The Midnight Guardian by Sarah-Jane Stratford Page B

the mirror.”
    She giggled, an embarrassed girl.
    Bloody men. He knows he is no man if with his tongue he cannot win a woman, and thinks an obnoxious dollop of flattery will get the gold.
    â€œI can see you’re refined,” he went on. “You’ve probably gone to opening nights and salons and all the best concerts. And dined and danced in some of the finest places afterward, haven’t you?”
    He was wandering into jealous waters, wanting her, but wanting her wealth and privilege more, suspecting that she took it for granted. He knew the difference between an English girl and an Irish girl, and that the Irish one, for all her money and beauty, knew what prejudice was, had suffered indignities. But his well-trained arrogance trumped any innate empathy, and he was certain she didn’t know real injustice, nothing like what he and his friends and family had endured during the Weimar years.
    Mortal fool.
    Another tiny vibration in her throat settled him. He reverted to pure enjoyment of the charming creature smiling at him with such strange, sparkling eyes.
    Brigit was reaching for him now, the demon millimeters under the
skin, fangs barely starting to slip out from under her human teeth, when there was a clamor of loud voices and running feet in the corridor. A sudden shout and a tipsy young man stumbled through Kurt’s door, so that Kurt and Brigit jumped and exclaimed.
    The man and his friends paused to take in the tête-à-tête and grinned lasciviously.
    â€œSorry,” he chortled with an uncoordinated wink. He backed out and their loud laughter echoed all the way to the next car.
    Attempting to recover his aplomb, Kurt downed the last of his drink.
    â€œCan I tempt you to dinner?”
    They’d been seen together, and drunk though the young men were, she was still memorable. A new plan must be forged. Brigit forced a grin and rose, patting down the sulky demon.
    â€œConsider me tempted.”
    The dining car was crowded. They had to squeeze in next to another man, who seemed undisturbed so long as he could continue his steak in peace. But he looked up when Kurt started talking about art again.
    â€œThe trouble with the Expressionists is they have no interest in beauty. There’s no point in creating art if you’re not going to create a thing of beauty. Don’t you agree?”
    Their dinner companion cut across Brigit to respond.
    â€œIt’s been a problem with art for years. We’re blessed in the Führer, he’s clearing out all that degenerate rubbish. Foul stuff. I haven’t wanted to take the wife to a museum in years. Who would?”
    It transpired, much to Brigit’s annoyance, that the man (“Herr Eberhard, and a very great pleasure”) had taken over a Berlin gallery and was looking to purchase in Paris. No longer Kurt’s first object, Brigit was forced to play the part of the girl caught up in the important conversation of men. They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine, and Kurt smiled at her, a man who could hardly believe his luck.
    Brigit’s mind was working feverishly. It seemed certain the two men were on the same schedule, and the more they bonded, the more the hope of this meal was dashed. She ate her goulash mechanically, casting trial sniffs throughout the car for anything else likely, and wondering
how best to disentangle herself from this pretentious and insulting conversation.
    That was when she saw him. The doctor, oozing a confident chill. He ate alone. Ostensibly, he was skimming a medical journal as he lingered over chops and coffee, but she felt his sharp little eyes rising to her.
    He’s trouble. Just what I need. More trouble.
    A sudden heat swelled up inside her—the desire to rouse the demon in full and kill every man in the car. To eat no matter how much it would choke her and then go on and on and on until …
    Exactly. Until what? You’re stuck. You have a job to do. Concentrate on