Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (88 page)

Nothing.

“Tony, have you seen her since Italy?”

He blinked several times. “She . . . was ill.”

“What do you mean? How was she ill?”

A shrug.

“Tell me!” I grasped his shoulders and shook him. “
What
illness?”

His head wobbled, but he would not or could not answer.

I broke away, engulfed with sudden rage and the futile, icy emptiness of worry. How could Nora possibly be ill? I’d not suffered any sickness since my change, even that time when our whole house was consumed by a catarrh late last winter. While others took to their beds I remained strong and well. What could be the matter with her?

Suddenly I felt a presence close by and turned, startled. Warburton was out of his fireside chair and had gathered his straying attention together enough to bring it upon me in full. His mouth set, and hard as though with anger, but none of that reached his eyes, which were alight with secret amusement. The unnerving combination made me shudder, and I didn’t want him near me.

“Let me tell you something,” he whispered.

“Tell me what?” Now was I conscious about being alone in a room with a madman. Had my heart been beating it would have tried to break its way from my breast. I kept still, hoping he would not make a violent row.

Tony reached forth with his left hand, and his fingers plucked at my neck cloth. I resisted the urge to push him away, thinking it might set him off.

“Hush, now,” he said, almost seeming normal. It was the first sign of interest he’d shown in anything. “Let me see. . . .”

He was swift and had the knot open in an instant. Then he pulled the cloth down to reveal my neck. I allowed him have a close look. He smiled, twice tapping a spot under my right ear. “There. Told you. She doesn’t love
you.
Only me. Now look you upon the marks of her love.” He craned his head from one side to another to show his own bare throat above his nightshirt. “See? There and there. You
see
how she loves me. I’m the only one she wants.”

“Yes, Tony. Of course you are.”

His skin was wholly innocent of any mark or scar.

He continued smiling. “The only one. Me.”

The smile of a contented and happy man.

A man in love.

CHAPTER SIX

Elizabeth looked up from the household records book she’d been grimacing over to regard me with an equal sobriety. “Is it our new surroundings or is something else plaguing your spirits?”

“You know it’s the same trouble as before.” I’d just asked for the post, and found nothing waiting for me, not one word about or from Nora. It was too soon, of course, but the lack threw me deeper into the foul humor I’d brought home a few nights ago from Warburton’s.

“I was hoping for a change, little brother.”

“Sorry I can’t accommodate you,” I snapped, launching from my chair to stalk from Oliver’s parlor.

“Jonathan!”

I stopped just at the door, back to her. “
What?
”

“You are—”

Anticipating her, I snarled, “What? A rude and testy ass?”

“If that’s what you think of yourself, then yes. You’re going through this torture for nothing, and you’re putting the rest of us through it as well, which is hardly considerate.”

She was right; since my frustrating interview with Warburton, I’d been in the darkest of moods. Not even the move from the inn to the comforts of Oliver’s big house had lifted my blackness. Oliver noticed my distraction when greeting me earlier tonight, but received only a cool and undeserving rebuff from me when he made inquiry about it. I spoke to Elizabeth about what I’d done, briefly, so she knew something of the reason for my boorishness. She also wasn’t about to excuse it. Unfortunately, I was still held fast in its grip and was perversely loath to escape. I was full of anger with no place to vent it.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Act as though nothing’s amiss?”

“Use the mind God gave you to understand that you can’t do anything about it right now. Oliver and all his friends are doing their best. If Miss Jones is in England, they’ll find her for you.”

And if she was not in England, or lying ill and dying, or even dead? I turned to thrust these bitter, unanswerable and wholly unfair questions at Elizabeth, but never got that far. One look at her face and the unworthy words withered on my tongue. She braced in her chair as though for a storm, her expression as grim and guarded as it had ever been in the days following Norwood’s death. By that I saw the extent of my selfishness. The hot anger I’d harbored now cooled and drain away. My fists relaxed into mere hands and I tentatively raised, then dropped them.

“Forgive me. I’ve been a perfect fool. A block. A clot. A toad.”

Her mouth twitched. With amusement perhaps? “I’ll not disagree with you; you have been positively horrid. Are you quite finished?”

“With my penance?”

“With the behavior that led you to it.”

“I hope so. But what am I to do?” I repeated, wincing at the childish tone invading my voice. “To wait and wait and wait like this will turn me as mad as Warburton.”

