The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Your Royal Highnesses, Most Honourable Dukes and Duchesses, Lords and Ladies, allow me now to present the guests of honour: Her Grace, the Most Honourable Elizabeth Stuart, Duchess of Branham and His Lordship, the Most Honourable Superintendent Charles Sinclair, Marquess of Haimsbury.”

  The entire room, a dense crowd of four hundred peers, influential bankers, and politicians, began to applaud. Charles bowed, as the duke had instructed, and Elizabeth nodded her head. The majordomo tapped his enormous staff upon the marble, and the couple moved into the room, where they were greeted by the Contessa di Specchio, Russian Ambassador Baron de Staal, and Prince Anatole. The prince’s attitude towards the contessa appeared cool, if not icy.

  De Staal had chosen a curious combination of Russian and German attire, for his mixed ancestry reached back to both countries. The countess wore a glittering, black silk ensemble that fit tightly ‘round every curve, and her throat bore a string of carved rubies.

  Anatole wore riding boots and a military style coat over black velvet breeches paired with a red cape, draped casually across his right shoulder. Beneath the coat, a white silk shirt with ruffled lace ascot softened the fierce ensemble, closed with a pin that bore the double-headed eagle of the Romanov crest. Even Charles had to admit that the prince outshone every other male present.

  Romanov offered a deep, formal bow and kissed Elizabeth’s gloved hand. “My beautiful friend,” he whispered as he gazed into her eyes. “You glow, Duchess. Clearly, romance agrees with you.”

  Beth smiled, gazing first at Charles and then back to Romanov. “You are most kind, Your Highness. Thank you for hosting this ball in our honour. It’s quite unexpected, but very much appreciated.”

  Anatole turned to Charles. “Lord Haimsbury, I concede defeat to the man who has captured the heart of Elizabeth, most beautiful of women. Had I seen her first, I should have given you a contest, but alas, her dark eyes see no other, whenever you are near.”

  Charles bowed to the prince, noticing Paul’s sharp glances at the Russian, but Sinclair smiled. Though the prince’s spiritual loyalties remained a mystery, his intervention on behalf of the marquess had proven most helpful. “We are honoured by your friendship, Your Highness. I am delighted that I had the great blessing to meet my duchess first.”

  Anatole laughed. “Well said, sir. Now, Duke, Lord Aubrey, since you are unaccompanied, I direct your attentions to the bevy of beauty around our ballroom. Most of these you may already know, but a few come from my own country. They are cousins and friends and have noticed the two handsome, Scottish lords in their presence. Enjoy.”

  The duke grinned mischievously. His moustache curled at the edges, and his dark eyes twinkled. Charles had grown deeply fond of this remarkable man, and he knew that he still had much to learn from both his uncle and cousin. James Stuart had an ease about him even when facing a dangerous foe that Charles hoped one day to achieve.

  “Your Highness, you’ve put together a grand group, and your theme is impressive, particularly for a hastily arranged affair. You must tell me how you pulled it off. We’ve been working non-stop for a month arranging Beth’s wedding, and my sister tells me there are details yet to finish. Perhaps your wife helped?”

  The prince stared at the duke for a moment with an odd expression. “I have never married, Duke. It is the one great regret of my life, but I am ever in search of the perfect lady to make my princess. Alas, she will be wed tomorrow at ten.”

  Paul stood near the contessa, who leaned against his left arm with just enough force to make the earl wince. “Do forgive me, Lord Aubrey! I had forgotten about your poor shoulder. Does it still pain you?”

  He managed a smile. “It is nearly healed, Contessa. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I see a friend.” Aubrey bowed and passed by Charles, whispering, “She is here.”

  Sinclair assumed he meant Wychwright, but turning, the marquess saw his cousin stride towards a grand marble fountain surrounded by several young women whose generous assets bubbled over tight-bodiced gowns, each fully aware that the dashing earl was now very much available. However, Aubrey continued on, beyond the perfumed throats of this willing gaggle, bowing occasionally to be polite. At last, he stopped before a tall woman in an emerald green gown with an empire waist.

