Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (107 page)

“I quite agree,” I said dryly.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m tired and want to have done with this.”

And more than that I wanted to feed again. Though outwardly I’d recovered in full from the murderous attack Ridley and Arthur had made upon me the previous evening, I was still mending within. My vanishings just now depleted my strength more than I cared to think about; my very bones felt hollow.

Perhaps Oliver realized something of this. He stood aside allowing me room to guide Ridley out to sit at the table where the footmen had recently taken their supper. I sat opposite him, checked on the number of lighted candles, and decided there was enough illumination for me to work by. The single one I’d used in the cell would have been insufficient for the sort of meticulous project I was about to attempt.

Finally settled—as well as unable to think of further delays—I began the dangerous process of rearranging another man’s soul.

After his initial question Oliver was content to leave me undisturbed as I cautiously worked. Whenever I had to pause and think on what to say next, I’d steal a glance at my cousin and find him watching with rapt attention. Since first learning of them he’d been highly curious about all my unnatural talents; I hoped this demonstration would content him, since I wanted it to be the last I’d ever need to make. I had no liking for forcing my influence upon another and took such a liberty with people only when commanded by dire necessity. At the worst it was a terrible and sometimes hazardous intrusion upon another and at the least even a short encounter always gave me a god-awful headache. This one would be an agony before the finish.

But for all our sakes and his, Ridley needed to forget certain events, as well as remember to abide by a new pattern of behavior in the future. Though presently under my control, he was as hearty in mind as in body, and I found it a difficult and exhausting task. I not only had to constantly maintain my hold against his strength of will, but labored hard to keep my own perilous emotions in check lest I cause him a permanent injury of mind.

You’re not to pick any more duels, Ridley, do you understand that? It’s past time that you assume more peaceful pursuits than harassing honest citizens. No more violence for you, my lad.

Light enough words, but it was the force I put behind them that counted. He blinked and winced a few times, a warning to me to ease off. I did, but damnation to the man. Because of him I’d come so close to dying . . . again.

You know well enough how to cause trouble, so you must certainly know how to avoid it, and that’s exactly what you’ll be doing from now on. If I hear about you being in any more rows . . . well, you just behave yourself or I’ll know the reason why.

Well, that was the limit; I’d run out of things to tell Ridley, which were instructions I’d already given to Arthur but requiring much less of an exertion. I leaned back in my own chair to pinch the bridge of my nose and release a small groan of sincere relief that it was finally finished. Ridley remained seated, and though his eyes were open he was deeply asleep, my last instruction to him.

“Now you’re the one who looks like a dead fish,” observed my good cousin.

“Then serve me up with some sauce. I’m ready to be carried out on a platter after all this.”

Oliver pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “No fever, but it’s clammy down here, so I can’t be sure.”

“I’m not feverish, only worn down. A little rest and some additional refreshment and I’ll be my own self again.”

“Which is something more than amazing from what you’ve told me about your adventure.”

“Less adventure than ordeal,” I grumbled, rubbing my arm. Arthur had nearly severed it with his sword last night, and though muscle and sinew were knitted up again with hardly a scar to show for the injury, it still wanted to ache. Another visit to the Fonteyn stables might ease things.

“And I want to hear the full story of it, if you would be so kind. Elizabeth’s only been able to repeat the high points you’d given her.”

But I’d told my sister all that there was to tell and said as much now to Oliver.

“That’s not the same as hearing from the source. Besides, I’m full of questions that she was unable to answer.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll ask ’em as they occur to me, so expect to be interrupted. For the moment, all I want to know is what do we do with Mr. Ridley here?”

Our guest was still blank-eyed and slack-jawed. Perhaps the experience was tiring to him as well. One could but hope. “Take him upstairs and put him with his cousin, then pack the two of ’em off as soon as Arthur’s ready to travel.”

“Tomorrow morning, whether he’s ready or not.”

