Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “He may have an idea in that,” said Oliver. “Think we should break things up a bit?”

  “Refreshments are over there,” Brinsley laconically informed him, indicating a large table well-supplied with wine and spirits.

  “Heavens, man, are you a playing card or a reader of minds?”

  Oliver excused himself, Brinsley asked Elizabeth if she would honor him with the next dance and Charlotte saw to the next group of guests coming in. This left me adrift, but that suited my temper, for I was well engaged with study of the mob, trying to guess who this or that one was under the rainbow of disguises. I wandered from room to room and into the garden, my gaze running over each woman of a specific height and figure.

  Of course I was looking for Nora.

  I hoped that she might, just might, be here at this, the party of the season. She had been most fond of the Bolyns, never failing to come to any of their gatherings. Brinsley had once been one of her courtiers. I had already asked the Bolyns, particularly Brinsley, if they had any idea of Nora’s whereabouts, but got only the speculation that she’d gone to Italy, or so their friends the Warburtons had told them.

  Several times during my search my dormant heart gave a sharp upward leap as I spied women who matched my memory of Nora. But closer investigation proved me mistaken. As the evening passed, I gradually turned frustrated and morose from the constant disappointments. The worst part was going through the garden when I braved the twistings of its shrubbery maze, for it was here that we’d shared our first kisses. It was here that I had once and for all time fallen in love. Now this magical place with its paper lanterns shedding their fairy lights over other couples seemed a bleak and blasted vanity to my disappointed soul.

  I doggedly found the center of the thing, which was a large courtyard decorated by marble statues set ’round a marble fountain. Its water had been drained from the supply pipes, lest the winter weather freeze and crack them. Without the splashing from the fountain, this was now a strangely desolate spot. No one was here at the moment, probably because of the wind. Outside the shelter of the maze’s living walls, it was most chill, an element that would drive sightseers to more temperate areas. The cold air was tolerable to me, but not when combined with so fresh a breeze. The ends of my light satin cloak snapped like flags, and a gust threatened to send my hat flying. I gladly quit the empty place and hurried back to the house.

  The noise, costumes and lights dazzled me, but there was really no quiet retreat to hide in. Not that I wanted to conceal myself, but I did long for a few moments of solitude. None were to be had, though. A group of the younger men, friends from my university days, recognized and hailed me. It proved to be something of a blessing since they took my mind off my inner sorrows for a time.

  As ever, the talk was on politics, and I was closely questioned about the war. There was dismay amongst them about General Burgoyne’s unfortunate surrender at Saratoga. The first dispatches of the disaster had arrived that week, and though the news was supposed to remain secret, it had escaped, causing no end of speculation on how England might recover her honor from such a setback.

  “Mind you, the Frenchies will start pouring themselves across the sea after this,” said a short Harlequin. “Once they’re in we’ll be set for a real war right here and now. We won’t have to go to America to fight, just sail across the Channel.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” opined another, taller Harlequin.

  “They would, sir. We gave them a thrashing the last time about Canada and they’re thirsty for revenge. You mark me. You can’t trust any of ’em, not a one.”

  This reminded me of the things Father had said on my last night at home. It had been only a couple of weeks since I’d seen him, at least how I reckoned the time in light of my sea-going hibernation, and just then I missed him terribly. How he would have relished this. I had to leave or make a fool of myself.

  “But you’re a fool already, Johnny-boy,” I muttered. To be at so magnificent a celebration and in such a dark mood was ridiculous. I was here for distraction from my woes, to sample and enjoy the myriad delights whirling and laughing about me, not to impersonate a waker at a funeral.

