Corina had revealed the one death for which Julien was actually responsible. It was not fair he should be blamed for trying to escape imprisonment and torture. He would be branded a monster and destroyed. She was about to jump to Julien's defense when discretion prevailed. What did George know—or more importantly, what did he believe—about Julien?
"What you say is most shocking, George." He looked like the proverbial cat who had swallowed the canary. "You must tell me the worst, for my own safety."
"Well…" George sounded dubious. "There is not much more to tell." Was he afraid of telling her that the newspapers had been more right than they knew when they called them "vampire" murders? She saw him speculate. "I think this Davinoff fellow is diabolically clever. He has some device even more efficient at extracting blood than my syringe."
"A scientific device?" Did he still not believe in vampires?
George rose and paced the room again. "I should like to know what it was precisely. Perhaps after he is behind bars, I will be allowed to question him."
"Behind bars?" Sarah gasped. "He is not even in Bath, as I hear." As I hope, she said to herself. "I am afraid they will never find him."
"We have a plan to capture him." George stopped to frown above her. "I hope you see where your imprudence has led you. You chose a murderer to escort you to my mother's ball."
Sarah swallowed. Not the time for willfulness. "Tell me how you will capture him."
Smug self-satisfaction was printed, perhaps indelibly, across George's smooth features. "Snelling has been watching him and knows his habits. He will be at Jackson's tonight, gaming until the wee hours. We shall take him there. Snelling gathers his forces even now. And he depends on me for assistance," George could not resist adding. "We will use a syringe of laudanum to ensure that he comes along quietly."
Sarah's heart skipped a beat. Corina had set them to this. It was the one way they could hold him. What could she do? She had to get rid of George first, whatever she did. It was not hard. George realized that discretion was the better part of valor. He took his leave with a final warning to lock her doors and not to answer the knocker again that evening.
Sarah heard the front door shut and paced to the window where the storm lashed at the trees outside. Its fury echoed her own tumult. Why was Julien not up at Thornbury Abbey where he was safe? He might escape, of course. But she could not imagine him invoking the darkness in the bright public rooms of Jackson's stylish gaming hell. He would not draw attention to his nature in that dramatic manner. He might let them arrest him, thinking to wait until he was alone in a darkened gaol cell to disappear. But by then it would be too late. They would give him laudanum, and his addiction would return. Then escape would be impossible.
No, she could not let that happen. Not when she could warn him. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was after eight, too late to intercept him at the Christopher. He would be at dinner somewhere before going to Jackson's. The only place she could be sure of finding him was the very place George and Snelling expected him. She had to get there first.
She walked calmly upstairs for a cape with a hood. It would be a foul walk in the rain.
Sarah turned north to Green Street, fighting against the storm for each step. It would be the end of her reputation to go into Jackson's. No female had ever crossed its threshold. That didn't matter. When she got there she stood across the street, checking the routine. It was an elegant three-story building with a wide front that faced the street and grand columns supporting the pediment of its portico. Pale brick and white trim gave it a cool, sophisticated feel. It might have housed a peer of the realm. That, of course, was just the feeling Mr. Jackson craved for his establishment. Smart rigs jostled each other at the entrance. None belonged to Julien. Two pairs of boys trotted the carriages round to the mews behind the house. Sarah steeled herself. A simple query, that was all. She fished in her reticule and pulled out a new pound coin. Extravagant, but perhaps a way to startle the ostler into acquiescing to an unthinkable breach of etiquette. She scurried across the street and leapt over the small river that ran in the gutter so as not to soak her half boots any further. The horrified look on the faces of the two ostlers as she scampered up the stairs was almost worth the price of her bribe in itself.
"My good man," she said, holding herself very straight. "I have a question."
"What is it?" the boy asked. He was easily stunned if the sight of a woman on Jackson's front steps could produce such incivility. "I mean, what question would that be, Your Ladyship?"
