Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  One thing was certain: there was a vampire in residence, in the form of Mr. Blanchard, who had presumably arrived earlier that day with Ellen.

  Caroline had had to wait until Robbie put his affairs in order before they could leave Bath, having already received her parents’ permission to accompany her brother. They had embarked later in the day than had the Thorntons, Ellen and Mr. Blanchard, and were just arriving as evening approached.

  Even the weather cooperated with Caroline’s imagination, for just as Robbie turned on the road that led to the forbidding castle, a boom of thunder shook the air. Lightning flashed, sudden and spindly in the darkening sky. By the time they entered the iron gates, the rain had begun to pelt in large, furious drops.

  Thankfully, the butler greeted them at the front door with a large umbrella, and Caroline managed her entry into the vestibule without a single drop of rain marring her clothing.

  “Dinner will be served momentarily,” the gaunt-faced butler—the perfect servant for such a Gothic home—intoned. “Perhaps you wish to freshen up after Mrs. Humpton shows you to your chamber.”

  The last was more of a command than a suggestion, and Caroline hurried to comply. As she and Robbie followed Mrs. Humpton to the second floor, they passed the sitting room, where the other guests had gathered for little glasses of sherry. Aside from Ellen, her guardian and the Thorntons, the room contained several other people unknown to Caroline. Mr. Blanchard happened to look up as she walked by, and he raised the dainty glass to her in a mocking salute. His dark eyes followed her, fastening on her person in such a way that it made her stomach flutter.

  “Seems like a fine fellow,” Robbie commented, obviously having seen the gesture, but not comprehending the intensity of his stare.

  Caroline declined to respond. The truth would come out soon enough—perhaps even as early as tonight. She shivered in anticipation as well as nervousness as she imagined slipping through the dark warren of hallways in the dead of night, in search of the vampire himself.

  Not that she would be so foolish as to attempt to hunt him down, à la the Venators in the Starcasset book, but if she could foil his plan to lure anyone into a dark corner, she would do so, armed with stake, holy cross and garlic—along with a powerful set of lungs that could scream to shake the rafters.

  The storm whipped itself up as the evening meal approached, and the dinner, served in a long, red room, was punctuated by ferocious thunder that rattled the silver.

  Despite the delicious meal of minted lamb chops and new potatoes, Caroline could hardly enjoy it, for her brother’s misery seemed hardly subtle. Isobel had seated Mr. Blanchard next to her vivacious self, and her dinner companion seemed intent on keeping her entertained.

  Caroline, positioned across the table from Robbie and next to Mr. Thornton, attempted to divide her attention between her conversation with them while angling to hear just what was so particularly amusing between Isobel and Lord Rude. She could scarcely comprehend him having anything to say that might be witty or charming.

  Ellen had been seated next to Robbie, which gave her ample opportunity to exchange glances with Caroline. As the wind howled and the rain battered the windows, the two young friends sent each other private messages with the lift of an eyebrow or a gesture of the chin.

  In this manner, they agreed that meeting in the library while the gentlemen had their port would be a good place to start their exploration of this fascinating place.

  But those plans were to be ruined, for as the meal broke up, Mr. Thornton suggested that the gentlemen forgo their cigars and port to join the ladies for cards and a bit of music.

  Isobel could not have been more delighted, in Caroline’s eyes, for she edged next to Mr. Blanchard until he offered her his arm as escort into the large parlor. As they passed by, she heard Isobel discussing the particular color of her frock in comparison to the ribbons edging it.

  Poor Robbie was left to escort Ellen into the parlor, watching the beacon-headed Isobel disappear ahead of him, her laughter trilling behind. Caroline’s jaw hurt from gritting her teeth.

  “Miss Merrill,” said a deep voice at her shoulder.

  Caroline turned, a bit startled, and found Mr. Thornton—she still could not think of him as James—standing behind her.

  He offered his arm. “I was hoping you might join me for a little walk through the portrait gallery of the Thornton family ancestors.”

