That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  He shook his head in outrage. “I’d only take that from you, Dolly! Tell me where they went.”

  “Madame is your prisoner now, is that it?” Mrs Kit pulled out some garlic and stood between Georges and the front door, smiling grimly.

  Georges drew back in revulsion; his form began to waver, only to reappear. This happened half a dozen times before he vanished.

  Mrs Kit stood looking at the specks which swirled before dissolving. “Just wait until Monsieur Gilles comes back, I’ll Give It Him Proper!”

  It was only when they were out on the lane Sophie and Agnes slowed their pace. “He must needs have heard Mrs Kit.” Sophie wheezed, staring back. It seemed to her she was breathing differently, apart from being out of wind. At that moment she accepted she must be pregnant even as she once accepted she was in love with her grand relative. The possibility of a Semi Vampire baby was appalling, but she had an idea.

  They trotted down the lane. “If only the local church was open.” Agnes said. “The walk is over five miles round.”

  “It is lucky we didn’t think to take off our shawls when Monsieur ordered us inside –” Sophie broke off at the sound of running feet behind them. Georges came round the corner.

  “Get back!” Agnes brandished her small piece of garlic.

  “Not again.” Georges paled. “Mademoiselles, however come you outside? Did you climb down? I salute your courage! But if you insist on staying out, then I must be with you, and with Mr Kit abed that leaves Katarina and the others unprotected.”

  “We are only going to church, Georges. We will back betimes.” Sophie tried to speak soothingly.

  “Why cannot you pray at home?” He caught hold of Sophie’s wrist, and as she angrily tried to wrench it free Agnes thrust the garlic in his face. He fell back, dropping Sophie’s wrist, spluttering, knees buckling. They turned and scampered up the lane while he staggered some way behind them, cursing.

  A peasant woman bent under a bundle of firewood passed them, staring. She looked particularly at Georges, still unsteady on his feet. She was the only person they met on the walk to Llandyrnog.

  Once, Georges came nearer. “What of your promise to Monsieur, Madame?” He fell back as Agnes brandished the garlic again, demanding, “What then of his own promises?”

  At last they came to the church. Agnes sneered, “Do you wish to come in with us, Georges?”

  Sophie feared he might, to ensure they didn’t escape via the back. Perhaps he couldn’t enter, for he pulled a face and settled himself by the churchyard wall.

  Inside the empty church, as they hurried over to the Count of Ruthin’s pew, inhaling the church smell, Sophie uttered a desperate prayer that the wine would be there.

  As Agnes triumphantly held up the bottle, Sophie said another of thanksgiving. Clearly, if anybody had noticed it, they didn’t dare interfere with anything placed amongst the Count of Ruthin’s possessions.

  Sophie whispered, “We must pray now for this cure to work as the herbal seemed not to, or anyway, it worked not speedily enough for our needs. I did mention this wine cure once to Monsieur; I don’t know how much notice he took or if he told Georges…Now, Agnes my dear, leave now by the back, for you must put Eiluned first.”

  “Not again, cariad! Is putting her first I am in staying and fighting for a cure for them nice rascals as has become monsters. I wouldn’t leave you, and – ” for the first time, Sophie saw Agnes blush, “I find I do care for that wicked Georges more than ever I thought that I could.”

  When they came out, Agnes stiffened. Georges was talking to an auburn haired girl standing by the wall, who resembled Sian Jones.

  “So, Mair!” Agnes greeted the girl, arms akimbo. Georges looked embarrassed.

  The girl evaded Agnes’ gaze and bobbed to Sophie, who remembered that Mair Jones had been bitten and showed symptoms. Yet she had none of the alien quality now so evident in Émile and Georges. She turned to go, but paused to direct a torrent of Welsh at Agnes, who snorted.

  They were all silent on the way home, Georges brooding behind Sophie and Agnes, while Agnes cast bitter looks at him as though she hadn’t just declared her love for him.

  “You have done well, Dubois.” Kenrick was the one who smiled wolfishly now.

  Émile stood, arms folded across his chest, looking infinitely sour.

  Kenrick went on, “Tomorrow, all should be ready to put this into practice. It is a shame we cannot spend more time upon it, but you understand the increase of force better than I.” He sighed heavily. “When we were callow young pups, following the lead of the late Count, we never thought what life held in store for us. You never make reference to those carefree past times we spent together with the Late Count, you, I and Lord Ynyr.”