That suited me well. Wearily I stood and told Ridley to do the same and follow us out of the cellar and upstairs. He did so, as docile as a sheep. Oliver, leading the way with the one candle we’d not extinguished and left behind, cast a worried look back at our charge.

“We’ll not have any more trouble with him? You’re sure?”

“Quite sure.” At least for the present. Ridley and Arthur would behave themselves for a time, but past experience told me that even the most firm suggestions would eventually erode away and be forgotten. I’d have to make a point of visiting them from time to time to strengthen what had been constructed in their minds tonight. My hope was they would eventually embrace my compelled guidance as their own desire and no longer need of my influence to keep out of trouble.

“Seems unnatural, that,” Oliver muttered.

“I readily agree.”

“It also doesn’t seem . . . well, enough, somehow.”

“In what way?”

“After all that he’s done and tried to do, just to tell him to run along and sin no more hardly seems fitting. He should be hanged.”

“Did Edmond not explain to you how unlikely an occurrence that would be?”

“In rare detail if nothing else about this business. He also said the scandal would be bad for the family, though I’m getting to the point where I think a scandal would do the lot of ’em a world of good.”

“I agree with you, except for how it would involve and affect us. I am content to put it behind me and get on to more rewarding pursuits.”

“Damn, but you almost sound like Edmond.”

“I suppose I must. After all, think how much we have in common.” I meant it as a light jest, but it didn’t come out right. Oliver looked back again, eyebrows high with shock. “I’m sorry, Coz. That was vulgar of me.”

“Think nothing of it. You’ve been ill-used of late and had a hard time of things.”

Wasn’t that the grand understatement? And not just for last night but for the last year or so of my life. Oliver’s sympathy coupled with his kind dismissal of my poor manners crushed me down as much as the weight of recent events seemed to be doing. My death, my return to life, my search for the woman who had made such a miracle possible, all pressed close, crowding out other thoughts in my brain for the next few moments. So thoroughly did they occupy me that I was genuinely surprised to find myself in the central hall of Fonteyn House with no recollection of how we’d gotten there.

“Now what?” asked Oliver, setting his candle on a table.

As an answer, I looked hard at Ridley until I was certain I had his full attention. “You are a guest of Fonteyn House and will conduct yourself in a gentle and honorable manner. The servants will see to your needs, and don’t forget to give them a decent vale when you leave tomorrow morning.”

Ridley responded with a slight nod of acknowledgment, and I cocked an eyebrow at Oliver. He regarded each of us with no small of wonder.

“He can stay the night in Arthur’s room,” I said.

Taking the suggestion, Oliver called for a servant. One of the household’s larger footmen appeared, stopping short in his tracks to give Ridley first a surprised, then wary look. He’d apparently heard tales from the men who had been on duty in the cellar. Of course, Ridley’s appearance might have had something to do with it, what with the bandaging, blood, and damage his clothes had taken from last night’s fight and this day’s incarceration. Add to that his abnormal
calmness
of manner and you had the makings of what promised to be very animated below-stairs gossip.

“Show Mr. Ridley here to his cousin’s room,” Oliver instructed the man as though nothing was or had ever been amiss. “He’ll take his supper there, and see that he’s cleaned up and has all he needs to stay the night. And be sure to have someone fetch along a large brandy for me to the blue drawing room.”

The fellow looked ready to offer a few dozen questions, but was too well trained to make the attempt. Oliver’s recently deceased mother, the imperious mistress of Fonteyn House, had not been one to encourage familiarity between servants and their betters, and her influence lingered fresh. The footman bowed and cautiously invited Ridley to follow him upstairs. Our prisoner, now our guest, went along as nice as you please without a single glance at us. Oliver breathed out a pent up sigh and let his shoulders sag. He exchanged a quick look with me; I gave him a short nod meant to reassure him that all was well and would remain so.