  As if to help draw me out of the depths, sprightly music started up nearby, drowning out nearby conversations. I followed the sounds to the great ballroom, where the dancers were gathered to indulge in festive exercise. The combinations of partners were astonishing and amusing as I spied a lion dancing with Boedicia and a Roman soldier bowing over the hand of a fantastical Indian maiden. One lady’s costume, what there was of it, caught my eye for some goodly time, for the short skirt was so transparent one could see the supporting panniers, not to mention her shapely legs and the flash of the silver garters holding up her stockings. Her silver mask covered too much of her face for me to readily identify her, but though arresting to the eye, she was not Nora, and that was all that mattered to me.

  The only thing to distract from her was a fellow in deep black stalking past holding a skull. His Hamlet might have been more credible had he not been drunk and trying to get the skull to share a sip from his glass. Still, he seemed to be having a fine time providing entertainment for others. He also reminded me that I had not yet bought any plays to send to Cousin Anne as I’d promised. Tomorrow I’d see about making an expedition to Paternoster Row and explore its book stalls. Surely some of them would still be open after dark.

  Familiar laughter, slightly breathless, came to me over the music and Elizabeth danced past, partnered by an energetic big fellow in a long Russian coat and tall fur hat. I paused, astonished, for she’d not been so genuinely merry for months. How delightful to see her partake of light pleasures again. For a time I feared her too wounded from her false husband to ever raise a smile.

  The man grinned back from behind a vast false chin beard. For all that covering, he seemed familiar. Probably one of my old schoolmates. If so, then I’d stay handy to make sure he behaved himself.

  “Enjoying everything, Coz?” asked Oliver, who suddenly bumped into me from pushing his way through the press at the edge of the dancing. “I am. I can see that you are, too.”

  He had a wineglass in hand. Not his first, to judge by his flushed face and wandering eye. “Indeed, indeed. Having a marvelous good time in spite of the old hag.”

  “What do you mean?” Now did I notice a decided stiffness in his manner, like a bristling cat ready to bolt from a dog pack.

  He jerked his head back the way he’d come. “Mother’s here, don’t you know. Saw her in one of the rooms with some of her cronies, the lot of ’em passing dire judgments against every pretty girl who happens to walk through. She’s not in costume, just has a mask on a stick to hide behind, like the others. Ask me and I tell you I think they need ‘em. Nothing like a bit of papier-mache and paint to improve their sour old faces, the harpies. Hic! ’Scuse me, I’m sure.”

  “It doesn’t seem to have soured you, though.”

  “Not a bit of it. I don’t care, I really don’t. In fact, I made a point to pretend to stagger right through the room so she could see that her castoff son is alive, well and having a devil of a good time for himself.”

  “You think that was wise?”

  “ ’Course not, but then I’m too jolly tonight for wisdom. Besides, all her friends saw me, too. Embarrassed her to no end, especially when I gave such a loud hail to Cousins Clarinda and Edmond. She seemed pleased, but he was a bit put off. Probably bad for him to be seen all chums with a rotter like m’self, don’t you know.”

  “My God, they’re here, too?”

  “I just said so, din’ I? Amazing, ain’t it, that Clarinda got Edmond-the-stick out of the house for this. He was even in costume, a Harlequin, no less. Should say more, rather. There must be a dozen of ’em drifting around here tonight. Just shows he hasn’t much imagination. Shoddy, too. Looked as if it’d been made for someone else and he inherited it. Clarind
a is very jaunty, though. Came as a Gypsy. You should see her. Most lively!”

  No doubt, I thought, looking around but noticing no Gypsies, lively or otherwise, and feeling absurdly thankful about it. Though my one encounter with her was enchanting, I had no desire to try for a second, particularly in a strange house with her husband lurking about. Edmond seemed the jealous type, or so I’d convinced myself from the single sinister look he’d shot me across the dim hallway of Fonteyn House. It had stuck a chord of guilt in my soul, and a deep intuition told me that he knew something had once been afoot between myself and his wife. I doubted any assurance from me that there would be no repetition of the event would improve his humor.

  The dance ended and the couples bowed to one another. A different fellow came to claim Elizabeth’s attention, smaller than the Russian, but not lacking in verve. He was clothed in an ordinary blue coat with some sort of rough and ready turban on his head, apparently not interested in attempting a real Turkish costume.

