The Vampire Viscount

by Karen Harbaugh

  “Come in.”

  A pink-cheeked, round-faced girl peeped timidly in. “I was hopin’ you was awake, my lady,” said the maid. “I’d like to do my best fer you, ma’am, this bein’ the first time I’ve been a lady’s maid, and all.” The girl blushed.

  Leonore smiled at her. “Do come in, I’ll not bite.” Betty smiled widely and entered the room. “I will need some breakfast—something hearty, for I am quite hungry—and I wish to dress.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Betty gave a curtsy and hurried to the bell rope. She rang it vigorously. When another maid appeared, Betty said in a whisper quite loud enough for Leonore to hear, “Sal, you go tell Cook to fix up some victuals for m’lady, and be sharp about it! Good stuff, rib-stickers, like. And no skimping, mind, or I’ll skin yer silly arse for yer.” Sal nodded quickly and ran off, while Betty beamed proudly at her new mistress.

  Leonore winced. The girl would definitely need some training in deportment. She hoped the rest of the servants were more refined. She smiled at the maid and said, “Let’s see if my clothes have arrived in good order, shall we?” Betty nodded eagerly and opened the wardrobe door.

  The dresses looked nothing like what Leonore had bought in the past few weeks. They were beautiful creations done in the latest style or in innovative designs, bold pieces of cloth she’d never dreamed she’d ever wear, or even dare to.

  “Oh, heavens!” she said. “These cannot be mine. I am sure I did not order them.”

  A worried frown crossed Betty’s face. “ ’Tis what his lordship ordered, my lady. Who else would it be for?”

  A courtesan, a woman of pleasure, thought Leonore as she gazed at one dress she had pulled out of the wardrobe. It was a diaphanous thing of stars and moonlight and the bodice but a whisper of silk and gauze. And yet no one could say it was gaudy or vulgar, for the shifting colors of deep blue, white, and pale pink were subtle and elegant. A vision of herself in the dress came to her, of Nicholas seeing her in it and smiling his seductive smile, of him taking her in his arms, kissing her …

  She could feel her face heat with blushes and hastily shoved the dress back into the wardrobe. “Well,” she said and took a deep breath. “Well. That is obviously not a morning dress, or, or even an afternoon dress, so of course I cannot wear it now.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Betty said, her face a picture of concentration. Leonore could not help smiling. Her maid was obviously trying her best to learn. Leonore hoped the rest of her gowns were not so daring, or the maid would have a difficult time selecting appropriate clothes should she ever go on to another mistress.

  She went through one dress after another and finally picked a relatively plain, high-necked gown. Even so, it fit with precision around her body, making the best of any asset she had. She looked in the mirror and did not feel like herself at all; she was used to thinking of herself as practical and sensible, and this dress was impractical and frivolous to boot. It made the gowns she had selected in the weeks before seem drab in comparison. She was used to wearing cottons and sturdy woolen cloth. This dress slid over her limbs like warm water, a sensuous thing that made her think of Nicholas’s hands upon her body. Leonore let out a swift, impatient breath. Stop it, she told herself. Stop. You are obsessed with him, and this cannot be right, even though he is your husband.

  “My lady?”

  Startled out of her thoughts, Leonore turned to look at her maid.

  “My lady, is anything wrong?” Betty’s face was anxious.

  “No … no, you have done quite well.” Leonore smiled at her. “We need only to put up my hair—simply, please—and I shall go down to my breakfast.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Betty did a credible job with Leonore’s hair, and she smiled at her maid in approval. The girl blushed and grinned, then left, leaving the door of her chamber ajar. Leonore shook her head and closed the door.

  She hesitated, thinking that she should go down to breakfast, but as she passed the connecting door to Nicholas’s room, she could not help gazing at it curiously. She wondered if he rested well, or if he had any recurrence of his illness. Perhaps … perhaps she should look in on him. She turned the doorknob and pushed open the door.

  The room was dark as night, for the curtains were drawn tightly against the windows, allowing no light to pass through. Of course, Leonore remembered, the sunlight made Nicholas ill. She retreated to her room, found a tinderbox, and lit a lamp. Making sure to close the door behind her, she approached the bed.

