Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (106 page)

“It can’t be.”

“It
is.
When he opens his eyes, you’ll find them to be as blue as your own.

Gooseflesh ran up my arms. The next few minutes were a dreadful haze as my poor brain tried to keep up with things and failed. I eventually came out of it and found myself drooping on a settee out in the hall with Edmond looming over me, telling me to pull myself together and not be such a damned fool.

“Too late for that,” I muttered, still in the throes of shock.

The Christmas party. My God, my God, my God . . . .

“I knew he wasn’t mine,” Edmond was saying. “And she wouldn’t name the father, but when I saw you that night, I understood whose whelp he was right enough. You can be sure that Aunt Fonteyn would have seen as well had she been given the chance. Clarinda was always careful to keep the boy out of her sight. Easy to do when they’re young. Must have given her quite a turn for you to come back to England.”

“But—”

“She couldn’t afford to have you around, y’know. Anyone seeing you and Richard would make the connection, but with you dead and buried, memories would soon fade, and she’d lie her head off, as always, to cover herself. Not with Aunt Fonteyn, though. The old woman was too sharp for such tricks. She’d have cut Clarinda out of the family money quick as thought. Another reason for her to die.”

“Wh-what’s to be done?” I felt as though a giant had trod on me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Was this what all men feel when fatherhood is suddenly thrust upon them?

“Done? What do you mean?”

“You can’t introduce me to the child and expect me just to walk away. I’d like to get to know him . . . if it’s all right with you.” That was the problem. Would Edmond allow even that much?

Edmond studied me, and for the first time there seemed to be a kind of sympathetic pity mixed into his normally grim expression. “You— What about the gossip?”

“I don’t give a damn about gossip. Nor do you, I think. After all this, people are going to know or guess anyway. Let them do so and be damned for all I care.”

A long silence. Then, “You’re all in, boy. Time enough to think about such things tomorrow.”

“But I—”

“Tomorrow,” he said firmly, taking my arm and helping me up. “Now get out of here, before I forget myself and pound your face into porridge for being a better man than I.”

* * *

But I could not bring myself to leave Fonteyn House. Not after this. The rapid approach of dawn was nothing to me. When the time came I’d find a dark and distant corner in one of the ancient cellars and shelter there for the duration of the short winter day. There would be bad dreams awaiting me since I’d be separated from my home soil, but I’d survived them before and would do so again. Compared to what I’d just learned, the prospect of facing a week’s worth of them hardly seemed worth notice.

After Edmond had left, I crept back into the nursery under Nanny Howard’s eye to look again at the sleeping child.

My
sleeping child. Richard.

A good name, I thought.

My God, but he was beautiful. Had my heart been beating, surely it would now be pounding fit to burst. As it was, my hands shook so much from a heady mixture of excitement, uncertainty, joy and sheer terror that I didn’t dare touch him for fear of waking him.

Questions and speculations stabbed and flickered through my brain like heat lightning, offering brief flashes of light but no illumination about the future. Edmond had not wanted to discuss it, and I could see that he was right to postpone things until the idea had fully been absorbed into my stunned mind. Certain subjects between us would have to be addressed, though, and soon.

I’d said I didn’t give a damn about the gossip, but that wasn’t entirely true. It was of no importance to me, but might one day prove to be a problem for this little innocent. It wasn’t his fault that his mother was a murdering—

Not now, Johnny-boy.

Or ever. I’d hardly endear myself to the child by expressing an honest opinion to him about his mother.

Would he . . .
like
me?

I chewed my lower lip on that one for several long minutes. How in the world would I ever tell Father?

I fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other. Good God, what would Mother—no, that didn’t bear thinking about.

I shook myself, nearly shivering from that prospect.

Well, we’d all get through it somehow, though for the moment I hadn’t the vaguest inkling of what to do besides stare at the little face that so closely resembled my own and hope for the best.

“He’s a good boy, sir,” whispered Nanny Howard from close behind me.

I gave quite a jump, but at least forbore from yelping in surprise. She couldn’t completely hide her amusement at startling me, but diplomatically pretended not to notice my discomfiture.

“A good boy, you say?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“Yes, sir. Very smart he is, too, if a bit headstrong.”

“Headstrong? I like that.”

“Indeed, sir. It complements him, when it’s not misplaced.”

“I . . . I want to know all about him. Everything.”

“Of course, I’ll be glad to tell you whatever you like. We should talk elsewhere, though.”

