Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (92 page)

Something cold began to insinuate itself in my stomach. It oozed through my guts, sending a frigid hand up to squeeze my heart.

“You think . . . ?” I had trouble recognizing my own voice, it sounded faded and lost.

Oliver stared at the table. “I think that
something
must have prompted your mother’s accusation in the first place, something in
her
life. In her past that happened to her.”

My heart seemed to empty itself, making room for the welling coldness. It spread along my limbs, numbing everything, yet bringing pain.

“And in my mother’s life as well,” he added in a whisper. “Oh, dear God. Do you think it’s true?”

I nodded. “I fear so, for it explains much.”

“God. ’Tis sick-making.”

“I know,” I whispered.

It was one thing to have the horror of incest as an abstract and untrue accusation, but quite another to be forced to face it as a ghastly probability. I’d had more than a hint of knowledge of it from some things Mother had muttered once while in the throes of a bad dream. Since then I’d made myself try to forget her words. But now Oliver and I stared at each other across the table. I had no need of a mirror; I saw my own abject dismay reflected back from his haggard face.

“But they
revere
him,” I said, making a last futile protest.

“Too much, wouldn’t you think?”

“But
why
should they?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t say, but I’ve seen dogs crawl on their bellies to lick their masters’ boots after being kicked. Perhaps the same principle applies here in some way.”

“It’s abominable.”

“I could be wrong, but growing up I heard—overheard—things from the servants. Listened to some of the adults when they thought they were alone. Didn’t understand it then, but to look back on it, after this night’s work, it makes a deal of sense to me now.”

And to me. That time I’d sneaked into Mother’s room to influence her into never speaking ill to Father again. What she’d mumbled before she’d fully wakened . . . no wonder Oliver had thrown up. I felt like doing so myself.

“Makes you see things differently, doesn’t it?” he asked in a bitter tone.

That was true enough. It seemed to cast a disfiguring shadow upon all my past. Did Father know or suspect any of this? I couldn’t recall anything that might provide an answer. We had the kind of accord between us that would not allow for such secrets, no matter how ugly, but he might have been able to hide this one. His heart was such as to want to spare his children from ever carrying such a burden.

Oliver tentatively reached for the bottle again, then changed his mind, bringing his hands together. One grasping the other. Wringing away. He became conscious of it, then laid them palms-flat upon the table to stop.

“It’s not as though any of it were our fault, y’know,” I said. “It’s something that happened a long time ago. That doesn’t make it less of a tragedy, but it’s not
our
tragedy.”

He frowned at the backs of his hands for a time, then tapped his fingers against the stained wood. “I was hoping . . . .” He took in a great breath and released it as an equally great sigh. “I was hoping that you would talk sensibly to me about this. It’s so hard being the ass all the time.”

“You’re not an ass, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, I know that, but few other people know it as well. I count myself blessed that you’re one of ’em.”

“Oliver—”

“Oh, bother it, just let me say thank you.”

“All right.” I was a bit surprised and abashed.

He steadily met my eye. “
Thank you
.”

“You’re welcome.

That achieved, his hunched posture eased and a ghost of his more cheerful old manner showed itself. “And now, my dear Coz, I should very much like to get as drunk as a lord, if not more so.”

* * *

It was an excellent idea, as far as it went, but when one is an observer rather than a participant in a drinking bout, one quickly loses a direct interest in the proceedings. It had been the same at The Oak when I’d buy for all just to be sociable, then have to either pretend to imbibe or politely refuse to join them. The men there had gotten used to my eccentricity and never failed to frequently toast my health. The difficult part was watching them get louder and happier as the evening progressed, while I remained stone sober. I missed that lack of control, the guilty euphoria of doing something that was unquestionably bad for me, of surrendering myself to the heavy-limbed comfort of the bottle.

I’d done much swilling of spirits at Cambridge with my cousin and our cronies. It was a wonder we got any studying done. Some did not. I recalled one fellow who came up for his exams in medicine full flushed with brandy. The instructors questioning him well knew it, but they’d passed him when his clever reply to a difficult inquiry set them on their heads with laughter. Ever afterward I kept his name in mind as a fellow not to go to for any doctoring no matter how dire the need.

