Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (94 page)

“Did you hear anything?” she asked, her brow puckering.

“Barely.” The response sounded vaguely like an invitation. I pushed the door open and peered in, making room for Elizabeth.

“Good heavens,” she said, staring in astonishment at a flood of disorder littering the floor. Books, papers, clothing of all sizes and colors and even toys were spread into every corner, leaving no doubt as to what had once been in the boxes, which now gaped empty. Cross-legged, Oliver sat in the middle of it all, a carved wooden horse in one hand, a child’s chapbook in the other. He looked up at us, his eyes rather bleary and lost.

“Hallo. Pardon the mess,” he said in a faint, tired voice.

“What is all this?” Elizabeth lifted her skirts and picked her way into the room.

“Mo—” He swallowed with difficulty. “Mother sent it. It’s another way of completely cutting me off, I think. If she can’t stop the money, then. . . .”

“These are your things?”

“Every blasted one of them. All of it. Clothes I outgrew that weren’t passed on to others, letters, even the prizes I won at school. Here it is. My whole life. She’s sent the lot of it away for good, as though she wants no reminder of me under her roof.” He spoke unevenly, and his eyes were red. He’d been crying, I was sure. “She could have tossed it away or burned it, but then I wouldn’t have known. She wanted me to know.”

“Dear God,” I said. The spite of it went right to my heart. “How could she do such a thing?”

“When it comes to cruelty, there’s little with which she’s unacquainted. I’d be wondering what it’s about except for a note from my old nurse. She’s working for Cousin Clarinda now, but Mother sent for Nanny Howard and told her to pack everything of mine up and send it over with no explanation. Nanny couldn’t bear to leave it at that and wrote to tell me what little she knew. Of course they’ve all heard about the falling out, but nothing of the details.”

We had heard as much via cautious missives from other relations who were curious over what had happened. Oliver only told them that he’d had enough of his mother’s nonsense and left it at that. Aunt Fonteyn, skirting the truth and wholly leaving out her foul accusations against myself and Elizabeth, maintained that Oliver was a fool and being led more deeply into foolishness by his wild colonial cousin. She would forgive her son once he came to his senses. Of course she made no mention of just what foolishness was going on, so most concluded that it was our usual drinking and whoring that had so offended her. Compared to her mad delusion, the weight of those sins was quite acceptable to bear.

He carefully put the faded chapbook down. “I suppose I should be glad not to have lost it all. I hadn’t even thought of the stuff for ages—I might not have even missed it—but to have it back again in this way . . . something of a shock, that.”

“Oh, poor Oliver,” said Elizabeth. She gamely, and carefully, made the hazardous trek across the floor and knelt down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder. Elizabeth knew about the speculations Oliver and I had made to each other at The Red Swan by now and so had an understanding of the depth of the pain he was going through.

“Yes, poor me. She’s a wretched mother, but the only one I’ve got. It’s—it’s so damnable to think she hates me this much.”

“She hates herself, that’s why she acts as she does. Like a wounded animal lashing out.”

“And wounding others in turn. Well, this is it, I should think. She’s got nothing else to fling at me, not unless she changes her mind about the inheritance money. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“But you went by the solicitors, didn’t you?” she asked, glancing at me. I winked, confident that my influence upon Aunt Fonteyn yet held strong.

“All they would tell me was that she’d not sent for them. She could, though, at any time.”

“It’s very difficult to alter a will,” I said. “Especially one that’s been in effect for so long without contest. It’s also rather public, and we know she’d be extremely reluctant to carry things that far. Too much like a scandal, y’know. Besides, I can always go back, if necessary, and—”

Elizabeth shot me a warning look.

“And, well, she just won’t do anything. We’ll get our money every quarter, as usual. We’ve no need to worry.”

“I suppose not.” He sighed. “You know, if it hadn’t been for the note Nanny Howard put in, I’d have thought Mother had sent it today on purpose just to spoil the party for me.”

“I hope she hasn’t. Has she?”

“I don’t think so, but I am unsettled.”

