“I insist,” Cross said firmly. “Your nerves have been severely strained. You need rest and a change of scene. Being surrounded by friends and the knowledge that there is no paint in these rooms ought to give you that. Don’t you agree, Mr Scott?”
Scott nodded fervently. “Absolutely. I couldn’t have suggested better myself.”
Dawson slumped backwards in the chair. “I am too much of a coward to decline your offer. Thank you. I own, I do not want to be alone tonight.”
“We’ll be back soon,” Scott said, pulling on his coat.
“Until then, Julian will take care of you.” Cross’s hand rested on Julian’s shoulder. There was a message in that brief touch: I’m trusting you.
Julian swallowed. He did not want anyone but Pip in Pip’s room, but even he was forced to admit that Dawson was in no state to return to his godmother’s. He watched Cross and Scott hurry out the door before turning his attention to his guest.
Dawson still held the untasted glass of brandy in his hand. He was pale, and his breathing shallow. A memory surfaced suddenly. In Armadale, after Julian’s bad shock, Dawson had told Leith to take care of him. There had been a fire and a cup of hot tea.
Dawson started as Julian draped a blanket over him. “This is unnecessary.”
“I thought the fire and the tea were unnecessary in Armadale, but they helped a lot.” Julian knelt by the fire, adding another scoop of coals to the fire. When he stood, it was to find Dawson watching him, hands clutching the blanket.
“Speaking of Armadale…” Dawson’s voice was unlike its usual self, brittle, a little too high. “You knew about Leith.”
That wasn’t a secret now, was it? “Angus told everyone. He said selkies—”
“Before that. You knew. Didn’t you?”
Julian forced himself to stand completely still. He didn’t need his other self’s warning to know he was in trouble. “I knew there was something about him.”
Dawson’s jaw clenched. His next few words took an effort. “Is there—something—about me?”
Julian blinked. “You?”
“These paintings. I don’t know how to explain it. Unless—” Dawson raised a hand to his forehead. “Scott asked me all these questions this afternoon. I couldn’t see what he was getting at. Had I offended anyone who seemed different, had I made any deals I hadn’t kept, had I associated with anyone strange, and I had to say no. Only Leith and well… You know how that went.”
Julian hesitated. He did not know Leith well, but it was hard to imagine him having a hand in this. “I haven’t seen any seals in Paris.”
Dawson looked startled. “I suppose not. Nor Leith himself. But if it’s not him—is it me?”
Danger. Julian made sure his expression was perfectly calm. “You’re asking me?”
“You knew about Leith,” Dawson said. “I don’t know how—and I won’t ask how. But if you can, Julian, tell me please—is…this…something in me?”
Julian was silent. His heart tugged him towards Dawson, alarmed by the man’s fear. But his loyalty was to Pip and Cross. He’d disobeyed them one too many times. He could not risk disappointing them again. “I wouldn’t know.”
12
True to their word, Scott and Cross returned within the hour. Scott took one look at Dawson and sat at the piano. “You need something to take you out of yourself,” he announced. “I know just the thing.”
Dawson didn’t seem any more enthused about this than he had the multiple cups of tea Julian had made for him, but he shut the book of fairy tales he was reading. “Don’t go to any trouble on my part. I’ve already caused enough bother intruding as I have.”
“No talking while the maestro is performing.” Scott launched into an upbeat ditty, currently making the rounds in London.
It was strange. Julian had heard the tune a few times, hummed by the chambermaids as they turned mattresses, or performed at the interminable village socials that Scott dragged him along to, but it was not until Scott played it that he noticed it. Scott had a trick of making any song his own. He listened, ears pricked, as the optimistic beat lightened his chest.
Cross cleared his throat. “A word please.”
Julian followed him to his bedroom. “I did my best, but Mr Dawson said he wasn’t very thirsty.”
“What? Ah. I’m sure you did your best to make him comfortable.” Cross pulled the door shut behind them. “I spoke to Mrs Fortescue. A very…forthright woman. She had a few words to say about you.”
