Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (104 page)

He and the woman headed purposefully toward the mausoleum. Melting into the shadows within the doorway, I slipped behind the far side of the huge sarcophagus and lay flat on the floor between it and the wall. If it looked as if one of them might come ’round, then would I vanish, but not before. I was of a mind to hear their talk.

“
Arthur!
”
Ridley called impatiently for his cousin. He pushed the gate open and came in.

“Arthur!” called the woman in turn.

I recognized her voice, and the sheer surprise of it nearly made me raise up. As it was, all my skin seemed to leap from the shock. What in God’s name was Clarinda doing out here with Thomas Ridley?

“Where is he gotten to?” she demanded of him, annoyed.

“How the devil should I know?”

“Then find him. I’m freezing.”

Well-a-day. Wrapped in my cloak and in the darkness, it seemed that they’d mistaken Arthur’s body for mine. I wondered how long that would last.

“You could have stayed in the house,” Ridley pointed out.

“No. I want to see it done.”

He snorted. “You’ve already missed the best part.”

She moved closer to the Aunt Fonteyn’s sarcophagus, but not too close to Grandfather’s, thank heaven. “You’re sure he’s—”

“Arthur took care of him, you needn’t worry.”

“But he was supposed to be shot,” she said peevishly.

What?

“Too late now. I’ll just put swords in their hands and leave it at that.”

“But if it doesn’t look right . . .”

“It will, and if anyone should raise a question, you and your precious Oliver can easily hush it up.”

Oliver? My God, how was he involved in this? It was hard enough to believe that Clarinda was here and up to heaven knows what, but
Oliver?
I felt a sickening shift in my belly, ten times worse than any illness I’d ever known. Betrayal. Pale, ugly, unforgivable betrayal. I’d faced it before from Caroline Norwood, but for it to come from my good cousin, my dearest friend . . .

“Have you a candle and tinderbox?” Ridley asked her. “Good, then be useful and make some light. It’s black as Hades in here.”

“Afraid of the dark, are you?” she countered good-naturedly.

“No, but I can’t work in it—not unless it’s the right kind of work.”

“Time for that afterward, my dear. Now get you along and find that fool cousin of yours.”

With a grunt of disappointment, Ridley went out, calling Arthur’s name.

I waited with a patience I’d not been aware of possessing as she played with the tinderbox and coaxed sufficient flame from it to transfer to the candle. Its light was unsteady because of the air flowing in from the entry, but it served.

She placed the candle on one corner of the sarcophagus, then paced up and down to keep warm. When the sound of her steps indicated that she walked away from me, I boosted up. Damnation, but I was yet insidiously weak, shaking from the exertion. The look on Clarinda’s face when she turned and saw me made the effort worth it.

An instant’s surprise, an instinctive falling back and then unhappy recognition.

“Good evening Cousin,” I said calmly.

Oh, but she was clever. Her gaze swept from me to the unconscious Arthur Tyne and returned. Just that fast she divined who was really wrapped in the cloak. Her gaze next fastened on my cut sleeve. In the dim light she’d not be able to see the blood against the black cloth, but the stains had crept as far as my waistcoat and shirt.

“Why, Jonathan! What a start you gave me.” She made a step forward, one hand out as though to help. “You’re hurt,” she observed, putting a convincing tone of concern into her voice.

“But
not
dead.” My own tone let her understand I was impervious to further attempts at deception.

She let her hand drop to rest on her skirts and suppressed a shiver. She was wrapped well for the weather, but I fancied any chill she felt now was not connected to the cold. Abandoning her play-acting for a more sober demeanor, she pointed at Arthur. “What went wrong?” she asked evenly.

“Does it matter?”

She made no reply.

“Why, Clarinda?” I whispered. “Tell me
why
.”

More silence.

“Ridley I can understand, he wants revenge for the duel, but why are you involved in this? How?” I waited in vain. She pressed her sweet lips hard together. “Is he one of your lovers, then? Is he doing it for you because of that? Did he force a fight on me because of what happened with us four years past?” It sounded ludicrous even as I spoke it, but I couldn’t imagine any other reason.

