Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (137 page)

Except the house had none. Instead, I made use of a massive brass door knocker in the shape of a ship’s anchor. With its obvious link to ships and ships to privateering, I’d have wagered that device had given Aunt Fonteyn much annoyance whenever she saw it. The thing clanked like the chains of hell, loud enough to be heard through the whole rambling house.

No one came forth to answer, though. I looked about for a carriage or a horse, for some reason why the gate had been left open. None was present. Perhaps they’d been taken around behind the house. The graveled drive carried the impress of wheels, of course, but I could not tell much more than that. It could well have been from Edmond’s own carriage.

I knocked again, the sharp sound hurting my ears. The house was big, but surely there was some servant lurking close by to answer. I could not imagine Edmond keeping any laggards in his employ Perhaps I should check around the back. The kitchens and stables would be. . . The door swung open, cutting short my invasive plans.

The man who answered was not a servant, or so his garb instantly told me. He scrutinized me up and down with a untroubled eye and invited me in. Stepping past the threshold, I studied him just as closely. Dark clothes of good cut, a well-fitted, well-dressed wig and a calm, commanding eye marked him as some sort of professional man. Ruddy-skinned and a few years older than I, he wore enough Flanders lace to brand him for a dandy, but the frivolous effect was offset by the gravity of his demeanor. He was likely to be a lawyer, then, probably one of Edmond’s cronies. He looked to be lately arrived himself, for he still wore his cloak and hat and carried his stick.

“Where is Mr. Fonteyn?” I asked guardedly.

“I was just determining that myself,” he replied with an air of puzzled amusement. “We had plans to take supper together, but he wasn’t available when I arrived. I sent the butler off to find him. My name is Summerhill, by the way,” he added with a bow.

“Mr. Barrett,” I said, returning the courtesy His easy manner did much to reassure me. Edmond must have had the gate open in expectation of his visitor. Not a wise thing, I thought, planning to mention it to him at the first chance. I’d worked myself into a great worry over nothing.

“Barrett?” Summerhill appeared surprised. “But you’re—”

“Yes, Mr. Fonteyn’s cousin from America.” Thus had I come to introduce myself to those people who had heard my name but were unable to place where they’d heard it. Usually, though, I connected myself with Oliver, not Edmond.

Summerhill took this in with more interest than I thought the subject warranted. I suppose I was growing tired of it. “Well, well, I’ve not met many Americans,” he finally said.

“You’re not meeting one now, sir, for I have ever been an Englishman.”

“Then you are yet loyal to the King?”

“And like to remain so, sir. My family has no desire to involve themselves with a mob of radical lunatics determined to send themselves to the gallows.”

He managed a small laugh. “Then you disagree with this notorious declaration that all men are created equal?”

“There are some points in that document worthy of note, but overall it doesn’t even make for a good legal argument. Too many broad and impossible-to-prove assumptions. Besides, the conflict they started isn’t about equality, but their reluctance to pay their lawful taxes. By heavens, if it hadn’t been for Pitt’s intervention in the war twenty years ago with the French, I might this moment be babbling to you in that language, so I for one don’t mind rendering to Caesar his due.”

Summerhill laughed again.

I’d given the entry hall a careful look ’round while I spoke, but nothing seemed amiss. Part of the original Elizabethan core of the house, its ceiling was a good two stories overhead; this and the walls were heavy with black-stained oak trim and white-painted plaster work. Off to the right leading up to a gallery was a steep staircase with a thick balustrade made of the same dark wood. Ponderous furnishings and dim portraits of the long departed lent the room an air of determined respectability. Some walls had obviously been cut into to allow access for later additions, and though well kept and polished, it had the same unfortunate cobbled-together effect as the exterior. Still, if one was of an optimistic turn of mind, one could say that, in terms of variety, it lacked for nothing.

“Wonder what’s keeping that dratted butler?” asked Summerhill.

“I wonder what’s keeping Edmond.” He’d said nothing last night about having a supper guest, but then why should he?

“Will you be joining us?”

“I think not. I’ve just some brief things to sort out with him, then must be away to another appointment.”