  Only her footsteps made any noise in the room, and that was only a soft padding sound upon the rug. She stopped and heard nothing, not even the sound of breathing. Her heart beat quickly, anxiously, for the silence almost made her think there was no one else in the room—or perhaps that Nicholas’s illness had overtaken him. She touched the bed curtains surrounding the bed and castigated herself for her worries. The cloth was thick and heavy; any soft sound would find it impenetrable.

  Slowly, Leonore drew aside the curtains and sighed. Nicholas was indeed within, and she felt foolish for thinking he had not been there at all. She lifted her lamp, and its light shone softly down upon him. His face was turned toward her, his eyes closed. He did not move at all, and a sudden fear seized her. Quickly, she put her hand out to him, hesitated, then laid it over his heart.

  His skin was cool and this alarmed her, but then she felt a slight, steady pulse, the small rise and fall of his chest, barely perceptible. She felt almost dizzy with relief. Perhaps it was his illness that made him so, or perhaps he took some medicine that made him sleep this way. Feeling a little bold, she kept her hand upon his chest, for he did not wake or even stir, and seemed very heavily asleep.

  She had not thought to touch him last night as he had touched her. She marveled at the way he felt, his skin softer than she thought it would be, the light curling hair upon his chest like feathers upon her fingers. His skin had warmed under her touch, and slowly she moved her hand up to his neck and cheek, then smoothed the tousled hair from his forehead.

  He moved and Leonore jumped back, almost upsetting the lamp in her hand. But still he did not wake, merely lifting his chin as if trying to feel her hand again. How silly she was! He had been so still, his movement had startled her.

  Lingering was useless, she told herself. Nicholas certainly needed his rest, and she would not disturb him. She closed the curtains about the bed. It was time, anyway, for her to have her breakfast. Staring at her husband while he slept accomplished nothing, after all.

  She looked at the clock hanging on the wall. It would be almost eight hours until twilight when her husband would awaken. Husband. She’d always thought—when she thought of the vague possibility—that if she should ever marry, she’d marry a staid, placid man. Once in a while, she let herself fancy such a thing and imagined a pretty cottage in the country, a simple life with an undemanding man, perhaps a scholar of some sort who would be busy with his own interests. She’d go about her own business, and they’d live together in peace and quiet.

  Impossible to have had that, she knew. She knew she had to marry to advantage, so that her sister would have a better life than she did. She gave a soft, incredulous laugh. What she had now was the furthest thing from any idyllic dream or practical imaginings. Yes, she had married to advantage; yes, Nicholas demanded little from her. But placidity? Nicholas, staid? Heavens, no. Leonore shook her head and went down to the breakfast parlor.

  A footman came in with her breakfast. The food was well prepared, and she ate hungrily of the coddled egg, ham, and toast. Finally, she sat back and sipped her tea, feeling refreshed. Perhaps after she met all the servants, she would explore this house a little, perhaps claim a sitting room for herself. Nicholas had said she could arrange things as she liked in the house. It would at least, she thought, give her something to do.

  When she arose from the table, she rang for the butler, Samuels, and requested he bring the servants before her. She knew Nicholas thought well of Samuels and Edmonds, the v
alet, but beyond that she was not sure he was aware of the rest of the staff.

  Cook was a clean and competent-looking woman, but the maids looked young and inexperienced, and Leonore was certain she smelled liquor on the housekeeper’s breath. That would not do, she thought, but she would not say anything unless she saw signs of neglect in the house. So she merely smiled at the housekeeper and requested the keys to the house.

  The house was probably one of the largest on Pall Mall, for it had many rooms and three floors, not counting the attic rooms. The housekeeping was uneven—some rooms were well kept and others quite dusty. Leonore breathed a relieved sigh. She would have some occupation during the day and not just spend her days in idle pleasure. The thought that she would have nothing to do had made her feel oddly anxious, though she had thought otherwise before she was married. She could distract herself from thoughts of Nicholas by taking Susan out and about town and keeping house as well … until she saw her husband again in the evening.