A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. A singularly unpleasant smile. “You’re remarkably close to the truth, Jonathan, but are overly flattering to yourself.”

“Then why? Why are you a part of this? What have you against me?” I moved closer, fully intending to force an answer from her, but in the blink of an eye she drew a dueling pistol from the pocket of her skirt and aimed it right at my chest. I stopped hardly two paces from its muzzle. Even an inexperienced shooter could not miss at that distance, and Clarinda appeared to be well acquainted with the workings of her firearm.

“I’ve nothing against you, dear boy,” she said, “but it’s better for all concerned that you not be around Fonteyn House any longer.”

“But
why?
And how is Oliver involved? Where is he?”

“Drunk in his room where you left him, I’m sure.”

“How is he a part of this?”

She seemed startled. “He’s not. Not yet.”

Yet?
“What do you mean? Answer me!”

But she held her peace and edged toward the entrance.

There wasn’t enough light to allow me to influence her, but I had to try. “Listen to me, Clarinda. I want you to hear me and—”

Perhaps she sensed the danger, somehow. She could not have known what I was trying to do, only that it was somehow a threat. She sighted along the muzzle and fired, just like that.

My only warning. Just barely enough.

Without hesitation, I made myself fade away, and just in time. I glimpsed the explosion and roar but, thank God, did not feel the ball scorching through the space where I stood—floated. For but an instant.

A half second later and I was solid again.

Weak. I was so
weak.
Drained. Hollow. Swaying.

Clarinda watched me avidly. The powder flash in this dim chamber must have blinded her to my brief disappearance. She couldn’t see that I was untouched. She waited for me to fall.

And fall I must. I’d used myself up, pushed myself too far, more of this and I might not—

Ridley appeared at the entrance. The mate to Clarinda’s dueler was in his hand.

Damnation. Another vanishing would finish me. And if he fired, the shot might also finish me. I hadn’t the strength to handle either.

I should have gone on to the stables,
I thought, crumpling forward and letting myself gradually slip to the floor. Shutting my eyes, I held still. Waiting. Hoping.

“What the devil’s happened?” Ridley snarled. “Where did he come from?”

Clarinda’s voice was high with the strain. “See if he’s dead. Go on!”

“You—”

“Go on!’

Cautiously Ridley stepped past her and knelt by me, putting a hand on my heart. “Done for,” he pronounced.

Thank God for that. Now if they’d only
leave.

“You’re sure?” My, but wasn’t she anxious.

“He’s gone, I say. What happened?”

Excited as she was, she managed to explain everything to him in a few short rushing words. He seemed caught between admiration for her nerve at being able to kill a man and anger that he’d been cheated of the task himself.

The winter cold seeped up from the marble floor and into my bones. I’d be shivering soon, giving myself away.
No, Johnny-boy, that would be a bad thing to do. Let them get on with their work, get out and then you can stagger to the stables and fill yourself

“Why’d you have to shoot him?” Ridley complained. “Now how will it look? A sword cut
and
a
pistol ball in one—”

“It will seem as though they’d fired, wounded each other, then finished themselves off with swords.”

“But it won’t look—”

“I can’t help that! We use what we have and make the best of it. Now see to Arthur. Quickly.”

Ridley abandoned me to look at his cousin. Arthur was still with the living, which I found to be something of a displeasure. By now I’d had my fill of the lot of them and whatever purpose they were trying to achieve.

“Wake him,” said Clarinda.

But alas, Arthur remained unconscious.

“What’d the bastard
do
to him?” Ridley wanted to know, but I gave no answer, having cares of my own.

“Never mind him, then,” she said. “We’ll manage without.”

“The slab’s too heavy. It was all we could do to move it earlier. I need Arthur to—”

“Who’s not going to wake until spring. I’ll help you. Just put your back into it.”

With ill-grace and grumbling, he acquiesced. I cracked an eye open to see what they were about.

Using his good arm and with Clarinda’s assistance, Ridley dragged Arthur’s body from the lid of the sarcophagus and away to one side. He groaned and complained and favored his wound, but Clarinda had little sympathy.

“You should have killed Jonathan outright at that bloody Masque, not played with him,” she reproved, catching her breath.