So they recognized her. Well, it could not be helped and might serve her purpose after all. "I wish to know if Mr. Davinoff's rig has pulled up here tonight." She placed the golden coin, flashing in the lamps set on either side of the door, into his hand.
"Lord, Yer Ladyship!" the boy cooed, her gender and its consequences apparently forgotten in the thrill of her largesse." 'E's been here for 'alf an 'our." That such simple information should earn him so generous a payment was apparently amazing to him.
Sarah's spirits sank. She had hoped he wasn't here. She looked up at the great white double doors with their brass fixtures, so imposing, so impossible a barrier last month. How a month changed one. Once this Rubicon was crossed, there was no turning back.
Entering Jackson's was simpler than Sarah had imagined. All the male attendants, from the young ostlers and the footman to the butler hovering at the entrance, were so nonplussed by a lady of gentle birth boldly requiring entrance, she managed to sail past them with little resistance other than stuttered remonstrances. Sarah handed her cloak to the butler, saying firmly that she would be staying but a moment. She moved quickly toward the grand salon and hoped that Julien was not sequestered in some private parlor. She had vanquished only the pawns of the game thus far. Soon they would scuttle off to find reinforcements.
She pushed into the main salon, looking frantically about. The room was all dark wood and red brocade, beige and white cut carpets, and gleaming gilt. Men lounged about smoking cheroots quite openly or hovered over baize-covered tables heaped with stacks of money and scattered playing cards or dice. Gradually, as they became aware of her, all movement stopped.
The men of Bath looked up, aghast, to find Lady Clevancy in Jackson's principle gaming parlor. She noted that many men she knew were there tonight. She would not escape the consequences of her actions. Julien was nowhere to be seen. To her dismay, George Upcott entered from a back room. The shock on his face quickly turned to horrified disapproval. They were here already, waiting to spring their trap. She had little time.
George tore his eyes away and glanced toward the corner of the room. Julien straightened from rolling dice at the table where he apparently held the faro bank and towered over his fellows. A masculine tide of outrage and dismay swelled. The knots of men began to move again, as though released from an evil spell. One, probably Mr. Jackson, strode toward her.
She pushed toward Julien. Ned Snelling, looking most out of place in this exclusive group, shook his head and motioned her back to the door as if she had walked by mistake into the midst of his trap. He will guess my purpose soon, and so will George. She hurried on.
Julien glanced up from his bank. He did not look surprised or shocked. He only raised a single brow. Sarah wanted to shout with laughter or burst into tears at that familiar gesture. She did neither, but strode smack up to the table. The gentlemen on either side parted to let her pass as though she carried a plague. Her eyes were locked to his, all others quite forgotten.
"Lady Clevancy?" he rumbled.
"I must have a word with you, Mr. Davinoff," she breathed.
Mr. Jackson hurried up to her side. "Your Ladyship," he began.
Julien waved him away. "Jackson, you will bring Lady Clevancy a ratafia in the small salon." He gestured off to his left. "You do have ratafia, Jackson?" he drawled.
"I… I am sure we can procure some," the man stuttered.
"Good," Julien replied, dismissing him and takin
g Sarah's arm.
As Sarah turned she could feel the eyes of the room riveted upon their backs. George looked as if he would burst. It did not matter.
Three or four men sat in front of a fire in the comfortable room to which Julien led her. It required only a soft invitation of "Gentlemen?" and they closed their gaping mouths and made haste to the door. When they had gone, Sarah blurted, "Julien, you must leave immediately."
He motioned to one of the chairs by the fire and eased himself into the other. Sarah made no move to sit, but fidgeted with her reticule. "You don't understand. Corina showed George and Snelling Reece's body. They connect you to the murders in London." His eyes snapped to hers, and remained there. "They expect to take you here tonight."
"I see," he said. "And you have sacrificed propriety to warn me."
"Disappear, Julien," Sarah pleaded, "before their trap is sprung."
"They cannot hold me," he reassured her. "You need not have come."
He didn't understand. "Corina told them you are a crazed madman, capable of anything. George is prepared with laudanum." A smile touched his lips, not the reaction she expected.
