Émile sat not far from the corpse, arms on knees, chin on palm, staring in front of him. At least he was dry-eyed. Georges came to the point abruptly. “What are you thinking of, sitting here for hours?”
Georges had decided Émile wasn’t going to reply when he spoke. “I talk to her; I apologise for not saving the others.”
“Have you been about that all this time? You could not do the impossible.”
Émile sighed. Finally, he spoke lightly, “Alors, Georges, one must count one’s blessings, as the English say. Should I end up dangling from Tyburn* it will inconvenience nobody but myself.”
“I suppose Madame de Courcy might object, or even those other relatives of yours in Wales, your cousin and aunt.”
“Very likely.” Émile got up. “Is it time to dress for dinner?”
“You could think of getting married.” Georges watched Émile tie his cravat. This was a long process, for when not Monsieur Gilles, Émile was fussy about his clothes. It was as if Charlotte’s spirit put this suggestion about marriage in Georges’ mouth; he couldn’t think of anyone less suited for it except himself.
Émile’s eyebrows shot up. “I am in no hurry to resign myself to an appropriate match and a lukewarm marriage bed, Georges.”
No doubt he thinks of that blonde girl yet, the poor Devil.
The next day, at the funeral, Émile was more his normal self than he had been before it. Over brandy with Georges in the evening, he grinned suddenly. “My financial affairs are involved, Georges. It will take time to sort them out. Mon Grand-père showed prescience in investing half of our fortune in Britain, eh? Alors, before the funds become available, I should go and rusticate at Dubois Court in Buckinghamshire, fending off creditors with my tongue. Frankly, that does not appeal. I think I must live as a scoundrel still, and that offer to us about Hounslow Heath lures. Fancy you some experience as a Gentleman of the Road, Georges?”
Georges grinned back. “From what our fellow smuggler said, we should take ourselves to the tavern in that village some ten miles West of London – Brentford – that was it – and ask for one Mr Kit.”
Plas Uchaf
Famau Mountain
North Wales
December 1794
Sophie was sighing over a copy of ‘Clarissa’. * She added to her pleasure in the story by curling her toes in the warmth of the fire, for the December weather was bitter, the tapestries shifting in the draught. It being Sunday, she should have been reading her Bible. Yet Richard Lovelace enticed and Sophie envied Clarissa her excitement with him (before the awful ending, naturally).
She thought about her own romantic prospects. Lord Ynyr and the Dowager Countess had taken her to some assemblies. There she danced with the Count. Women had looked enviously at the Poor Relation he honoured. Handsome and charming as he was, Sophie should have thought herself lucky.
She was, but she noticed something was missing; she felt no spark at his touch, such as she was sure even prissy Samuel Richardson intended Clarissa to feel at Lovelace’s rascally caress.
No doubt that was a shocking, immodest thought. After all, what did she expect? She had heard Harriet and her married friends talking in whispers. ‘Men are made so. You just have to put up with it. After all, you do get a baby as a result.’
On a quiet Sunday afternoon like this Sophie often found herself thinking of things highly unsuitable for the Sabbath; of romance and adventure. She yearned for a dashing admirer to rush into her life and sweep her off her feet. For a Dowager’s companion that was as likely as being struck by lightening. Perhaps, up here on the Famau Mountain – where thunderstorms were frequent – it was rather less likely.
Agnes bustled in and came to poke up the fire. “Nasty old North East wind there is today, isn’t it, Miss Sophie? You are right to wear your heavy shawl in this draught. They are on their way, by the by.”
Sophie’s mind had drifted to the coming Christmas party for the village children and whether she had made enough dolls. Though the giving of presents belonged traditionally to St Nicholas’ Day*, she couldn’t resist the pleasure of a surprise present for each of them. “Who?”
“Why, the two young men, the dark one and the fair one, of course.”
Sophie laughed. “Agnes, when I first came here you told me we should each of us have an admirer, and they are not here yet! I have been taken in quite. Such tardy dispatch is far from inspiring. Why, by the time they arrive we shall all have grey hair and the rheumatics.”
