Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  “But you love her, my lord,” said the doctor, “and she loves you, or she would be gone by now, I’ll be bound. I saw her at table tonight. She’s been crying. At first, I thought it was because of the abigail’s death, but now I see it was quite something else.”

  “Marrying her . . . bringing her here was a mistake,” said Nicholas. “I was a fool to think I could live some semblance of a normal life.” He surged to his feet and began to pace the carpet. “The least I can do, is try to rectify it before . . .”

  “Before what, my lord?” the doctor prompted. “If you were about to say ‘before it’s too late,’ don’t waste your breath.”

  “I shall wait for her decision, and act accordingly. There aren’t grounds for a Parliamentary divorce. There’s been no adultery, and I am not a fiend threatening her life. Besides, even if there were a way, it could take as long as a year. Parliament has to be sitting, for one thing, and its regular business concluded, before such an appeal could be addressed. The cutoff date for petitioning has already passed for this year. I would have to wait until the end of November to petition. An annulment might be arranged, and I have the connections to do it. I shall have to look into it. I must have been mad to let it go as far as it has between us. There’s always the outside chance that I could transform right in the conjugal bed!”

  “Not . . . necessarily now,” said the doctor.

  “Why, not now?”

  “She knows,” the doctor said flatly. “The fear that it might happen no longer exists. That alone may well keep you calm enough to make love to your bride.”

  “And you think I ought take that chance?” He stopped pacing, loosed a guttural chuckle, and shook his head. “I may be half mad with all of this, but I’m not addled.”

  “I think, my lord, that you might test the theory. She already knows. The worst that could happen is transformation, and you will have enough forewarning to spare her and yourself any embarrassment if it does happen.”

  “All well and good, but there is still the matter of passing the condition on, as my father passed it on to me, to be considered. I will not take that chance.”

  The doctor heaved a sigh. “Who told you the condition could be passed on through the blood, my lord?”

  “Why, no one. I just assumed, because Father passed this on to me in that way—”

  “There are no statistics on that, my lord,” the doctor interrupted. “We do not even know if your particular condition can be passed on in that way, considering that it is a weaker strain, and something entirely different from that transmitted by the wolf that bit your father. Again we’ve got the cart before the horse, my lord. Those are gray areas.”

  “All the more reason to be wary,” said Nicholas.

  “Wary yes, but closed minded? Never! I am first and foremost a scientist, my lord. For the sake of argument, let’s just suppose that—despite all possible precautions—conception occurred. We know that the shapeshifter’s animal incarnation takes on the personality of its host—case in point, Nero: fiercely loyal, good natured, well mannered, nonviolent unless provoked. In short, a gentleman wolf, if you will allow, just as you are a gentleman, my lord. If the condition is transferable, the worst that could happen would be that your offspring would be as you are.”

  Nicholas shook his head in adamant disagreement. “With the same fears, the same restrictions?” he said. “Condemn it to a life of forced exile from the world, and all its joys and pleasures, when I have the right to spare it such a sentence? No—never!”

  “But, do you really have that right?”

  “Yes, I do,” Nicholas snapped. “I would not wish this madness upon my worst enemy, let alone my own flesh and blood. I am not my father’s son in that regard. I am not so blinded whoring after an heir that I cannot foresee the pitfalls of my actions.”

  “All right, then, that is your prerogative. There are other ways that cohabitation can be managed to your mutual satisfaction—age-old ways of addressing the problem with herbs that go back to Biblical times. That cordial there”—he nodded toward it—”already contains ingredients that will help, and her ladyship can be instructed in certain internal and external methods also.”

  “What sort of ‘methods’?”

  “For example, French prostitutes have used a sponge affair for years, my lord. The same method is used here now by prostitutes and courtesans, and those whose health is too fragile to survive childbirth. You mentioned once that light-skirts and courtesans usually take care of such matters. Trust them to know how. They’ve been at it since time out of mind. Treated with certain herbs, the sponge I mentioned can be quite effective. A salve made of the herbs themselves is another alternative. Believe me, my lord, the situation is far from hopeless. I can have what’s needed sent from London. She will, however, not be able to use either the first time.”

