“Edward may have the right of it.” He nodded at Makepeace. “Duke or not, Burnrath has never been seen buying horses at Tattersall’s, racing at Rotten Row, or even boxing at Gentleman Jack’s.”
“Perhaps His Grace does not ride, and not all gentlemen are avid pugilists,” the Marquess of Wakefield argued, waving his cigar impatiently. “However, he does sponsor a boxer in Cheapside, I’ve heard.”
Ponsonby refused to be thwarted and tore John Polidori’s tale from Makepeace’s grasp. “What about this, eh?” he said, starting to read. “‘Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead gray eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass.’”
All shivered at the ghastly, yet visceral description. Ponsonby smiled in triumph. A young viscount nodded in eager agreement, swept away by the imaginative speculation going on in the club. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel when he looks at me!”
“His eyes are silver, not gray,” another man argued skeptically.
“All the more inhuman!” Ponsonby declared and continued reading, “‘He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned.’”
The men continued to drink and argue. The further into their cups they fell, the more convoluted their logic became until thoughtlessness did indeed reign.
***
Castlecoote, Ireland
Ben Flannigan groaned as he pulled on the stake, using all of his strength to work the sharpened piece of ash out of the monster’s breast. The stake came free with a squelch and a crunch of bone. He took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow before he squared his shoulders and turned back to the corpse. His work was only half finished. Now he needed to drag nearly two hundred pounds of deadweight out from the crypt and into the sun.
By the time the task was complete, the hunter was gasping for breath. He pulled a flask of good Irish whiskey from his pocket and settled back against a tombstone to watch God’s light do its work.
Contrary to the legends, a vampire did not burst into flames the moment the body came into contact with the sun’s rays. The body’s pale visage pinkened as if embarrassed by its predicament, then slowly darkened to a red not unlike that of a boiled lobster. Steam rose from the corpse with a hiss, emphasizing the comparison.
Ben chuckled and raised his flask in a toast to the sun before taking a deep drink. This was his favorite part. The vampire’s crimson flesh now began to blacken and crackle. Tendrils of acrid smoke curled up and out of the body. Moments later, the first flames flickered out of the melting eyeballs as well as the thing’s nostrils.
Once the body was engulfed in flames, Ben retrieved two large jugs of holy water from his bag. The first he poured out in a circle around the corpse to keep the flames from spreading. The second he would use when the creature had been reduced to ashes.
While he waited, the hunter logged the details of the kill in his journal. His count was now fourteen, one of the highest of all hunters. He was not as pleased with those accomplishments as another might be, however. This vampire, as well as the other that he had destroyed in Windsor, had been a disappointment, no older or craftier than his last thirteen kills. Since he had failed at attaining the priesthood, Ben Flannigan was determined to excel at this profession and it was past time for more challenging quarry.
He rummaged in his pack until he found his tattered copy of “The Vampyre” by John Polidori. Ever since he had read the story, a question had invaded his mind and refused to be ignored. Could a vampire truly pose as a member of the nobility?
The more he thought about it, the more he concluded such a thing was indeed possible. He’d read that those in the ranks of high society engaged in mindless revelry until dawn and then slept the day away during the social season. The rest of their time they spent sequestered on their country estates. A vampire could do very well in such an environment if it were very powerful and extremely clever.
The last line of the story was a whispered echo in the back of his mind, filling him with an odd mixture of dread and predatory titillation: “The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a VAMPYRE!”
Ah, to face such a clever enemy, to cast off its mask and expose its deception to all before dispatching the abomination back to hell. The thought warmed Ben like the flames of a Yule log. He longed to try his hand at such prey.
Aside from the fact that travel to London, not to mention lodgings, would be costly, Ben had put off his decision to go there for well over a year. After all, facing an ancient vampire would be nothing like the younglings he had slain. His teacher, God rest his soul, had told him such stories.
But now, after fourteen kills, nine of those in the last year, Ben was ready. He could feel it down to the marrow of his very bones.
Five
Angelica blinked in joyous disbelief as she watched the last servant leave Burnrath House for the evening. The maid had left the door ajar! Fate must be smiling down upon her this day. She sent a silent prayer heavenward in thanks for the duke’s eccentric policy of leaving his house unstaffed after the day’s chores were finished.
Today she would finally get inside the place that had held her imagination in thrall for years. She scooped up her pocket watch from the bureau and checked the time. Liza would be up to wake her from her nap at dark. That would give Angelica nearly two hours to explore the house safely.
With desperate speed, she changed into her men’s clothing and packed writing paper and a quill into a sturdy bag. After a few failed attempts with the neckcloth, she cast the linen aside. Not having time for the tiewig, she tucked her hair into a cap. She slowly worked her window open, wincing as the wood frame creaked. Holding her breath, she placed one foot on the rose trellis, then the other, clinging to the window frame for support. She carefully made her way down the trellis, cursing under her breath as the rose thorns poked through and caught at her clothes.
