P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque

by Death Masque(Lit)

  "I know, I know. Where, then? His leg, shoulder-?"

  "The stomach, my dear. Will you want to put the sword in yourself, too? To finish him?"

  Edmond was dead white, but held his ground. Brave man.

  "Yes," she answered. "I think I want to do that, as well."

  There were Clarinda's feet peeking from under the hem of her gown. Not quite within reach, but if I let go my sword and...

  "What will it feel like?" she wondered. I twisted and dug my knees against the floor, reaching with both hands. Suddenly engulfed in a drift of black fabric and petticoats, I blundered heavily into her. She screeched in surprise as I tried to take hold of her legs. She kicked once and began to fall, overbalanced.

  Ridley cursed and I had an impression of him starting for me until something large slammed into him. Edmond, probably. I left them to it, being busy myself.

  Clarinda kicked again, viciously, catching me on the forehead with the sharp edge of her heel. I yelped and held fast to the one leg I had. Her vast skirts hampered us both, she for movement and me for sight as I tried to see what was going on. She screamed Ridley's name, fighting to break free. Her heel next caught me on the shoulder. This time I got hold of it while breathlessly damning her to perdition.

  I could hear some commotion going on between Edmond and Ridley. Clarinda also seemed aware of them and abruptly ceased trying to get away from me.

  Oh, my God.

  Letting go of her legs, I surged up and glimpsed her taking aim at Edmond's broad back with the pistol.

  'Wo.'" I cried, throwing myself bodily forward.

  The explosion deafened me. Too late. Too late. In panic as much as anger, I cracked a hand against her jaw. She slumped instantly. Behind and above me I heard more commotion, grunts and thumps ending with a soft but sickening thud. Someone made a gagging sound, then a body fell on the floor next to me.

  I pushed and turned away from Clarinda, fearful of an attack from Ridley; I need not have worried. It had been his body that had fallen. Edmond towered over us, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath, his eyes dark pinpoints in a white sea, not quite sane. For a second I thought his mad stare was for me, then realized it was Clarinda that held his attention. I was glad she was unconscious. What he might have done had she been awake did not bear imagining.

  Neither of us moved. I was too tired, and he, well, his mind was in the grip of the shadows. Having been in their thrall myself more than once, I knew it would take a bit of time for him to break loose. I remained quiet for his sake.

  Bloodsmell in the air. Edmond's. Fresh.

  There was a long tear on the outside of his left arm. The ball from Clarinda's pistol had come that close. It might have been closer, had I not-

  My teeth were out again.

  Ignore it, Johnny Boy. Now's not the time or place,

  God, but I was hungry. Thankfully not to the point of losing control. I wasn't on the edge of starving survival this time. I could wait a little longer.

  But not too long.

  Edmond stalked around us to sit on the defiled sarcophagus. He pressed one hand to his wound, bowing his head. There were lots of new lines on his face, but the old ones had settled back into something resembling their previous order.

  "Let's get some help for that, shall we?" I suggested, my voice so thin and shaken I hardly knew it.

  Edmond raised his eyes to stare at me. His expression rippled as the muscles beneath the skin convulsed. Not a pleasant sight, that. Even worse when I realized he was starting to laugh. Was laughing. With only the slightest of changes it might also be weeping. I fell quiet again. To offer a comforting arm as I'd done for Oliver would not have been welcome in this case. Edmond shook with laughter, was racked by it, sobbed with it, the sounds reverberating against the shocked walls of the mausoleum until the last of it dribbled away and he was utterly emptied.

  In the thick silence that followed, I strove to remove myself from the floor and, after a bit of struggle, succeeded. Like Edmond, I half sat, half leaned on the sarcophagus. Unlike him, I had no laughter in me, only a vast fatigue that would have to be answered for very soon.

  Ridley was alive, I noticed, and I was somewhat surprised by the fact. Edmond had thoroughly pulped him from what I could see of the fellow. His face was well bloodied, and there was more blood on the wall that may have come from a nasty-looking patch on one side of his shaved scalp. He'd lost his wig sometime during the battle, else it might have provided a bit of protection. Then again, perhaps not. Edmond had been terrifically incensed.

  Now he appeared to have regained a measure of self-possession. He was looking at his unconscious wife.

  "I... I really thought she loved me, once upon a time," he said softly. "Didn't last long. But it was nice for a while."

  "I'm sorry."

  He puffed some air out. Almost a laugh. "You've no idea."

  I thought I had, but said nothing. I shut my eyes and thanked God that Oliver had not been involved, after all. I let myself feel ashamed for having believed it even for a moment. Ridley's talk had been too vague on the point, and I'd suspected the worst. Bad, Johnny Boy, very bad of you.

  Yes. Very bad, indeed.

  Then there was one other thing that had been said...

  "Edmond?"

  He grunted.