  “Nothing can be done until the baroness decides,” said Nicholas.

  “Would it help if I were to speak to her about your condition?” said Breeden. “Perhaps coming from me . . .”

  “No,” Nicholas responded. “It must be her decision and hers alone. I won’t have her swayed. There’s no need of convincing. She saw. Now it’s a matter of her being able to live with what she saw.”

  “As you wish, my lord, but if you should change your mind, I would be only too glad to rise to the occasion. Meanwhile, with your kind permission, I shall have one of your staff send word on to London for some supplies I have need of, and the article I described to you for my lady, in anticipation of a happy outcome to all this, eh?”

  “In anticipation,” Nicholas mused. The poor man was doing his best, after all. The least he could do was humor him. “Well, then,” he said, gesturing toward the armonica. “Shall we try again?”

  Though they did try, again and again, nothing significant was gained that Nicholas could see, and nothing would be, as far as he was concerned, until Alexander Mallory was found in one incarnation or another, and justice was meted out accordingly.

  For the next three days, foul weather prevented the guards from returning, and Nicholas haunted the convoluted corridors and passageways of the old house armed with loaded pistols. By night he kept his vigil over Sara, wide-eyed from the green suite across from her own until dawn, catching only brief snatches of sleep when it overpowered him. Still, she had not given him her decision. She hadn’t spoken alone with him, for that matter. Why hadn’t she decided? Was her hesitation a good sign, or a bad one? Could she be waiting for the situation with Alex Mallory to be resolved before she committed to belief in what he’d told her? Was it proof she wanted? There was no way to tell, and his brain hurt from trying to make sense of it.

  Calm, he had to stay calm. That was becoming harder and harder to do as the tensions mounted from all directions. He dared not transform with the whole house gunning for Nero, but now Sara knew. With that obstacle removed, while Nero was still being hunted, he could at least cancel the search for Alex Mallory in his human form. Dr. Breeden was in accord that it wasn’t likely Mallory would transform if he hadn’t by now, and Nicholas decided to spread the tale that the steward had reappeared and been sacked. If he did change back and surface afterward, it could always be said that he’d sneaked back in via one of the smugglers’ entrances he was so fond of. It was a gamble, but there was no other alternative. He would just have to deal with that if it occurred.

  On the morning of the fourth day after the funeral, Smythe presented himself on the study threshold. From the look on the butler’s grim face, Nicholas was loath to bid him enter.

  “What is it, Smythe?” he said.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” the butler said. “I’ve come to voice some concerns from below stairs.”

  Nicholas set his quill down with painstaking control, and folded his hands atop the ledger he was working in.

  “Concerns?” he parroted.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the butler. “The truth of it is we’re all afraid below stairs . . . of the
dog . . . of Nero . . . after what’s happened to Nell.”

  Nicholas wanted to blurt out: Nero wouldn’t harm a hair on any of your heads, you nodcock! Though he should, judging from some of the tidbits he’s discovered spying on you lot below stairs. He took a less inflammatory tack.

  “Have you seen the animal since, Smythe?” he said. The servants’ quarters were the only area in the house he hadn’t searched.

  “That’s just it, my lord, we haven’t, but the food keeps disappearing.”

  “Food? What food? Don’t tell me you’ve been setting food out for that animal?” He surged to his feet. He was well aware that Sara had been feeding it, but all that ceased after he told her the truth, and he’d been hoping hunger would drive it into the open. His blood was boiling.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” said the butler, taking a step back from him. “We always left food out for him in the past, you know that. Then, after what happened to Nell, we stopped, but food went missing from the larder—meat, and fowl mostly, a good deal of it, so we started leaving food out for him again, for fear we’d be next if we didn’t. He made a fine mess below, my lord.”