  Unable to find a polite way to refuse, Caroline slid her fingers around his arm and allowed him to lead her away. “How kind of you, Mr. Thornton,” she said. Despite the fact that she wanted to keep an eye on Mr. Blanchard, she was intrigued to have a bit of a tour of the castle.

  “And I confess, Caroline, that I had hoped to find a few moments alone with you,” he told her, glancing down as they walked along a dimly lit corridor. “I have not had the opportunity to express my delight at your presence here in Northanger. I do hope you find the estate to your liking.”

  Caroline felt her heart begin to pound harder. Why should he care if she approved of his estate, unless he anticipated her spending a great amount of time here? Her mouth had dried and she looked up at the gentleman next to her. He was a fine-looking fellow, polite, if a bit dry in his conversations. Isobel could be genuinely amusing, but only in small amounts.

  “Here is the portrait of my great-great-great-grandfather,” James told her, pausing in front of a very large painting.

  Caroline listened to his voice, which had become the most animated she had ever heard it, as he gave her brief histories of grandparents and uncles. When they reached the end of the gallery, he paused, turning her to stand in a pool of moonlight.

  “Miss Merrill—Caroline—I know that this may come as a bit sudden,” he said, and to her mortification, dropped onto one knee in front of her. “But my affection for you has taken hold of my sensibilities, and I find that I must wait no longer in expressing my very deep attachment to you.”

  “Mr. Thornton,” she began, aware that her palms had become damp and that her heart was pounding.

  “Please, Caroline, I wish to offer you a token of my great fondness—and dare I say love—as an indication of my serious intentions to you. Until I can speak with your father, I hope that you will keep this—” and at that, he pulled a small metal object from his pocket and pressed it into her hand “—near your heart, as I shall keep thoughts of you near mine.”

  Caroline hardly knew what to say, so she focused her attention on the item he laid in her glove. “It’s quite unique,” she said, looking at what appeared to be a brooch wrought of some old metal, perhaps bronze. A lion’s face, its mane writhing about it in darker bronze, and two chips of garnet glinting as the feline’s eyes. “It appears very old.”

  “It is,” he told her. “I found it at Blaize Abbey, not so far from where you found those prayer beads. Perhaps they belonged to the same person.”

  Caroline looked up at him, for the first time fully appreciating the fact that James Thornton seemed to understand her affinity for the mysterious. “How kind of you,” she said. “I shall treasure it.”

  He pulled back to his feet, and offered her his arm again. “Is it possible that my intentions might be welcomed by you, then, Miss Merrill?”

  She felt an odd heaviness in her middle, but the weight of the brooch overruled it. “I do believe they would be.”

  After all, she would be mistress of this estate. Of a castle, with rooms for her to explore to her heart’s content! She could never have imagined such an outcome.

  “You have made me a most happy man,” James told her.

  He seemed as if he might bend toward her for a kiss again, and Caroline felt just a bit unsettled, so she spoke quickly, “Perhaps we ought to return.”

  James nodded, and suggested, “And you will want to put that brooch away somewhere safely, I am certain. Perhaps in your room? In a pocket of your trunk or deep in a small reticule?”

  Caroline agreed. “You are correct. I shall st
op in my chamber and do just that, then I will join you belowstairs.”

  A crash of thunder set a glass chandelier to clinking, and a great spear of lightning lit the room as if it were midday.

  “What a horrid storm,” she said as they parted ways at the staircase. “Do you have them often here at Northanger?”

  James looked up at her. “Indeed, but I hope not too often for your taste.”

  “No indeed,” she replied, starting up the steps.

  The storms, she decided, would be the best part of living here.

  CHAPTER 8

  CAROLINE DID AS JAMES SUGGESTED AND WRAPPED up the lion brooch in her least favorite reticule, then tucked it in the deepest part of her trunk.

  When she finished, she slipped from her room and, hearing the chatter and laughter wafting up from below, decided that she simply could not miss the opportunity to do a bit of exploring. As she came down the flight of stairs to the main floor, she stayed to the right and in the shadows, sneaking off toward the older wing of the castle.

