Immortal and the Madman (The Immortal Chronicles Book 3) by Gene Doucette

Margritte since my arrival.  We exchanged courtesies, but aside from her routine verification that I had everything I needed, we’d barely spoken.
    “Mr. Bates!” She exclaimed, as if our encounter was entirely by chance, which I doubted.  “I’m so glad I caught you!”
    I was tired and buzzy from the wine, and thinking about the naked body of maid Miranda, which I expected to get my fill of shortly.  “Evening to you, Missus,” I greeted back, my hand on the doorknob.  If I could get inside I could save myself from a lengthy chat, but Margritte moved too quickly.
    “I wanted to tell you how very happy we all are with your progress.  You seem to be very much more yourself of late than when you arrived.  Do you agree?”
    “Oh yes,” I said, and it was true.  I no longer entertained thoughts of abandoning civilization, and I hadn’t had a real panic episode in a few weeks.  I’d reached a pleasant midpoint, with two friends whose company I greatly enjoyed and all the sex I could ask for.  About the only thing that could ruin it—or so I thought at the time—was my hostess’s irrational belief that I was mere days away from asking for her youngest daughter’s hand.
    This was where I thought the conversation was leading, which was why getting away from her and safely into my room was at the forefront of my mind.  What she had to say instead did ruin everything, but not in the way anybody could have anticipated.
    “I’m so very glad.  Now, you don’t need to answer this immediately, but next week we are having a small social event.”
    “Oh!” I said, legitimately surprised.  “What sort of event?”
    For a home this large the absence of any full-on parties was actually unusual.  Margritte had guests all the time, for the day and sometimes for a night or two, but they tended to be visiting family matrons and their brood.  It was never a formal thing, so I had no obligation to converse or even extend courtesies, and as a consequence was never formally introduced. The same understanding was extended to the other two long-term guests, so far as I could tell.
    “We’re going to have a dinner party.  Our foreign friend is taking our leave, you see, and I thought it only fitting that we send him off properly.  It will be small, I promise.  A few guests, all of us, and his retinue, once they arrive.  Cornelius as well, if he can get away.”
    “I see.”
    “Now, I completely understand if the prospect is too daunting for you just now.  Your last party was eventful, I’m told.”
    I laughed.  “It was at that.  I would be happy to attend, Margritte.  Thank you for taking the time to speak to me personally.”
    “Of course!  Now I must find our dear Mr. Corrigan and see if he is up to it.”
    *   *   *
    I was going to be overdressed.
    I’d arrived at the mansion in my finest suit, which could have meant that a party was the one thing for which I had adequate clothing, except that this was a dinner meant for one’s second- or third-finest, and those were still in my place in London.  But the other option was to borrow one of John’s spares, and while his leisure clothing fit me well enough to get by, real suits are tailored to the man, and I was the wrong man. 
    The choice, then, was to look too good, or not good at all.  I went with the former.
    “You should wear that every day,” Miranda said. 
    This was the night before the party.  I was trying on the suit because it occurred to me I should make sure it still looked okay.  I wasn’t worried that I had gained or lost significant weight and therefore no longer fit into it, because my basic physique has remained effectively the same for my entire life.  The concern was that the suit had perhaps suffered a malady while being cleaned and pressed.
    “I look presentable?”  I did a slow turn.  The room had only one mirror, and it was a small one.  Miranda’s gaze was much more encompassing, and I trusted her enough to