Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “Might not?” repeated Sinclair-Howard with disdain. “It would not have taken place at all if I had not fulfilled your request.”

  “The Czars request,” Ragoczy corrected with every sign of cordial-ity.

  “All right: the Czar’s request. But you are the messenger for him, and you are the man who must answer to him.” He could not keep the snide tone from his voice. “And you are leaving England.”

  “But I will be coming back, I would reckon before the middle of June,” Ragoczy said, so mildly that Sinclair-Howard shot him a keen glance, trying to detect any mockery that might be concealed in his bland words. “You will want to know that.”

  “Are you keeping the house you let?” he inquired, trying to hide the disgust he felt.

  “Certainly, since I will be returning.” He turned to Sinclair-Howard as they reached the front of the theatre. “My solicitor will inform you of my plans.”

  Sinclair-Howard all but audibly ground his teeth. “Thank you, Count. I shall look forward to his information.” Before he had to force himself to other egregious small talk, he bowed and turned on his heel.

  Harris was waiting by the Silver Ghost, his chauffeurs cap at a rakish angle. He opened the door for Ragoczy, saying as he did, “I know a place or two you might like to visit before I take you home.”

  Ragoczy did not answer as he got into the motor car; he was still troubled by the way Edward had looked and sounded. Only when Harris had repeated his offer did he rouse himself, saying, “Thank you, Harris. Not tonight.”

  “Then home it is,” Harris said with a shrug of disappointment. Without further remark, he drove off into the fog.

  They were almost to Mount Street before Ragoczy asked, “What did you think of the play?”

  It took Harris a moment to answer. “It wasn’t jolly, not the way I’d

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  thought it might be. But it was very . . . grand.” That, he decided, was the right word.

  Ragoczy finally smiled. “That it was.” He stared out the window at the fog, once again distracted by anxiety; it would probably be wise to seek a meeting with Edward’s heir George, to find out his views on arms production and limitation. It was likely that some of the negotiations would fall to George if Edward’s condition did not improve. Ragoczy frowned. In another time he might have offered Edward one or more of the medicaments he had learned to produce so long ago, in Thebes, and later in Rome, in China, and in Baghdad. But the King of England was not a man to use such things. These reflections were interrupted by Harris, who had drawn up next to the house.

  “Would you prefer to get out here, before I put her in the garage, Count?” he inquired, reluctant to cut into Ragoczy s thoughts.

  “Yes, thank you, Harris,” said Ragoczy, doing his best to give his attention to his immediate surroundings; he realized that for most of the drive back to his house, he had not bothered to watch for the two men following him. He shook himself mentally as he closed the door of the Rolls-Royce, then peered into the fog, telling himself that anyone attempting to keep watch on him would be as hampered by the fog as he was. It did not wholly relieve him, but he was able to enter his house with a modicum of ease.

  Two afternoons later, Ragoczy asked to be driven to Rowena Pearce-Manning’s studio. He summoned Harris to the informal dining room off the kitchen, as was his habit when giving orders to his small staff. “It is off of Great Russell Street, or so her invitation informs me.” He was dressed for a social call, in a black suit and waistcoat, with a flawless white silk shirt and a deep-red tie. He had spared himself the affectation of a cane, though they were much in fashion. The two he owned concealed weapons, one a sword, and one a small, single-shot pistol; neither struck him as appropriate for his first visit to Rowena s studio.

  “The British Museum again,” Harris sighed. “Well, the Museum Pub isn’t that far from it.”

  “I will probably be an hour or so,” Ragoczy said, doing his best to ignore the pointed look Roger offered him from across the lounge.

  “Time for a bit of fodder, then,” said Harris, his clever eyes brightening. “I’d appreciate it, sir.”

  “Oh, ample time,” Ragoczy said, and heard Roger stifle a crack of laughter.

  Harris realized that he was somehow out of his depth. He touched

  the brim of his cap and said, ‘Til just bring the Ghost around for you, Count.”