"I should have told you." His smile grew rueful. "I did not want to frighten you. I have one more talent that will protect me from them." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down, Sarah."
She sat, still clutching her reticule. At that moment Jackson entered. She started, still expecting Snelling and his crew. The club's owner himself bore the silver tray with a single glass of ratafia, which he set on the table by their side.
"Thank you, Jackson," Julien murmured, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. "Now, Sarah, please do me the honor of sipping your wine." Sarah complied, hesitating. Whatever was he talking about?
"I have not liked to speak of the hypnotic power of my kind," Julien said at last. "I did not want to make you self-conscious, afraid I had bent you to my will somehow. I have not. At least, I tried only once, when the craving of the drug was on me. You will know the time."
Sarah knew. In the fearful dark of a cellar, red eyes had commanded her to come to him.
"They cannot give me the drug if I am on my guard."
Sarah sighed in relief. "I am glad of that. Is that another trait of your Companion?"
"Call it a heightened awareness on our side, a suggestibility in others." She saw a small crease between his brows as he looked intently at her. "Do you believe that I did not use my power of suggestion upon you?" he asked.
She smiled at his question. "Yes," she said simply.
The crease disappeared. "I am glad of that," he echoed.
She was about to plead with him to make his escape regardless when the door burst open behind her. She turned to see Ned Snelling, brandishing a pistol, leading a horde of four or five burly men all armed with pistols or stout sticks.
"Davinoff," the runner barked. "We're 'ere to take you to the round 'ouse."
The side door to the room crashed open and George pushed inside, ahead of three or four more men. He carried his doctor's case. He shot Sarah a look both grim and disapproving.
Julien rose calmly, causing a nervous shudder to run through the crowded room, as men fingered their weapons. They were afraid of him. Let them not be foolish and use those weapons.
"What, may I ask, is the charge?" His deep voice rolled over his accusers.
"Murder," Snelling hissed. "The murder of one Reece, butler at Chambroke, and maybe a dozen more in London Town."
George pulled a needle from his bag. Sarah saw the liquid of the drug gleam at its point.
"I see," Julien said, his eyes hooded.
"You come quiet like, or we'll 'ave to get violent," Snelling threatened. He glanced at George as if to make sure he was ready with the laudanum. Sarah could hardly breathe.
"I am at your disposal," Julien reassured them. Snelling lowered his pistol and took the shackles offered by one of his compatriots. Sarah cringed. Julien, however, offered up his wrists and Snelling snapped the irons shut around them with an awful, metallic clank.
"If you will," Snelling gestured toward the door with his pistol. Julien nodded, cast his eyes toward George, who looked suddenly blank and lowered his needle. Julien strode off toward the main salon. The crowd of burly men trailed after him.
Sarah was left to wander in their wake. Behind her, she could hear George scolding. "I cannot believe, Sarah Ashton, that you came to warn him. Did nothing I say get through to you?"
Sarah did not reply. George did not matter anymore. She followed the procession through the collectively stunned men of Bath and out through the main doors into the street.
The rain had abated its fury, curtaining the street in an evenly depressing downpour. A heavy square black coach pulled by two huge draft horses was drawn up to the curb. It had bars at the windows and a heavy lock upon its door. Its whole demeanor was squat and ominous. A prison wagon, Sarah thought numbly. Snelling unlocked the door with a huge ring of keys. Behind her, she could feel the portico overflow with men from the club, relishing this scandal.
Julien, standing almost a head taller than most of those around him, looked back at her with the ghost of a smile she knew was meant to reassure her. But at that moment, Pembly wheeled a familiar canary yellow landaulet up to the curb behind the prison wagon. Corina fairly leapt to the ground. She had on her blue pelisse trimmed in ermine. A blue parapluie protected her comely peacock hat, with its curling ostrich feathers, from the elements.