  “And you’re just coming to me with it now?” Nicholas thundered.

  “Mrs. Bromley thought—”

  “The Devil take Mrs. Bromley! You are head of staff below stairs, Smythe. Since when does Mrs. Bromley dictate your actions?”

  “I-I’m sorry, my lord,” the butler stammered. “I . . . we didn’t want to trouble you with it, what with the funeral and all.”

  “There’ll likely be more than one of those in this house if you don’t ‘trouble me’ in future,” Nicholas snapped. He sank into the chair again, raking his hair back with stiff fingers. How much should he confide in the butler? Certainly not all, but enough to clear Nero’s name, since he would still be a very visible part of the household when all was said and done; it was that or replace the entire staff. Right now, he was angry enough to do just that. “Sit down, Smythe,” he said.

  “My lord?”

  “Sit!” Nicholas barked, while the butler dropped like a stone into the nearest chair. “There’s no use my telling you to keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself,” he went on, “because the walls have ears in this house, tongues wag, and the only purpose doors serve is to give the servants something to lean against while they eavesdrop!”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  “Nonetheless, I must insist that you refrain from carrying tales in future, because there shan’t be a staff member left below stairs when the sun sets upon the day that you do. I’ll sack the lot of you! Considering what’s been going on in the village, you can count yourself fortunate that you all still have positions here. If one more word ever travels beyond that gate down there, you will collect your final wages without references. I would have done it the day the guards came out here, but with all the press come upon this house I really haven’t time to seek replacements at the moment—though I am so at my wits end with the lot of you at this point, I’m ready to brook the inconvenience. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  “Good! Just in case you aren’t convinced that I am aware of the goings on above and below stairs in this house, be apprised that I know my idiosyncrasies are bruited about on a regular basis amongst you. I know you eavesdrop to fuel your on-dits. I know when you do it, and how you do it, and whom you tell your tales to. I know that Millie, the scullery maid, nicks small game birds from the game room on the eves of her days off. I do not choose to address this, because we have plenty of game on Ravencliff, and I am aware that she’s done this to help feed her infirm mother, and siblings, since her good father, whom I knew and admired, passed on.

  “It has just come to my attention that the footmen lay abed half the morning, while the hall boys do their tasks for them. I know the boys do this out of fear of a hiding, and anticipation of a reward at the end of it. I also know there’s precious little reward, and hidings aplenty, whether the tasks are done or they aren’t. This commenced when her ladyship joined our household. What? Did you imagine that I would be so preoccupied with my lady bride that I wouldn’t notice? Never think it! I am aware of everything that goes on in this house.

  “I know that a plot was afoot below stairs to poison Nero with some of the arsenic the grooms use to get rid of the rats in the stables. Well, Peters has been sacked, hasn’t he? Oh, yes, I know he was at the bottom of it, and you shan’t find so much as a grain of arsenic on the estate now, either. Let the rats overrun the place! You lot are next! If you—any of you—ever lift one finger toward that animal, I will see you jailed. Do not think to put me to the test.

  “I know that you and Mrs. Bromley have acquired a taste for the French wines in my wine cellar—that when one is brought up for the table, two walk out of the cellar on a regular basis, and I know that you and Mrs. Bromley imbibe also on a regular basis closeted together, when your duties permit, of course. Is that sufficient, or shall I go on? The list is quite lengthy. We could be here half the morning.”

  “Yes, my lord . . . I mean, no, my lord.”