Agnes put out the new blue dress she had just completed. As Sophie rushed to admire it, Agnes admitted, “I am deft with the needle, though I do say so myself…Well, they will be here within the sennight.” She looked thoughtfully at Sophie. “I feel I must warn you, though, Miss, they are a pair of rascals.”
Sophie was shocked. “Really, Agnes! As if I would encourage the advances of a rascal!”
“Begging your pardon, Miss, you won’t be able to help yourself. You will fall for him like a ton of coals being delivered.” She smiled with satisfaction.
Since Agnes’ comforting her over the death of Sian Jones’ baby, Sophie had indulged her maid; they were friends, but now she felt she must take a stand. “Agnes, not another word! Really, you say some shocking things. No more of such nonsense!”
She thought Agnes hid a smile and she hurried on, “This is a lovely dress, you are brilliant with your needle. I must hurry, though, for Mr Kenrick is to dinner tonight, and I want to take one last look at the flowers before Roberts begins to harry the footman. Ah, I shouldn’t encourage you, but Mr Kenrick has been overseas, Agnes, so it is a shame that he is a married man and by all accounts not a romantic figure. Still, I am looking forward to seeing Mistress Kenrick when she arrives, for she is accounted a beauty. Why, you shiver; are you still cold?”
“Only at the thought of him, Miss. I took against him the moment I saw him. He’s a bad ‘un for a certainty. He came early to look over the Count’s laboratory, though for sure he cannot be interested in herbal cures, or anything that might help others. There’s talk that he is involved in the Forbidden Arts, and the Cards did warn us of such, for all your joking, Miss Sophie, so you must avoid him all you can. After he grew up, he never did get on with the late Count and the Dowager don’t like him neither.”
She began on Sophie’s hair. “By the by, Miss, I ran into Sian Jones this morning. Do you remember – the girl whose baby died back in the summer? – Well, she’s expecting again. I met her in the shop and I gave her belly a tap. ‘Nice work, cariad (dear), and this time he will be as healthy as can be, and you’ll be having a few more after him, too.’”
“That is wonderful, Agnes! I am so happy for her.”
Sophie was still smiling at this happy news when the newest footman flung open the blue sitting room door for her. She saw with dismay that Mr Kenrick was already in the room. He was looking over a book from a side table, glasses perched on his nose; at her entrance he whipped these off. Taking her fading smile to be for himself, he moved swiftly to greet her, his agility startling in a heavily built man.
As he took her hand, she shuddered. He exuded a repellent atmosphere, though there was nothing to account for it, save his lecherous stare. He was an ordinary looking man in his mid twenties, heavily made and tall, with a high colour, glassy eyes and a long nose. The oily smile he turned on her showed startlingly white, sharp, longish teeth.
“Miss Sophie, I believe. I have heard all about you and your Angel’s Voice.” He squeezed her hand, and though he ran his eyes eagerly over her, they remained glassy. “Mr Kenrick, your nearest neighbour. Regrettably, Mistress Kenrick has not yet been able to join me.”
Sophie tried to be welcoming even as she tried as hard to free her hand. He bent to kiss it, and the touch of his lips was horrible. She felt his teeth graze her skin. His pale eyes met hers, and he let out what she could only think of as a giggle while his saliva gushed out on to her hand.
Horrified, she tried to wrench it away as he
mumbled something. He kept a tight grasp on it, and she noticed the alarming strength in his fingers. He giggled again, looking almost pleased at her show of repugnance. Straightening, he made a sort of lunge towards her, still salivating freely.
What he would have done, she never found out, for the door was flung open for Miss Morwenna and Dr and Mrs Powell.
Kenrick took out a silk handkerchief to mop at his lips. His greeting of Miss Morwenna was more restrained, though his look gloated.
Miss Morwenna said smoothly, “Mr Kenrick, welcome back, Sir. I am sure you recollect Dr and Mrs Powell.” She was vibrant in yellow silk. Sophie envied her being able to wear it, as she herself would almost have disappeared behind the strong colour, though that would have made little difference to her visibility for Miss Morwenna. Now Miss Morwenna honoured her with a glance, and Sophie supposed she must have seen part of the strange assault.