Once she reached the ground, she scanned Rosemead Street through the gate for passersby. Satisfied that the street was empty, she scrambled over the fence, grateful that she wasn’t wearing skirts to hamper her already fumbling progress. Angelica straightened her disguise, lifted her chin, and crossed Rosemead to Number 6, Burnrath House, trying to appear casual. Her heart pounded in her ears as she made her way up the cobblestone walkway, forcing every vestige of her will to maintain her casual stride and keep her from breaking into a run.
The Elizabethan mansion looked ominous and imposing even in the waning daylight. Gray clouds overhead made the chimneys cast strange-moving shadows. Carved of sandstone and roofed with slate, the house was in the shape of an enormous letter E turned on its side. Angelica wondered if the design was intended as a tribute to the virgin queen, or if it was merely a sign of the death of the enclosed courtyard structure that had been favored in medieval times.
Her eyes narrowed at the darkening sky. I pray the rain holds back until I return home. I don’t know how I’d explain wet hair to Mother.
After what seemed an eternity, she cautiously opened the front door, holding her breath as she waited to hear a voice cry out, “Intruder!”
The house was silent, dark, and empty. Mouth dry, she closed the door behind her, wishing she’d brought a candle. She let out the breath she was holding and started forward, skin tingling in anticipation. I am inside Burnrath House at last! She smiled. I wonder if I’ll encounter any ghosts. The thought didn’t bring as much cheer as anticipated, now that she was within the setting of her fant
asies. Instead, tiny shivers raced up and down her arms and legs.
Plush Aubusson carpets covered nearly every inch of the smooth hardwood floors. Ornate furniture from the Renaissance graced the place like somber skeletons. No modern Oriental items for this stately home; however, the duke had gone to the astounding expense of installing gas lamps throughout the place.
Angelica stared at the iron and glass devices in awe. She’d never seen gas lamps outside of the theaters and Pall Mall. They must make the rooms as bright as day. Her fingers trembled with the urge to light one, but she hadn’t the slightest idea how to do so. She shook her head, realizing that if she had known, she wouldn’t dare, for someone may see her through the large windows.
All stories and legends of haunted houses took place on the upper floors, so with a nervous smile, Angelica darted up the stairs. The long corridor was dark and abandoned, apart from tasteful paintings decorating the walls. Her heart leaped into her throat with every door she opened, then fell in a mixture of relief and disappointment when she saw the empty rooms with sheet-draped furniture. Cobwebs clung to every angle and corner. The stale, musty odors tickled her nose. Still, her eager imagination conjured up howling specters rising out from the fireplaces, angry at having their rest disturbed. The writer in her demanded a story for these ghosts, and while she explored, she named them and constructed the tales of their gruesome murders.
Her imaginary constable was just collapsing into a faint after seeing the blood-drenched ceiling when she found the library.
“Oh my…” Her breath caught suddenly, and a thrill rushed through her body at the vast array of books in the mammoth chamber. The meager light from the windows gleamed on the high shelves and wheeled ladder. Gas lamps stood in every corner of the room, and two overstuffed wingback chairs sat companionably before an elaborate carved marble fireplace. With such light, one could read all night long if she desired. Angelica let out her breath in a reverent sigh. Burnrath’s library was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Like the main room, the library seemed immaculately clean. There was not a cobweb in sight, and the chamber smelled of fresh polish.
The duke must spend all of his time here, she mused, having greater respect for the man, given his obvious love of the written word. She tiptoed to the shelves to see what captured his fancy.
Her eyes squinted in the darkness, but try as she might, she couldn’t read the titles. To her dismay, dusk was quickly closing in. She needed to hurry home. With a reluctant sigh, she hurried out of the library, closing the door softly behind her.
As she made her way down the thickly carpeted stairs, she glanced at the paintings of the previous dukes of Burnrath. Something about the paintings gave her pause. There were no portraits of the wives or children. In fact, the pictures were painted when the men were the same age. No doubt another eccentric family tradition, Angelica thought with a snort. Then her brow furrowed in contemplation as she leaned closer to examine each one. Despite the differences in artists’ styles and the subjects’ clothing, she could almost believe that they were all of the same man.
“How very odd…” she whispered aloud.
Something squeaked and brushed past her ankle. Angelica shrieked and jumped, losing her footing on the stairs. As she tumbled down, pain jarring her from multiple impacts, she saw a small rat scurry away. Shame washed over her for acting like such a ninny. Then everything went black.
***
Ian’s eyes snapped open as he heard a thump. There was an intruder in his house. Who would dare? He lurched to his feet. The blood hunger tinged his vision with red and he grinned. No matter, I have an easy meal. He threw on a pair of black trousers and hurriedly fastened the first few buttons on a white lawn shirt, scorning his boots. He yanked open the secret door and ran up the cellar stairs, licking his fangs in anticipation.
With the silence only a nocturnal hunter could muster, he stalked on quiet feet through the kitchen and into the drawing room. The staircase came into view and so did his culprit, a young, slim boy who had apparently taken a spill and was struggling to sit up. The absence of a stake and the presence of a satchel indicated that this was a common thief who’d invaded his sanctuary, rather than a vexing vampire hunter.
