by P. N. Elrod
Elizabeth, drawn downstairs by the commotion, was the one exception to this ploy. The instant she saw me, she knew something was wrong. The next instant she whisked me away to a room where we could have the privacy necessary to talk. That talk was both lengthy and brutally truthful. I told her all.
All that I knew, that is.
* * *
It was just an hour short of dawn when Edmond had sorted things to his satisfaction and Fonteyn House settled a bit.
Won’t last, I thought, dreading the gossip to come. Not for my sake, but for Oliver’s.
He had been awakened early on but had proved too befuddled to make much sense of the business. Elizabeth stayed behind trying to coax café noir into him in the hope that it would help.
Clarinda recovered fast from the blow I’d dealt her. At first she’d tried to run, then endeavored to convince Edmond she’d been under duress from Ridley, then attempted to bribe the servants guarding her. Under orders from her husband she was locked into a small upper room usually reserved for storage. He kept the only key. After a time she gave up shouting her outrage to the walls and fell into sullen silence.
Ridley and Arthur, still unconscious, were being cared for by a close-mouthed doctor from the Fonteyn side of the family. He pronounced both to be concussed and not likely to wake anytime soon. He totally missed the wounds on Arthur’s neck. Just as well.
“What will you do with them?” I asked Edmond, who glared at the two as though to burn them to cinders.
“Nothing,” he rumbled.
“Nothing?”
“What would be accomplished in a court of law? They’d be let off with a five-shilling fine for mischief and advised to behave themselves in the future. Their fathers are too important in the Town for them to get what they really deserve. They didn’t actually kill us, y’know.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“Yes, but since they failed, what they’ve done can be put down to the high spirits of youth. They knocked. you about and shut me in that damned box, nothing more. Pranks.”
He was right about that. For my own sake I’d had to conceal the true extent of my injury, which was now considerably better. Without such visible evidence of their intent to kill it would be nearly impossible to see justice done, at least through the courts. However, I had firm ideas of my own and planned to act upon them at the earliest opportunity. In the near future both men would have to endure a visit from me that neither would remember, but which would have a profound effect on their lives. By God, I might even make churchgoers of them.
“And Clarinda?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s mad, Cousin,” he informed me matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“Quite, quite mad. I fear she will have to be confined for the rest of her life because of it.” He fastened me with a dangerous look. “Any objections?”
I pursed my lips and shook my head.
“She did do murder,” he went on softly, “of that I’m certain. And she planned to do murder, of that we both know, but there’s no way in which it might be proven.”
“Unless she confesses,” I mused.
“Not bloody likely, and even if she should, what then? Better this than watching her dance a jig at Tyburn.”
Probably.
“No good would come of it to the family. We have to think of them,” he added.
“Oh, yes, certainly the family must be considered first.”
I half expected a sharp reproach for my sarcasm, but he only lifted his chin a bit. “Come along with me,” he said and started off without waiting to see if I’d follow.
I caught up. “Why?”
“You wanted to know why she was going to kill you. Still interested?”
I was. He went upstairs and down one of the halls, me at his heels. I worried how long this might take. Brought back to strength again by means of the horse blood I’d lately fed upon, I could still float home if pressed for time, but preferred to ride safe in a coach if possible. Before pushing myself further, I wanted a solid day’s rest on my earth.
Edmond stopped before a closed door and gently opened it. The room beyond was lighted by several candles standing in bowls of water. Many cots had been set out, each bearing a small sleeping occupant. When I saw Nanny Howard, I came to the reasonable conclusion that we were in the nursery.
“All’s quiet, Mr. Fonteyn,” she said in a low voice. I think she meant it as a warning for him not to disturb the children. She gave me a piercing stare, but I’d since borrowed some of Oliver’s clothing and was secure that I was more respectable appearing than at our last meeting.
Edmond brushed past her, picking up a candle along the way, and headed for one of the cots, pausing before it. The child lying in it was young, not more than three or four. He was very pretty, with pale clear skin and a headful of thick black hair.
“Clarinda’s second boy,” Edmond told me. “His name is Richard.”
Yes, I could see that he’d want to protect his son from the stigma of Clarinda’s crimes, but what had this to do with . . . ?
A cold fist seemed to close upon my belly, tighten its grip and twist.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed.
“Oh, Yes, by God,” Edmond growled.
“It can’t be.”
“It is. When he opens his eyes, you’ll find them to be as blue as your own.
Gooseflesh ran up my arms. The next few minutes were a dreadful haze as my poor brain tried to keep up with things and failed. I eventually came out of it and found myself drooping on a settee out in the hall with Edmond looming over me, telling me to pull myself together and not be such a damned fool.
“Too late for that,” I muttered, still in the throes of shock.
The Christmas party. My God, my God, my God . . . .
“I knew he wasn’t mine,” Edmond was saying. “And she wouldn’t name the father, but when I saw you that night, I understood whose whelp he was right enough. You can be sure that Aunt Fonteyn would have seen as well had she been given the chance. Clarinda was always careful to keep the boy out of her sight. Easy to do when they’re young. Must have given her quite a turn for you to come back to England.”
