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thereabouts. Though patience was not one of her virtues, Tessa used the time to hone her intent, to settle herself more securely into her position, and to listen. She had waited ten years, after al . She was prepared to wait a few more months.
    Tessa knew something of the households of the wel -to-do—her own circumstances had been quite cosmopolitan until the death of her father had forced her mother to return to her native Cornwal , taking with her a reluctant and much-aggrieved Tessa—
    but she was impressed by the extravagance with which Alexander Devoncroix lived. Even the scul ery girls were supplied with a change of clothing for every day of the week, and white pinafores that had to be bleached in the sun to be kept clean. He had a coal furnace in the cel ar and burned wood in every grate, even in those whose rooms were unoccupied, because, it was said, he liked a cheery, warm house free of drafts.
     
    The house itself was outfitted with every possible convenience. Gas lamps supplied lighting, from the servants' quarters to the enormous chandeliers in the entrance hal and al the way to the third-floor bal room. There were toilet facilities, with pul -chains for disposal, attached to every bedchamber. Water was pumped into the lavatory with a turn of a handle, and heated by means of a complicated boiler system in the cel ar. The marble bathing rooms were the most decadent—and fascinating—
    things Tessa had ever seen. There were laundry chutes in every bedchamber, so that guests had merely to open a drawer and deposit their soiled clothing, where it would slide directly down to the washroom and be immediately attended to by any one of five laundresses constantly on duty.
    Likewise, dumbwaiters, available with the pul of a tasseled cord, could deliver whatever a guest might desire to his quarters, where he had but to slide back a door and feast in hedonistic privacy.
    The master's wine cel ar was extensive, his hospitality renowned. Even when he was not in residence, no fewer than ten of the guest chambers were occupied. It was common knowledge among the staff that his guests were sometimes—the word was chosen careful y and always uttered delicately
    —peculiar. But no more so than was the master of the house himself.
    Alexander Devoncroix commanded both adoration and fear, unwavering loyalty and unspoken suspicion. He was, they said, a shockingly handsome young raconteur, a rake and a dissolute, a breaker of hearts and a charmer of virgins; an adventurer, a poet, a bon vivant. This was what they said aloud, with the indulgent pride a servant always feels for the qualities—be they vice or virtue—of an infamous employer, particularly if he is of a generous bent toward his underlings and most particularly if his own station in life is highly placed and enhances their own. Al of this Tessa had no doubt was true. What was whispered about him, however, was even more intriguing—and, as Tessa had particular reason to know, even more true.
    They cal ed him a devil and a god, a sorcerer and an eater of children. They al uded to strange sounds and inexplicable happenings behind closed doors, in dark gardens and in the deep woods on moonless nights. Lewd things, bizarre things, unnatural things.
    Two would leave and only one would return. The footsteps of a man would begin and the tracks of an animal would end. The bedsheets would show traces of fur, though no dogs were kept in the house. And what of the odd structure of the house itself, with its many smal hinged doors and latchless windows through which no grown man or woman could pass? They whispered the word "loup-garou."
    Shape-changer. Werewolf.
    That was why Tessa had come.
     
    She first spied him—or at least a reasonable representation—in the gal ery on the second floor of the house. There were magnificent paintings throughout the mansion, of course. The master was apparently fond of the Dutch masters; Rembrandt and Vermeer were among the most prominently