The Vampire Viscount

by Karen Harbaugh

  The Vampire Viscount

  Karen Harbaugh

  Contents

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  I would like to dedicate this book to my good friend, Deborah Wittman, for introducing me to vampires when I thought I wouldn’t like them; to Leonore Schuetz for letting me borrow her lovely name; to my local critique group and the GEnie ROMex critique group for their encouragement and nit-picks; and to my agent, Ruth Cohen, who found a home for this odd little book.

  Most of all, I would like to dedicate this book to the memory of my father, John Eriksen, who taught me how to read, who introduced me to myths and legends, who gave me a love of books and history, and who knew his daughter would be an author someday.

  And thanks to all the readers who still remember and cherish The Vampire Viscount after all these years, and have written to me to tell me so.

  Author's Note

  I hope vampire fans will forgive me for departing from the fairly recent tradition in vampire lore of having the vampires incapable of seeing themselves in mirrors. This idea came mostly from Bram Stoker (who wrote Dracula at a much later time than the Regency era), and I thought it better thematically to do something different with mirrors in my story. I am supported in this by Lord Byron, who did not even mention mirrors with regard to his vampires, and Byron’s contemporary and personal physician, Dr. John Polidori, whose vampire, Lord Ruthven, was too impeccably dressed not to have looked in a mirror from time to time. However, vampires have been known not to like looking in them, whatever they may or may not see. That piece of folklore, at least, I have included.

  There are many conflicting traditions and “rules” in vampire history, and an author must choose with care which ones she will use. I hope I have sufficiently done so.

  Chapter One

  The Viscount St. Vire closed his book with a snap and shoved it away from him. He was tired of being reclusive. He would go out tonight instead of staying in his study, reading ancient texts. He eyed his solicitor’s report upon his desk and shrugged. At least his research in that direction was finished, and he need select only one—fortunate—candidate. But not tonight.

  Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. He would definitely go out. Perhaps mingling with others once again would dispel the memories of the dreams. They were getting worse. The last time he woke, the images continued to move before his eyes even though he knew he was no longer sleeping.

  He went to his chamber, donned an impeccably designed waistcoat, tied his neckcloth with precision, and selected a finely tailored coat. He pondered over a selection of walking sticks, then rejected them all. The last time he’d gone to a gaming hell, he had lost one.

  He stepped out of his house and walked through the barely moonlit night to a house that he remembered from many years ago; happily, the gaming hell was still there. He knocked at the door, and a burly guard opened it slightly.

  “I need the secret word from yer, sir,” he growled.

  St. Vire only smiled at him and shrugged. The guard hesitated for a long moment, then opened the door wide. He shook his head as if to clear it, then resumed his post as St. Vire walked past him.

  The air was heavy with the smell of sour wine, smoking candles, and the heat of crowded humanity. Even he could smell it. The decor had changed since last he had entered this room, for the better, thankfully. Heavy gold curtains draped the windows, and the rugs were relatively new and soft. Clearly, the owner of this gaming hell did very well for himself—or herself. A gaudily dressed woman turned in his direction. She smiled and glided toward him.

  “I see we have a new guest, hmm?”

  “Nicholas, Viscount St. Vire. I heard there was some interesting play here and thought I’d see what it was about,” St. Vire replied. He grinned at the woman, and a dazed look came into her eyes. “I take it you are the proprietress of this establishment?”

  “Why yes, my lord …” She moved closer to him and ran her fingers across his chest. “And what is your preference?”

  Clearly, she was hoping his preference would not be at the gaming table, and he considered it. No. He had to take care upon whom he slaked his lust, and it would be awkward if it were the gaming hell’s proprietress. A tide of ennui washed over him, and he glanced at the gaming tables. He needed something to stimulate his mind tonight.

  “Faro or whist,” he said. “Or vingt-et-un.” He let his gaze wander with relish over the woman’s voluptuous figure, however, so that she would know he appreciated her efforts. She gave a little pout, but led him to a table where three men sat, proposing a game of vingt-et-un.