“But—”
“She couldn’t afford to have you around, y’know. Anyone seeing you and Richard would make the connection, but with you dead and buried, memories would soon fade, and she’d lie her head off, as always, to cover herself. Not with Aunt Fonteyn, though. The old woman was too sharp for such tricks. She’d have cut Clarinda out of the family money quick as thought. Another reason for her to die.”
“Wh-what’s to be done?” I felt as though a giant had trod on me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Was this what all men feel when fatherhood is suddenly thrust upon them?
“Done? What do you mean?”
“You can’t introduce me to the child and expect me just to walk away. I’d like to get to know him . . . if it’s all right with you.” That was the problem. Would Edmond allow even that much?
Edmond studied me, and for the first time there seemed to be a kind of sympathetic pity mixed into his normally grim expression. “You— What about the gossip?”
“I don’t give a damn about gossip. Nor do you, I think. After all this, people are going to know or guess anyway. Let them do so and be damned for all I care.”
A long silence. Then, “You’re all in, boy. Time enough to think about such things tomorrow.”
“But I—”
“Tomorrow,” he said firmly, taking my arm and helping me up. “Now get out of here, before I forget myself and pound your face into porridge for being a better man than I.”
* * *
But I could not bring myself to leave Fonteyn House. Not after this. The rapid approach of dawn was nothing to me. When the time came I’d find a dark and distant corner in one of the ancient cella
rs and shelter there for the duration of the short winter day. There would be bad dreams awaiting me since I’d be separated from my home soil, but I’d survived them before and would do so again. Compared to what I’d just learned, the prospect of facing a week’s worth of them hardly seemed worth notice.
After Edmond had left, I crept back into the nursery under Nanny Howard’s eye to look again at the sleeping child.
My sleeping child. Richard.
A good name, I thought.
My God, but he was beautiful. Had my heart been beating, surely it would now be pounding fit to burst. As it was, my hands shook so much from a heady mixture of excitement, uncertainty, joy and sheer terror that I didn’t dare touch him for fear of waking him.
Questions and speculations stabbed and flickered through my brain like heat lightning, offering brief flashes of light but no illumination about the future. Edmond had not wanted to discuss it, and I could see that he was right to postpone things until the idea had fully been absorbed into my stunned mind. Certain subjects between us would have to be addressed, though, and soon.
I’d said I didn’t give a damn about the gossip, but that wasn’t entirely true. It was of no importance to me, but might one day prove to be a problem for this little innocent. It wasn’t his fault that his mother was a murdering—
Not now, Johnny-boy.
Or ever. I’d hardly endear myself to the child by expressing an honest opinion to him about his mother.
Would he . . . like me?
I chewed my lower lip on that one for several long minutes. How in the world would I ever tell Father?
I fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other. Good God, what would Mother—no, that didn’t bear thinking about.
I shook myself, nearly shivering from that prospect.
Well, we’d all get through it somehow, though for the moment I hadn’t the vaguest inkling of what to do besides stare at the little face that so closely resembled my own and hope for the best.
“He’s a good boy, sir,” whispered Nanny Howard from close behind me.
I gave quite a jump, but at least forbore from yelping in surprise. She couldn’t completely hide her amusement at startling me, but diplomatically pretended not to notice my discomfiture.
“A good boy, you say?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Yes, sir. Very smart he is, too, if a bit headstrong.”
“Headstrong? I like that.”
“Indeed, sir. It complements him, when it’s not misplaced.”
“I . . . I want to know all about him. Everything.”
“Of course, I’ll be glad to tell you whatever you like. We should talk elsewhere, though.”
At this gentle hint from her we moved out into the hall, leaving the door open so she could keep an eye on her charges. I was eager to hear any scrap of information on the boy, but alas, just as she was settling herself to speak we were interrupted.
Elizabeth came hurrying toward us, brows high with alarm. “What on earth are you still doing here? You know you’ve less than an hour to get—” She stopped when she saw Nanny Howard.
“It’s all right,” I said, keeping my voice low and making hushing motions with my hands.
“But it’s late for you,” Elizabeth insisted, speaking through her teeth. God knows what Mrs. Howard thought of her behavior.
“It doesn’t matter, I’m staying here for the day.” Now I had shocked her, a portent of things to come, no doubt.
“You’re what? But you—?”
Before her surprise overcame her discretion, I took Elizabeth’s elbow and steered her back down the hall out of earshot of Mrs. Howard. My good sister was just starting to sputter with indignation at my action when I reined us up short and turned to face her.
The look on my face must have helped trigger that innate sympathy that sometimes occurs between siblings, where much is said when nothing is spoken.