The thief saw him and his black eyes widened in shock. There was something familiar about the boy, but Ian’s hunger chased away further speculation. All street urchins looked alike anyhow. He could hear the pounding of the lad’s heart and taste the fear on his tongue. Ian inhaled deeply as the thirst within him surged in triumph to be so soon abated.
***
Terror coursed through Angelica as she saw the Duke of Burnrath approach. He seemed carved from shadows, and his eyes glowed molten silver like those of a ferocious beast as he moved ever closer with deadly fluid grace.
“You made a poor selection of a residence to rob, boy,” he whispered. His hair hung in his face, making him appear dangerous and rakish.
Relief flooded her with the realization that he didn’t recognize her, and she struggled to gain her feet. Pain erupted in her ankle and Angelica collapsed, watching in helpless trepidation as he slowly stalked nearer. He seized her by her upper arms, and she whimpered at the pressure of his fingertips digging into her flesh. Those inhuman silver eyes locked onto hers, holding her spellbound.
“You will pay a price for your clumsiness, I am afraid.” His sculpted lips parted to reveal gleaming sharp fangs.
A scream caught in her throat as he bent his head toward her. His hair caressed her cheek, smelling of wild spices.
As he sank his teeth into her neck, Angelica’s last rational thought before she fainted was: My God, the duke really is a vampire! What a story that would make…
Six
The second the blood touched his tongue and the delicate perfume of lilacs infused his senses, Ian knew his victim was female. As her life and emotions began to flash through his mind, he realized that he held Angelica Winthrop in his arms. But he could not stop drinking, for his hunger was too strong. God, she was sweet!
Out of respect and to avoid getting too close to her, he shut his mind off from hers, only taking her blood and allowing her incredible passion for living to feed him along with her vitality. When he was sated, he released her and bit his finger, using his blood to heal the puncture wounds at her delicate throat and feeling like a monster for touching that pure ivory skin. He hoped she was uninjured from her fall.
Ian scooped her up and carried her to the sitting room, marveling at how light and perfect she felt in his arms. Angelica’s cap fell off, letting the dark silken tresses tumble out to caress his chest. The scent of spring flowers wafted from her shining locks. After he lit a lamp and laid his delicate burden on the sofa, his fingers combed through that lovely hair as he felt for lumps. He frowned when he found a small one at the base of her skull.
After he unbuttoned her frayed frock coat, still perplexed as to why she was dressed like a man, he felt for broken bones. Unbidden, his hands lingered on her breasts through her coarse linen shirt before continuing his examination. He felt her buttocks and thighs through her trousers, and his own grew tight as he stiffened with arousal. Ian shook his head to clear it and ran his hands down her calves. When he touched her swelling ankle, she gasped in pain and bolted upright. As her gaze met his and widened with fright, Ian cursed under his breath. He’d forgotten to erase her memory of him feeding on her.
***
Angelica fought to see past the white spots of agony pulsing up from her ankle. Her vision cleared, revealing the Duke of Burnrath poised above her. His silver eyes reflected the brilliant flame of the gas lamp, making him resemble an unholy specter. She opened her mouth to scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth. Her senses swam as his masculine scent enveloped her. She tried to struggle, but she was too weak from blood loss to manage more than a feeble squirm.
“Please, do not scream, Angel,” he said in
an unbelievably gentle tone. “I promise not to hurt you. Now, if I let you go, will you be calm and explain what you were doing in my home?”
She nodded, believing him for now. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, or the fact that he called her such a sweet endearment as “Angel.” After all, she could always scream later.
He held up his other hand and fixed her with an intense stare. “I will know if you lie.”
She believed that, too. He released her and she sat up. Her head swam with dizziness, but she remained upright, clinging to the arm of the sofa for support.
“You bit me!” she cried in frightened outrage. “You drank my blood!” She placed a hand against her neck, her eyes widening when she realized there was no wound.
To her disbelief, he looked ashamed. That put her at ease more than anything.
“I thought you were a burglar.” He ran his hand through his coal black hair, appearing nervous. “And I am hungry when I wake. Please believe me when I tell you, I never would have drunk from you if I had known your identity.” His brows drew together sternly. “Your clothing did not help matters. Would you be inclined to explain why you were in my house dressed as a male?”
Perhaps her mind was still fuzzy from the blood loss, or perhaps it was the way he’d changed from a frightening monster to a gentleman in mere moments. Her fear abated. As Angelica searched for the right words, the situation suddenly seemed comical and she erupted into giggles. Ian’s perplexed expression made her laugh harder.
When she at last composed herself, she said, “You will probably find this to be amusing.”
“I am certain I will be delighted,” he said dryly.
The sight of him lounging back against the sofa cushion with his shirt open sobered her. She had never seen a man’s bare chest before, and this glimpse of Burnrath’s made her breath catch. Vampire or not, he appeared even more handsome barefoot and disheveled, his lips curved in casual humor.
Bite Me, Your Grace Page 5