  Something stirred at the back of Émile’s eyes, but he spoke coldly. “What is there to say? Our paths diverged, leading us to pursue different types of investigation: I into law and disorder in revolutionary France, you into the myths of Transylvania and Lord Ynyr into a search for herbal cures.”

  Kenrick looked at him sharply. “Talking of which, I suppose that ungrateful kitchen wench dosed you well at the beginning of your change?”

  “She did, but so ineffective has it proved I cannot believe it ever works. Alors, it is time I left. Until tomorrow, then.” Émile turned to glance back at Kenrick, avoiding his eyes as ever. “As you assure me I cannot change my form, you must unlock the door.”

  Arthur, still following their every movement, sneered.

  Kenrick went to unlock the laboratory door. “Earlier, you could brave that abominable stench from that wench’s pockets strangely. That renders you the more suspicious in my eyes. Until tomorrow, then.” He stared at Émile’s face thoughtfully, and his expression turned to one of disgust. “I hate men of violence. Believe me, I have revelled even less in this enforced co-operation than you.”

  Émile went straight to where Ceridwen awaited him in the morning room. Resentment and surprise flickered at the back of his eyes as he opened the door, as though he wondered how he came to be there.

  “My sweet ruffian, you are here as I ordered. Viens ici salaud! Now, come a little to yourself, as I like not the company of automatons. Lunch is on its way. Kenrick says the work progresses apace. Maybe this is the last time we shall enjoy each other. Then, perhaps you will return to your silly little wife. Or possibly not, if things work out otherwise. You do enjoy me, Monsieur Gilles, you cannot deny it. If nothing else, the light in your eyes and your touch gives you away. Answer your mistress like a good highwayman.”

  “I cannot deny I did the last time, but on the first occasion ...” He shuddered all over.

  Ceridwen rose, lips pouting, and coming up to him, caressed his face. “As I said – and this is not a phrase I am given to using – I am sorry for that now, for you are rather a nice rake after all and a gentle lover.”

  He began to kiss her. They were still kissing when the man servant with the ill-fitting uniform scratched at the door. Ceridwen giggled like a playful girl as she pulled down her skirts and petticoats. “Don’t fall over, twpsin (idiot)!”

  The man breathed heavily as he set down the tray. Émile watched him expressionlessly and Ceridwen waved him away. “We will serve ourselves.”

  If these words put Émile in mind of intimate meals with someone else, he showed no sign as he opened the dish on the almost raw meat floating in pools of blood.

  As Georges ushered Sophie and Agnes into Plas Planwydden, Mrs Kit rushed up with Mr Kit limping behind.

  “So, you rascal!” She raised one hand. Georges seized it even as Mr Kit said, “Now, Dolly!”

  “Get your dirty claws off me, you filthy vampire!”

  “Filthy perhaps, but no more hitting me, Dolly.”

  “Mr Kit, I’m happy to see you a little recovered.” Sophie spoke wearily. “Mrs Kit, I know you have had much to try your patience, but could I ask you to forebear a little longer?”

  “Did you know all, Ma’am, you might
not.”

  Sophie remembered Lucien’s furious, ‘You have sated your appetite’ and ‘She has been bewitched’ and was suddenly certain Mrs Kit was referring to Éloise. Her knees went weak with sickening dismay and jealousy.

  “When I see Monsieur Gilles he shall get a piece of my mind.”

  Mr Kit interposed here. “Now, Dolly, blaming them ain’t fair. It’s like blaming a man as has been taken by the law.”

  “Humph!” said Agnes. “Is times I have thought would be better for all had it been so.”

  “Do not say as much, Agnes!” Sophie thrust aside her jealousy and gave up any pretence at ignorance about The Rascals’ past. “Mrs Kit, I know you are angry, but please don’t confront Monsieur Émile when he comes in, I must speak to him firstly.”

  Mrs Kit snorted. “He needs his face slapping, and all…Why are you two loitering about?” This was addressed to Guto and Éloise, who were standing down the corridor off, watching the new drama.