  “May I introduce you to the Viscount St. Vire, gentlemen?” the proprietress said.

  He bowed, regarded each of the men in a friendly manner, and nodded as each introduced himself: Lord Eldon, Lord Bremer, and Mr. Edward Farleigh. Of the three, Mr. Farleigh seemed out of place; he was a burly older man, whose eyes would have seemed intelligent had they not been so bloodshot. His clothes were stained, and shiny spots appeared at the elbows from wear. Lord Bremer was a well-dressed man with a bored expression; Lord Eldon, also impeccably dressed, could not be over thirty years of age and had a look of good humor about his eyes and mouth.

  St. Vire noticed, when he glanced at Mr. Farleigh, how that man’s expression shifted from a vague discontent to speculative greed as he gazed over his wineglass at the newcomer. St. Vire smiled a little to himself as Lord Eldon dealt the cards. It seemed Mr. Farleigh deemed the new player a pigeon to be plucked.

  The viscount played, won, lost, and won again. He knew how the game was played, more than mere stakes and the turn of a card. One lured one’s opponent with an innocent manner and baited the trap with a lamb’s guise. He knew he looked very young, and he almost smiled as Mr. Farleigh’s greed caused him to stake more against him than was wise. Lord Eldon put down a modest wager, and Lord Bremer grimaced and made out some vowels.

  Half an hour passed in silent contemplation of the cards. The play came around to St. Vire, and he laid down his cards, looking up at his opponents. Wry humor twisted Lord Eldon’s lips as he spread his cards on the table. “Your luck is in, St. Vire! Damned glad I didn’t get taken in by your innocent looks and stake more than I should have.” The viscount grinned at him.

  Lord Bremer grimaced and slapped down his cards. “If you’ll give me your direction, I’ll settle this tomorrow, St. Vire.”

  “Of course; I shall be here tomorrow night if it’s more convenient for you than calling upon me,” St. Vire replied.

  “Good of you.” Lord Bremer’s voice was grudging; he regarded St. Vire with an ironic eye, which the viscount returned with one of bland innocence. A laugh broke from Bremer, and he shook his head ruefully.

  St. Vire looked at Mr. Farleigh expectantly. A slight sheen of sweat gleamed upon the older man’s brow, and his expression was one of anger. He had wagered a substantial amount. He looked up and caught St. Vire’s gaze, and his smile seemed forced. “You’re a good player, my lord.” He placed his cards upon the table.

  Farleigh had lost, but his smile remained. “Another game, my lord?” He looked at the other gentlemen as well.

  Lord Eldon yawned and
shook his head. “I’m out!” He looked slightly embarrassed. “Promised m’sister I’d attend my niece’s wedding in the morning, and it’s getting on a bit.”

  Lord Bremer barked out a laugh. “It is not even nine o’clock! Your sister still pulling you about by your leading strings, boy?”

  Lord Eldon raised his brows. “I’m not the one living under the cat’s foot, my lord.”

  A guilty expression passed over Lord Bremer’s face. “I’ll have you know my Hester is a damned fine woman, Eldon.” He looked even more uneasy. “I suppose I should look in at her musicale.” Lord Eldon only grinned.

  Farleigh looked at St. Vire. “Well, my lord?”

  The viscount looked at the large number of vowels before him, more than half of which were Farleigh’s. He raised his eyes from the pile of paper and caught a brief look of frustration in the older man’s eyes. St. Vire put on an uncertain expression. “I … don’t know, Mr. Farleigh. It seems my luck has been in tonight, but I have no idea how long it will last. It rarely does with me, you see.”

  Farleigh visibly relaxed, and this time his smile seemed more genuine. “Perhaps a different game will make it last longer,” he said.

  At a brief touch on his sleeve, St. Vire looked up to see concern in Lord Eldon’s face. The young man bent toward him. “Don’t bother, St. Vire,” he said in a whisper. “It will not be a challenge at all with Farleigh. Worst luck I’ve ever seen in a man, give you my word!”

