Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  The Fonteyn money, inspiration and goal behind all of Clarinda’s trespasses. “And just how did your first husband die?”

  “What?” The apparent change of subject first puzzled her, then she divined the reason behind it. “For God’s sake, do you think—”

  “I don’t know what to think, so it seemed best to make a direct inquiry.”

  “He dropped dead from a bad heart,” she answered with no small disgust. “I had nothing to do with it. A pity his sister did not follow his example, else life would have been easier for all of us.”

  “Then you married Edmond?”

  “I needed his protection and he needed my son’s money, but what a farce that became with the lot of us still subject to Aunt Fonteyn’s whims. When Richard was born, sooner or later she’d know Edmond was not his father, all of them would know, and then what would happen to us? She’d have put me out on the street quick enough or packed me off to Bedlam and done God knows what to my baby.”

  I didn’t see Edmond or even Aunt Fonteyn for that matter allowing things to go so far. The offensive prospect of a scandal would have mitigated any judgment she made once her initial outrage passed. Clarinda had the intelligence to know and play upon that weakness. No, she’d ever been after the family money; it was just that simple.

  “So you got the likes of Ridley to be your protector, to be subject to your whims.”

  Various thoughts clearly flickered back and forth behind her eyes, too fast to interpret. She paused a goodly time to search my face and finally shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said with genuine incredulity, then softly laughed.

  There was a sound to make my skin crawl. The room seemed to shrink around us. “I think it’s best that I don’t.”

  “Or you might have some sympathy for me? For what my life has been like? Don’t bother yourself.”

  “As you wish.”

  A baleful silence grew between us, filling this dank and chill closet to the ceiling like smoke. There was no room in it for me. My questions were satisfied; therefore I had no need to remain. I made to pick up my candle.

  “No, wait!” Her hand shot out to seize mine. Because of the restricted space we’d been close enough to easily touch, but had managed to avoid it.

  Five years past I’d been eager to touch her. Just last night, before I knew her true face, I’d fought off the lure to do so again only with the greatest difficulty. I saw her still as a beautiful, desirable woman, but any craving I’d ever fostered for her was now stone dead.

  I shook her off. “I’ll leave the candle if you like.”

  “It’s not that. I have one more thing to ask of you.”

  Tempting as it was to point out that I owed her no favors, I waited for her to go on.

  “Jonathan, do you know what Edmond has planned for me? What he will do once we’re home?”

  “He has not communicated that information to me, nor is it my business.”

  “He’ll have me shut away in a room that will make this seem like a palace.”

  “There are worse spots, madam. Would you prefer Bedlam or Bridewell?”

  “You speak that way because you’re angry, but please, try to see through my eyes, just for a moment, I beg you.”

  Again, I waited.

  Outwardly, she calmed herself, but her heartbeat was loud to my acute hearing. I sensed that the earlier talk and questions about Richard had never been a real concern for her but a useful means to sound me out; was she finally coming to the real reason why she’d asked me here?

  “There may be worse places, but I can’t think of a single one,” she whispered. “I am to be shut away forever and ever. I will be completely alone. After tomorrow, I will never see the sun or even the warmth of a candle flame again. It will be always dark and always cold. He’s promised as much. Those are his very words.”

  I thought that she was lying again, for it would be easy to verify the truth with Edmond, but her fear was genuine enough. I could smell it. I could almost taste it.

  “He knows that it will drive me mad, giving substance to the story he’ll tell others. No person with an ounce of compassion would treat a mongrel dog with such cruelty, but that’s what he’s sworn is in store for me.”

  No sunlight, not even a candle. God, but could I not appreciate what kind of darkness that was? “I’ll speak to him,” I said heavily.

  “No! I want you to help me get away from him!”

  My turn for a bout of incredulity. “By heaven, I think you’re mad already.”

  “Not yet. Not yet! I don’t ask you to help me escape, but just to get me away from him. Devise whatever prison you like for me, let me be alone, but if I can have but an hour of daylight I’ll ask nothing more of you.”

  An hour of daylight. What would I not give to have as little for myself? Most of the time the lack did not grieve me. Not much. But then I had diversions aplenty to fill the hours. I had some choices left. Clarinda had none.

  “If . . . if that’s impossible,” she continued, faltering as her gaze dropped away, “then I would ask you to give me the means of making another kind of escape.”

  “What means?”

  She raised her eyes to search mine and licked her lips. “I’ve heard it said that if one takes enough opium—”

  “Good God, Clarinda!”

  “Otherwise I can tear up the bedclothes and find a way to hang myself. It would please Edmond very well, I’m sure.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “Is there not? I mean this, Jonathan. You still seem to have a heart left, that’s why I thought to talk to you. I can trust no one else. I’m not asking a great deal. You’d put a mad dog out of its misery, would you not?”

  “I would, but—”

  “But what? It’s that or take care of me yourself—or help me escape altogether.”