  “Thank you, Harris,” said Ragoczy, and looked directly at Roger as Harris departed. “Am I under a misapprehension: I believe you encouraged me to take the time to do this.”

  Roger maintained his composure. “I did. And I continue to do so.” “To lessen my isolation?” Ragoczy said.

  “We have discussed these things before,” said Roger without apology: he spoke in the Latin of first-century Rome. “You are willing to undertake this burden the Czar has imposed on you, but you will not find solace for yourself.”

  Ragoczy answered in the same tongue. “The Czars mission does have something to do with my... hesitation,” he admitted. “The stakes are very high, and that means a risk beyond what those of my blood require. How could I justify bringing that young woman to harm?” He held up his small, beautiful hand. “You need not remind me of the number of times I have done so before. I am acutely aware of them.”

  “She is not Demetrice, or Heugenet, or Xenya, or Ten Chi-Yu, or Nicoris, or Oaxetli.” Roger gave his full attention to the silver he was polishing. “Or Madelaine.”

  “No, nor any of the rest. She is Rowena. I am aware of that.” He touched the glossy tabletop as if trying to determine what substance it was. His voice was remote. “Don’t you think that I have endangered quite enough women in my life, no matter how many centuries I have lived? To drag Rowena into the intrigue around me as well as expose her to the hazard of my true nature—” He stopped and gave a sardonic smile. “But I am going to visit her, am I not?” He saw Roger nod his answer; he returned to English. “And Harris is probably waiting at the kerb to take me to her.”

  Roger continued to polish the silver as Ragoczy left the house. Harris was complaining about the traffic as they neared the British Museum. He shrugged once. “That red-haired ferret whose been keeping you in his sights is four cars back now.”

  “Have you seen the other one?” Ragoczy asked; he had not been aware of the second watcher for the last two days, and was beginning to wonder if he had been replaced by a more capable observer.

  “Not today, or yesterday, come to think of it,” Harris said. “Maybe they’ve given up watching you, at least he has.”

  “Or he has suffered an illness or an injury,” Ragoczy suggested, unconvinced himself. “Or has given up his observation.”

  “There you are, then.” Harris made another of his quick, furtive at-

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  tempts to catch Ragoczy’s reflection in the rearview mirror, and was again frustrated. If only the Count were a little taller, Harris decided, he would be visible.

  Ragoczy glanced back and suddenly announced, “I will meet you at the Museum Pub in an hour or so.” Then he opened the door and stepped out into the inching traffic.

  “Count!” Harris cried in consternation. “Count ...” He could not follow his employer’s progress through the automobiles to the sidewalk. As he resigned himself to waiting at the pub, he decided that Ragoczy was more capable than he seemed at first, with his elegant clothing and courtly manner. If the hour grew late, he would go searching Great Russell Street: it was not so long as to make that impractical.

  The building where Rowena had her studio was set at the rear of a tiny court; a Regency jewel which had changed from a private house to a more modem facility with a secretarial agency and an importer’s offices on the ground floor, and two flats above. Rowena had the upper flat, with a number of tall windows that would provide the entire flat as much light as could be had in this part of London; that much was apparent from the exterior of the
building. The vestibule was not large, reduced in size from its original design when the building was converted to its present uses, but the detailings over the doors and staircase indicated this had been a home of some luxury. As Ragoczy climbed the stairs to Rowena s flat, he decided that she was truly interested in art, for if she had been merely entertaining herself, she would have chosen another land of flat in a different part of London.

  Rowena answered the door promptly, flushing slightly at the sight of her visitor. “Count. Thank goodness it is you.”