Julian tensed. “I didn’t do or say anything I shouldn’t have.”
“We didn’t talk about your behaviour. As a matter of fact, she had a suggestion for me.” Cross lifted a length of ribbon out of his pocket. “Do you have your hotel key?”
Julian retrieved it. “Here.”
Cross took the key and threaded it through the length of ribbon. He tied the ends together, tested the knot, and evidently satisfied with his work, looped it over Julian’s neck. “She suggested that you carry your key like this from now on. So that if there was a—she said ‘situation’—you could be assured you wouldn’t lose it.”
Julian’s hand locked around the key. His heart was beating fast. Was this a test? “I don’t understand.”
“Mrs Fortescue is not the easiest of women to ask questions of,” Cross said. “She scolded me for not thinking of this a long time ago.” He placed his hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Your father and I want what is best for you, but we will not always know what that is. You must decide for yourself what you need.”
A test. “I won’t do anything that will make you unhappy.”
“Then you will be the first child in the world to do so. Finding your own way is part of growing up.” Cross brushed Julian’s fringe off his face. “Pip may be your father in the eyes of the world, but I regard you as my son, just as much as his. I want you to know that you can come to me with anything that’s on your mind, at any time.”
Julian felt a huge lump rising in his throat. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Good.” Cross smiled. “Mrs Fortescue gave her opinion that you were a remarkable boy. There we agree. Now, it’s time for you to go to sleep. I fancy that you’ve had a longer day than I know about.” There was an ironic note in his voice, usually reserved for Pip or Julian’s school reports.
Julian decided not to take any risks. “I am rather tired.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Scott’s upbeat ditty had turned into a softer sonata with echoes of a lullaby. As he listened, he yawned. “Goodnight, Other-Father.”
As he passed through the drawing room, returning to his bedroom, Julian discovered that he needn’t have resented Dawson’s intrusion. He was asleep in his armchair, Scott in the act of drawing a blanket over him. “Goodnight, Mr Scott.”
“A moment if you don’t mind, Julian.” Scott carefully unwound Dawson’s fingers from his pipe and placed it on the side table beside him. He smoothed the blanket down then stepped back. Once they were both in the hall and the door shut behind, he spoke. “You don’t happen to have a horseshoe?”
“There’s one in my suitcase.” Pip had definite ideas about travel precautions. “Do you need any holy water?”
“No, just the horseshoe will be fine.” Scott sat on the end of Julian’s bed as Julian hunted it out. “I’ve got another favour to ask.”
Julian held out the horseshoe. “I didn’t tell Lord Cross about your walk.”
“Oh, that.” Scott shook his head. “That doesn’t figure now. I need you to protect Dawson.”
Julian narrowed his eyes. Scott’s expression was serious, no sign of a smile about his mouth or light in his eyes. Even so, he had to be joking. “What can I do?”
“You’ve got good instincts,” Scott said. “When you’re not chasing cats. And Frank—it’s plain he’s at his wits end. If this keeps up, he’s heading for a collapse. I can buy us some more time, but it means leaving him alone, and I can’t be sure they won’t try to get at him.”
&nb
sp; Julian tilted his head. “What do you mean by they?”
“I can’t be explicit,” Scott said. “But you’ve got everything you need to work it out, should it come to that.”
Julian mulled over those words. Scott liked to be mysterious, but there was something in his manner that was not usual. “I don’t understand.”
“Hopefully you won’t need to.” Scott paused in the doorway. “If anything happens, stick to Frank like glue.” He shut the door.
Of all the evenings Julian had experienced, this was one of the strangest. He prepared for bed, pulling his nightshirt on overtop of the ribbon with the key. It felt heavy around his neck. Julian closed his hand around the key, trying to decide whether he liked the feel of it. He concluded he did. Even with so much else going on, Cross had thought of him. The ribbon was loose and would not be tight around his other self. He’d be able to come and go—
Only ordinary young gentlemen did not roam about at night in any form. Julian’s fist tightened around the key. Was Cross giving him permission—or did he expect him to fail? Worse, had he found out about the other night?