At this gentle hint from her we moved out into the hall, leaving the door open so she could keep an eye on her charges. I was eager to hear any scrap of information on the boy, but alas, just as she was settling herself to speak we were interrupted.

Elizabeth came hurrying toward us, brows high with alarm. “What on earth are you still doing here? You know you’ve less than an hour to get—” She stopped when she saw Nanny Howard.

“It’s all right,” I said, keeping my voice low and making hushing motions with my hands.

“But it’s late for you,” Elizabeth insisted, speaking through her teeth. God knows what Mrs. Howard thought of her behavior.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m staying here for the day.” Now I had shocked her, a portent of things to come, no doubt.

“
You’re what?
But you—?”

Before her surprise overcame her discretion, I took Elizabeth’s elbow and steered her back down the hall out of earshot of Mrs. Howard. My good sister was just starting to sputter with indignation at my action when I reined us up short and turned to face her.

The look on my face must have helped trigger that innate sympathy that sometimes occurs between siblings, where much is said when nothing is spoken.

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly dropping any protest she might have had. “Is something wrong? Has Edmond—”

“No, nothing like that. Nothing’s wrong—at least I don’t think so, but you’ll have to decide for yourself, and I hope to God that you think it’s all right, because I really need all the help I can get, especially yours, because this is—is—”

“Jonathan, you’re babbling,” she stated, giving me a severe look.

I paused, trying to think. I had so little time to do this right. Our lives were about to change forever. For better or for ill, I did not know. For the better, I prayed. That feeling of hope and cheer overcame me a moment and I grabbed Elizabeth in a bear hug, lifting her up and whirling around, once, twice, laughter beginning to bubble in me.

Most
inappropriate in a house of mourning, but I couldn’t help myself.

Elizabeth suppressed a shriek of protest and a squawk when I put her down again and, hands framing her head, planted a hearty kiss on her forehead.

She was fair gaping now. “For heaven’s sake collect yourself and tell me
what
is going on!”

And so I did.

CHAPTER ONE

LONDON, DECEMBER 1777

“You’re certain he’s all right?” asked my cousin Oliver, shifting closer in an anxious effort to better view the man seated before us. “He looks like a dead fish.”

Which was a perfectly accurate observation; however, I had no need to be reminded about the outward result of my special influence imposed upon another person. I had no need for Oliver’s interruption, either, but he’d asked to watch and at the time there seemed no reason to deny his request. Now I was having second thoughts.

“Please,” I said in a rather tight voice. “I must concentrate.”

“Oh.” His hushed tone contrite, he instantly subsided, enabling me to put forth my full attention on the silent third member of our party. Focusing my gaze hard upon the fellow’s slack face, I softly spoke into his all too vulnerable mind.

You must listen carefully to what I say. . . .

The words I whispered resonated within my own skull with no small force; their effect on this man would be profound and could be deadly.

In this moment I felt myself truly balanced on the edge of a knife. With Oliver along to witness I was steadier than if I’d been alone, and yet I was aware of the lamentable consequences should I make a mistake. A single ill-considered word on my part or a brief surge of uncontrolled rage let loose, and the man before me would likely be plunged into a madness from which he might never recover. I’d done that once before—unintentionally—and would be a liar not to admit this present circumstance offered a great temptation to repeat the action. God knows, I’d more than sufficient cause to justify such a malfeasance.

His name was Thomas Ridley, and last night he and his cousin Arthur Tyne had done their damnedest to try to murder me. For this and other near-lethal crimes they’d committed or participated in, I was informed it would be too much to expect a just retribution by means of the law; therefore I had taken upon myself the responsibility to guarantee that they would commit no further mischiefs. Arthur had already been dealt with and would soon be sent away home when he was fit enough to travel. I’d taken quite a lot of blood from him last night—purely for the purpose of survival, not revenge—and he’d been but half awake and easy to influence.

Thomas Ridley was another matter entirely.

Because he was large, strong and possessed of a most unpleasant character we’d confined him for the day in one of the more remote storage rooms in a cellar far beneath Fonteyn House, well away from any ears with no business hearing his bellowed curses. He couldn’t stay there forever—more’s the pity—and would have to be quickly dealt with before he was missed by his friends. Toadies, I should say, for he was a bully and a Mohock, and that sort never have real friends, only sycophants.