  She was almost done with her tour of the house and had selected a particularly pretty room—unused, she saw, and full of light once the curtains were drawn—for her own sitting room. She had memorized which key went to which room, but one key remained that did not seem to go to any room at all. She had not gone into the attics, however; perhaps the key fit something there. Leonore shrugged and almost put the keys away, but the thought of the long time until twilight and Nicholas’s presence made her pull them out again. She found and lit a lantern, for she was sure the place would be ill-lit, and turned in the direction of the attic.

  Grimacing, Leonore brushed at the dust and cobwebs that clung to her skirts as she ascended the stairs to the attic. The middle of the steps themselves were relatively clear of dust, which told her the attic was occasionally used. If so, the maids had little excuse for leaving the railing and the banister so dusty and dirty. She frowned and resolved to speak with the housekeeper about it.

  The door to the attic opened to a short hall, and on either side was a door. One had no lock at all and opened easily. She peered in, holding her lantern high, and sneezed, for the room was quite dusty. Pieces of old furniture and trunks were stacked within. She went in and looked about her and discovered some old aprons, fabric, and other clothing within the trunks. She wished she had discovered the aprons earlier, for her dress was becoming quite dirty. Nevertheless, she pulled one apron from the trunk and put it on. Better late than never, thought Leonore. She noted a few promising pieces of furniture, which she might have brought down to grace her sitting room.

  She came into the hall again and tried the other door. It was locked. Well, now, she thought, this must be the door that goes with the last key. She took the key from her pocket and turned it in the keyhole. She heard a click, and the door opened.

  The room was larger than she supposed it would be and surprisingly well apportioned. A large, thick rug lay on the floor, and thick curtains hung over the windows so that one would almost think it was night, for no light showed through. She was glad she had thought to bring her lantern, for it kept her from walking into furniture. She went to the windows and thrust aside the curtains.

  The action made her sneeze again, for the curtains were obviously dusty; dust motes swirled in the beams of sunlight that weakly streamed through the dirty windows. And yet, the room had obviously been used, and that, recently. A rag lay on a table next to a used candle, and a line marked the rag’s progress across the table, as if someone had made a halfhearted attempt at dusting. The room contained a large armchair and a daybed next to a small fireplace. Dust lined only the top of the armchair and not the arms or the seat. Someone had sat there not long ago.

  Obviously, this was no servant’s room. Nicholas … this must be his room, she thought, and her puzzlement grew. Why did he choose an attic room when there were better rooms below?

  A tall bookshelf lined one wall, and these had little dust on them, as if the books had been taken out and read recently.

  Some of the books were very old, held together in their bindings with pieces of string. She ran her fingers over the book spines; she could not read the titles, for they seemed to be in Latin or some other language she did not know, and in badly faded lettering, at that. It seemed as if Nicholas was a scholar, perhaps a collector of antique books. She wondered why he had never mentioned it before; she, herself, enjoyed books immensely and would have been interested in anything he cared to mention about his collection.

  One book seemed newer than the others, and she pulled it out, opening it at random. “Ministrations and Communion with Angels,” it read at the top of one chapter. Leonore raised her brows. Did Nicholas collect religious works, then? An image of him rose in her mind, of all the times he’d been scandalously alone with her before they were married. A burst of laughter escaped her. Good heavens, but she never would have thought him religious! She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles, but it only caused tears of laughter to come to her eyes.

  Finally, she sighed and dabbed her eyes with her apron. Heavens, but she was becoming irreverent. Certainly, Nicholas could be devout if he wished … although she felt the chances of that were small. That he was not a churchgoer was probably what he meant when he had told her he was a bad man. Well, she thought, perhaps it was only old and rare books in general that he collected. She pulled out another volume—An Historical, Physiological and Theological Treatise of Spirits by John Beaumont. Another religious book, it seemed. She shook her head and took down a very old book, then opened it carefully.