  If there was anything curious or sinister to find, it would certainly be there, where James had mentioned that the household rarely ventured. He claimed it was left uninhabited because it was too cold and damp, but Caroline could not resist the chance to check that sensation for herself.

  She hadn’t gone far when she heard the soft brush of a footstep behind her.

  Starting, she whirled and found Lord Rude—Mr. Blanchard—emerging from the shadows. Her heart thumping madly, Caroline began to dig in her reticule for the stake.

  “So there you are.” Was there a tinge of relief in his voice? We’d begun to miss you,” he said, walking toward her. “You left with Thornton, but he returned without you.”

  “I had something to put away,” she said, pleased that her voice was calm despite the fact that her fingers didn’t seem to be able to grasp the stake.

  “In the deserted area of the castle?” he asked, his voice tinged with mockery. “Or are you playing at being Emily St. Aubert, intending to get yourself into trouble?”

  “So you have read Udolpho,” she said.

  “And a variety of other novels in which a young woman, at great risk to herself, foolishly goes harking about dark and dangerous castles or abbeys when she knows that danger lurks about. Or she gets herself involved with unsavory people.”

  Caroline lifted her chin. “It is not a foolish thing to do if nothing untoward happens.” But her throat turned dry, for she realized she may have just proved her point. For it certainly appeared as if something unpleasant was about to happen.

  “I thought it would be in your best interest if I came looking for you. In the event you got lost.” He was standing very close to her now, and his dark eyes had fixed on hers.

  Caroline found it difficult to breathe, and knew she was sinking into his thrall. But she could not look away, and, as the moment stretched on, she felt less endangered and more…warm, and tingly. Back in the deepest part of her mind, she knew he was doing it purposely, and she tried to fight it…but she could not. His eyes were about to turn red, and those sharp fangs would appear.

  Mr. Blanchard stepped even closer, and she felt his hands settle on her upper arms. She was powerless to pull away. “Do you not know how much danger you are in, here in this very house?” he murmured.

  At that moment, deep in the pouch, her fingers closed over the smooth wood of the stake. But before she could yank it free, he bent toward her.

  Caroline’s heart seized and her breath clogged in her throat, but instead of a sharp pain in the side of her neck, she felt the soft warmth of lips closing over hers. Shock trammeled through her as their lips met, her own mouth parting slightly as if to allow his to fit just right.

  She very much feared she might faint at the range of sensations that suddenly burst over her. Warmth and pleasure, solidness and curiosity, and a desire for more. Her heart began to function again and she realized that his lips had moved gently over hers, brushing against them in a tingling, whisper-soft caress, over and over. Gentle, tender, coaxing…and that she had been moving her own mouth against his in the same manner.

  When he pulled his face away, and looked down at her, the expression in his eyes made her feel weak in the knees. Caroline realized, foggily, that she still grasped the stake, and she closed her eyes, fighting back the thrall that seemed to have snagged her.

  Just as he bent toward her again, she struggled to pull her hand free from where it was trapped between them. But as she moved, clumsily, he bumped her and the stake fell from her nervous hand, clattering to the floor.

  It rolled loudly on the marble floor and came to rest at the edge of a rug.

  Mr. Blanchard pulled farther away from her now, still holding on to her arms, and looked at the spindle lying on the ground. “What in the blazes is that?”

  “I—” Caroline tried to speak, but no words would come from her dry mouth. Her heart still raced and her knees felt as though they might buckle at any moment so that she was relieved he still held on to her as she dug once more in her reticule.

  “Is that a stake?” he said, incredulously.

  “Yes, I am afraid I know your secret, Mr. Blanchard,” Caroline managed to say, pulling the silver cross triumphantly from her pouch. She brandished it in his face as he released her arms.

  But instead of cowering in fear, or even wincing at the sight of the holy article, Mr. Blanchard took one look at the cross, then his attention went to the stake on the floor. And he began to laugh.

