouched to pounce, her attention fixed on the tassels attached to