  She waited and waited, and for all her skill at deception could not completely keep a sharp little spark of hope from showing in her eyes, but I did not deign to remark on that last ridiculous suggestion. Her talk of another prison with me as keeper or of taking her own life might have been meant to soften my resolve so perhaps I would agree to help her escape. Well, I’d already told her I was not a fool. I shook my head. “There’s another way of handling this. I’ll see to it tonight.”

  The spark flashed once, then dimmed. “What is that?”

  “I’ll talk to Edmond—”

  “But that won’t—”

  “He’ll listen to me, I assure you.”

  She made a choking sound.

  “You may think otherwise, but I will make him. That’s the best I can do for you, and I believe you’re well aware of it.”

  Obviously this was not what she’d hoped to achieve; on the other hand, it was better than an outright refusal. But however much disappointment she showed, I still had a strong impression that she had accomplished something with me and was calculating its eventual effect on her. Mildly worrisome, that, but nothing more.

  She abruptly lowered her gaze, shoulders slumped as though in defeat. “Yes, I am aware of it. For what it’s worth, I’m grateful to you.”

  For what it’s worth, I thought. Damned little, but as she’d said, I’d do as much for a mad dog.

  As I was more unsettled than angry, it was less perilous now to influence her into taking a restful sleep; thus would she have no memory of my egress from the room. I suggested nothing more than that, though, preferring caution over calamity in the event that I’d misjudged my present state of mind and gave in to error. Leaving her reclining peacefully on the narrow bed, I sieved past the door and into the hall, turning solid again before thinking to remove myself from the immediate view of her guards.

  Thankfully, the footmen were still lost in their doze, sparing me additional exertion. It struck me that I should wake them and tell them to
forget they’d even seen me, but that was too much of an effort for so small a detail. They could tell Edmond what they liked, if they dared. I didn’t care one way or another. Whatever they said would be little enough. I quietly made my way down the stairs, for I had much to think about and wanted to be as far as possible from Clarinda. All the relatives and servants would be busy with supper, so privacy was no problem; I had the pick of Fonteyn House’s many rooms.

  Only one appealed to me, though.

  The nursery.

  Not only would I have another look in on Richard, which in itself was sufficient enticement to go there, but the superb idea of plying a few questions to Nanny Howard had popped into my mind.

  Clarinda was as full of lies as hive has bees. Some I’d picked out without trouble, others were more elusive, and by God, but didn’t the woman have more than her share of brass? Wanting me to take Edmond’s place as her warden or to go so far as to help her escape . . . ugh. That was right out. It was also an insult since she’d so badly underestimated me. She was possessed considerable wit; why had she proposed such a ludicrous action? Likely it had to do with the theory of venture nothing, gain nothing. I hoped as much, for it would be less offensive to endure.

  She was unquestionably afraid, but was her fear for the threat of a dark imprisonment or for imprisonment alone? Either one was terrible, and certainly Edmond would make a stern and alert keeper, but I found it difficult to believe he would be as extreme as she claimed. Perhaps he’d been venting his own anger with her, making threats he’d probably not fulfill. More likely she’d simply lied to me. Again.

  Still, I’d have to sort fact from fancy just to be sure, and could think of no better person to consult than Nanny Howard. If she was as intelligent as she looked, then she’d know all the happenings of this particular branch of the Fonteyn family tree and provide any number of necessary details.

  She might be reluctant to talk with an outsider, though, for I was that despite my relationship to Richard. I made a face, not liking the idea of having to influence her. I didn’t like it, but would do so if nothing else moved her.

  “What a sneaking rogue you’re turning into, Johnny-boy,” I said softly. Echoes tended to carry far along these dark halls, and I had no wish to announce my self-reproach to any stray upstairs maid who might be lurking about. Best to remove my mind from the subject until the time was right to deal with it.

  So I cheerfully speculated on the prospect of slipping in for another peep at Richard. If nothing else, Nanny Howard would gladly tell me all about him. What did he like to do? What were his favorite games? Did he have other children to play with at Edmond’s estate? Did he have a pony yet? Probably not, considering his reaction to the painted one now in his possession. My heart seemed to quicken with a kind of life again at the splendid thought of eventually giving him a real one. I recalled clearly the delicious excitement that had possessed me on one of my early birthdays with Father’s gift of a fine white pony. No more sharing rides with others on the front of the saddle, I’d had a brave charger of my own to play out my daydreams. More than that, I’d learned much on the care and coddling of equines, and had taken to my lessons in dressage like butter to hot bread. Richard looked to have some of that enthusiasm in him, and what a pleasure it would be to nurture it and—

  Father.

  Dear me, but I’d have to sit down to write and somehow tell him what had happened.

  But later, I thought, bounding lightly down the last of the stairs and taking the final turn needed to reach the nursery.

  Unfortunately, just outside the nursery door, I encountered my son’s other father, Edmond Fonteyn.

  He was a big man, about Ridley’s size, and usually as robust, but last night’s activities had left him with a gaunt white face, one arm in a sling, bandaging ’round both hands and a slowing of his movements. Fire still lurked in his dark eyes, though, and he favored me with some of its heat.

  I hauled up short, rocking back on my heels in an undignified way, at the same time cursing myself for such behavior. After all, what had I to fear from him?

