Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (105 page)

Ridley laughed in his turn.

“Just look at her. Go ahead. Trust her. She’ll soon serve you as you’re serving me. See if she doesn’t.”

“She already
has,
Edmond. And what a marvelous fine piece she is to be sure.”

“Joke if you like, but after tonight she won’t need your help, you know. She’ll soon have what she wants, the Fonteyn money and a protector she can more easily twist ’round her finger. She won’t need you at all.”

“It’s not working, husband,” Clarinda put in. “Thomas and I understand each other too well for you to put doubts between us.”

That seemed true enough, though it had been an excellent argument.

“Give me the pistol,” she said.

“Not so close to him,” Ridley cautioned. “Don’t want him to grab it away from you, do you?”

They stepped back. Clarinda’s skirts brushed against me.

Ridley handed over the dueler, swiftly, smoothly. The barrel wavered but a quarter inch, then she fixed it on Edmond.

“Don’t hit him to kill,” he advised. “Remember he’s supposed to last long enough for swordplay afterward.”

“I know, I know. Where, then? His leg, shoulder—?”

“His belly, my dear. Will you want to put the sword in yourself, too? To finish him?”

Edmond was dead white, but held his ground. Brave man.

“Yes,” she answered. “I think I want to do that, as well.”

There were Clarinda’s feet peeking from under the hem of her gown.

Not quite within reach, but if I let go my sword and . . . .

“What will it feel like?” she wondered.

I twisted and dug my knees against the floor, reaching with both hands. Suddenly engulfed in a drift of black fabric and petticoats, I blundered heavily into her. She screeched in surprise as I tried to take hold of her legs. She kicked once and began to fall, overbalanced.

Ridley cursed and I had an impression of him starting for me until something large slammed into him. Edmond, probably. I left them to it, being engaged myself.

Clarinda kicked again, viciously, catching me on the forehead with the sharp edge of her heel. I yelped and held fast to the one leg I had. Her vast skirts hampered us both, she for movement and me for sight as I tried to sort out what was going on. She screamed Ridley’s name, fighting to break free. Her heel next caught me on the shoulder. This time I got hold of it while breathlessly damning her to perdition.

I heard violent commotion going on between Edmond and Ridley. Clarinda also seemed aware of them and abruptly ceased trying to get away from me.

Oh, my God.

Letting go her legs, I surged up and glimpsed her taking aim at Edmond’s broad back with the pistol.

“
No!
”
I cried, throwing myself bodily forward.

The explosion deafened me. Too late. Too late. In panic as much as anger, I cracked a fist against her jaw. She slumped instantly. Behind and above me I heard more commotion, grunts and thumps ending with a soft, sickening
thud.
Someone made a gagging sound, then a body fell on the floor next to me.

I pushed and turned away from Clarinda, fearful of an attack from Ridley; I need not have worried. It had been his body that had fallen.

Edmond towered over us, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath, his eyes were dark pinpoints in a white sea and not quite sane. For a second I thought his mad stare was for me, then realized it was Clarinda that held his attention. I was glad she was unconscious. What he might have done had she been awake did not bear imagining.

Neither of us moved. I was too tired, and he . . . well . . . his mind must have been in the grip of the shadows. Having been in their awful thrall myself more than once, I knew it would take time for him to break loose. I remained quiet for his sake.

Bloodsmell in the air. Edmond’s. Fresh.

There was a long tear on the outside of his left arm. The ball from Clarinda’s pistol had come that close. It might have been closer, had I not—

My corner teeth were out again.

Ignore it. Now’s not the time or place.

God, but I was hungry. Thankfully not to the point of losing control as before. I wasn’t falling over the edge of starving survival this time. I could wait a little longer.

But not long.

Edmond stalked around us to sit on Aunt Fonteyn’s defiled sarcophagus. He pressed one hand to his wound, bowing his head. There were new lines on his face, but the old ones had settled back into something resembling their previous order.

“Let’s get some help for that, shall we?” I suggested, my voice so thin and shaken I hardly knew it.