“I thought I had. I
know
I
—
”

“Yes, yes, you ran him through, so you’ve told me.”

“Right through, and dropped him.”

“Except that he got up again to return the favor.”

“Then you should have fought him yourself.”

“I was busy elsewhere.”

He gave a mirthless laugh.

“Come along,” she said. “I can’t be out here all night.”

He sighed. “Very well, take that end and push. I’ll pull on the corner.”

She did as directed, placing her hands against the edge of the slab covering the sarcophagus. After a bit of Herculean effort on their part, the thing budged. I saw then that the lid was divided into two great squares and that they were trying to move one of them. What devilry was this? Were they planning to hide me in
there?

They paused, panting awhile, then tried again, shifting it even more. Perhaps while they were busy with it, I could creep out, lose myself in the woods . . . .

Someone
inside
the sarcophagus cursed.

Clarinda and Ridley dodged back as a hand shot up from the opening they’d made. Ridley clawed hastily for his dueler and held it ready.

“Awake are you?” he said. “Out, then, and save us the trouble.”

My hackles went up. A man began to emerge, a large man, moving slowly as though injured. He sucked air in and all but sobbed it out again. His mourning clothes were much disarrayed, and there was blood on his hands where he’d beaten them against the confines of his ghastly prison.

Edmond Fonteyn.

“Damn you to the pit,” he grated at them. His eyes blazed hellfire. I could feel the hate, the sheer
fury
rolling from him, filling the chamber.

“We’ll see you there first,” said Ridley, showing his teeth. “All the way, now, there’s a good fellow.”

Edmond painfully struggled to haul his big frame free of the small opening. Clarinda watched from a safe distance behind Ridley. Both were between me and the door.

Finally out, Edmond leaned on the great stone box, exhausted. He first saw Arthur, then me. I made my gaze fix sightless on nothing at all. “My God. How many more, Clarinda?” he asked.

“Just you, husband,” she softly answered.

“And you think you’ll not swing for it?”

“I know I won’t. It will seem as though you and Jonathan had your own private duel and killed each other.” She smiled. “Over me, of course.”

“No one will believe that.”

“I’ll make certain they do, never you worry. You’ve already helped things along. All that glaring at Jonathan—anyone with eyes could see how you despised him.”

“And then what? You’ll marry that fool?” He nodded at Ridley, whose eyes narrowed at the name-calling.

“No . . . not yet, anyway. But dear Cousin Oliver, now—”

“
Oliver?
”
Edmond laughed.

“He likes me well enough, and I’ll see to it that he has every chance to comfort this grieving widow. And I shall be most understanding about his own grief.”

“Oh, yes, you’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“Excellent good, Edmond.” She smirked. “Well do you know, yourself.”

He started toward her, but Ridley told him to be still, using the pistol to enforce his direction. “Let’s finish this, Clarinda,” he said. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

“All right, but I want to put things properly in order. Where are the swords?”

“There.” Ridley indicated the end of the sarcophagus where I lay. She glided over, picking up the sword I’d found earlier. “Where’s the other?”

“In Barrett’s cane. There’s a trick catch—”

She bent and got it. “Oh, one of those things. How do I . . . yes, there it is.” She drew the blade free, discarding the stick. She placed the blade on the floor near my hand, then put her empty pistol next to it.

“Come on,” Ridley urged.

“Never you mind me, just make sure you hit Edmond properly.”

“Do
you
want to do it?” he asked, exasperated.

She gasped a little. It sounded like a laugh. “Yes, I do.”

“You’ve the devil in you, woman, and no mistake.”

“Sure you want to marry her later?” Edmond queried. “I assume that’s the final plan to all of this. First she marries Oliver, then she inherits his money. How do you plan to kill
him
, hey?”

I shifted my gaze a bit. None paid attention to me. The hilt of my sword was but inches from my hand. I moved enough to close my fingers around it.

Now what, Johnny-boy. Charge Ridley, waving and yelling and hope he misses?

Possibly. If I could just stand up.

Edmond continued. “Will you arrange another duel? That is, if she doesn’t kill you to keep you quiet about this night’s work.”