  “Mmmm,” Nicholas grunted. “These matters are on your head, Smythe, no one else’s. As butler here, it is your duty to me, and to this house, to see not only that everything runs smoothly, but that honesty and decency abound in it. Overlook the birds. Let the girl take them, and I do not mind that you’re nicking a little wine now and again, so long as you don’t get foxed on your watch, but the business between the footmen and the hall boys must stop, and you are the one to stop it. If you do not, I shall hire a butler who will, and if it does not stop forthwith, the footmen will find themselves booted out bag and baggage without recommendations. Am I plain?”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  “Now then, the very next time something untoward, like what you just told me about the food occurs, and you do not come to me with it straightaway, you will collect your wages. That, you may repeat. You may shout it from the rafters, because you all have good cause to fear, but not to fear Nero. He did not kill Nell. I know because he was with me when she was killed. There is another . . . animal loose in the house.”

  The butler gasped. “Two dogs, my lord?” he said, giving a start.

  Nicholas nodded. “Do not ask me how it got in, or where it came from. That is not the issue. There are too many ins and outs to this old mausoleum to be counted. One of you may even have inadvertently let it in thinking it was Nero. They look very similar—similar enough to have come from the same litter. I was shocked myself, when I saw them together.”

  “My lord, I never dreamed . . . !”

  “Tell me something, Smythe . . . has Nero ever threatened you?”

  “Why, no, my lord . . . that is to say, other than popping up at odd moments and giving us all a fright, he’s always been a congenial sort. That is, until Mr. Mallory shot him. Since then, he’s been downright vicious at times.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Mallory since that occurred, Smythe?”

  “Why, no, my lord,” the butler breathed. “That was a while ago. When we couldn’t find him after, we assumed he’d finally . . . come to his senses, and that you’d sent him abroad on an errand again. He’s gone off more than he’s in residence.”

  “Mmmm,” Nicholas mused. They hadn’t been searching very hard, the lazy lot! Maybe that was just as well. “Mr. Mallory has been sacked,” he said, “but some of his belongings are still here. In case he returns for them, I’ll want to know of it at once. We didn’t exactly part on good terms. I didn’t take kindly to him drinking himself into his altitudes, attempting to molest my bride, and shooting my dog.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Now then, is there anything else, Smythe?”

  “Just that we need a new maid for her ladyship, my lord,” said the butler. “Mrs. Bromley is worn to a raveling, trying to keep up with her regular duties and assist the mistress as well, though her ladyship has been most gracious in excusing her. It just isn’t right that
she be left to fend for herself so much of the time . . . especially now.”

  Nicholas frowned. “I agree, Smythe, and you can tell Mrs. Bromley that a new abigail will be had just as soon as the animal that killed Nell has been caught and dealt with. I shan’t bring another servant into this house until it is safe to do so. That might just be the incentive to enlist the staff’s help in the search. Alert everyone below stairs that there is another animal roaming Ravencliff, that it is dangerous and that they are not to approach it, but to come to me at once if they sight it. I do not want any of you to do anything that will put you in harm’s way, but if you see that animal, I want to know of it at once. Is that clear?”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  “You may arm yourselves—with the exception of the hall boys, and scullions, of course—but take care not to shoot Nero. He will never menace you. The poor animal has already been shot once. Go off half cocked, and you will answer to me.”

  “Very good, my lord,” said the butler. “But, what shall I do about the food?”

  Nicholas rolled his eyes, and heaved a ragged sigh. “As long as you feed the animal, it will be content to stay hidden. Stop feeding it! Lock up the larder, and the game room! Leave no leftovers in the kitchen! For God’s sake, man, use your head! I’m trying to starve it to flush it out, and you’re filling its belly. We are at cross-purposes here. You’re no slap-skull, Smythe. Use the brains God gave you.”

  “Y-yes, my lord,” the butler murmured.

  “Very well, then, if there’s nothing else, you are dismissed, but you’d best be prepared. The foul weather is finally at an end. Tomorrow should be a fair day, and we can expect the guards swarming over the place to complete their search. After this fine news, I shall have them begin with the servants’ quarters. I needn’t tell you to see that everything is as it should be below stairs.”

  “N-no, my lord. I mean, yes, my lord,” the butler stammered.