He grunted. “A pity, I should have enjoyed hearing more of your views on the American situation. It’s strange, but I’ve met many an English gentleman with a great sympathy for their cause, yet the ones from America are entirely against it.”

I detected a trace of an accent in his speech. “You speak as one who is not from England, sir.”

He gave a deprecatory chuckle. “Oh, dear, but my foreign roots betray me again. I was raised by English parents in Brittany, sir, and I fear the mix of heritage and place has left an indelible imprint upon my speech.”

Blood rushed to my face. “My apologies, sir. I meant no offense when I spoke to you about the French language a moment ago.”

“Not at all, sir. I am not in the least offended, but found it refreshingly honest and amusing.”

That was a relief; I’d had my fill of dueling for a lifetime. “You are too kind, sir. May I inquire how you are acquainted with my cousin?”

“Again, you take me back to my roots. My family has ever had a connection with shipping. Mr. Fonteyn sees to the legal necessities of my firm.”

Shipping. . . that would explain Summerhill’s ruddy complexion. The stray idea entered my head that he was a smuggler and seeing personally to the delivery of a cask or two of duty-free French brandy to a valued customer. Thousands of otherwise law-abiding English subjects readily shunned the practice of paying the King’s tax on certain goods. But while Oliver and I had done so ourselves during our student days without a second thought, Edmond would choke himself first. I tucked the ridiculous notion away with a smile.

“Well, perhaps I should ring for another butler to go find the first,” said Summerhill with a rueful curl to his mouth. “Not that you are unwelcome company, sir, but I was looking forward to my meal.” Reflexively I sniffed the air, but detected no sign of cooking. Of course, the kitchens were likely to be elsewhere with their myriad smells, which suited me well enough. The miasma of cooked food was not one of my favorites these nights.

“And I should like to get on with my own business,” I added agreeably. “I hope my cousin is not ill.” But except for the healing scrapes lingering on his hands, he’d seemed sufficiently fit last night to take on a bear.

“As do I, but to make sure—”

“I say, did you hear that?” I asked.

Summerhill struck a listening pose in response to my interruption, then shook his head. “The butler returning, I should think, and about time. “

Whatever small noise it was that caught my attention repeated itself. It was distant, but clear to my acute hearing. A woman’s voice, I finally determined. I looked expectantly at Summerhill, but he seemed not to have heard. He shook his head again, which reminded me that my hearing was much keener than that of other men. I couldn’t expect him to hear something on the other side of the house, if that was the location of. . . .

The sound came again and I thought it contained a note of distress, or anger. Clarinda? Bloody hell, but I thought Edmond would have the sense to keep her well away from the chance of discovery. Thank goodness Summerhill did not have my sharp ears or some awkward questions might be raised.

Unfortunately, the intrusion of the faint noise left us in a temporary state in which we had nothing to say to each other. So it was that in the pause the sounds insistently repeated, and this time Summerhill heard them, too.

“That’s rather odd. There’s something happening up there—” He broke off, his gaze drawn to the top of the stairs.

Now did I hear my mistake, for it was not one woman’s voice, but two, both raised to the point of shrillness by some desperate excitement. Though the words were muffled, they were undoubtedly calls for help. Neither voice belonged to Clarinda.

I glanced once at Summerhill, who looked as disturbed as I felt. “There’s mischief afoot, come along!”

Then I hastened up the stairs with him at my heels. On the landing I paused to listen and determined the calls came from the right-hand branching, but before I could take a step in that direction, something went
crack
and the left side of my head went numb.

As did my legs, for they ceased to hold me.

As did my arms, for they were unable to break my boneless plummet to the floor.

The fall knocked the air from my lungs. I lay still as a dead thing, so wretchedly disoriented I could not for the moment understand what had happened.

Much to my grief, the numbness did not last. It retreated all too quickly before the onslaught of a miserably jagged agony that swelled in my head to the bursting point. The first shock left me immobilized, allowing an army of bell ringers to march in and take possession. Their deafening clamor had me on the far side of merely addled. I was helpless to do anything for myself except to sprawl on the polished wood floor with not even enough strength to groan.