  Caroline seized the moment to rush over to the stake and swipe it up into her hand, so that when she turned back to him, she wielded the cross in one hand and the stake in the other. He might laugh at her, but he would be surprised at her boldness. She would not be frightened into the corner, not when the life of her friend Ellen was at stake.

  “Miss Merrill,” he said, his laughter having ebbed into seriousness, “or perhaps I should be granted permission to call you Caroline, after that most pleasant interlude a moment ago. Caroline, did you mean to stake me?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she replied, feeling much more powerful now that he didn’t seem to have the ability to enthrall her, and now that she was armed with her two weapons. “I told you, I know your secret. I have been observing you and following you for days.”

  His lips twitched in a way that annoyed her, because it made him appear even more handsome and charming—which wasn’t saying much, for she hadn’t nicknamed him Lord Rude for naught.

  “And my secret is…that I am a vampire?” he said.

  “You cannot deny it. I saw you at the Roman spa, and you lured that young lady to her death back in the area that was closed to the public. You must have disposed of her body when you were finished. And that woman in pink, with the dark hair, at the theater. I realized she was poisoning her husband, but that was no excuse for you to coax her into the darkness and—and—”

  By now he was looking at her so incredulously that her voice trailed off. “The woman in pink? The older woman, who was with the younger man at the theater? Was poisoning her husband?”

  “Yes, and then just after that, you accosted me in the gallery, Mr. Blanchard. I daresay if James hadn’t appeared at that moment, you would have done the same to me.”

  “My dear Caroline,” he said, his voice filtering over the syllables of her name most tenderly. Yet, there was a bit of humor lying beneath. “Do you mean to say that you saw that young lady and knew something was amiss? And the woman at the theater—you noticed her maliciousness?” His eyes narrowed. “I suppose then that you noticed the young girl in the yellow dress, just the other day at the spa when I came upon you and Ellen?”

  “The orphan girl with a devastating secret,” Caroline said, nodding. “Never say you were after her, as well!”

  “I was indeed hunting all three of those women. But not for the reason you seem to think,” he said. His eyes, usually so dark and annoyed, had lit with appreciation. “They were the vampires, and I d
id indeed lure them away so that I could—er—dispose of them. But how could you know that?”

  Caroline felt her eyes widen. Impossible. Mr. Blanchard—should she call him Thaddeus now?—was a vampire hunter? “And why should I believe you?” she asked. “How do I know you have not simply made up such a story to hide your true deviltry?”

  He spread his hands. “Stake me if you wish, then, Caroline. If I am a vampire, I will explode into a pile of ash. If not, then I shall bleed quite profusely and you shall have to nurse me back to health.” He smiled suddenly, a very wicked smile that had her stomach pitching and dropping to her knees. “I do believe I should like very much to know a woman besides Miss Pesaro, who is altogether too full of herself thanks to her father, who can sense the presence of a vampire.”

  Caroline blinked. “Who is Miss Pesaro?”

  “Oh, she is a hunter of vampires like myself, and a bit of an annoying chit if one must know—all because of who her parents are. Well, then, are you going to stake me?” Thaddeus (yes, indeed, she had given herself permission to call him by his Christian name) asked, offering his rather broad chest, suitably covered in shirtwaist and waistcoat, but impressive nevertheless.

  She raised her stake, aiming it at that wide expanse of white linen, and he stopped her. “No, darling Caro, you mustn’t hold it like that. See how easy it is for me to stop the blow?”

  He adjusted the wooden pike in her hand so that she had a better grip and a more formidable angle to her strike, and once again opened his arms for her target. “There, now, take a blow. Right in the heart.”

  “I know it must go into the heart,” she said, suddenly very unsure of herself. “But is there not another way to prove whether you are a vampire or not?”

  He smiled. “You may simply believe me when I tell you I am not. I am a Venator myself, a member of the famous Gardella family—which I trust you have read about in that ridiculous novel by George Starcasset. Pesaro is going to be more than a bit livid to find that there are still some copies of it going about. I daresay Starcasset will have to disappear somewhere permanently, or Pesaro will do the honors himself.”