  Sophie avoided looking at this rival, who looked far too blooming to have lost much blood. Katarina came scampering up, and she took her hand. “Monsieur will come back weary from that long cold journey, and we must have some mulled wine awaiting him, Agnes.”

  What seemed an interminable time later, Émile – newly bathed – flung open the sitting room door. “Sophie, you wild creature, Georges says you and Agnes risked your necks climbing over the roof. How could you be so foolish?”

  Sophie had spent the day fighting off an anguish of apprehension besides her two separate causes for jealous suspicion.

  Her jealousy over That Woman was straightforward enough, inspiring Sophie to change into one of the new dresses Agnes had made up for her, a lovely mauve, which she hoped flattered her colouring. Émile having commented on her pallor, she thought she needed it. Agnes had helped further, by rouging her cheeks.

  Her other jealousy was unaccountable, yet nearly as bad. She wanted to see Éloise’s neck, and didn’t know how to approach her without setting her into a panic, besides losing all dignity herself. She couldn’t do anything about it now, for it was Éloise’s day off. She had gone to the village, escorted by Guto, who fancied himself up to any confrontation with a human bat.

  Now, Sophie noted the reluctant tenderness and admiration in Émile’s eyes. “Yes, we did break free; it is awful being a prisoner. We went to church.”

  “Then came back, as docile as lambs to the slaughter? Something does not add up. Church, you said? Wait, my girl –”

  They turned as Agnes came in with a tray with a jug of heated and spiced wine. “Yes, Émile, though of course you will mock. Why, thank you, Agnes dear.”

  Émile glanced from one to the other of them, eyebrows raised. Agnes put down the tray and lifted the jug. Even as Sophie dreaded Émile would refuse the wine, Georges was there in a display of sparks. “Don’t touch that poison!”

  “Thank you, mon ami, but I am not such a fool. So, Madame ma Femme, not content with your other tricks, you now intend to poison me!”

  Georges said, “Idiot that I am! This is why they were so desperate to get to church! I sensed it as Agnes sauntered by me with the poisonous brew.”

  Émile jumped towards Agnes even as she flung half the contents of the jug over Georges. Georges let out a howl, clawing at his skin, and fell writhing to the floor, groaning a lot of incomprehensible French. “You have flayed me, salope!”

  Sophie quailed, fearing he was badly scalded, but Agnes stood her ground. “That may work!”

  Katarina stood at the door, hand to mouth, Guto behind her.

  Émile lunged for the jug, but slipped on the wet floor. Even as he stumbled, Sophie snatched the jug from Agnes and threw its contents at him. She wasn’t usually good at aiming, but the wine hit him full in the face, some even going between his parted lips, so he choked; it drenched the front of his hair, and splashed down his neck. Still choking, he fell to the floor, scrubbing desperately at his face and smearing the wine over his hands.

  “I am sorry! I am so sorry!” Sophie found herself snivelling. Katarina rushed in to stare down at her hero in anguish.

  Émile’s inhuman eyes met Sophie’s in speechless torment and rage. “Water!” he managed to pant at Guto, who stared in horror. “Quickly!”

  “No! As you love him no, Guto!” Sophie cut in. Guto paused.

  The Man Vampires’ writhing agony horrified Sophie. It must have melted Agnes, too; her voice was shaking with repressed sobs. “We had to do it, Georges, but I am sorry!”

  Georges seemed to be recovering slightly. He staggered to his feet and went over to Émile. “The burning will lessen directly. Let us to the pump.”

  Émile rose shakily, biting his lips. As his gaze raked Sophie, he looked as though it was taking all his self control not to slap her. “I will deal with you all later.”

  Georges drew himself up, the wine making ringlets of his longish, curly black hair. “You may be thankful, Mesdames, Gilles Long Legs and I have never yet laid hands on a woman.”

  Perhaps he realised how given their rakish history, there was something absurd about this speech. Anyway, after this attempt to regain some dignity and masculine authority, the Man Vampires staggered off towards the water pump.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For hours after the household at Plas Uchaf were asleep, Lord Ynyr sat up in the library, looking up information on the vampire legends.

  Again and again, Lucien’s unctuous voice sounded in his head. ‘I believe Monsieur Émile is become a vampire…your Lordship knows what everyone says about Kenrick and his wife…’

  The Count read how there were Semi Vampires who have survived an attack, while those who die rise from their graves as the Vampire proper.