“What you want is your tea.” Elizabeth stood and put her hand out to help him up. He accomplished this with considerable groaning about pins and needles, for his legs had gone to sleep. With her to lean on, he limped from the room’s chaos and into the hall.

“I’ll have the new maid sort things for you,” she said, patting his arm as she led him into the parlor. He seemed to quite enjoy the attention. “That is, if you don’t mind—”

“Not a bit of it. She can pack the lot up again and put it in the attic where it belongs. The oddest thing is that it was rather fun seeing my old stuff again. That little wood horse was my favorite toy once upon a time. I played and played with it until the paint was worn off, but by then I was learning to ride real ones so it was all right.”

Elizabeth rang the bell for tea and encouraged him to talk about himself. Being as vulnerable as any to another’s interest in the subject of oneself, he complied, not knowing that it was her way of cheering him. By the time they’d finished their light meal, talk had turned to the upcoming party.

“I shall have to begin dressing soon if we are to be fashionably late,” she said, with a glance at the mantel clock.

“I must say that I’m looking forward to escorting a pirate queen once again,” I put in. “You’re in for a treat, Oliver. She was quite the spitfire when she was ‘Scarlet Bess, Scourge of the Indies.’ ”

“The whole gathering at the Bolyn house is in for a treat,” he said. “Think we’ll frighten anyone as her ‘Cutthroat Captains of the Coast’?”

“We shall certainly try.”

The problem of what to costume ourselves in had been much debated until Elizabeth suggested a recreation of our favorite childhood game of playing pirates. Oliver had enthusiastically fallen in with it, asserting that the three of us together would make a wonderful and memorable entrance to the Masque. Elizabeth, having since become fast friends with our future hostess, promptly took herself off to Charlotte Bolyn’s highly recommended dressmaker, while Oliver and I sought help from his tailor. Colors were agreed upon, fabrics and laces chosen, and a hasty construction was begun. I’d asked Jericho if he wanted to join us, reenacting his role as the “Ebon Shark of Tortuga,” but he’d begged to be excused from the honor. No doubt his much-valued dignity would have suffered.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to come?” I asked him one last time as he helped me to dress. “Other people are bringing their servants. We could yet improvise something for you. I heard that Lady Musgrave was going as an Arab princess and was bringing her maid as her, uh, maid, done up in gold ropes, feathers, and a long silk scarf.”

“Thank you, no, sir. I should prefer an evening to organize the new staff. There are also the contents of Mr. Oliver’s consulting room to put in order. The new girl is in something of a state about the task and will need help with everything. No, sir, I am really quite sure. Now hold still that I may apply your eye patch. . . .”

Obediently I held still.

“Now the mask. . . .” He tied it firmly in place, concealing me from forehead to nose.

“How do I look?” I asked anxiously.

“Most formidable, sir. But the eye patch is hidden now.” He frowned over it.

“I can’t see a damned thing. This patch throws off the eyeholes on the mask. Don’t know why the maker sent both.”

“Perhaps to give you a choice. Do you wish the patch removed or the mask?”

“The patch. I’ve been anticipating this gathering too much to end up missing half of it by keeping one eye shut.”

He adjusted things. Sans patch, with the mask properly in place, I was able to see excellently and said so. A pity I could not provide myself the satisfaction of admiring the final results in the mirror, for it seemed a superior costume. Though the tailor’s idea of pirate clothing was certain to be lacking in accuracy, I felt I cut a dashing figure in my blood-red coat, gold satin cloak, and sinister black velvet mask. We debated whether or not I should powder my hair, but determined that a rough-and-tumble pirate on the run from the king’s navy would not have time for formalities of dress. Once the wide baldric was secured over one shoulder and my cutlass sheathed, Jericho finished it off by presenting me with a hat matching the coat’s color, lavishly trimmed with stiff gold lace.

“Have a very good time, Mr. Jonathan. You won’t forget to keep track of the hour?”

The Bolyn’s Masque would not conclude itself until well into the next morning. “I shall be home before dawn. Elizabeth will see to it. Should anything delay me I will go to ground in a safe place.”