  “Hallo,” I said, giving Oliver a nudge. “Is that Lord Harvey trying to partner Elizabeth for the next one?”

  He gave a wobbly stare. “I think so. No one else has such spindles for legs that I know of.”

  “Did he ever take care of his creditors?”

  “No, had to fly the country to avoid ’em. Heard he got into a card game in France, won a fortune, and returned in triumph to pay off everything. Still, I understand he’s not given up looking for a rich wife. Bad luck for Elizabeth if he—but no . . . she’s too sharp for him, and after that bad business she’s been through, she won’t be impressed by a title.”

  “Maybe I should go and interrupt him before—”

  “Too late, the music’s already started. Don’t worry, old lad, it’s just one dance. She can look after herself.”

  On that I could tentatively agree; but once they’re stirred up, it’s hard to put one’s protective instincts aside. Though Oliver was right about Elizabeth I watched Harvey narrowly, just in case he misbehaved and proposed to her.

  The dancers fell into the required patterns and the stragglers cleared themselves from the floor. The big Russian, who was heading in another direction, changed course when he spotted Oliver and apparently recognized him. He sauntered over.

  “Is that you, Marling? Thought so. Splendid party, what?”

  “Very splendid. Ridley, isn’t it? Can’t mistake you, two yards tall and then some, you great giant. You need to meet my cousin from America, Jonathan Barrett. Jonathan, this is Thomas Ridley.”

  We bowed to each other.

  “He was a couple of years ahead of us at Cambridge, weren’t you?”

  “At Oxford, Marling,” he said in a near-patronizing drawl.

  “Yes, of course. Haven’t seen you in ages. Back from the Tour?” Oliver asked, referring to the popular fashion the gentry followed of exploring the Continent. Some of them spent a year or more crawling about the ruins of old Rome or even venturing as far as Greece and Egypt.

  “Something like that. London gets too small for me, y’ see.” He grandly stretched his arms wide as if to illustrate. Red from the dance and sweating, he untied his beard and stuffed it into a pocket.

  That was when the nagging familiarity about him changed to instant and utter certainty. Ridley was the drunken leader of the Mohocks that I’d bedeviled on my first night in London.

  Good God.

  “And how is America, these days?” he asked me, again with that almost, but not quite, patronizing tone. It was finely balanced, just enough so that he was unpleasant, but not to the point where anyone could take exception to it.

  “Fine, very fine,” I answered, not really thinking.

  “Fine? You’re not one of those damned rebels, are you?”

  “Absolutely not!” cried Oliver. “My God, but Jonathan’s done his share of the fighting for our king. How many have you killed, Coz? Half a dozen?”

  “You exaggerate, Oliver.” I had no wish to dwell on that episode of my past.

  “Blazed away at a roomful of ’em, at least, only this summer.”

  “How interesting,” said Ridley, giving me a lengthy stare. Damnation. Had he recognized me as the victim he and his gang had tried to sweat? Hard to tell if it was that or his reaction to Oliver’s tipsy boasting.

  “Not very,” I countered. “Just defending my family. Any man would do the same. Are you enjoying the Masque? That coat must be warm.”

  God, but I was close to babbling. Really, now, there was nothing to fear. It was unlikely that he’d remember me; the street had been dark, the engagement brief and he very drunk. Besides, half my face was now obscured by my mask. The music and the great press of people were simply nerving me up. All I had to do was bluff my way along and none would be the wiser. Besides, unless he wanted ousting from polite society he had every reason not to mention the incident.

  “Rather,” he said, a lazy amusement creeping over his heavy features. Neither handsome nor ugly, but possessing distinct enough looks to make him stand out, he seemed to know how to use them to his best advantage. Moments ago he’d almost seemed dashing as he squired Elizabeth ’round the dance floor. Now he was decidedly base as he spoke more loudly than necessary to be heard over the music and other speakers. “There’s plenty of things here to make a man warm, though.”