Wood. . . . Nora had said we were peculiarly vulnerable to it. Summerhill. He’d used his cane on me. God’s death,
why
had he struck me down?

The ringing began to fade, and through the sick dizzyness swimming in my skull I made out the thin sound of the women again, their cries frantic, like hungry kittens. Over them I heard a door open, followed by footsteps coming toward me. I felt the vibration of their approach through the floor: a man’s heavy boots, moving slowly, and the lighter clatter of a woman’s shoes. Both paused not two paces from my inert body.

“Taken care of, as I promised,” said Summerhill, as calm as you please.

“Of all the damned inconvenient times for Edmond to have visitors,” one of the newcomers snarled.

A singularly unpleasant thrill of alarm rushed through me as I recognized the man’s voice. Arthur Tyne?

The woman uttered a soft curse in agreement.

Clarinda.

God Almighty. What
had
I walked into?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Clarinda spoke again. “That’s not any visitor—that’s Jonathan Barrett!”

“Impossible,” said Arthur.

“But it is. See the hair—he never wears a wig.”

“It cannot be,” he insisted.

“Then turn him over and prove me wrong.”

Hands seized one of my shoulders and I was roughly flipped around. This mistreatment was nearly too much. Unpleasant as it was, I fought to stay conscious and won . . . barely, but longed to vanish into healing. The damned wood prevented that. Groggily and past half-closed lids I made out their looming forms: Clarinda on the left, Arthur on the right. Arthur’s expression was a study in bald-faced astonishment.

“But Litton told me he was dead! He saw Royce shoot him. Got him square in the chest.”

“Then he killed another man or missed.”

“But he was absolutely certain, boasted about there being blood everywhere.”

“Perhaps you’d care to bring your friend ’round here for a debate,” suggested Summerhill dryly, catching Arthur’s reluctant attention. “I got him for you. What do you want done with him?”

This induced a lively discussion. Of all the people who might have paid a call on Edmond, I was the last person they expected. Arthur continued to gnaw on about how I couldn’t have possibly escaped getting murdered at Mandy Winkle’s; Clarinda cared naught for such details, however, being concerned with present problems over past failures.

“What in God’s name is he doing here?” she wanted to know.

“Come to visit Edmond about your brat, I expect,” said Arthur, having provisionally accepted the undeniable. He continued to stare at me as though I might vanish and pop up again elsewhere to plague him. Oh, would that I could. “Unless it’s about Thomas.”

“How could that be?”

“You were closest to him,” she reminded. “They’re neither of them fools. They’d expect you to know best who would have—”

“Nevermind that,” he said sharply, his face going dark as he glanced at Summerhill. “The good captain has asked what’s to be done about Barrett and time is passing.”

Clarinda looked me right in the eye, as coldly appraising as a butcher considering the best way to chop up a carcass. “Can’t leave him alive,” she concluded. “He knows who tried to kill him now.”

Arthur nodded. “Very well. I’ll see to it, and this time it’ll be done right. Have you found that chest yet? Then get on with it. Captain, would you be so kind as to assist her?”

This last was addressed to Summerhill. My fancy must have been right. He probably was a smuggler, but come from his ship not with illicit cargo, but to convey two important passengers off to a safe port. He’d coolly stood to one side, listening, but not interfering with their talk. He offered no comment one way or another at Clarinda’s suggestion to kill me and bowed slightly in polite acquiescence to Arthur’s request.

Husbanding my strength, I continued to remain quiet until Clarinda and Summerhill were gone. They hurried up the right-hand hall where I could yet discern faint cries for help.

“And tell those wenches to stop that bloody row!” Arthur called after them. A moment later I heard Summerhill gruffly rumble something in a threatening tone, and the cries abruptly ceased.

“W—where’s Edmond?” I croaked, having summoned enough of myself together to do so.

Arthur hadn’t expected me to speak. His gaze fixed on me, half-contemptuous, half-incredulous, and, to me, wholly frightening with pending ominous intent. He looked pale yet from our previous encounter and used his walking stick as though he needed it for balance, not affectation. “He’s none of your concern.”

“Where is he?”