Edmond raised his gaze to stare at me. His expression rippled as the muscles beneath the skin convulsed. Not a pleasant sight, that. Even worse when I realized he was laughing. With only the slightest of changes it might also be weeping. I fell quiet again. To offer a comforting arm as I’d done for Oliver would not have been welcome in this case. Edmond shook with horrid laughter, was racked by it, sobbed with it, the sounds reverberating against the shocked walls of the mausoleum until the last of it dribbled away and he was utterly emptied.

In the thick silence that followed, I strove to remove myself from the floor and, after a bit of struggle, succeeded. Like Edmond, I half sat, half leaned on the sarcophagus. Unlike him, I had no grim mirth in me, only a vast fatigue that would have to be answered soon.

Ridley was alive, I noticed, and I was surprised by the fact. Edmond had thoroughly pulped him from what I could see of the fellow. His face was well bloodied, and there was more blood on the wall that may have come from a nasty-looking patch on one side of his shaved scalp. He’d lost his wig sometime during the battle, else it might have provided a bit of protection. Then again, perhaps not. Edmond had been terrifically incensed.

Now he appeared to have regained a measure of self-possession. He looked at his unconscious wife.

“I . . . I really thought she loved me, once upon a time,” he said softly. “Didn’t last long. But it was nice for a while.”

“I’m sorry.”

He puffed air. Almost another laugh. “You’ve no idea.”

I thought I had, but said nothing. I shut my eyes and thanked God that Oliver had not been involved, after all. I let myself feel ashamed for having believed it for even a moment. Ridley’s talk had been too vague on the point, and I’d suspected the worst. Yes. Very bad, indeed. Then there was one other thing that had been said . . . .

“Edmond?”

He grunted.

“Did Clarinda kill Aunt Fonteyn?”

His great head swung in my direction. “Why do you think that?”

“Because she reminded Ridley that she’d been busy elsewhere during the duel. It’s bothered everyone why Aunt Fonteyn had gone to the center of the maze that night, but Clarinda might have managed to get her there.”

He was quiet for a long time, head bowed, shoulders down. He took in a draught of air and let it out slowly, shuddering. “I think you’re right,” he whispered. “Clarinda was somewhat . . . nervous that night. Bright, she was. I thought it was because of the party, because she was meeting someone. Another man. Always another man. We’d long passed the point where I didn’t give a damn what she did anymore and separated at the party soon after arrival. She must have—”

“She killed Aunt Fonteyn so Oliver would inherit everything. Then we were to die tonight so she could be free to marry again. To marry the money.”

“With enough scandal involved so the family would hush the worst of it up.”

“But why kill me?” I asked.

“Eh?”

“They wanted me to die at the Masque. Both of them.” Though I had a separate quarrel with Ridley over that street brawl with him and his Mohocks, why had Clarinda wanted me dead?

“You don’t know?” He seemed bitterly amused at my ignorance. “You really don’t?

“What is it, then?”

“I’ll have to show you. At the house, once everything’s taken care of. These three can keep until we send someone for them. Come along, boy.”

Really, now. I wasn’t that green a stick. To him, perhaps; this night must have been a hundred years long to him, shut away in that awful box.

He ponderously moved toward the door. I got my cloak back from Arthur and put my swordstick together to use as a cane. Tired as I was, I needed its support just to hobble. Edmond was in better fettle and strode up the path toward the house more easily. He paused to wait for me, but I waved at him to go on ahead. As soon as he was out of sight, I veered away on a course that would take me directly to the Fonteyn stables and their red promise of swift restoration.

Afterward, of course, I took care not to show myself too lively when I made it back to the house. The cloak covered the alarming state of my blood-soaked clothing, and while Edmond roused certain members of the staff and household and gave orders, I managed to avoid drawing undue attention to myself.

Elizabeth, drawn downstairs by the commotion, was the one exception to this ploy. The instant she saw me, she knew something was wrong. The next instant she whisked me away to a room where we could have the privacy necessary to talk. That talk was both lengthy and brutally truthful. I told her all.

All that I
knew,
that is.