Almost as soon as I’d awakened for the evening I had to get on with things. My first sight after sunset released me from the day’s sleep was Oliver hovering over me, his long face showing no small measure of impatience. Though he was familiar with my peculiar, preternatural condition and the limits it imposed my waking life, he chided me for a sluggard and urged me to hurry. Knowing what was needed, for I’d left strict instructions concerning the management of our captives, I gave no argument and made no delay, following him up to Arthur Tyne’s room to deliver a dose of influence and instruction. Oliver had to wait outside while I worked, keeping away the curious. It would not do for the servants to gossip too much about recent events. They already had enough to discuss. Some talk was inevitable, but they did not need to get wind of my special abilities. Life was knotty enough lately.

Having quickly finished with the befuddled Arthur, I thought myself ready to deal in kind with Ridley until descending into the cellar. He’d worked himself into a truly foul temper, if one might judge anything by the coarsely direct quality of his language once he realized he had company waiting beyond his locked door. Much of his invective involved both general and specific profanities against myself and my many relatives for his treatment at our collective hands. It was fantastically ridiculous for him to take such a stand after what he’d done and had attempted to do against me and my family, but such is the frame of mind of an aggrieved bully who knows no conscience.

Coming down the narrow cellar stairs, Oliver and I dismissed the five uneasy footmen detailed to stand watch, and announced our presence to Ridley through the stout oak timbers of the door to his makeshift prison. He responded with a statement to the effect that it would be his greatest pleasure to kill us both with his bare hands prior to which he would pop our eyes out with his thumbs and make us eat them. He saw no humor in Oliver’s comment that he’d just given us an excellent reason for keeping him incarcerated until he was starved into a better disposition. Ridley’s reaction was another tirade, accompanied by a solid crashing and thumping to indicate that he’d found something in his cell with which to make an assault on the door.

“I think we should have the footmen back,” Oliver advised, casting a nervous eye at me. “We won’t be able to handle him alone, he’s far too angry for reason.”

“He’ll not be difficult for me once I’m inside.”

“That’s a proper lion’s den in there and I must remind you that your name’s Jonathan, not Daniel.”

“And I must remind you that I have a bit more than just my faith to protect me in this instance.”

“From the sound of things, you’ll need it.”

Ridley roared and smashed whatever weapon he’d found upon the door, causing it to rattle alarmingly. I hoped that his improvised club was not made of wood. For reasons unknown to me, wood presents a rare difficulty to my person when brought to bear with violence, and to it was I as susceptible to bodily harm as any ordinary man; I’d have to take care not to allow Ridley the least opening against me.

Easier said than done, Johnny-boy,
I thought, steeling myself to enter.

More out of trepidation of what was to come and to put it off just a bit longer than out of concern for Oliver, I paused to make an inquiry of him.

“You know what to expect, don’t you?”

The commotion had Oliver visibly distracted. “I expect he’ll pulverize you to jelly, then come after me.”

“He won’t be able to. I meant if you remembered what I was going to do to get inside.”

“Oh,
that
,” he said with a reawakening of enthusiasm. “Yes, you’ve mentioned it, but I’m not so sure I’ve quite taken it in.”

“I’ve never had cause before to demonstrate it for you. You’re not going to swoon or do anything silly, are you?”

“For God’s sake, how bad can it be?”

“It’s not bad, but something of a surprise if one is unprepared.”

“My dear old lad, need I remind you that my medical studies have prepared me for all sorts of shocks. I should be able to manage well enough. Once one’s witnessed a few amputations there’s little enough the world can do to shake one’s calm. Nothing like seeing a man getting his leg sawed off for putting you in a proper mood to count your blessings and to ignore most troubles life has to fling at you.” As if to give lie to his statement, Oliver jumped somewhat at Ridley’s next fit of hammering.

“Steady on, Coz.” I found myself near to smiling at his discomfiture and wondered if he was playing the ass on purpose to lighten things. Perhaps so, for beneath his outward display he was a most perceptive sort and by now had to be aware of my reluctance to proceed. As a physician, he was eager to study my condition, and I’d shared what little I knew about it. I had not informed him of the potential danger to Ridley if I failed to keep my strong emotions curbed. A hearty hatred for the man was in my heart, and some of the threats he made toward us were of the sort I would delight to visit upon him.

Oliver scowled, jerking his head in the direction of the clamor. “Well, get on with it before he has the whole house down. Do what you must, just promise you’ll come out in one piece.”