  “I said I would be here.” His quizzical expression took the anxiousness from her face. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “No,” she said darkly. “But it isn’t uncommon for Ru—” She stopped, her annoyance vanishing as she looked at him. She was wearing a sensible, attractive ensemble in topaz-colored wool reminiscent of the cycling costume that had so offended her mother at Longacres. Her strawberry-blonde hair was negligently combed, and she wore no jewelry but a single ring in gold with her initial incised on it. There was a charcoal smudge on her chin that she had not completely succeeded in cleaning off. “How good of you to come.”

  “And how good of you to invite me,” he replied as he crossed the threshold. “I’m flattered that you offered to show me your work.” Again color mounted in her face. “Well, you asked intelligent questions about it. How could I refuse?”

  “You might have done," he said, a slight, enigmatic smile in his dark eyes.

  She drew back, her mouth tightening. In the small entry her disapproval was emphasized by the confines. “Not 1.1 do not want to be one of those women who is forever implying and never doing, who puts all her attention to ensnaring a man so that her hopes can be forever thwarted. That is what so many women are taught will advance them in the world. Such . . . feminine wiles! disgust me. It is so demeaning, to see otherwise sensible females simper and wheedle—" She made a sudden gesture to show she had not meant to have such an outburst. “Pardon me, Count. No doubt you are wishing me at Speakers’ Corner. I never meant to harangue—I can’t stop myself, if I am caught unprepared.”

  Ragoczy studied her face intently but briefly, seeing her determination to be direct and forthcoming. “You do not like the routines of society, do you?”

  “Not since I was a child, and was not allowed to have a rowboat like my brother’s. I tried everything I knew to convince them I could manage one as well as he, but nothing persuaded them; to do such a thing was unfeminine,” she said in a burst of emotion that again caught her unaware. “I’ve done it a second time. I’m sorry if that bothers you.” She had stepped back into the main room of her flat, and now she stood aside so that Ragoczy could see where she worked. “This used to be the ballroom. It takes up two-thirds of the flat. That was one of the reasons I leased it. I have an annual renewal option with a contract for ten years.” Her laughter was self-conscious. “My grand-father has provided me a trust fund.”

  “Your mother’s father, I surmise,” Ragoczy said, looking around the large, light chamber with two easels set up, and a small dais on which a number of fir branches had been arranged.

  “Certainly. My father’s family is constantly on the brink of penury. Grand-father Saxon, on the brighter side, is a multimillionaire.” She looked away as if this admission of wealth embarrassed her.

  “He is American, I have been told,” Ragoczy said as he noticed the wide shelves standing at the back of the room; there were a good number of large sheets of paper lying in them, many with protective tracing paper on top of them.

  “Yes. In San Francisco.” She made a quick, impulsive gesture. “I must apologize. I’m nervous. I am not used to showing my work to others.”

  “You have nothing to fear,” said Ragoczy, remembering the many times he had called upon artists at their studios over the centuries, and

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  how often the artists had been apprehensive. “I respect the work you do, whether or not it is to my taste.”

  Once again she looked him directly in the face in her candid way. “Thank you,” she said simply.

  There was silence between them lasting nearly a minute as the pale northern sun streamed in on them, and then Ragoczy broke the spell by remarking, “What would you like to show me first?”

  She went to the window and looked down on the street. “Damn him,” she said under her breath.

  Ragoczy was startled to hear her swear. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, turning away from the window. “Not you, Count. My current beau, as my grand-father would call him. He watches this place, to be certain I am not taken advantage of.” She clicked her tongue impatiently. “I wish he would not.”

  “Have you told him so?” Ragoczy inquired, regarding her with growing interest, and reminding himself that this unknown suitor could make things awkward between them.

  “Yes, several times. He tells me I don’t know the world as he does— which is unquestionably the truth—and that I need strong protection only a man can give me.” She flung her hands in the air. “He thinks I do not know my own mind.”

  “More fool he,” Ragoczy remarked, his dark eyes softening as they lingered on her face. “About your work?” he suggested.