  “All the more reason to play, don’t you think?” St. Vire replied softly. He glanced at Farleigh, but the man was occupied with pouring himself another drink.

  Eldon shook his head. “I hear the man’s a drunkard and a brute; my brother lives next to him—told me so. Takes his losses out on his wife and daughter. You can hear him rage right across the square. I only wager with him when I’ve got money to lose.”

  St. Vire suppressed a smile at Eldon’s inadvertent admission to charity. “Perhaps I have some money to lose as well,” he said, and a relieved look crossed Lord Eldon’s face. The young man straightened himself, smiled, and took his leave.

  Lord Bremer gazed after Lord Eldon with some indecision. He grimaced. “Devil take it! I suppose I really should look in at Hester’s musicale. She would have my head on a platter if I did not.” He, too, rose, bowed, and left.

  Farleigh’s gaze settled on St. Vire. “Well, my lord? Are you going to leave as well?”

  The viscount hesitated, looking at the older man. Farleigh was one of the men his solicitors had mentioned in their report, and Farleigh had a daughter. The words he had read in his study earlier rose before his mind’s eye, and a sudden electric exhilaration rushed through him. He had decided to take no action tonight, but perhaps this was a sign that he should. He smiled. “Faro, Mr. Farleigh?”

  Relief crossed Farleigh’s face. “Of course.” He turned around in his chair, searching the room for the proprietress. “Rosie! Bring me brandy!” he roared.

  “That’s Mrs. Grant to you, Mr. Farleigh!” the woman retorted. “And I’ll not be bringing you another bottle until you’ve paid for the last!” She held out her hand and glared at him.

  Farleigh thrust his hand in his pocket and shoved some coins at her. “There, devil take it!”

  With a complacent smirk at St. Vire, Mrs. Grant signaled a servant to bring the brandy. When it arrived, Farleigh poured himself a glass and gestured with it toward St. Vire, who only smiled politely and shook his head.

  This time St. Vire did not need to pretend unskilled innocence for Mr. Farleigh to wager more and more money. The brandy did that for him. The man’s luck was phenomenally bad, and his skill only mediocre. Even when the viscount deliberately discarded some excellent cards, Farleigh still lost.

  St. Vire won once more, and boredom crept in. Really, it was finished. He’d won enough in vowels from Farleigh to bargain for the soul of a saint, and this man was no saint. And this in the space of less than one hour. He stood up and smiled.

  “Well, it was a pleasure playing against you, Mr. Farleigh. Shall I expect to meet you tomorrow?”

  Mr. Farleigh raised a gaze full of confused rage to St. Vire’s face. “I am not done yet! Another game!”

  “Hush! You disturb the other players,” the viscount said softly. The man looked furtively around at the other gamesters, some of whom did indeed stare with distaste toward them.

  He grasped St. Vire’s sleeve. “Another game,” he said hoarsely.

  “Please, Farleigh. You are wrinkling my coat.”

  “Damn you, St. Vire! I want another game!” Farleigh stood up abruptly, and the other guests glared at him.

  “No.”

  Farleigh’s fist shot out, but St. Vire caught his wrist almost effortlessly and held it away from his face. The man breathed heavily and struggled. St. Vire did not let go, but smiled, watching the fear grow in Farleigh’s eyes.

  Mrs. Grant ran to them, alarm clear on her face. The viscount gave her an apologetic glance.

  “I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Grant, but it seems Farleigh and I are at some disagreement.” He pushed the man backward into a chair. Farleigh rubbed his wrist, staring at St. Vire, who returned the look contemplatively. “Perhaps we should go somewhere more private to discuss this.”

  “To be sure, my lord, I’ve got a private parlor if that’s what you’ll be wanting,” Mrs. Grant said, eyeing him uneasily. As she looked at him, her face softened. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “He’s a bad man, that Farleigh is. I’ll send Grundle to you if you need ’im. He used to fight with Gentleman Jackson himself before he ruined his knee.”