His answer was a jolting jab to my ribs with one toe. His riding boots, I discovered, were made of a sturdy type of leather. I grunted unhappily. The sudden jar reminded me all too sharply of my bursting head. Overcome, I could do nothing for the moment. I’d just have to wait until the worst of it passed away; if I could delay his plans then might I be able to settle things between us more to my satisfaction.

Arthur eased down on one knee. His expression was wary, but with curiosity rapidly overwhelming his caution. “Who was it that Royce killed in the brothel?” he demanded.

“He killed no one. He missed,” I said through my teeth. It would do no harm to repeat the story and might just undermine any confidence Arthur may have had for his Mohock lackeys.

“But Litton had been so
sure.”

How good to know the names of two of my attackers. Litton and Royce. Shouldn’t be hard to find the third one once I spoke to either of the others.

If
I got out of this. “He lied to you or was drunk. Does Clarinda know you killed Ridley?”

His face went stony, but he might as well have grinned and nodded affirmation.

“Of course. It was her idea.”

I had wondered if she’d arranged it and should not have been surprised, but was; I should not have been sickened, but felt a twist in my vitals nonetheless. “How could you murder your own cousin?”

He snorted. “Oh, he was a useful ox, good for some kinds of work, but in the way for others.”

“But Clarinda was going to marry him.”

He laughed. “He thought so, too. She had him well convinced that a woman like her would settle for a brainless brute like himself. When pigs fly—perhaps.”

“But she was locked up . . . how . . . ?”

“Edmond’s servants aren’t that loyal or rich. It’s amazing how much a few shillings can buy from the right person. Why did you come here?”

“Your cousin was murdered, your friends tried to kill me, then you ran away—or appeared to—Clarinda was the handiest one to question.”

“You’d have got nothing from her. How did you know I’d run away? “

“Went by your house last night. Your butler told me everything.”

“Couldn’t have been much or you wouldn’t have walked in here as you did. What a great bleating fool you are, Barrett.”

Indeed
, I
thought with vast self-disgust for having turned my back on the ingenuous-seeming Summerhill. My head fairly burned along one side where he’d struck. I wanted more than anything to vanish and heal, but instinctively knew it was too soon. A little more rest, or even better, fresh blood would ease me. It wasn’t as bad as the last time this had happened; I was sure the bone hadn’t been cracked like an egg, but it was quite bad enough. I had to keep Arthur talking, postponing whatever he planned to do until I was able to deal with him and the others. “Your loyal retainers are gone,” I said. “They picked your place clean.”

He made a casting-away gesture. “I expected as much, but it suits me. Because of it they’ll not be talking to the magistrates for fear of hanging as thieves. I took what I needed and left them to it. Now, I can quietly disappear.”

“With Clarinda?”

“And Edmond’s money.”

“Tired of living on a quarterly allowance from your parents?” I hazarded, getting a sneer for a reply. “Or perhaps you hoped to take the whole Fonteyn fortune if Clarinda had gotten her way with things the first time.”

“I’ll settle for Edmond’s money chest, if the damned vixen can find it. He peered down the hall, where she’d gone with Summerhill.

“You sure you can trust them together? Clarinda has a way with men, you know, especially the ones most useful to her.”

“I can trust Summerhill well enough. He keeps to his business.”

“Best to watch him close once they find the money, eh? Both of ’em.”

Arthur snorted, but I got the impression he’d already thought of that possibility.

“Why not ask Edmond about it? Where is he?” I demanded.

But Arthur made no answer, seeming to enjoy withholding the information.

What in God’s name had they done with Edmond? My heart sank, weighed down by the most dreadful of conclusions. “What about Ridley?” I asked, hoping a change of subject might draw him out. “There was no need to kill him.”

“That depends on your need. That fool Thomas was no good to us anymore; he’d suddenly lost all belly for the task at hand and became completely useless as well as an inconvenient witness. He’d have raised a row about Clarinda running off with me, too. But to have him dead and you getting the blame was sweet. Why should you care for him? He tried his best to kill you.”

He waited in vain for a reply. If he couldn’t understand my horror, I’d never be able to explain it to him.