  “Where have you been keeping yourself all day?” he growled, not bothering with the courtesy of a greeting beyond a slight raising of his chin. Had he always had that mannerism or taken it from Clarinda? Or had she gotten it from him?

  “My doctor recommended rest.”

  “That fool Oliver.”

  “He’s not a fool,” I said mildly.

  Edmond chose not to argue the point. “What are you here for? Mrs. Howard said you’d already come and gone.”

  “And I’ve come again. What else did Mrs. Howard have to say about my visit?”

  His lips parted as though to answer, then snapped shut. I’d caught him out. “Come along then. We need to talk.” When I hesitated to jump at this command, he added, “The boy’s sound asleep and will look just the same later on.”

  When first we’d met, his brusque manner intimidated me, for I’d attributed it to the fact that he was aware of my past intimacy with his wife. True enough, but now I was able to understand that such was his manner with everyone and counseled myself to tolerance. I followed as he led off up the hall to again take the stairs to the ground floor.

  As he paced along, an uncomfortable foreboding asserted itself on my spirit, and I soon found my somber expectations fulfilled when he turned into the one room in this whole dismal house I least wanted to visit.

  Its fireplace held a hearty blaze; that was the chief difference between my present intrusion and the first time I’d come here with Clarinda. Then it had been rather cold and cheerless—until she made it her business to warm things up for me. We’d consummated our fit of mutual lust on that settee under the eye of that same bust of Aristotle—or perhaps it was one of the Caesars—sitting on the mantel. Good God, what did Edmond think he was about in bringing me here?

  But as he eased his heavy body down on the settee with an audible sigh, I comprehended (and not without considerable relief) that he did not know what had happened here those few short years ago. His present occupancy must be because of its privacy and because this had been Clarinda’s room during the funeral. Some of her small things lay scattered about: a handkerchief discarded on the floor, a comb forgotten on a table, a pair of slippers peering shyly from under a chair. Of her other belongings there was no sign; perhaps they’d been packed and taken away to their home already.

  “Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to one of the chairs. I did so.

  He had a brandy bottle close at hand and glasses. Without asking my pleasure, he poured out two portions and nodded for me to take one. I did this without hesitation, for if need be I could alter his memory about my lack of thirst.

  He did not trouble to make a toast, but partook of a draught that would have rivaled Oliver’s reputation for swilling down spirits.

  That gone, Edmond filled his glass again and emptied it just as swiftly, then availed himself of a third libation. I thought he might deal with it as with the first two, but he contented himself with only half before putting the glass to one side.

  “Something disturbs you?” I ventured, indicating the brandy.

  He grunted. “Life disturbs me, Barrett. I’ve been harshly served.”

  “If you want an apology—”

  He waved me down, shaking his head. “There’s no need, what’s done is done. I had quite a talk with Clarinda today and got the truth out of her concerning her liaison with you. I think it’s the truth, anyway At long last she has no more reason to lie to me.”

  “Sir, if you wish the truth, then by my honor, it’s yours for the asking.”

  “That won’t be necessary. You need not tell the husband how enjoyable you found his wife’s favors.”

  I winced, recovered myself. “At the time I did not know she was anyone’s wife.”

  He looked long and hard at me, not moving a muscle
. By small degrees the lines of his face relaxed. “That makes a difference to you?”

  “It does.”

  “Then by God, you’re probably the only man in England who can say so.”

  “I have no reason to lie to you, nor would I if I did. I’ve more honor in me than fear of the consequences for setting it aside so as to spare your feelings.” I let him think on it a moment, then said, “You wanted to talk. Was this the subject you had in mind?”

  “Not quite, but it is directly related to my wife. And you.”

  “Richard.”

  “Our mutual son,” he rumbled.

  “What about him?”

  “You surprised me last night. Most men want nothing to do with their bastards.”

  Like a runaway fire, hot anger rushed through my body. One bare instant later and I was on my feet and looming over him. It was only by the greatest effort of forbearance that I didn’t seize and toss him across the room as he deserved. He flinched, eyes widening, taking in my red face and trembling fists. Apparently my reaction surprised him once more, almost as much as it startled me. “You will not refer to him in that way ever again,” I whispered, voice shaking with rage.

  “Or what?” His eyes had narrowed; his tone was dangerous.

  A number of obvious, violence-oriented threats occurred to me, but I knew that none of them would be taken seriously by this man, not without an immediate demonstration, anyway. “Or I’ll make it my duty to instruct you on the subject of genteel manners.”

  We locked gazes for a goodly period, but there was no need to rely on my unnatural influence this time. Edmond could see just how earnest was the intent behind the temperate words.

  Then he smiled.

  It was a mere tightening of the straight line of his mouth and brief, but a smile nonetheless, and enough to give me pause. Had this thrice-cursed villain been testing me?

  He leaned back upon the settee. “Thank you, but I’ve had sufficient instruction to last me a fortnight. Thought you had as well, but you seem to have recovered. Sit down, Cousin, there’s been enough blood spilled in this family already.”