  "Did Clarinda kill Aunt Fonteyn?"

  His great head swung in my direction. "Why do you think that?"

  "Because she reminded Ridley that she'd been busy elsewhere during the duel. It's bothered everyone on why Aunt Fonteyn had gone to the center of the maze that night, but Clarinda might have managed to get her there."

  He was quiet for a very long time, head bowed, shoulders down. He took in a draught of air and let it out slowly, shuddering. "I think you're right," he whispered. "Clarinda was somewhat... nervous that night. Very bright, she was. I thought it was because of the party, because she may have been going to meet someone. Another man. Always another man in the past. We'd long passed the point where I didn't give a damn what she did anymore and separated at the party soon after arrival. She must have-"

  "She killed Aunt Fonteyn so Oliver would inherit everything. Then we were to die tonight so she could be free to marry again. To marry the money."

  "With enough scandal involved so that the family would hush the worst of it up."

  "But why kill me?" I asked.

  "Eh?"

  "They wanted me to die at the Masque. Both of them." Yes, I had a separate quarrel with Ridley over that street brawl with him and his Mohocks, but why had Clarinda wanted me dead?

  "You really don't know?" He seemed bitterly amused at my ignorance.

  "Do you? What is it, then?"

  "I'll have to show you. At the house. These three can keep themselves until we can send someone for them. Come along, boy."

  He ponderously moved toward the door. I got my cloak back from Arthur, and put my swordstick together to use as a cane. Tired as I was, I needed its support just to hobble. Edmond was in better fettle and walked up the path toward the house more easily. He paused to wait for me, but I waved at him to go on ahead. As soon as he was out of sight, I veered away on a course that would take me directly to the Fonteyn stables and their red promise of swift revival.

  Afterward, of course, I took care not to show myself to be too lively when I made it back to the house. The cloak covered the alarming state of my blood-soaked clothing, and while Edmond was busy rousing certain members of the staff and household and giving them orders, I managed to avoid drawing undue attention to myself.

  Elizabeth was the one exception to this ploy. The instant she saw me, she knew something was wrong. The next instant she was whisking me away to a room where we could have the privacy necessary to talk.

  That talk was both lengthy and brutally truthful. I told her all.

  All that I knew, that is.

  It was just an hour short of dawn when Edmond had sorted things to his satisfaction and Fonteyn House settled
a bit.

  Won't last, I thought, dreading the gossip to come. Not for my sake, but for Oliver's.

  He had been awakened early on but had proved too befuddled to make much sense of the business. Elizabeth stayed behind trying to coax some cafe noir into him in the hope that it would help.

  Clarinda had recovered very fast from the blow I'd dealt her. At first she'd tried to run, then endeavored to convince Edmond she'd been under duress from Ridley, then attempted to bribe the servants guarding her. Under orders from her husband she was locked into a small upper room usually reserved for storage. He kept the only key. After a time she gave up shouting her outrage to the walls and fell into sullen silence.

  Ridley and Arthur, both still unconscious, were being cared for by a closemouthed doctor from the Fonteyn side of the family. He pronounced both to be concussed and not likely to wake anytime soon. He totally missed the wounds on Arthur's neck. Just as well.

  "What will you do with them?" I asked Edmond, who was glaring at the two as if to burn them to cinders.

  "Nothing," he rumbled.

  "Nothing?"

  "What would be accomplished in a court of law? They'd be let off with a five-shilling fine and advised to behave themselves in the future. Their fathers are too important in the Town for them to get what they really deserve. They didn't actually kill us, y'know."

  "It wasn't for lack of trying."

  "Yes, but since they failed, what they've done can be put down to the high spirits of youth. They knocked you about and shut me in that damned pit, nothing more. Pranks."

  He was right about that. For my own sake I'd had to conceal the true extent of my injury, which was now considerably better. Without such visible evidence of their intent to kill it would be nearly impossible to see any justice done-at least through the courts. However, I had some very firm ideas of my own and planned to act upon them at the earliest opportunity. In the near future both men would have to endure a late night visit from me that neither would remember, but which would have a profound effect on their lives. By God, I might even make churchgoers of them.

  "And Clarinda?" I asked.

  "Oh, she's mad, Cousin," he informed me matter-of-factly.

  "What?"

  "Quite, quite mad. I fear she will have to be confined for the rest of her life because of it." He fastened me with a dangerous look. "Any objections?"

  I pursed my lips and shook my head.

  "She did do murder," he went on softly, "of that I'm now certain. And she planned to do murder, of that we both know, but there's no way in which it might be proven."

  "Unless she confesses," I mused.

  "Not bloody likely, and even if she should, what then? Better this than watching her dance a jig at Tyburn."

  Probably.

  "No good would come of it to the family. We have to think of them," he added.

  "Oh, yes, certainly the family must be considered first."