  “Morwenna, it cannot be!”

  He leafed through pages browned with age with desperate intensity, uncaring if his candle spilled wax on their pages, only thankful his librarian was back and had replaced the books about myths of Eastern Europe on the shelves.

  All save the one Sophie took with her to Plas Planwydden.

  At some passage, the Count would fling aside whichever book he was reading. “This is madness!’ He would leap up and pace about the room, his normally calm grey eyes as wild as his cousin Émile’s.

  A couple of times he went to Morwenna’s room, where her old nurse took it in turns with Mrs Brown to sit with her all night.

  He knew the Dowager Countess slept soundly, Dr Powell having prescribed laudanum drops as a sedative.

  As always when he came into the sickroom, the women avoided his eyes. He gazed down at Morwenna in torment before coaxing her to take some of the herbal medicine.

  “It is shameful poor Miss should be struck down, while wicked rogues flourish.” Mrs Brown addressed her shoes. The Count knew who she meant, and he couldn’t rebuke her.

  As he went down the Long Gallery, the floor creaking under his boots, while outside the wind soughed through the trees and howled round the gables, he remembered his own outrage at Lord Dale’s insistence the gang of highwaymen who robbed his carriage were led by ‘That Scoundrel Émile Dubois’, masked, but recognisable by his eyes.

  Thinking of Émile’s household, of his extraordinarily democratic relationship with his disreputable valet, butler and housekeeper, Lord Ynyr suddenly realised the probability of this. All along, he had been blinded by his old love and admiration for his cousin.

  Back in the study, he sat, his face buried in his hands, groaning, remembering the fear lurking in the back of Sophie’s eyes as she asked where the books on myths of Eastern Europe might be; he recalled her nervousness as she distributed her farewell gifts of crosses to the staff.

  The cross Sophie gave Morwenna soon afterwards was lying on the floor when they found her.

  The Count groaned again as he remembered coming up to Émile as he knelt by Morwenna’s bed, and catching his words, ‘I so hate myself for this. Forgive me, ma petite.’

  He had thought Émile somehow believed that Mo
rwenna contracted the sickness from him.

  She has indeed.

  He went back to searching the shelves, wrenching out volumes, throwing some on the floor, dislodging enough dust to shock Madame Blanch, until he found something which might be relevant.

  It was lucky his late father had been fond of reading on myths.

  No, it was particularly unlucky; for the late Count had introduced Kenrick to the legends of Transylvania, unconsciously inspiring him to seek out there the scourge now spreading through these villages. Perhaps he had killed his beloved first wife. Whatever may have happened, this second marriage seemed to the Count a loveless pairing.

  For sure, Mistress Kenrick was a vampire herself! The day after the Lewis’ Twelfth Night Ball (and Miss Lewis’ inexplicable accident), Émile went to Plas Cyfeillgar – hoping, of course, to satisfy his lust with Kenrick’s wife – only to come back in a fever, rambling of an attack by a monster.

  He was raving so when Lord Ynyr went to his room to offer him his herbal cure. Émile had told the Count to go to the Devil and take his herbs with him.

  It was Émile himself who was going to the Devil.

  Was his beloved cousin now a monster, capable of draining Morwenna’s blood to satisfy his thirst? It could not be.

  Lord Ynyr remembered Émile, cynically smiling at talk about the tales of vampires circulating in the villages, while Sophie shuddered. Thinking of it now, the Count could almost hate him.

  Maybe the Vampire Émile had taken jaded pleasure in trapping his admiring poor relative with the offer to become his wife. Now he would batten on her until she became a monster, too. Yet, even as he thought this, some part of Lord Ynyr’s seething brain admitted that even in his monstrousness, Émile appeared to be genuinely in love with Sophie. Probably, he couldn’t help himself.

  The Count muttered aloud, “Morwenna, I cannot endure to lose you, leave alone what must follow. I have never been a vengeful man before, but that monster shall pay for this.”

  What must he do? Who would believe him? Dr Powell? The Reverend Smythe-Jones? His own mother must doubt him. The villagers knew; but they were helpless in their fear and ignorance. No, he must act alone.