  Farleigh’s face flushed red. “Why, you blowsy—”

  St. Vire cut him off with a sharp glance, and Farleigh looked down at his feet. The viscount turned to Mrs. Grant and brought her hand to his lips, smiling at her. “You are most kind, Mrs. Grant, but I will not need your servant. Merely a room in which Farleigh and I can be private.”

  A blush appeared upon her cheeks, and she simpered. “Well, and so you shall have it!” She turned, then looked back at him and beckoned.

  St. Vire repressed a smile, then stared hard at Farleigh. “You will come with me if you please.”

  The man rose and dragged his feet as he followed.

  Mrs. Grant opened the door to the parlor and was disposed to linger, but St. Vire put some coins in her hand and gently pushed her away. “Later,” he whispered in her ear, which put a gratified look upon her face. He smiled. He had promised her absolutely nothing; it was amusing what meaning people could put into a single word and tone. He closed the door behind her.

  St. Vire turned to Farleigh, staring at him meditatively for a while before gesturing to a chair. “Sit, please.”

  Farleigh complied, eyeing him warily. “I’ll pay you, my lord, if that’s what you’re wanting to talk to me about.”

  St. Vire’s lip curled slightly. “Pay? I doubt it. I have it on good word that you are very much in debt. I wonder that you are not in prison for it already.” He sat and leaned his chin upon his hand, gazing at Farleigh’s rumpled, worn clothes, his ill-tied and stained neckcloth. The man’s eyes were filled with both resentment and fear. A vulgar man, thought St. Vire. Remarkable how an old family such as the Farleighs had come down in the world. He winced inwardly. Did he really want to ally himself with this man? The devil only knew what his daughter would be like. He shrugged to himself. Well, he would find out first.

  “What do you want?” Farleigh said. He wet his lips and looked about the parlor as if trying to find an avenue of escape.

  “I want to be sure you will pay me what you owe in some way. Either in money or goods. And be honest with me, for I have no hesitation exerting the right amount of … pressure to gain my ends.”

  “I can pay … perhaps a sennight from now.” The man’s eyes shifted and looked away.

  “I am not stupid, Farleigh. The moment a few coins drop in your hands you spend it on drink—or game it away.”

 
; He looked about to argue, but did not. His eyes held a bleak, desperate look. “I … I do not have anything, my lord.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I …” He stopped, then a hopeful expression came over his face. “Wait! I have a daughter …”

  St. Vire rose and turned away until he controlled the expression of disgust and triumph he was sure was on his face. God, the man needed no prompting at all to offer his daughter for sale. He wondered if perhaps he had made a mistake. One had certain standards, after all, and if the Farleighs had fallen so low as to breed a man like this, it could very well be that he would have to bear more than good taste could stand. He mentally reviewed the rest of the families on his solicitor’s list. Really, the Farleighs would cause the least amount of trouble. The rest, however poor they’d become, still had respectable reputations. Farleigh’s daughter could probably expect no help from her father if she did not like his agreement with St. Vire. And she would be only a means to an end, after all.

  “A daughter.” He turned back and looked hard at Farleigh. “Is she a virgin?”

  Farleigh smiled sourly. “She’s an ape leader, a skinny thing—naught to tempt a man, there—and waspish, too. No reason to suppose she’s not a virgin. There’s better game in town than a shrew, I’m sure.”

  “I am looking for a wife, Farleigh. You do not make her seem a very attractive prize.”

  “A wife!” Farleigh’s brows rose in surprise, then greed shone in his eyes. He looked at St. Vire and shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Well, she ain’t a prize. But you wanted the word with no bark on it, so there it is,” he said resentfully.

  St Vire considered it. If she was as her father said, she’d be glad to marry at all. He sighed impatiently at himself. He need not be so particular. It would only be for a year, after all, and then he could be rid of her. He’d see her first before he’d make an offer, however. He pulled a calling card from his pocket and flicked it at Farleigh, who managed to catch it.

  “Bring her to me tonight, at this address. I want to see what I am buying.”