  I half expected a sharp reproach for my sarcasm, but he only lifted his chin a bit. "Come along with me," he said, starting off without waiting to see if I'd follow.

  I caught up. "Why?"

  "You wanted to know why she was going to kill you. Still interested?"

  I was. He went upstairs and down one of the halls. I worried how long this might take. Brought back to strength again by means of the horse blood I'd lately fed upon, 1 could float home if pressed for time, but preferred to ride safe in a coach if possible. Before pushing myself further, I wanted a solid day's rest on my earth first.

  Edmond stopped before a closed door and gently opened it. The room beyond was lighted by several candles standing in bowls of water. Many cots had been set out, each bearing a small sleeping occupant. When I saw Nanny Howard, I came to the reasonable conclusion that we were in the nursery.

  "All's quiet, Mr. Fonteyn," she said in a low voice. I think she meant it as a warning for him not to disturb the children. She gave me a piercing stare, but I'd since borrowed some of Oliver's clothing and was secure that I was more respectable appearing than at our last meeting.

  Edmond brushed past her, picking up a candle along the way, and headed for one of the cots, pausing before it. The child lying in it was young, not more than three or four. He was very pretty, with pale clear skin and a headful of thick black hair.

  "Clarinda's boy," Edmond told me. "His name is Richard."

  Yes, I could see that he'd want to protect his son from the stigma of Clarinda's crimes, but what had this to do with...

  A cold fist seemed to close upon my belly, tighten its grip, and twist.

  "Oh, my God," I breathed.

  "Oh, yes, by God," Edmond growled.

  "It can't be."

  "It is. When he opens his eyes, you'll find them to be as blue as your own."

  The next few minutes were a dreadful haze as my poor brain tried to keep up with things and failed. I eventually found myself drooping on a settee out in the hall with Edmond looming over me, telling me to pull myself together and not be such a damned fool.

  'Too late for that," I muttered, still in the throes of shock.

  The Christmas party. My God, my God, my God...

  "I knew he wasn't mine," Edmond was saying. "And she wouldn't name the father, but when I saw you that night, I understood whose whelp he was right enough. You can be sure that Aunt Fonteyn would have seen as well had she been given the chance. Clarinda was always careful to keep the boy out of her sight. Easy to do when they're young. Must have given her quite a turn for you to come back to England."

  "But-"

  "She couldn't afford to have you around, y'know. Anyone seeing you and Richard would make the connection, but with you dead and buried, memories would soon fade, and she'd lie her head off, as always, to cover herself. Not with Aunt Fonteyn, though. The old woman was too sharp for such tricks. She'd have cut Clarinda out of the family money quick as thought. Another reason to kill."

  "Wh-what's to be done?" I felt as if a giant had stepped on me. I couldn't think, couldn't move. Was this what all men feel when fatherhood is suddenly thrust upon them?

  "Done? What do you mean?"

  "You can't introduce me to the child and expect me just to walk away. I'd like to get to know him... if it's all right with you." That was the problem. Would Edmond allow even that much?

  Edmond studied me, and for the first time there seemed to be a kind of sympathetic pity mixed into his normally grim expression. "You-what about the gossip?"

  "I don't give a damn about gossip. Nor do you, I think. After all this, people are going to know or guess anyway. Let them do so and be damned for all I care."

  A long silence. Then, "You're all in, boy. Time enough to think about such things tomorrow."

  "But I-"

  "Tomorrow," he said firmly, taking my arm and helping me up. "Now get out of here, before I forget myself and pound your face into porridge for being a better man than I."

  EPILOGUE

  But I could not bring myself to leave Fonteyn House. Not after this. The rapid approach of dawn was as nothing to me. When the time came I'd find some dark and distant corner in one of the ancient cellars and shelter there for the duration of the short winter day. There would be bad dreams awaiting me since I'd be separated from my home soil, but I'd survived them before and would do so again. Compared to what I'd just learned, the prospect of facing a week's worth of them hardly seemed worth my notice.

  After Edmond had left and under Nanny Howard's eye, I crept back into the nursery to look again at the sleeping child. My sleeping child. Richard.

  My God, but he was beautiful. Had my heart been beating, surely it would now be pounding fit to burst. As it was, my hands were shaking so much from a heady mixture of excitement, uncertainty, joy, and sheer terror that I didn't dare touch him for fear of waking him.

  Questions and speculations stabbed and flickered through my brain like heat lightning, offering only brief flashes of light, but no real illumination about the future. Edmond had not w
anted to discuss it, and I could see that he was right to postpone things until the idea had fully been absorbed into my still mostly stunned mind. Certain subjects between us would have to be addressed, though, and soon.

  I'd said I didn't give a damn about the gossip, but that wasn't entirely true. It meant little enough to me, but might prove to be a problem for this little innocent. It wasn't his fault that his mother was a murderous-