After a moment he shrugged slightly. “Thought you’d have been taken into custody by now, anyway. Who did you bribe?”

“No one. I found the letter about me in his pocket.”

His eyes flashed wide. “Did you, now? Very mettlesome of you, I’m sure, pawing through a dead man’s clothes.”

“Better than cutting throats. You tricked him into writing it, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t hard. When Litton and the others found him first and bolted after you as the culprit, I thought it wouldn’t be necessary Pity that you’ve more lives than a cat. Where is the letter?”

“Burned,” I said truthfully.

He snorted disgust. “Pity. Such a clever bit of business to put you out of the way and disgrace Edmond’s precious family. Too bad for you that you did find it, else you’d be safe in a cell right now instead of here.”

That sounded ominous, and I was still in a poor state for winning a physical contest.

He grabbed my right arm. I could offer no resistance. He pushed back my coat and shirtsleeve, exposing the skin, eyeing it closely. “I know I caught you there with my blade,” he muttered through his teeth. “I
felt
it. You bled like a pig. Where is the wound?”

“You dreamed it,” I said, hardly putting breath to the words.

“
Dreamed?
No, not that. You were half dead when . . . thought you were dead, then you came out of the mausoleum and . . . and. . . .” His face crimped as he tried to remember, but he’d been safely unconscious when necessity forced me to take his blood that night. The temptation to do it again rose in me, but I wasn’t quite able to act upon it.

“Dream,” I murmured.

“Dream indeed, and one of your making. You tried to make it seem so in my mind, to change things.” Arthur leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“What did you do to Thomas?
”

I’d have shaken my head pretending not to take his meaning, but knew better than to try. He’d not have believed me, and it would have hurt too much to move. Instead, I stared hard at him, trying to summon enough will to influence. Our gazes locked for a little time. I felt him wavering as I pushed, but the struggle went awry. Even as his eyes began to go flat and blank, an appalling pain knifed through my head. The harder I tried to exert my will, the more deeply it carved into my brain until I could stand it no longer. On the edge of passing out, I broke off with a sob of frustration and agony.

Released so abruptly, Arthur wrenched away, then clumsily scrambled to his feet. He was much paler than before, sweating and panting like an animal.

“Trying to do it again? You damned bastard!” He raised his cane and gave me a vicious stab in the stomach with the base end. My breath hissed out, and I twisted onto my side, curling nearly double. I waited in dreadful apprehension for another blow to fall, but he held back. Not out of mercy, I thought when I next dared to look, but from weariness. He’d gone gray-faced and labored hard for his breath. I likely shared his appearance, but without the desperate need for air. Even so, I wasn’t able to move much, not yet.

“What is that?” he snarled. “You must have done it to Thomas, and I know you used it on me after the funeral.”

Indeed. And why hadn’t it worked on him?

“Is that what you did to turn him on us? Is it?”

Arthur’s blood loss keeping him muddled, the laudanum they’d given him—either might account for my failure to successfully influence him.

That or he was mad. I should have foreseen this; I should have attended to him sooner and not let myself get distracted.

“What are you?” he demanded, voice rising.

A vampire,
I thought.
And a damned tired one.
I wished Nora here. She could take care of this lout without effort.

“
What ARE you?
”

He looked ready to kill me there and then. The mix of terror and malevolence on his drawn face was an awful sight, the force of his emotions striking me almost as solidly as his cane. All I could hope for now was one good chance to somehow seize and drag him down to a more primitive level of conflict. Even in this injured state, I was still stronger than most men. Out of pure desperation I might manage, but he’d backed well out of reach, cursing me.

Footsteps. Summerhill’s long stride. Clarinda’s quick pace. Damn, damn,
damnation
to them all.

Clarinda paused in the hall doorway. “What’s the matter?” she asked of Arthur.

“Nothing,” he snapped, straightening with a visible effort. “Where’s the chest?”

“I found it, but it’s empty. My bastard of a husband hid his money elsewhere.”

“
What!
”
This was a grievous blow for Arthur, worse than any I might have given him. He fairly fell against one wall, needing its support.