* * *

It was just an hour short of dawn when Edmond had sorted things to his satisfaction and Fonteyn House settled a bit.

Won’t last
, I thought, dreading the gossip to come. Not for my sake, but for Oliver’s.

He had been awakened early on but had proved too befuddled to make much sense of the business. Elizabeth stayed behind trying to coax
café noir
into him in the hope that it would help.

Clarinda recovered fast from the blow I’d dealt her. At first she’d tried to run, then endeavored to convince Edmond she’d been under duress from Ridley, then attempted to bribe the servants guarding her. Under orders from her husband she was locked into a small upper room usually reserved for storage. He kept the only key. After a time she gave up shouting her outrage to the walls and fell into sullen silence.

Ridley and Arthur, still unconscious, were being cared for by a close-mouthed doctor from the Fonteyn side of the family. He pronounced both to be concussed and not likely to wake anytime soon. He totally missed the wounds on Arthur’s neck. Just as well.

“What will you do with them?” I asked Edmond, who glared at the two as though to burn them to cinders.

“Nothing,” he rumbled.

“Nothing?”

“What would be accomplished in a court of law? They’d be let off with a five-shilling fine for mischief and advised to behave themselves in the future. Their fathers are too important in the Town for them to get what they really deserve. They didn’t actually kill us, y’know.”

“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“Yes, but since they failed, what they’ve done can be put down to the high spirits of youth. They knocked. you about and shut me in that damned box, nothing more. Pranks.”

He was right about that. For my own sake I’d had to conceal the true extent of my injury, which was now considerably better. Without such visible evidence of their intent to kill it would be nearly impossible to see justice done, at least through the courts. However, I had firm ideas of my own and planned to act upon them at the earliest opportunity. In the near future both men would have to endure a visit from me that neither would remember, but which would have a profound effect on their lives. By God, I might even make churchgoers of them.

“And Clarinda?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s mad, Cousin,” he informed me matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“Quite, quite mad. I fear she will have to be confined for the rest of her life because of it.” He fastened me with a dangerous look. “Any objections?”

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

“She did do murder,” he went on softly, “of that I’m certain. And she planned to do murder, of that we both know, but there’s no way in which it might be proven.”

“Unless she confesses,” I mused.

“Not bloody likely, and even if she should, what then? Better this than watching her dance a jig at Tyburn.”

Probably.

“No good would come of it to the family. We have to think of them,” he added.

“Oh, yes, certainly the family must be considered first.”

I half expected a sharp reproach for my sarcasm, but he only lifted his chin a bit. “Come along with me,” he said and started off without waiting to see if I’d follow.

I caught up. “Why?”

“You wanted to know why she was going to kill you. Still interested?”

I was. He went upstairs and down one of the halls, me at his heels. I worried how long this might take. Brought back to strength again by means of the horse blood I’d lately fed upon, I could still float home if pressed for time, but preferred to ride safe in a coach if possible. Before pushing myself further, I wanted a solid day’s rest on my earth.

Edmond stopped before a closed door and gently opened it. The room beyond was lighted by several candles standing in bowls of water. Many cots had been set out, each bearing a small sleeping occupant. When I saw Nanny Howard, I came to the reasonable conclusion that we were in the nursery.

“All’s quiet, Mr. Fonteyn,” she said in a low voice. I think she meant it as a warning for him not to disturb the children. She gave me a piercing stare, but I’d since borrowed some of Oliver’s clothing and was secure that I was more respectable appearing than at our last meeting.

Edmond brushed past her, picking up a candle along the way, and headed for one of the cots, pausing before it. The child lying in it was young, not more than three or four. He was very pretty, with pale clear skin and a headful of thick black hair.

“Clarinda’s second boy,” Edmond told me. “His name is Richard.”

Yes, I could see that he’d want to protect his son from the stigma of Clarinda’s crimes, but what had this to do with . . . ?

A cold fist seemed to close upon my belly, tighten its grip and twist.

“Oh, my God,” I breathed.

“Oh, Yes, by God,” Edmond growled.