She patiently listened as I poured out my distress for the situation, only occasionally putting forth a question to clarify a point. Most of my mind had focused upon the one truly worrisome aspect of the whole business: that Nora had fallen ill.

“What could it be?” I asked, full knowing that Elizabeth had no more answer than I’d been able to provide for myself.

“Anything,” she said. “But it seems impossible. When was the last time
you
were sick?”

“On the crossing, of course.”

“And since your change, nothing other than that. Not even a chill after that time you were buried all day in the snow. And you were the only one not abed with that catarrh last winter. ‘Not natural,’ was what poor Dr. Beldon said, so I am inclined to connect your healthful escape to your changed condition. Perhaps it’s because you don’t breathe all the time that you are less likely to succumb to the noxious vapors of illness.”

“Meaning that Nora could be just as hardy. I’ve thought and thought about it, and if that is true, then what terrible thing
could
strike her down? How much worse must it be to affect her?”

“I know but you must also consider that Mr. Warburton may have last seen Nora when they were crossing the Channel. To him she might have appeared to be poorly, if her reaction to sea travel is anything like yours. She could have also told him she was ill so as to gracefully quit his company for some reason.”

“It’s possible. But Tony’s mother said she hadn’t seen Nora since Italy.”

“There is that, but Nora could have wished to travel incognito to avoid questions on her whereabouts during the day. However, we are straying much too far into speculation. All I intended was to provide alternatives to the wild assumptions that have made you like this. Heaven knows I love you, little brother, but
not
when you’re being awful.”

“I am sorry, and I do appreciate your putting up with me. Truly I do.” God, why hadn’t I spoken to her before? Like the anger, my worries and fears were beginning to drain away. Not all of them, alas. A goodly sized block still remained impervious to Elizabeth’s logic, though it was of a size I could manage. “I’ve been such an oaf. I’m sorry for—”

She waved a hand. “Yes, you’ve been a bloody idiotic oaf to be sure. Just pledge to me that you’re back to being your own self again. And Oliver, too. The dear fellow thinks you’re angry at him for some reason.”

“I’d better go make amends. Is he home yet? Where is he?”

“Gone to his consulting room with the day’s post.”

“Right, I’ll just—”

Before I could do more than even take a step in the door’s direction, it burst open. Oliver strode in, face flushed and jaw set. He had a crumpled piece of paper in one nervous hand.

“Oliver, I’ve been uncommonly rude to you and I—”

“Oh, bother that,” he said dismissively. “You’re allowed to be peevish around here, it’s certainly my natural state.”

“It is not.”

“Well, I am peevish now and with good reason. We’re in for it, Cousins,” he announced. “Prepare yourselves for the worst.”

“What is it? The Bolyns haven’t canceled their party, have they?” We had hardly been in town long enough to know what to do with ourselves, when the festive Bolyn tribe had yesterday sent along our invitation to their annual masqued ball. It had been a bright point for me in my self-imposed gloom, for it was at one of their past events that I’d first met Nora. I had hope that she might attend the coming revel.

“No, nothing like that,” he answered.

“More war news?” I’d thought we’d left behind the conflicts of that wretched disturbance forever.

“Oh, no, it’s much worse.” He shook the paper in his hand, which I perceived to be a letter.
“Mother
has sent us a formal summons for an audience at Fonteyn House. We dare not ignore it.”

Elizabeth’s face fell, and I mirrored her reaction.

“It was an inevitability,” he pronounced with a morbid air. “She’ll want to look the both of you over and pass judgment down like Grandfather Fonteyn used to do.”

“I’m sure we can survive it,” said Elizabeth.

“God, but I wish I had your optimism, Coz.”

“Is she really that bad?”

Oliver’s mobile features gave ample evidence of his struggle to provide an accurate answer. “Yes,” he finally concluded, nearly choking.

She looked at me. I nodded a quick and unhappy agreement.

“When are we expected?” I asked.

“At two o’clock tomorrow. God, she’ll want us to stay for dinner.” He was groaning, actually groaning, at the prospect. Not without good cause, though.

I frowned, but for a somewhat different cause. “Ridiculous! I’ve other business to occupy me then and so do you. We’ll have to change the time.”

Oliver’s mouth flapped. “But we couldn’t possibly—”

“Of course we can. You are a busy physician with many important calls to make that day. I have my own errands, and Elizabeth is only just getting the house organized and requires that part of the day as much as we do to accomplish what’s needed. Why should we interrupt ourselves and all
our
important work to accommodate the whims of one disagreeable person? Good heavens, she didn’t even have the courtesy to ask first if we were even free to attend the engagement.”