“What is it?” she asked, suddenly dropping any protest she might have had. “Is something wrong? Has Edmond—”
“No, nothing like that. Nothing’s wrong—at least I don’t think so, but you’ll have to decide for yourself, and I hope to God that you think it’s all right, because I really need all the help I can get, especially yours, because this is—is—”
“Jonathan, you’re babbling,” she stated, giving me a severe look.
I paused, trying to think. I had so little time to do this right. Our lives were about to change forever. For better or for ill, I did not know. For the better, I prayed. That feeling of hope and cheer overcame me a moment and I grabbed Elizabeth in a bear hug, lifting her up and whirling around, once, twice, laughter beginning to bubble in me.
Most inappropriate in a house of mourning, but I couldn’t help myself.
Elizabeth suppressed a shriek of protest and a squawk when I put her down again and, hands framing her head, planted a hearty kiss on her forehead.
She was fair gaping now. “For heaven’s sake collect yourself and tell me what is going on!”
And so I did.
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, DECEMBER 1777
“You’re certain he’s all right?” asked my cousin Oliver, shifting closer in an anxious effort to better view the man seated before us. “He looks like a dead fish.”
Which was a perfectly accurate observation; however, I had no need to be reminded about the outward result of my special influence imposed upon another person. I had no need for Oliver’s interruption, either, but he’d asked to watch and at the time there seemed no reason to deny his request. Now I was having second thoughts.
“Please,” I said in a rather tight voice. “I must concentrate.”
“Oh.” His hushed tone contrite, he instantly subsided, enabling me to put forth my full attention on the silent third member of our party. Focusing my gaze hard upon the fellow’s slack face, I softly spoke into his all too vulnerable mind.
You must listen carefully to what I say. . . .
The words I whispered resonated within my own skull with no small force; their effect on this man would be profound and could be deadly.
In this moment I felt myself truly balanced on the edge of a knife. With Oliver along to witness I was steadier than if I’d been alone, and yet I was aware of the lamentable consequences should I make a mistake. A single ill-considered word on my part or a brief surge of uncontrolled rage let loose, and the man before me would likely be plunged into a madness from which he might never recover. I’d done that once before—unintentionally—and would be a liar not to admit this present circumstance offered a great temptation to repeat the action. God knows, I’d more than sufficient cause to justify such a malfeasance.
His name was Thomas Ridley, and last night he and his cousin Arthur Tyne had done their damnedest to try to murder me. For this and other near-lethal crimes they’d committed or participated in, I was informed it would be too much to expect a just retribution by means of the law; therefore I had taken upon myself the responsibility to guarantee that they would commit no further mischiefs. Arthur had already been dealt with and would soon be sent away home when he was fit enough to travel. I’d taken quite a lot of blood from him last night—purely for the purpose of survival, not revenge—and he’d been but half awake and easy to influence.
Thomas Ridley was another matter entirely.
Because he was large, strong and possessed of a most unpleasant character we’d confined him for the day in one of the more remote storage rooms in a cellar far beneath Fonteyn House, well away from any ears with no business hearing his bellowed curses. He couldn’t stay there forever—more’s the pity—and would have to be quickly dealt with before he was missed by his friends. Toadies, I should say, for he was a bully and a Mohock, and that sort never have real friends, only sycophants.
Almost as soon as I’d awakened for the evening I had
to get on with things. My first sight after sunset released me from the day’s sleep was Oliver hovering over me, his long face showing no small measure of impatience. Though he was familiar with my peculiar, preternatural condition and the limits it imposed my waking life, he chided me for a sluggard and urged me to hurry. Knowing what was needed, for I’d left strict instructions concerning the management of our captives, I gave no argument and made no delay, following him up to Arthur Tyne’s room to deliver a dose of influence and instruction. Oliver had to wait outside while I worked, keeping away the curious. It would not do for the servants to gossip too much about recent events. They already had enough to discuss. Some talk was inevitable, but they did not need to get wind of my special abilities. Life was knotty enough lately.
Having quickly finished with the befuddled Arthur, I thought myself ready to deal in kind with Ridley until descending into the cellar. He’d worked himself into a truly foul temper, if one might judge anything by the coarsely direct quality of his language once he realized he had company waiting beyond his locked door. Much of his invective involved both general and specific profanities against myself and my many relatives for his treatment at our collective hands. It was fantastically ridiculous for him to take such a stand after what he’d done and had attempted to do against me and my family, but such is the frame of mind of an aggrieved bully who knows no conscience.
Coming down the narrow cellar stairs, Oliver and I dismissed the five uneasy footmen detailed to stand watch, and announced our presence to Ridley through the stout oak timbers of the door to his makeshift prison. He responded with a statement to the effect that it would be his greatest pleasure to kill us both with his bare hands prior to which he would pop our eyes out with his thumbs and make us eat them. He saw no humor in Oliver’s comment that he’d just given us an excellent reason for keeping him incarcerated until he was starved into a better disposition. Ridley’s reaction was another tirade, accompanied by a solid crashing and thumping to indicate that he’d found something in his cell with which to make an assault on the door.