Kitty Steals the Show (Kitty Norville) Read Online Free PDF

were an almost solid wall of buildings. We never did encounter anything like the rolling green hills and meadows of a stereotypical English countryside, not that we could see any of it at night. I wondered if that was what Amelia was looking for.
    Eventually, we passed a sweeping, well-groomed park bounded by reaching, gnarled trees, then approached a brick wall supporting a tall iron gate. Beyond that lay a magnificent manor house—colossal, redbrick, with filigree accents carved in white granite, neo-Gothic towers and cupolas, and ornate windows opening into what seemed to be a vast main hall. How could I expect anything else from the Master of London?
    “Pretty swanky,” I said.
    “This isn’t Ned’s house,” Emma said. “Not directly, anyway. This is actually a boys’ school, Dulwich College. We’ll end up a little farther on.”
    The cab passed the impressive school and a minute later turned up the drive of a much more modest, but even more venerable and beautiful house, with a brick façade, painted accents, and warm light showing through the mullioned windows.
    “Here we are,” she said. “Fortune House.”
    The car pulled into a gated yard, letting us out before continuing on to a building that might have been a small stable in another age. Now it was the garage—same purpose, different context. Emma took us through a mudroom that was nicer than Ben’s and my whole condo, with slate tile on the floor in a checkered pattern, shelves made of some expensive polished wood, and brass fixtures. This opened into a hardwood foyer. A kitchen lay through a doorway, and a maid came toward us—an honest-to-goodness maid in a black uniform dress and apron.
    “He’s in the library waiting for you, miss,” the young woman said to Emma.
    The house must have been bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. We went from the foyer through a long hallway with a fancy carpet runner, antique sideboards and accent tables that held stunning porcelain vases, a row of paintings on the wall showing everything from hunting dogs to light-suffused cityscapes. The hallway let out into a parlor with a big fireplace, marble mantelpiece above it, more antique furniture, more paintings. Tall windows had heavy drapes drawn over them. Over the fireplace was what seemed to be a life-sized portrait of a man in late-Renaissance attire: a starched white ruff, long black coat lined with fur, a glimpse of doublet and knee-length trousers, shoes with buckles. He was tall and stately, brown hair going to gray, a full beard hiding his expression, and he looked down on us with some amount of pride. The Master, maybe? Next, Emma opened a set of heavy double doors, polished wood, simply carved, and ushered us into the library.
    I could have sat on the lush antique Persian rug and stared at the room for hours. Floor-to-ceiling shelves occupied all four walls, with scant allowance made for the door and a set of tall windows opposite. Some of the shelves appeared to slide back to reveal even more shelves. And they were all filled with books. All of them. A myriad of comfy chairs and sofas—the arms scuffed, the seats lumpy and soft—had been well used by people lounging in them, reading all those books.
    In addition, the room held display cases and curio cabinets—and yes, they contained even more books. Special books, no doubt, hermetically sealed and brought out for holidays. Many of them lay open on stands for admiring. The cases did hold a few other items—ornate daggers, a thin sword, jewelry, pocket watches, miniature portraits. That was just what I could see from the doorway. I might have squeaked in awe.
    “You seem impressed,” the man standing by the curtained window said in a rich voice, an orator’s voice.
    He wasn’t young like most vampires I’d met. His brown hair, tied back in a shoulder-length ponytail, was streaked with gray, and his beard was salt and pepper. He might have been in his sixties—he’d lived a whole