"Wait, Mr. Snelling!" Corina cried and pointed. "Do you intend to let his accomplice escape?" All eyes turned toward Sarah, some wondering, some accusing. "She lied to you and sent you off to Bristol. She knew where he was all the time."
Corina had found a way to destroy both her enemies with a single blow. But no gaol would hold Julien, so Sarah did not scream or cry. She did not protest. Her own fate did not matter. She merely looked to Snelling. She could see him considering his investigations, the evidence he had collected. Corina saw the process, too.
"Did she not fly to warn him tonight?" Corina almost shrieked.
Snelling nodded.
"Lady Clevancy is not involved." All eyes turned to Julien as his voice boomed over the crowd. "She is a girl, naive enough to warn a man she believed was innocent. Is that a crime?" His eyes swept the crowd. The crowd murmured in response, some understanding, some pitying.
Julien's words cut Sarah to the quick. She had always known how naive she must appear to him. He was defending her, but with a truth that judged her guilty of a crime she considered far greater than helping a suspected murderer.
Julien turned to Snelling. "A hard trial, perhaps, with sentiment on her side. A pretty prisoner in the dock is not easily convicted." Snelling rubbed his chin, not recently shaven, considering. "Why cloud the issue?" Julien almost whispered.
Snelling decided. "I 'ave no warrant for any but the London murderer. I 'ave no use for 'er." He motioned his prisoner into the murky interior of the coach. Sarah watched him duck his head and disappear. Part of her was elated that no shackles would ever hold him except by his own consent, and that he could defend himself against drugs. Yet there was no question that she had just seen the last of Julien Davinoff. He had touched her life with a brand of fire. Now he would move on. Snelling locked the iron door and beat on the side of the coach with his pistol.
"I'll meet you boys at the round 'ouse," he yelled, and heaved himself onto a horse held by one of the ostlers. The beadles and hired thugs piled into two carts pulled up behind Corina's landaulet. They clattered out into the street, as Corina stood, sputtering on the walkway.
"I am not done with you, Sarah Ashton," Corina shrieked at last. She spun on her heel and climbed into the carriage. The still impassive Pembly pulled out into the road.
Sarah stood on the step. The muttering men behind her dispersed into the club. She could not move. Her limbs had turned to mush.
"I hope you are satisfied." She heard George's voice behind her, so sure of itself. "This is the l
ast straw, Sarah." The click of his boots on the wet stone receded down the street.
She was alone. The rain beat down, beading in her hair and dripping down her face like tears. She realized, after a while, that her hat and cloak were still at Jackson's. The walk home would be sodden and cold, like her soul. At last she managed to trudge off into the rain.
Chapter Sixteen
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Sarah sat, curled in her bed, holding with nerveless fingers the tea Addie had provided. Her voluminous white linen nightdress, its bodice covered with spidery white embroidery, was warm and dry. Her skin was tight from the soap of her steaming bath, her hair still wet. All outward traces of her experience tonight had been removed. But nothing would ever erase tonight from her mind. The people of Bath would remind her of it, if she was received at all. That did not matter. Tonight would live forever as the last time she saw Julien and the night she saw herself so clearly, so painfully through his eyes.
The moment Julien called her naive she realized what dreams she secretly nourished in her breast. She wanted him to return her regard. No, say it, Sarah. Her love. She had recognized her love tonight in the very moment all desires were blighted. He would never love a girl like her. He was a different species. Homo Mordeus, George would say. Twenty-six. That had once seemed old to her. But it was a breath of age, hardly worth mentioning to one who had seen ages pass.
There was another pain. In one way, probably the one way that he desired naivete, she was not naive at all. He could not know that a girl of her station and demeanor had reveled in the feel of a man's body under her hands. She flushed in shame. Yes, she had enjoyed touching that boy on a humid evening in Sienna. Her mind flicked to the feel of Julien's thigh against her when she sat beside him in his curricle, to the times in the cellar when she had touched his flesh, to the feel of his shoulder beneath her hand as they waltzed. There was no mistaking those feelings and what they meant. Worse, she wanted more.
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