  “Discoverie of Witchcraft,” Leonore read. An uneasy feeling rose within her. This was certainly not a religious work. She shrugged her shoulders and pressed her lips together firmly, dispelling her uneasiness. Nicholas obviously collected unusual books, that was all. Besides, witchcraft is not real, and neither is magic, she told herself and smiled. What nonsense! Perhaps she would tease him about it when next she saw him, for he deserved a little teasing; he all too often won their verbal fencing, and she never would have thought he’d take an interest in such superstitious nonsense as witchcraft. She turned to leave the room, determined to ask Nicholas about the books and to do something about tidying the room.

  “Ahh!” A sharp pain in her foot surprised her, and Leonore hobbled to a chair. She brought her foot up and examined it. A thin sliver of glass pierced through her slipper, and gingerly she removed it. The cut was somewhat deep, but not bad; she needed only to put a salve on it and bind it, and she was sure it would be well. She looked about her for a cloth to stanch the blood, but all she could see was the dusty rag, which she would rather not use. Grimacing, she pressed a clean corner of the rag to the cut. It stanched the bleeding a little, but not much. Well, she’d best get downstairs as quickly as possible so that she could find something better with which to bind it.

  Leaving the rag upon the table, Leonore left the room and locked it. Surely, Nicholas could not object to having the room cleaned a little. She would have to see to it that any slivers of glass on the rug or floor be swept up so that no others would cut their feet on it. She shook her head. Nicholas should have had it done long ago. Perhaps he did not mind the dust much, although she would not have thought it of him. He was always so impeccably dressed and tidy, it did not seem quite like him to let this room be such a mess.

  St. Vire did not dream this time. Or at least, he did not remember his dreams when he woke, but retained only a sensation of warmth and comfort that seemed to center in his chest. Perhaps this was a sign that the spell was beginning to work; he did not know, for the ancient grimoire said little of changes he might encounter as he went through the course of the spell. He only knew that he was glad he did not wake to watching images dancing before his open eyes, wondering whether these were real or not, or if he was still asleep or not.

  He hesitated before he drew aside the bed curtains. Would it be daylight, then? Would the success of his actions last night make it so that he would be able to see the sun a little during the co
urse of the spell? Briefly, he clenched his hand, then thrust open the draperies around his bed. He went to the heavy curtains at the windows and pushed them aside.

  A frustrated sigh escaped him. It was night and quite dark. He would not see the sun yet, it seemed. A faint hope persisted, however; his room faced away from the setting sun, and it could very well be that if he went to a room with a western exposure, he would see it. His attic room faced the west—perhaps he could go there.

  Quickly he pulled on a dressing gown, ascended the steps to the attic, then unlocked the door. A faint scent came to him as he entered the room and his senses sharpened, but he ignored it. He went to the windows and thrust aside the curtains.

  Dark. The windows were dirty, however, and perhaps … perhaps … Nicholas hesitated again, then with an exasperated breath, he pushed the windows open and searched above the buildings in front of him to the horizon.

  He did not feel the usual tingling across his skin when in the presence of the slightest bit of sunlight, because he could see no light. It seemed he had missed the setting of the sun. His shoulders slumped. He put his hand upon the window latch to close it again, then his eyes caught a faint color at the horizon. He was imagining it, surely, for he had seen no color in the sky but the blackness of the night and the whiteness of the moon and stars. Could he even remember what a sunset looked like? He stared hard at the horizon again. It was there, the last bit of light and color reflected upon the clouds from the sun setting below them, a thing he had not been able to see for sixty years without at least the beginning of pain.

  St. Vire turned away from it, his hands clutching the window ledge. Perhaps he was imagining it. Had he not experienced some of the madness just the night before? He did not want to assume that what he saw was real. How could he tell, then?

  Leonore. Leonore could tell him. He strode swiftly to the door, then let out a breathless laugh and stopped before he came to the door. Of course it was too late to do that, for no hint of light colored the sky now, and he would not importune her to stay up until dawn. Or, perhaps he could ask her … He was not sure she would indulge him in this, waking just before dawn to watch the sunrise. He thought of the night before, of the way she had reacted to his caresses, and smiled. Perhaps he could wake her in a way that would make her more inclined to accede to his request.