That garnered me a look, for he understood that to refer to my finding Nora Jones at this event. If so, then I might not be back at all for the day.

“I promise I shall be perfectly fine,” I said. “This is London. There are no rampaging rebels or Hessians to trouble us here.”

Reassured, he finally gave me leave to go.

I’d purposely failed to mention the rampaging Mohocks, ruffians, thieves, pimps, and ordinary mischief-making drunkards that nightly roamed the streets of London.

CHAPTER TEN

Oliver’s assessment of our reception had been conservative. The three of us sweeping into the entry caused an excited stir in the crowd that had already arrived. We stood in triumph in the center of the foyer so everyone got a lengthy viewing, then as one drew our cutlasses and made a flourish. Having practiced earlier we were quite the impressive sight. On either side of Elizabeth, Oliver and I bowed in salute to her as the belle of all lady pirates, and she favored us with a curtsy in return, then we three gave similar honor to our hosts. There was a burst of applause from all.

Though we were collectively dazzling in our black, red and gold colors, Elizabeth was the best of our turnout. She’d found some striking crimson powder from an unknown source and used it for dressing her hair, making a fiery difference between herself and the other ladies. Woven into her coiffure were a number of gold and black ribbons long enough to trail down to her shoulders, giving her a most daring air. Her gown—and I was thinking as her protective brother in this—was short enough to reveal her ankles to a shocking extent, had they not been modestly encased in high riding boots. The rest of her costume was a wonder of gold lace and rustling red satin. Even her mask was trimmed with lace, the gold showing off well against the black velvet.

Oliver’s costume was identical to mine, but with the colors reversed, giving him a gold coat and a red cloak, and he looked most handsome in them. A few people recognized him, though; his long chin, left visible below the half-mask, was unmistakable. With his identity discovered, our own was also made known, but only to those who had already met us and could guess that we would be with our cousin.

Charlotte Bolyn immediately came over to give welcome and proclaim her pleasure at the success of our apparel. She was very fetching herself as the Queen of Hearts and dragged her brother Brinsley over, who was dressed as the Knave of Spades. We saw their parents were done up as the Queen of Diamonds and King of Clubs. Theirs was an extended clan, so many of the uncles, aunts and cousins also wore costumes with the same theme. Someone in the crowd called out that all the reds and blacks together were too much for his bewildered eyes, and Brinsley grinned and waved his mock sword at him in amusement.

“He may have an idea in that,” said Oliver. “Think we should break things up a bit?”

“Refreshments are over there,” Brinsley laconically informed him, indicating a large table well-supplied with wine and spirits.

“Heavens, man, are you a playing card or a reader of minds?”

Oliver excused himself, Brinsley asked Elizabeth if she would honor him with the next dance and Charlotte saw to the next group of guests coming in. This left me adrift, but that suited my temper, for I was well engaged with study of the mob, trying to guess who this or that one was under the rainbow of disguises. I wandered from room to room and into the garden, my gaze running over each woman of a specific height and figure.

Of course I was looking for Nora.

I hoped that she might, just might, be here at this, the party of the season. She had been most fond of the Bolyns, never failing to come to any of their gatherings. Brinsley had once been one of her courtiers. I had already asked the Bolyns, particularly Brinsley, if they had any idea of Nora’s whereabouts, but got only the speculation that she’d gone to Italy, or so their friends the Warburtons had told them.

Several times during my search my dormant heart gave a sharp upward leap as I spied women who matched my memory of Nora. But closer investigation proved me mistaken. As the evening passed, I gradually turned frustrated and morose from the constant disappointments. The worst part was going through the garden when I braved the twistings of its shrubbery maze, for it was here that we’d shared our first kisses. It was here that I had once and for all time fallen in love. Now this magical place with its paper lanterns shedding their fairy lights over other couples seemed a bleak and blasted vanity to my disappointed soul.