“I promise.” And with those words, I picked up one of the lighted candles left behind by the footmen and vanished.

Oliver emitted a sort of suppressed yelp, but held his ground as far as I could determine without benefit of sight. My hearing was impaired while in this bodiless state, but I could sense his presence just in front of me—or what had been my front but a moment before. Now I floated, held in place by thought alone, and by that means did I propel myself to one side, find the crack between the cellar bricks and the wooden door, and sweep down and through to become solid once more in the little room beyond.

I say little, for in comparison Thomas Ridley seemed to fill the whole of its space. I was a tall man, but he was that much taller, possessing a large, fit body heavy with muscles and full charged with anger. The remains of some bandaging circled his head; he’d suffered injury last night and taken a shallow but colorful wound. It had probably opened again because of his exertions; the blood had soaked through, and I instantly picked up the scent. His right arm had been in a sling the last time I’d seen him. The sling was gone now and his arm hung slack at his side. He still had much energy in him, for he slammed at the door again using his good arm and called us cowards and damned us thrice over. His back was to me when I caused myself to reappear.

The candle I held yet burned, and its sudden radiance drew his instant attention upon me. He whirled, one hand raised and clutching what had once been a table leg and the other shading his eyes from the brightness of the flame. We’d left him in the dark for the whole of the day lest he work some damage by having fire, and so my tiny light must have been blinding to him. Despite this, he was game for a fight, and without warning threw his improvised club at me with a guttural snarl. I wasted no time vanishing again, an action that plunged his room into total darkness once more since I still held the candle.

He must have been so lost to his emotions that it made little or no impression that I’d appeared from nowhere and instantly departed in the same manner. I’d held some hope that the surprise alone might slow him enough for me to soothe him to quiescence, but was forced to abandon it as he charged the spot where I’d been standing and tried to grab hold of me. I felt his arms passing this way and that through my invisible and incorporeal body. He, I knew, would feel nothing but an unnatural coldness in that apparently empty spot.

Now he blundered about trying to find me, cursing like a dozen sailors.

“Jonathan?” Oliver called out in a worried voice.

I could not answer in this form, nor could I count on him to be especially patient. We were as close as brothers, and his concern for me would soon cause him to fetch the footmen and come to my rescue. Even with the odds at seven to one Ridley would probably break some heads before being subdued.

I didn’t care for that prospect one whit. When Ridley had crossed again to the door in his blind search, I allowed myself to assume a degree of visibility, but not solidity. He saw the candlelight immediately as before, but this time it was pale and watery, the brass holder in the hand of a ghost, not a man. This was so startling that he finally paused long enough to take in a good view of me. I was fairly transparent yet; doubtless he could see right through me to the chill brick wall at my back, an alarming effect that more than served to gain the time I desired. In the space of a moment Ridley went from a man who looked just short of bursting a blood vessel from sheer fury to a man frozen fast with profound astonishment.

It was as close as I’d be able to come to a favorable condition for what needed to be accomplished. Quick as thought, I assumed full solidity, fixed my gaze unbreakably onto his, and told him to be still. Perhaps fed by my own heightened emotions, my order must have had more force in it than was necessary, for he seemed to turn to cold marble right then and there. An abrupt twinge of dismay shot through me, and for an instant I thought I might have killed him, but this eased when my sharp ears detected the steady thunder of his heartbeat. I sagged from the relief.

“
Jonathan?
”

“I’m fine,” I said loudly so Oliver could hear through the slab of oak. “It’s safe now. You may unlock the door.”

“Er . . . you’re sure about that? He’s not got a knife at your throat or anything?”

“All’s well, Coz, now get on with it, he’s not growing any more pleasant to look at.”

I heard the clink and rattle of brass, and the barrier between us swung hesitantly open. Oliver, his lanky frame blocking the lighted candles behind him, stood braced for trouble with a charged dueler in his hand.

“Where on earth did you get that?” I asked, staring.

“F-from my coat pocket, where d’ye think?”

“You won’t need it; Ridley’s asleep on his feet, as you can see.” Oliver narrowly examined my quarry, then reluctantly put the pistol away. “He’s under your ‘influence,’ then?”

“For the moment.”

His gaze alternated between my face and Ridley’s. “First you’re there and then you’re not, and now this, the great ugly lion tamed. You should have a conjuring show. It’s just too uncanny.”