Elizabeth’s eyes went a little wide, but she continued to listen, obviously interested to see what other nonsense I could spout. Full in the path of this wave, Oliver closed his mouth. His expression might well have belonged to a damned soul who had unexpectedly been offered an open door out of hell and a fast horse. All he needed was an additional push to get him moving in the right direction.

So I pushed. Lightly, though. “You’ll send ’round a note to tell her it will have to be six o’clock instead. That way we can avoid the torture of eating with her and make an early escape because of the lateness of the hour. Is she still in the habit of nodding off on the stroke of seven?” Desperation to shun anything taking place in the daylight had inspired me mightily.

“Yes, but . . . .” He crushed the paper a little more. “She’ll be angry. Horribly angry.”

“She always is,” I said with an airy wave. “When is she not angry? What of it?”

“I—I—well, that is . . . ?”

“Exactly. It’s not as though she can send you to Tyburn. You’re your own man, now. Who is
she
to dictate to you any more?”

“Well, that is . . . when you put it that way . . . .” Oliver arched one brow and squared his shoulders. “I mean, well, damnation, I
am
my own man now, aren’t I? There’s no reason to dance a jig every time she snaps her fingers, is there?”

“Not at all.”

He nodded vigorously. “Right, then. I’ll dash off a letter and inform her when to expect us.”

“Excellent!”

Behind him, Elizabeth tapped her fingertips together in silent applause for me, breaking off when Oliver wheeled around to get her approval. She folded her hands and offered one of her more radiant smiles of admiration, which was enough to send him forth to the task like a knight into battle for his lady.

“Be sure to
send
it,” I added to his departing back.

He stopped short and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. Well, yes, of course.”

“Are you ever going to talk to him about your condition?” Elizabeth asked
sotto voce
after he’d gone.

“When the time and circumstances are right. There’s not been much chance for it, y’know.”

She snorted, recalling perhaps, my bad temper getting in the way of things. “I know you’ll do it when you’re ready, but don’t let it lapse too long. It’s unfair and inconsiderate to Oliver.”

“Indeed. I’ll find the right moment, I promise.”

“Tonight?”

“Ah, no. His head will be filled with unhappy thoughts about the coming interview. Not the best of times to turn his world upside down about me. Let’s get this crisis out of the way first.”

“All right. You’ve got the wind up about her, I must say. Is there anything I should know?”

I tried my best to explain Aunt Fonteyn, knowing that anything I could recall would be inadequate to the reality. “She’s a lot like Mother, but worse.”

“Oh, dear God . . . .”

“Yes. Oliver’s perfectly right. I’m afraid we’re in for it.”

* * *

We did not ignore Oliver’s advice to prepare for the worst, but beyond fetching out and putting on our most sober clothes the following evening, there wasn’t that much to do. At least Oliver and Elizabeth could bolster themselves with brandy; I was denied that luxury. Oliver found it puzzling, but again, I urged him to pay no attention. Elizabeth, having heard dire tales about our aunt, had too much to think about to grant me her usual frown for the liberty I’d taken upon his will.

We piled into the carriage that had been sent from Fonteyn House and rode in heavy silence. I though that standing with bound hands in an open cart surrounded by jeering crowds might have been more appropriate to our mood. We arrived at our destination, however, without fanfare and much too quickly.

Fonteyn House had been designed to impress those who viewed it from without rather than to provide comfort to those living within, an architectural reflection of the family itself. The rooms were large, but cold rather than airy, for windows were few and obscured with curtains to cut the drafts. When I’d first come here four years past, I’d commented to Oliver on the general gloominess of the place, thus learning that nothing much had been changed since Grandfather Fonteyn’s death years before. The house was likely to remain so for the life of its present guardian, Elizabeth Therese Fonteyn Marling.

Once inside again after so long an absence, I saw this to be true, for nothing had been altered. I rather expected the same might be said for Aunt Fonteyn when the time came for our audience.

An ancient footman with a face more suited to grave digging than domestic service ushered us into the main hall and said that Mrs. Marling would send for us shortly.

“What’s this foolishness?” Elizabeth whispered when he’d gone.

“It’s meant to be a punishment,” said Oliver, “because I was so impertinent as to insist on changing the time of this gathering.”

“Then let us confound her and entertain ourselves. Jonathan has told me that you have an excellent knowledge of the paintings here. Would you be so kind as to share it with me?”