But putting that aside, when it came down to the present I had nothing to occupy me except to watch Oliver gradually slip into a wobbling good mood, his jokes becoming less coherent, his gestures wider and more clumsy.

“You should have some,” he said for the third time over. “Do y’ a world of good.”

“Another time, thank you.”

“Bother that, you’re just thinking about the need to get me home again, but there is no need, don’t y’know. Mr. Gully takes care of that, y’ see. Lots of room for us.”

“The landlord here?”

“The very one, only he’s a bit more ’n that, ’f y’noticed anything comin’ in.” Oliver gave a wink, a ponderous one employing his whole face.

“I noticed quite a bit coming in, but they all seemed to be busy.”

“Hmph, should be someone free by now. Whad’y’ say to a bit of sport?”

“I’d say that you were beyond such pursuits for the time being.”

“
Me
? I
beg to differ on that point, Coz. ’N’ be more ’n’ pleased to prove it to you.

He staggered to the door and was out before I could quite make up my mind on the wisdom of his course. Just as I was to the point of getting up to follow, he returned, arms around two of the women from downstairs.

“Cousin Jonathan, y’ have the honor of meeting Miss Frances and Miss Jemma, who ’r’ ex’llent good friends of mine, aren’t you, girls?” With that he pinched or tickled each, causing them to scream and giggle. They were painted and powdered and dressed as gorgeously as peacocks, as fine a pair of London trollops as any man could wish for when he has the time and money. Neither of them looked too drunk for sport, I judged. Perhaps Oliver was on to something here. This was borne out when I found Jemma suddenly squirming on my knee.

“I think she likes you,” Oliver said unnecessarily.

“Doctor Owly ’ere sez yer new ’n town, ’zat true?” Jemma asked, looking me over.

“This isn’t my first visit, but I have just come from America,” I politely responded.

“That means he’s been on board ship for
months,
girls,” Oliver put in, “so watch yourselves.”

They cooed mightily over that one, and from then on the jesting got much more suggestive. Jemma made it her business to ask about American men and if they were any measure against the English and I tried my best to answer, but there comes a point when speech fails and one must fall back upon demonstration.

Again, this might have been easier had I been drunk, for Jemma was definitely past the first blush of youth to be instantly thought attractive. On the other hand, she knew her business well enough and seemed unconcerned to find that I was in no headlong hurry to conclude things. Most whores are in a hurry so they can have more customers in the least amount of time, but apparently these girls had been hired for the remainder of the evening and Oliver was a generous sort. At some point in the proceedings, Oliver and Frances disappeared, which was just as well, since Jemma and I grew increasingly more intimate in our activity. We removed ourselves to a convenient settee by one wall.

She had a solid figure under her gown, a little thick in the thighs but smooth skinned and warm. I found my interest, among other things, quickening at the sight of the treasure concealed beneath her clothes and was happy to oblige her when it came to loosening my own. My breeches were soon unbuttoned, and next I forsook the restrictions of coat and waistcoat. One was on the floor and the other wide open when I came to see that though active, Jemma was not exactly caught up in the fever of the event.

I thought of Molly Audy and her habit of saving herself lest she be too exhausted for the work of the evening and divined that Jemma was doing the same thing. Well and good for her, but I became determined to provide this English
houri
with an equal share of delight. I had my pride, after all, and derived quite a lot of pleasure from sharing my partner’s enthusiasm.

Jemma noted the change as I began to concentrate more on her likes than my own, even protesting that she was fine as she was. I said I was glad to hear it and went on regardless, hands and mouth working together over her lush body. It took persuasion on my part, but the outcome would be worth the effort. Then it was my turn to notice the change in her as she began to succumb, which caused me to be more eager. Eventually we were happily riding away.