  Her nervousness returned. “I don’t know if you’ll find the subject appropriate—many people don’t—but I’ve done a number of. . . illustrative drawings, taken from Dracula.” She saw the slight lift to his fine brows and hurried on, “It... it is sensationalistic, certainly, but it has a quality about it... a power. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the book—”

  “By Bram Stoker. Yes. I read it, years ago, in self-protection.” His irony was lost on her, as he intended it would be.

  “I can imagine. Everyone was talking about it, I remember, though I was not yet twelve,” she said. “My mother said it was not a proper story for a schoolgirl to read.”

  “But you read it anyway, and found it inspiring.” He offered her a slight bow. “But it is an odd subject for illustrations, I would have thought.”

  “So I have been told,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her. “But the images in the story are so . . . compelling. I—” she laughed selfconsciously “—I could not get them out of my mind once I read the book. I wanted to explore the pictures I had formed in my mind. I

  wanted to be authentic.” Again she faltered. “I have not been to the Carpathians.”

  “Neither had Stoker,” Ragoczy pointed out.

  She went on as if she had not heard him. “I have read the travel guides, of course, and seen some photographs, but I don’t know that I have achieved anything of the look of the place.”

  At this Ragoczy smiled openly. “And you were hoping that I, being Carpathian, might give you the benefit of my knowledge.” He realized as soon as he spoke that he was correct and that she was reluctant to admit it. “Dear Miss Pearce-Manning, if I were an artist, it is precisely what I would do, in your situation. Even if you were to go to Hungary and see the place, it would not necessarily represent what is in the book.”

  She turned to him, trying to recover herself. “You’re right. I was hoping you would tell me how I might make the drawings more accurate, so that when I paint the scenes, they will be a good representation of what is in the story.”

  “I will be honored to.” He took a step closer to her. “I remind you that Stoker did what you are doing—as he had not been to the Carpathians himself, he spoke to a man who knew the region, and I suspect, chose those elements that best suited his purpose; anything that did not, I assume he ignored.” The accuracy of the representations in the novel, he thought, were not exact to the locations, but the flavor of the images matched the tone of the novel.

  “Then I will not be too proud to do the same,” she said, and in a sudden burst of courage, went to the wide shelves and drew out one of the covered drawings. Without pause, she carried it to the nearer of the two easels and set up the sheet, as if allowin
g herself an instant for reflection would result in a complete failure of nerve. She flung back the tracing-paper cover and moved aside so that Ragoczy could see the drawing. “That is where Jonathan Harker arrives at the Borgo Pass.”

  The drawing was done with charcoal with a few accents in colored chalk: there was the traveler with his bag standing beside a coach of Austrian design, the road behind him falling away into nothing. Beyond the screen of trees in front of him there was an impression of an approaching vehicle drawn by three or four horses. Ragoczy studied it, surprised by the intensity of the work. “Very evocative,” he said after he had scrutinized it. “I like the sense of foreboding.”

  “Like Stoker?” she asked nervously.

  “Much more like Stoker than the actual place, in fact,” he admitted, and turned to her. “Do not be dismayed. You have caught the feeling

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  in the novel, which is your intention.” He glanced back at the drawing. “The road to the Borgo Pass is very like that—steep slopes and shaggy pines," with high crags above. The pass itself is a series of wide, high meadows, where peasants farm and herd, very open, not at all appropriate to the story, or the . . . atmosphere of the story.”

  Her voice rose a few notes. “Should I change it? Would it make it better if I did?”

  “Not on my account,” he said gently, and decided to reiterate his understanding once again. “The novel is inaccurate, and you wish to be true to the novel.” He stepped back. “May I see more?”

  She took the drawing from the easel and went for another. To keep from becoming too upset, she asked, “How is it you know so much about Mister Stoker?”

  “Oh, I had the pleasure of meeting him once, when I was last in England.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “I was somewhat acquainted with his employer, and met him through Henry Irving.” He enjoyed her excitement at this revelation.