  “Good heavens!” Charles gasped, recognising her at last. “James, do you see who’s caught my cousin’s eye once more?”

  The duke accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and took Charles by the elbow. “So the spider emerges from her web at last,” he said. “One wonders just what mischief the minx intends this time.”

  “I’ll find out,” he replied, starting towards her.

  “No, son. Leave MacKey to your cousin,” Drummond cautioned. “Your only charge now is my granddaughter. If you are not careful, there is a prince ready to steal her.”

  Charles turned ‘round in time to see Elizabeth being led to the dance floor by Anatole. “Is that proper form? May our host claim the first dance?”

  “He may, but pay heed to her, Charles. Usually, Elizabeth is more than capable of fending off unwanted advances, but this prince’s intent is yet unknown. Speaking of the unknown, who is that?” he added, pointing towards a tall man dressed entirely in scarlet. “Another Romanov?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so, but I’m sure he’s related somehow. He has that same look all these creatures have,” Sinclair answered, anger crossing his features. “Keep an eye on Elizabeth for me, will you, James? I believe I’ll introduce myself to that gentleman.”

  The stranger offered a theatrical bow as Charles drew near. “Good evening, Lord Haimsbury. A fitting room for a duel, is it not?”

  “How did you manage to secure an invitation?” he asked the Watcher. “Do they even receive letters in Hell’s dungeon?”

  “You say that, as if you think it derisive, Superintendent. I’ll have you know that the nether realm is more real, more powerful—more alive than this puny kingdom. Although, I do enjoy gatherings like these,” the being added with a flourish of his satin cape. “Rather dashing, don’t you think? I’ve always loved wearing human trappings, particularly the swords, though you’d never have managed metallurgy without our instruction. You owe much to me and my brethren, Charles. Warfare made England great, after all.”

  “Prince Alexei,” a woman’s voice called. Sinclair turned about to find the contessa standing behind him. “I see you are engaged,” she continued. “Have you been introduced?”

  “Alexei?” Charles asked. “Would that be Alexei Romanov, by any chance?”

  “Hardly!” he blustered. “Prince Alexei Nicholai Anghelscu Grigor, at your service. I understand you’ve met my son, Lord Haimsbury. Razarit Grigor. A fine lad. He’s adopted, of course, but still flesh of my flesh, you might say. You can appreciate such a bond, no? You were also raised by adoptive parents. Edna and Elijah Burke; am I right? Such an honest, loving couple. Pity how they died. Pinned beneath the wheel of a milk wagon is a hideous, painful way to go; and heart failure, though swift, allows the victim to linger for many minutes before crossing beyond the final curtain of life. Such a tragedy!”

  Charles felt as if he’d been slapped, and his hand unconsciously rose to do the same to the grinning Romanian.

  The contessa grasped his arm, her fingers pressing into his skin. “Lord Haimsbury, join me for a waltz, won’t you?”

  “This isn’t over,” Sinclair warned Grigor, forcing himself to go with the Italian.

  The countess drew him onto the polished marble dance floor, whispering as she did so. “He will kill you without a thought, Charles. You must let it go.”

  “What you ask is difficult,” he told her, keeping Grigor in sight as they danced. “How can he know anything about my aunt and uncle?”

  “He knows many things, and yes, I’m sure it is difficult to control your temper, but Alexei wanted you to strike him. W
ould you please him, my friend? Now, concentrate upon the music and the movement of your feet. It will take your mind off anger. Rash thoughts lead to rash deeds.”

  “Who is Grigor; and for that matter just who are you?”

  “Do we drop all the masks, then?” she asked him seductively. “A pity. I do love mystery, but as I value your friendship, I shall answer your questions. My history might surprise you.”

  “Very little surprises me these days,” he told her as the orchestra began the opening measures of a waltz.

  “I grew up in a villa near Milan. My father served Francesco, the first ruler of the powerful Sforza family. I became Francesco’s mistress.”

  “Sforza? I’m not familiar with that name.”

  “No? Do you know the Borgias, then?”

  “As in Lucrezia? Yes. Why?”