Meanwhile, Dr Powell talked with Kenrick, though from his look Sophie suspected he had seen too.
She stood quaking, wiping her hand with her own handkerchief. Disgusting! She wondered if that was the sort of thing poor relatives must endure from certain male visitors. Still, that drooling was something she had never overheard Harriet and her friends or the maids mention in their secret talk.
Lord Ynyr joined them, smiling apologies. “Please forgive me, Morwenna, Mr Kenrick, Dr Powell, and Miss Sophie. I was delayed by estate affairs.” His being such a conscientious landlord made his tenants demanding.
Dinner, taken in the huge dining room proper, wasn’t successful. The Dowager Countess was stiff and formal at one end of the great table, her son affable at the other. Kenrick was talkative, but strangely cold even as he smiled. Dr and Mrs Powell tried to hide their dislike. Meanwhile, Miss Morwenna, who usually could be relied upon to rally any man between the ages of seventeen and sixty, showed no wish to do so with Kenrick.
There was talk of war news. Lord Ynyr said, “Do you know, a press gang was at work about St Asaph’s*, miles inland?”
“For sure, Your Lordship, they won’t find many sea-going men there, but I believe a couple were taken even so.” Dr Powell turned to Kenrick, “It is lucky, Sir, you were returned from your travels abroad some time before the outbreak of the war with France.”
“Yes, indeed, Sir.” Kenrick agreed in his flat voice. He smiled to himself over something. “Since His Late Lordship introduced us youngsters to scientific ideas, I understand Your Lordship has become interested in curing disease through the use of plants?”
“If I could defeat one of the major diseases that cause so many deaths, I would be sufficiently proud.”
Kenrick didn’t look as though he gave a fig for such deaths. Sophie noted how the Count made no enquiries about Kenrick’s own scientific experiments; she remembered Agnes’ talk about his dabbling in black magic.
Morwenna’s eyes sparkled. “Never mind, Ynyr, you did wonders for Her Ladyship’s maid’s bunions, which is a beginning.” While Sophie managed to keep her face straight, Morwenna gave the low-in-the throat laugh Sophie envied. “Gracious, Ynyr, I am an ingrate indeed, for you cured me of a sore throat last spring.”
As often, Lord Ynyr beamed on her so that Sophie thought that it was well how she took a modest view of her own chances with him. “You may be an ingrate all you please, Morwenna, for I would forgive you much.”
The Dowager Countess spoke mournfully, “The Dear Late Count became first intrigued by herbal cures during a stay in my native Provence.”
“He made great progress upon them, Ma’am, and I have used his recommendations as a basis for all of my cures.” Lord Ynyr turned to Kenrick. “You have been to all sorts of exotic places, I believe, Kenrick. I suppose you came across some intriguing cures in Transylvania?”
For the first time, Morwenna looked at Kenrick with interest. “Transylvania, of course! How widespread is the vampire legend there, Sir? Do tell, for I hear you made some investigations into it during your time there.”
The Dowager Countess clicked her tongue, possibly thinking that Kenrick’s wife having died in Transylvania, these references were tactless. As Kenrick smiled emptily on Morwenna, Sophie thought with such teeth, it was a wonder that he hadn’t been taken for a vampire himself. Recalling those teeth grazing the skin of her hand, she shivered.
At the moment, Kenrick was gazing at the trifle the footman spooned out for him with the same hungry interest with which earlier he had gloated over Sophie.
He said, “Their beliefs vary according to area – some more, please, my man! – though all agree that the best form of protection from the vampire is –” he paused, looking disgusted, “Garlic. As I am allergic to the weed, I suffered accordingly and was regarded with suspicion.” He let out a sudden shout of laughter that contrasted oddly with his former giggling.
The Dowager Countess looked stern. “The Dear Late Count held that such tales arise through a combination of empty minds and active tongues. We have sufficient foolish legends of our own here in Wales such as the Black Dog.”
Morwenna was determined on one more question. “But what if despite the garlic, they are bitten?”