When it was obvious that she was fast approaching her peak, and I was likewise in a state of release, I buried my corner teeth hard into her throat, hurtling us both over the edge. She was so far gone that pleasure rather than pain was her reward for this second, most unorthodox invasion of her person. She could not have been prepared for the intensity of rapture it would engender, nor the length of it. Having finally worked things up to this point I wasn’t about to abandon them after but a few seconds of fulfillment as would be the case for a normal man reaching a climax. I continued on, drawing a few drops at a time, relishing her writhings against me as much as the taste of her blood.

Here indeed was a surrender for me, to a different kind of heavy-limbed comfort, and here I intended to stay for as long as it pleased us both. I had no worries for Jemma; she seemed to be well and truly lost to it. As for myself, I knew I could continue for hours if I was careful with her.

However, I had not reckoned on Cousin Oliver walking in on us.

He was hardly quiet about it, but I was so enmeshed in what I was doing that I paid no mind when he knocked, and none at all when he pushed the door open a crack. What he found was likely a familiar sight if he came to this house with any regularity: a half dressed man and woman each well occupied, this time it being myself holding Jemma tight, passionately kissing her neck. She was atop me, her skirts covering most of us.

“I say, Coz, I forgot m’ brandy ’n’—”

I gave a start and glared up at this unwelcome intrusion. Jemma moaned at the interruption and, half swooning, reached to pull me back to her throat.

Nothing unexpected for Oliver, but that’s not what made him stop cold to stare.

There was
blood
oozing from her flesh. Unmistakable. Alarming. Blood also stained my lips. Perturbing. Repellent.

And my eyes . . . wholly suffused with blood, crimson orbs showing no trace of white, the pupils lost in the wash of what I’d fed upon.

All plainly visible to Oliver standing not two paces from us. A fearful sight to anyone, however forewarned they might be. My good cousin, alas, was not.

Oliver was as one petrified, frozen in mid-word and mid-movement. Only his gaze shifted, from me to Jemma and back again, his face gradually going from shock to gaping horror as he understood what he was seeing.

I was frozen as well, not knowing what to do or say, and so we remained for an unguessable time, until Jemma moaned another gentle complaint.

“Why’d y’ stop, luv?” she said groggily, trying to sit up.

Instinct told me that it would be best to keep her ignorant of what was to come. Tearing my gaze from Oliver, I focused entirely on her. “Hush, Jemma, hush. Go to sleep, there’s a good girl.” As my emotions rose in pitch, so did the strength of my influence. She promptly fell into an instantaneous slumber.

Oliver, still openmouthed, gave a frightened little gasp at this. “God’s mercy, man, what are you doing to her?”

I didn’t quite look at him. “She’s all right, I promise you. Now come in here and close the door. Please.”

He hesitated, then surprised me and did as requested. I got Jemma off me, laid her on the settee and hastily ordered my clothing.

Like it or not, the time of explanations was upon us, but for the life of me I just didn’t know where to begin.

Slowly, he came closer. I continued to avoid his gaze, making myself busy buttoning things. He leaned over and extended one hand toward Jemma, probing the skin close to the small wounds, studying them.

“She’s all right,” I repeated, a little desperately. I tasted her blood on my lips again and, turning from him, quickly wiped it away on my handkerchief. He came ’round to face me.

“I need to see,” Oliver said, in a strange, dark voice.

I looked up and allowed it, and if he was afraid of what he’d find, then I was also for how he might react.

As though conducting an examination on a patient, he used his thumbs to lift my upper lip, and studied my corner teeth for what seemed a long while. I felt them gradually receding to a normal length.

He backed off a step, his breath rushing in and out twice as either a sob or a laugh before he got hold of himself.

“Please, Oliver, I’m not—”

What,
I thought, a
Blutsäuger?
What could I tell him? What could I possibly say to ease his fear? There was a way around this awkwardness, of course. I could force him to acceptance. Nora had done so with me. But what was right for her was not my way, especially in this case. To try would be enormously unfair to Oliver. Dishonorable. Cruel.

“You’re like
her,”
he whispered, breaking the impossible silence.

I resisted the urge to glance at Jemma. No, he was speaking not of her but—