  “She married Giovanni Sforza. Of course, her father had the marriage annulled. He also had my father killed, claiming he was upyr. What some might call a vampire.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, ignoring the last remark. “Lucrezia’s father was said to be Pope Alexander the Sixth. Both lived in the 16th century. How can you possibly be...” He stopped, staring at her. “I see. You are also a vampire. I presume your lifeline extended by such an inheritance.”

  “I told you that my story would surprise you,” she whispered, pulling at his hands. “Dance, Lord Haimsbury. Surely, your recent experiences with my kind open new possibilities in your mind. The world is much more complex than mere humans can imagine.”

  “So it would seem,” he replied, beginning the dance once more. “Tell me about William Trent. Is he also a vampire?”

  “The baronet causes an itch beneath your skin, does he not? Shall I scratch that itch for you?”

  Rather than answer, Charles turned his eyes towards Beth and Anatole, wondering if he should cut in.

  “The duchess enjoys herself,” di Specchio whispered. “Are you? Enjoying yourself, I mean?”

  In truth, Sinclair considered the countess to be both beautiful and deadly. If he must dance with her, then he intended to make the most of it, by extracting as much information as possible. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself? You’re the second most beautiful woman in the room.”

  She grew silent for a moment, and he could see a spectrum of emotions playing upon her ageless features. “Beneath your beauty beats a cold heart, my king,” she said, revealing a vulnerability he’d not expected.

  “Surely you cannot expect me to call you the most beautiful, Serena. After all, I marry the duchess tomorrow. And why do you call me king?”

  “I call you by your true title.”

  “What do you mean?” he pressed, noticing that Beth looked weary.

  “You are a king, though you have forgotten it. Soon, those old memories will stir. Old plans and old husbandry begin to yield fruit. Old Saturn’s reign returns.”

  “What?” he asked. “What has Saturn to do with this?”

  “Everything. Why do your eyes never leave the duchess? Do my charms not entice?” she asked, her lips full and blood-red in the soft gaslight.

  For a moment, for a blink of time, Sinclair experienced a rush of memory, as if reliving primordial scenes from ages past: images of ancient gods upon massive thrones; warriors in battle dress bearing flashing swords that sparked light and fire; worshipping throngs willing to sacrifice children to deities from the heavens; and finally a ring of stone surrounding an uncrowned king.

  The king amongst the dead.

  All colour drained from his face, and he pushed her back, nearly stumbling as he did so. The contessa drew him down with both hands and kissed him fully on the mouth. “Keep watch on snow, my king,” she whispered in his left ear. “That is all I tell you, now leave me before Grigor notices.”

  The Italian stormed off, pretending she’d been spurned, pushing her way through dozens of dancing couples like an angry salmon.

  “What did you say to the Italian?” his cousin’s voice asked near Sinclair’s elbow.

  Turning about, Charles forced a smile, struggling to regain his anchor to the present. “I’m losing my touch. Did you speak with MacKey?”

  “Yes, but only for a moment. Lorena claims that she wishes to leave Redwing’s shelter, but she’s terrified, Charles.”

  “Has she heard of Morgan’s death?”

  “She has,” the earl answered softly.

  “Paul, there was nothing you could do. Morgan chose to leave your protection.”

  “I know, but does that mean we ignore further cries for help? Lorena’s will be the next torso fished from the cold waters of the Thames, if we fail to act.” He paused for a moment. “That’s why I promised to meet her. After the ball.”

  The detective gasped. “You did what? Paul, is there a law that says you must fall for the charms of every red-headed physician who flutters her pretty eyelashes?”

  “No, but it’s difficult to put such a theory to the test, since Lorena is the only red-headed doctor to do so. Let’s not forget, that she fluttered those same lashes at you as well, Cousin. Oh, do hide me. Delia’s headed this way.”

  “Shall I call on MacKey to dissuade the Lady Cordelia from pursuing you?” the detective teased. “Do forgive me for deserting you, Lord Aubrey. I need to make sure Elizabeth is all right.”