I doggedly found the center of the thing, which was a large courtyard decorated by marble statues set ’round a marble fountain. Its water had been drained from the supply pipes, lest the winter weather freeze and crack them. Without the splashing from the fountain, this was now a strangely desolate spot. No one was here at the moment, probably because of the wind. Outside the shelter of the maze’s living walls, it was most chill, an element that would drive sightseers to more temperate areas. The cold air was tolerable to me, but not when combined with so fresh a breeze. The ends of my light satin cloak snapped like flags, and a gust threatened to send my hat flying. I gladly quit the empty place and hurried back to the house.

The noise, costumes and lights dazzled me, but there was really no quiet retreat to hide in. Not that I wanted to conceal myself, but I did long for a few moments of solitude. None were to be had, though. A group of the younger men, friends from my university days, recognized and hailed me. It proved to be something of a blessing since they took my mind off my inner sorrows for a time.

As ever, the talk was on politics, and I was closely questioned about the war. There was dismay amongst them about General Burgoyne’s unfortunate surrender at Saratoga. The first dispatches of the disaster had arrived that week, and though the news was supposed to remain secret, it had escaped, causing no end of speculation on how England might recover her honor from such a setback.

“Mind you, the Frenchies will start pouring themselves across the sea after this,” said a short Harlequin. “Once they’re in we’ll be set for a real war right here and now. We won’t have to go to America to fight, just sail across the Channel.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” opined another, taller Harlequin.

“They would, sir. We gave them a thrashing the last time about Canada and they’re thirsty for revenge. You mark me. You can’t trust any of ’em, not a one.”

This reminded me of the things Father had said on my last night at home. It had been only a couple of weeks since I’d seen him, at least how I reckoned the time in light of my sea-going hibernation, and just then I missed him terribly. How he would have relished this. I had to leave or make a fool of myself.

“But you’re a fool already, Johnny-boy,” I muttered. To be at so magnificent a celebration and in such a dark mood was ridiculous. I was here for distraction from my woes, to sample and enjoy the myriad delights whirling and laughing about me, not to impersonate a waker at a funeral.

As if to help draw me out of the depths, sprightly music started up nearby, drowning out nearby conversations. I followed the sounds to the great ballroom, where the dancers were gathered to indulge in festive exercise. The combinations of partners were astonishing and amusing as I spied a lion dancing with Boedicia and a Roman soldier bowing over the hand of a fantastical Indian maiden. One lady’s costume, what there was of it, caught my eye for some goodly time, for the short skirt was so transparent one could see the supporting panniers, not to mention her shapely legs and the flash of the silver garters holding up her stockings. Her silver mask covered too much of her face for me to readily identify her, but though arresting to the eye, she was not Nora, and that was all that mattered to me.

The only thing to distract from her was a fellow in deep black stalking past holding a skull. His Hamlet might have been more credible had he not been drunk and trying to get the skull to share a sip from his glass. Still, he seemed to be having a fine time providing entertainment for others. He also reminded me that I had not yet bought any plays to send to Cousin Anne as I’d promised. Tomorrow I’d see about making an expedition to Paternoster Row and explore its book stalls. Surely some of them would still be open after dark.

Familiar laughter, slightly breathless, came to me over the music and Elizabeth danced past, partnered by an energetic big fellow in a long Russian coat and tall fur hat. I paused, astonished, for she’d not been so genuinely merry for months. How delightful to see her partake of light pleasures again. For a time I feared her too wounded from her false husband to ever raise a smile.

The man grinned back from behind a vast false chin beard. For all that covering, he seemed familiar. Probably one of my old schoolmates. If so, then I’d stay handy to make sure he behaved himself.

“Enjoying everything, Coz?” asked Oliver, who suddenly bumped into me from pushing his way through the press at the edge of the dancing. “I am. I can see that you are, too.”

He had a wineglass in hand. Not his first, to judge by his flushed face and wandering eye. “Indeed, indeed. Having a marvelous good time in spite of the old hag.”

“What do you mean?” Now did I notice a decided stiffness in his manner, like a bristling cat ready to bolt from a dog pack.