Whatever the reason, Julian could not allow his other self out. He let go of the key.
From Scott’s room, a trembling note rose. It took Julian a moment to identify the violin. It had been a few weeks since Scott last played it. Since arriving at the hotel, he’d taken full advantage of the piano, and he preferred his whistle on the road.
It was late to be playing. There were other guests in the hotel, but somehow Julian didn’t think they would complain. No one ever did about Scott’s playing. The violin had a melancholy note, retracing the melody he’d played earlier, its cheerfulness now bittersweet. And then it was something else, something that tugged deep in Julian’s chest and made him ache for Pip, so far away. He wanted nothing more than to be home, at Foxwood Court, with all his people there.
His bed was right there and tempting. Julian considered it, but Scott’s violin scraped at his conscience. He took the blanket from his bed and returned to the sitting room. Dawson didn’t stir as Julian made a bed for himself on the sofa. He curled up, resigned to his role of protector. He would not get much sleep at all, Julian decided, one ear directed outside the door, the other following Scott’s playing.
In his dream, he lay on the sofa in the drawing room, keeping guard over Dawson. Something moved outside the door. He became aware of it gradually. Faint at first, a few whispers and muffled footsteps, but more and more until he could not ignore them. There must have been dozens of them. The gentle swish of skirts, the flap of tailcoats, a smothered chuckle, a frustrated intake of breath. The door handle clicked as someone tried to open it and found it locked.
Julian jerked awake.
Everything was quiet. Scott’s violin was still, and Dawson’s breathing faint but steady. Julian’s heartbeat thrummed in his chest, beating an alarm that echoed in his ears. Was he a baby to be scared by so innocuous a dream? He deserved the boy’s scorn!
Julian took careful stock of the room. Dawson slept deeply. Exhausted no doubt—the only way one could sleep comfortably on an armchair chosen for its looks rather than its offered comfort. Julian’s sofa had proved itself entirely inadequate as a place to sleep. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.
As he moved, the door handle snapped up with a metal click.
Julian’s head jerked up. He stared at the door handle, his heart in his throat. He had not dreamed it. Someone was trying to enter the room.
His other self bared teeth, a growl ready in his throat. He would see this intruder off.
No! Julian wrapped a hand around his throat. He couldn’t let his other self out. He would ruin everything!
As quietly as he could, he slipped across the floor to the door. He pressed an ear against the wood and waited.
Nothing, not even breathing. A vaguely outdoors smell hung in the air, laced with something that made him think of the Christmas tradition of standing in the kitchen, nose twitching at all the various spices, as he took his turn stirring that year’s pudding.
Someone had been there.
Julian sat with his back to the door, ears alert. If they came back, he would hear them.
13
Julian lay on the floor, listening as Paris shook off its blankets and got to work. The steady trot of horses outside was a pleasant counterpoint to the bustle within the hotel, buckets clanking as maids brought coal and stoked fires. Soon, he would have to move. Soon, but not yet. Julian stretched out, luxuriating in the current moment.
Cross’s bedroom opened. He stepped outside, wearing his robe and carpet slippers. He paused a moment as he took in Julian’s position and shook his head. “Why do we even bother renting you a room if you sleep on the floor?”
The words were stern, but the way he said it wasn’t. Julian decided not to take chances and sat up. “Good morning, Lord Cross.”
“Good morning, Julian.” Cross looked at Dawson. “Has our guest been there all night?”
Dawson stirred, the conversation only now penetrating his senses. He blinked owlishly, looking about him. “Julian?” He looked down at the blanket. “Good lord. Did I fall asleep?”
“You clearly needed the sleep,” Cross said.
“Lord Cross.” Dawson jerked to his feet. “I do beg your pardon. I—”
“The chambermaid should be here soon,” Cross continued. “Perhaps you would like to freshen up before she arrives. Mr Leighton’s room is at your disposal.”