  “Yes, the dancing. I may try a turn or two myself, later.”

  “It’d be well worth the trying, I can guarantee you, Barrett. The ladies here tonight are of superior stock. Very lively they are.”

  “I have noticed.”

  “Now,” he said, pointing out at the couples on the floor. “See that pirate wench with the red wig? There’s a pretty slut who knows what’s best for a man. It’s the way she walks and moves is how you can tell she’s eager for it. I’ll give you seven to five that I’ll be pounding her backside into the floor within the hour. What do you say?” He grinned down at me.

  For an instant I did nothing, disbelieving my ears, then Oliver, for all the wine he’d taken, was just quick enough to get between us. I heard him shout my name, trying to penetrate the roar of white-hot rage blasting through my being. I fought to push him to one side to strike at Ridley, but our violent commotion seized the attention of the other men present who had overheard his base boast, and they leaped in to hold me back.

  “Have a care, sir!”

  “Calm yourself, sir!”

  “For God’s sake, Jonathan, don’t!”

  Through it all, Ridley stood with his hands on his hips, smirking. He knew what he was about. I wanted to smash his face to a pulp and could do it with ease if only these fools would let go my arms.

  “You heard the bastard!” I shouted. “You heard him!”

  “Aye, we did, an’ there’re ways for gentlemen to settle such things,” intoned an older man with an Irish accent.

  “Let them be settled, then. I’m issuing challenge here and now.”

  “First cool yourself, young sir. Ye’ll accomplish naught while in such a temper, and that’s what he wants.”

  I abruptly stopped fighting, dropping flat on my heels but still boiling inside and ready to tear Ridley in two at his next word. But he said no more and just walked away with his ass’s grin fixed in place. The men eased their restraint on me, trusting I’d mastered myself. I tore off my half-mask, but my searing glare was lost on Ridley’s unresponsive back.

  “That was a rare harsh slur to an innocent lady, sir,” said the older man with dark sympathy.

  “To my sister, sir,” I corrected. “Such a disgusting offense to her honor must be answered.”

  “Then you’re familiar with the Clonmel Summer Assizes.”

  “I am.” Like the other gentlemen in our group, Oliver had acquired a copy of the Irish Code Duello that autumn, and I’d studied it with interest, hardly dreaming I’d find so quick a use for its fascin
ating rules.

  “Are you cooled enough to properly deal with what’s to come?”

  I could not take my gaze from Ridley’s retreating back. He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd. I wanted to cut him in half and make him vanish.

  “Jonathan?” Oliver, looking wholly sober, yet held my arm.

  “Yes,” I snarled impatiently. Damn them and their hindrances against what had to be done, but I would have to abide or find myself as outcast as Ridley had just made himself. This was the quickest means open to attain satisfaction, though. What came next . . . ? “You heard him? You all heard his rank insult?”

  Some three or four formally declared they had. All looked grim, understanding the course of things and their part in events.

  “I’ll want a second,” I found myself saying. “Oliver, would you?”

  “Need you ask? Of course I will.”

  “Hold now,” said the Irishman. “ ’Tis contrary to the rules to deliver a challenge at night. No need for being a hothead. It can wait ’til the morning when you’ve had time to consider and compose yourself.”

  “I must beg your pardon, sir, for I disagree. His insult to my sister’s honor is too great. We will settle things now.”

  “But, young sir, the code states . . . .”

  “Sir! This was no drunken exchange in a tavern, but a coldly considered disputation that Ridley intentionally provoked. He wants a fight, so I will not be delayed to oblige him!”

  And with those words, I saw they realized my determination to immediately press forward was not a subject for question. Certainly any of them standing in my boots would have answered the same.

  “Very well,” he sighed. “In this instance and on that point I think we may be forgiven, but as for the rest of the rules—”