“Then, my dear young lady, they show a touching faith in the efficacy of sundry weeds to prevent the victim from turning into a Half Vampire, the creature halfway between the human and the vampire. His Lordship might be interested in those.” Kenrick giggled, in odd contrast to his earlier shout of laughter. “That is, if the bite has not been fatal, in which case the victim’s transformation to a full vampire is inevitable. For those who wish to prevent this, the only course is –” He paused again and to Sophie’s surprise his ruddy complexion drained of colour before he finished with a shudder of disgust.
“– A series of barbaric rituals.”
In the middle of the night, Sophie awoke with a gasp of fear to an odd chill. Mr Kenrick stood by her bed. His lips were pursed for a kiss, and as he moved silently closer she let out a gasp of terror. At this, he stopped and drew back, wrinkling his nose, looking disgusted. His form wavered and vanished in a subdued flash.
Too terrified to scream, head whirling, she stared wildly at the space where Kenrick had stood. She tried to put it down to a nightmare, possibly brought on by the garlic cure that the Count had given her for a sore throat.
It was an hour before she dared to lie down again and a couple more before she relaxed into sleep.
Chapter Four
From the landing window, Sophie watched the carriage draw up and the two young men spring out. Agnes would be delighted that one was dark and one was fair.
Sophie rebuked herself for having light thoughts about poor Monsieur Émile, so terribly bereaved. Still, it wasn’t as if he looked miserable from here as he stopped to joke with two of the footman. Harriet wouldn’t approve of his informality; once he even jumped up on the carriage to help unload something.
Both Monsieur Émile and his man looked in excellent condition, though they were so different in build; Monsieur Émile was spare and lanky, while his valet was square and stocky with an almost cherubic look.
Monsieur Émile was long legged and fair haired, as she remembered him, though now he was broad shouldered and muscular. He had the sort of fitness which makes a man bounce about as though he were on springs. Both he and his valet were expensively and fashionably dressed. The valet’s jacket looked as though it had cost three times the yearly wage of John’s footmen.
Sophie smiled as Lord Ynyr went down the steps to wring his cousin’s hand. Miss Morwenna followed, all happy animation as he bent to kiss her hand. When Sophie watched Morwenna with others, she could see the charm that she never showed towards herself. Well, Sophie knew already that she must learn a lot more humility to be suited to her position as Poor Relative.
The group moved inside. Sophie thought that she would give them three quarters of an hour for a family reunion before joining them.
When she came into the sitting room, eager and yet hesitant to meet the man she had admire
d from afar for years, she smiled at the sight of the group standing chatting and laughing by the fireplace. Everyone was animated; even Roberts moved slightly more briskly as he took about a tray of drinks.
“– You must come there with me when we are both next in town, Ynyr. Perhaps we may even impose on Morwenna to join us?” Monsieur Émile looked round as the Dowager Countess said, “Sophie: there is no need to be shy! Come and meet my nephew, Monsieur Émile.”
Monsieur Émile was even taller than she thought. As she’d noted when watching him from the window, he exuded vigour and was magnificently dressed, his fair hair carefully styled to look untidy. He had the same cast of feature, high cheekbones and wide mouth she remembered. He still retained the band of freckles across the bridge of his nose which after meeting him, she used to puzzle everyone by giving to the Greek heroes in her childish drawings. The slanting light green eyes, wide set and acute, were the same. Instead of smiling at her lazily, as when he was a boy, he gawped; his jaw dropped; his eyes dilated, and he froze on the spot.
Sophie glanced behind her; a footman must have entered with a knife between his teeth, say, or possibly a tiger followed her into the room. There was nothing there. She came over to greet him, astounded at his rapt stare.
Had this been a scene from a novel, she would take this gaze as evidence that Monsieur Émile was falling in love at first sight with his aunt’s companion. Sadly this was unlikely, if only because she had overheard the Dowager Countess complaining in a hushed voice to Lord Ynyr of her nephew’s rakish activities in London: ‘It is shocking. I realise that Émile has had much to endure, but there is no excuse for Such Behaviour.’
He was even breathing quickly as he stared at her. Of course, Miss Morwenna noticed. She raised her eyebrows at him in silent enquiry. Sophie curtseyed. “I am so happy that you are here, Monsieur Émile.”
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 4