We watched until they reached the upper hall and turned into one of the rooms off the stairs where Arthur Tyne had been placed. More heavily concussed than Ridley and missing a goodly quantity of blood, he was slower to recover from his injuries. Bed rest and broth flavored with laudanum had been prescribed and administered, and he’d slept the day away under the watchful eye of one of the maids. The girl, her duties no longer required, soon emerged in the company of the footman and both quickly crossed our line of view to take the back way down to the kitchens. They were doubtless in a great hurry to carry the latest startling developments to the rest of the servants.

“Wonder what they’ll make of this?” I mused.

“Who knows, but we may be certain it will in no wise remotely approach the truth.”

“Mmm, then I must thank God for such a mighty favor.”

We moved along toward the blue drawing room, Oliver’s favorite lair, to await the arrival of his brandy. By now I was in sore need of a restorative as well. That hollow feeling in my bones had progressed to my muscles, and the pain in my head from the influence I’d exercised against Ridley seemed worse than before. I wanted a deep draught of blood in me and fairly soon; the dull pounding in residence behind my eyes was threatening to become a permanent condition.

“Please excuse me for a few minutes,” I said as we approached the room. “I’d like to get some air to clear my brain.”

“Go out to the stables for a drink, you mean,” he corrected. “Of course, you’ve more than earned it. Would you object if I watched?”

“Good God, why on earth would you want to?”

“As a physician I am impelled by scientific curiosity,” he stated, full of dignity.

“The same curiosity that allows you to sit through amputations?”

“Something the same as that, yes.”

I shrugged, not up to talking him out of it, and, as before when he wanted to see how I was to influence Ridley, there was no reason to deny his request. “Come along, then, let’s get it over with.”

“Such eagerness,” he remarked. “You weren’t like this that time with Miss Jemma at the Red Swan.”

“That was for pleasure, this is for nourishment. There’s a difference.”

“So you’ve said, but don’t you look forward to a nice bit of supper as much as any other man?”

“I do, but how would you feel having someone closely watching while you eat?”

“If you really mind that much—”

“I don’t, I’m just reluctant lest the process disgust you. But then if you can witness an amputation without so much as batting an eye. . . .”

Oliver went somewhat pink along his cheeks and ears. I’d caught him out, but decided against pressing him for embarrassing details. We found a maid to fetch our cloaks and wrapped against the outside chill, then ventured forth into the night.

The air was cold and clean as only a newly born winter can make it. My lungs normally worked just when I had need of breath to speak; now I made a bellows of them, flushing out the stale humors lingering from the cellars. Oliver must have felt the same rejuvenating effect, for like schoolboys we contested to see who could make the greatest dragon plume as we crunched our way over the frozen earth to the stables.

Last night’s sleet had transformed the world into a silver-trimmed garden that turned the most mundane things magical. My sensitive eyes found delight wherever I looked, a happiness that was somewhat dampened when I realized Oliver was unable to share it. After my second attempt to point out an arresting view was accompanied by his complaint that he couldn’t see a damned thing except that which was in the circle of his lantern light, I gave up and kept my appreciation for nature’s joys to myself.

My cousin’s presence was not unwelcome, though, particularly concerning this errand. In the London house that my sister, Elizabeth, and I shared with him, the servants had been carefully influenced by me to ignore my more singular customs, especially after-dark excursions to the stable. The retainers at Fonteyn House were not so prepared, making me glad of Oliver’s company as an insurance against discovery. He was the master here now, following the sudden death of his mother, and should anyone interrupt my feeding, he’d be the best man to deal with the problem.

He then demonstrated his own keen understanding about my need for privacy, for when we encountered some of the stable lads, he invented a minor household duty to take them elsewhere.

“Will you be long at this?” he murmured, watching them go.

I shook my head. “Having second thoughts?”

“No. Not trying to discourage me, are you?”

“Hardly. You’re doing a fine enough job of it on your own.”

“Am not,” he stoutly protested, eyes wide with mock indignation.

Chuckling a little, I led the way in, picking out an occupied stall. Within stood one of the estate’s huge plow horses. Placid to the point of being half asleep, the beast would hardly notice what would be done to him, and his vast body would provide far more sustenance than I could possibly take in.