He jerked his head back the way he’d come. “Mother’s here, don’t you know. Saw her in one of the rooms with some of her cronies, the lot of ’em passing dire judgments against every pretty girl who happens to walk through. She’s not in costume, just has a mask on a stick to hide behind, like the others. Ask me and I tell you I think they need ‘em. Nothing like a bit of papier-mache and paint to improve their sour old faces, the harpies.
Hic
! ’Scuse me, I’m sure.”

“It doesn’t seem to have soured you, though.”

“Not a bit of it. I don’t care, I really don’t. In fact, I made a point to pretend to stagger right through the room so she could see that her castoff son is alive, well and having a devil of a good time for himself.”

“You think that was wise?”

“ ’Course not, but then I’m too jolly tonight for wisdom. Besides, all her friends saw me, too. Embarrassed her to no end, especially when I gave such a loud hail to Cousins Clarinda and Edmond.
She
seemed pleased, but he was a bit put off. Probably bad for him to be seen all chums with a rotter like m’self, don’t you know.”

“My God, they’re here, too?”

“I just said so, din’ I? Amazing, ain’t it, that Clarinda got Edmond-the-stick out of the house for this. He was even in costume, a Harlequin, no less. Should say more, rather. There must be a dozen of ’em drifting around here tonight. Just shows he hasn’t much imagination. Shoddy, too. Looked as if it’d been made for someone else and he inherited it. Clarinda is very jaunty, though. Came as a Gypsy. You should see her. Most lively!”

No doubt, I thought, looking around but noticing no Gypsies, lively or otherwise, and feeling absurdly thankful about it. Though my one encounter with her was enchanting, I had no desire to try for a second, particularly in a strange house with her husband lurking about. Edmond seemed the jealous type, or so I’d convinced myself from the single sinister look he’d shot me across the dim hallway of Fonteyn House. It had stuck a chord of guilt in my soul, and a deep intuition told me that he knew something had once been afoot between myself and his wife. I doubted any assurance from me that there would be no repetition of the event would improve his humor.

The dance ended and the couples bowed to one another. A different fellow came to claim Elizabeth’s attention, smaller than the Russian, but not lacking in verve. He was clothed in an ordinary blue coat with some sort of rough and ready turban on his head, apparently not interested in attempting a real Turkish costume.

“Hallo,” I said, giving Oliver a nudge. “Is that Lord Harvey trying to partner Elizabeth for the next one?”

He gave a wobbly stare. “I think so. No one else has such spindles for legs that I know of.”

“Did he ever take care of his creditors?”

“No, had to fly the country to avoid ’em. Heard he got into a card game in France, won a fortune, and returned in triumph to pay off everything. Still, I understand he’s not given up looking for a rich wife. Bad luck for Elizabeth if he—but no . . . she’s too sharp for him, and after that bad business she’s been through, she won’t be impressed by a title.”

“Maybe I should go and interrupt him before—”

“Too late, the music’s already started. Don’t worry, old lad, it’s just one dance. She can look after herself.”

On that I could tentatively agree; but once they’re stirred up, it’s hard to put one’s protective instincts aside. Though Oliver was right about Elizabeth I watched Harvey narrowly, just in case he misbehaved and proposed to her.

The dancers fell into the required patterns and the stragglers cleared themselves from the floor. The big Russian, who was heading in another direction, changed course when he spotted Oliver and apparently recognized him. He sauntered over.

“Is that you, Marling? Thought so. Splendid party, what?”

“Very splendid. Ridley, isn’t it? Can’t mistake you, two yards tall and then some, you great giant. You need to meet my cousin from America, Jonathan Barrett. Jonathan, this is Thomas Ridley.”

We bowed to each other.

“He was a couple of years ahead of us at Cambridge, weren’t you?”

“At Oxford, Marling,” he said in a near-patronizing drawl.

“Yes, of course. Haven’t seen you in ages. Back from the Tour?” Oliver asked, referring to the popular fashion the gentry followed of exploring the Continent. Some of them spent a year or more crawling about the ruins of old Rome or even venturing as far as Greece and Egypt.