“A good thought,” Dawson said. “Yes. I will do that.” He gave Julian a curious glance, as if just now noticing he sat on the floor, but evidently thought better of commenting.
Julian waited until Dawson shut the door behind him before speaking. “Am I in trouble?”
“Why would you be in trouble?”
“Nicely brought up young gentlemen don’t sleep on floors.”
Cross scratched his chin. “That’s true. Then again, I imagine there is a reason you’re sleeping against the door.”
“I sat down to listen to what was happening outside, and then it was morning.”
Cross raised his eyebrows. “That tends to happen to night. What were you listening to?”
“It sounded like people—an awful lot of people—trying to get in, but I’m not sure how many there actually were. I thought they were a dream, and then one of them tried the door.”
Cross had been drawing the curtains. At Julian’s last words, his head snapped up. “Your dream was real?”
“That part of it.”
He let the curtain fall. “What a remarkable coincidence. I dreamed last night that there was a procession of people going past my window. I remember thinking that this would be the last time we took ground floor apartments. It wasn’t until I awoke that I remembered we’re on the top floor… But you say someone actually tried the door.”
“I saw the handle move and heard the click.”
“And you weren’t asleep?”
Julian shook his head. “That was when I moved from the sofa to the door. I couldn’t have done that asleep.”
Cross mulled over his words. “Very strange. I wonder what Mr Scott will make of it. For that matter, where is he? Mr Scott’s usually the first to wake.”
“Shall I see what’s keeping him?”
“If he’s sleeping, don’t disturb him. Just see that he’s all right.”
Scott didn’t respond to Julian’s knock, or his call. He peeped through the keyhole. The window was wide open, daylight streaming into the room, but the bed was made, and he could see no sign of Scott.
“Let me try.” Dawson had changed into a fresh suit. He knocked at the door. “Basil? Are you awake?”
Again, no reply. Dawson tried the door handle. “Does he usually lock his door?”
“I don’t know,” Julian said. “But we’ve got a spare set of keys. Should I get it for you?”
Dawson tugged his moustache glancing at the door. “He won’t thank u
s for intruding on his sleep. But at the same time, if anything’s happened…”
“What could have happened?”
“That’s the devil of it. I don’t know. There’s no reason I should feel so anxious about this, and yet…” Dawson lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “The slightest thing I can’t explain and all of a sudden my nerves are pulled tight.”
Julian fought the urge to fidget. Well-brought up young men did not possess nerves, and even if they did, they would not be trained on Scott’s doorway like a dog watching a rabbit hole.
Cross unlocked the door. “Perhaps I should be the first to enter the room. Mr Dawson, you wait with Julian.”
Why Julian should wait at all was a mystery, but Cross was using the tone of voice that no one argued with. He stood, trying to ignore the way the Dawson shifted beside him, attention trained on the door with a focus usually reserved for his painting.
Cross unlocked the door. There was a metallic clatter as something hit the ground. Julian, from prior experience, recognised the sound of a falling horseshoe. But why had it been on the inside of the door?
“Mr Scott?” Cross strode into the room. “He’s not here.”
Dawson followed him. “But where could he be?”
“Key’s in the lock.” Scott’s room had two doors, one that opened onto the hallway, and the adjoining door to the rest of the suite. Cross tried the hall door. “Locked.”
They looked as one man to the open window. The curtains flapped in the light breeze. The room was as chill as the morning outside. Evidently, they’d been open some time.
Dawson staggered to the window and leaned out. “No sign of him.” He shut his eyes. “I don’t know what I thought. Basil’s not the sort.”
“No,” Cross agreed. “Neither is he the sort to vanish like this.”
Julian nodded agreement. “He would be a lot more dramatic about it.” His skin prickled. Was this what Scott had been talking about the night previous?
“He must be here somewhere.” Dawson turned and went back into their suite. They could hear him opening and closing doors. “Basil? This is not a very good joke.”
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 7