  Laughing as he left, Sinclair abandoned the earl to the ingénue’s advances and crossed onto the busy dance floor. The third waltz had just ended, and Elizabeth fanned her face. She brightened as her fiancé approached.

  “Charles, there you are! I’d feared you’d gone missing.”

  He placed his right arm around her waist, insinuating himself betwixt her and the prince. “Not a chance of it. Prince Anatole, when you’ve a moment, I’d love to discuss Russian politics.”

  Romanov showed surprise. “How very refreshing. So few Englishmen care how our empire advances. Duchess, I hope you will save another dance for me. Your steps are as light as air, and your conversation as bright any star.”

  “Come, Beth, let’s rescue our cousin from Cordelia Wychwright. Anatole, I shan’t be long. I’ll meet you near the copper fountain.”

  He led the duchess away from the dancers, towards a secluded dais, where many of the older peers exchanged war stories and stock tips. They sat at a table that had been reserved only for their use, and a livered footman brought champagne, cheese, and glacé fruit.

  “I can’t remember attending any police dances with so much fancy food,” he joked.

  “How many dances do policemen attend each year?” she asked, using a silk fan to cool her face.

  “Just one, actually. A boring affair at Chiswick Hotel. How are you doing, darling? You’re flushed.”

  “The room grows hot,” she answered. “If it weren’t so very cold outside, I’d ask you to take me for a walk as we often did during the parties in Kent. How I loved showing you off to everyone, Charles. Did I see you dancing with the countess?”

  “Yes, but only to be polite. I met a man who could be Anatole’s twin. Have you seen him? A Romanian named Grigor.”

  “Alexei Grigor?” she asked. “That’s Razarit’s uncle, I think. I met him once at Dolly Patterson-Smythe’s home outside of Paris. Their family name isn’t actually Grigor, though. It’s Draculesti.”

  “Then why use the other?”

  “The Draculesti family is hunted by Russian soldiers. Paul could explain it better than I. It’s to do with the takeover of the Carpathian countries in the early years of the century. Their family once ruled Wallachia. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. I wonder, though, why this Alexei refers to Rasha as his son.”

  She sighed, still fighting the heat which flushed her cheeks. “When his brother Mikhail died, Alexei adopted Rasha and changed his name. At least, I think that’s how it goes. I’m sorry, I’m a bit muddled ju
st now.”

  Sinclair wondered if her state of health and mind had anything to do with the dance with Romanov. He stood as Victoria arrived, carrying two glasses of champagne.

  “They’re not both for me,” she explained. “My brother is joining us, if he can ever pull himself away from Marlborough. Beth, you look ghastly. Your cheeks have gone all blotchy. Are you ill?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Just dealing with other issues. Charles, would you mind fetching me some water?”

  “I’ll have your cousin bring you a cool glass, darling. He needs rescue. Do you mind if I leave you a moment and have that chat with Anatole?”

  “No, but don’t be gone long.”

  Raising his arm to signal to the earl, Sinclair waited a beat until Aubrey stepped his way. Sadly, Wychwright followed behind like a faithful duckling.

  “I’ve never been to Kensington Palace before,” Delia jabbered as she sat next to Elizabeth. “Why, everyone is here! My father says it’s the best chance he’s had in six months to speak with the backbenchers. I’m not really sure what that means, but apparently, it’s quite important. And there must be half a dozen princes here! Can you believe it? Oh, thank you, Lord Aubrey,” she said as Paul handed her a glass of wine in the hope it might slow her constant stream of chatter; which it didn’t. “Mother is speaking to the duke about Christmas. Are you returning to Branham for the holidays, Elizabeth, or do you plan to stay in London?”

  Beth looked up, the fan in her hand. “What? Oh, Christmas. Well, I’m not sure. That will be up to my husband.”

  “Husband?” Wychwright asked. “Oh, wait, I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose Lord Haimsbury will be your husband by then.”

  “He’ll be her husband tomorrow, Delia,” the earl said. “Have a bite of the brioche,” he suggested as a footman set a plate of crustless sandwiches, water crackers, and canapes on their table. “I had one earlier. It’s spiced with peppercorns.”