One of the Damned she did not know stepped forward and announced, “Not guilty.”
A burst of applause ran around the room, and Jane bowed like an actor upon the stage, remembering with a pang of nostalgia the family theatricals of her childhood.
“Very well.” Charlotte stood and turned to Luke, running a carelessly seductive hand down his sleeve. “Well, now that is over, sir, we must talk. We must decide on the disposition of les Sales, whose houses they should go to, and—”
“Another day, ma’am,” Luke said to Charlotte, brushing her hand away. To Jane he murmured, “Do you think you could try to look less murderous? You know there is no woman for me but you.”
She forced a smile, curtsied to Charlotte, and approached Margaret. “I wish to thank you. Your testimony was entirely unexpected.”
“I wronged you once. Now that the score is even we may go back to being enemies.” Margaret gave her a friendly smile—at least, Jane thought it was friendly. “How amusing to see Raphael and Luke snarling over you.”
“Is it?” Jane said.
But their conversation was interrupted by others who came to shake or kiss Jane’s hand and welcome her back to the company of the Damned. Someone thrust a glass of wine into her hand. A little apart from the others, Luke and Raphael, wary and en sanglant, watched each other like a pair of animals about to fight.
But that’s what they were—certainly not human, and even two gentlemen vying for the hand of the same lady might well behave in similar fashion, although their teeth would remain firmly under control. What, she wondered, was the correct etiquette for such a situation?
Tom touched her arm. “I’d kiss you, Jane, but I think Luke would tear out my throat, even if it was truly a gesture of relief or brotherly affection. I regret my testimony did so little to help.”
“Thank you for trying.” Jane grasped his hand and shook it. “Do you know—did Luke ask Margaret to speak on my behalf?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“What will Luke and Raphael do? Will they have a duel?”
“Pray try not to sound so avid, my dear.” Tom smiled. “A little bloodletting, perhaps—why, you may see for yourself.”
For Luke and Raphael now circled, coats tossed aside and fists aloft, as Jane had seen her brothers fight. But it was clear their fangs would be used also, for Raphael aimed a blow at Luke’s face and backed away, his knuckles slashed and blood dripping on the floor. Jane found herself en sanglant, as were several of the Damned near her, and they gathered in a crowd around the two fighting men.
Luke snarled and attacked, his fist connecting with Raphael’s ribs.
They appeared to be in deadly earnest, but the watching Damned cheered and laughed and placed bets. Many of the women were en sanglant, eyes bright and greedy.
“My dear, you must stop the fight,” Charlotte murmured in Jane’s ear. “You must let the favored gentleman know your preferences.”
“How?”
A cheer arose as Raphael slashed Luke’s collarbone with his fangs, dangerously close to the neck.
Jane removed her coat and laid it on a chair. Squaring her shoulders, she strode forward and forced the two men apart, at some risk to herself from exposed fangs and flying fists. She rather wished she had a bucket of water to throw over them as one might break up a fight between two dogs. For a brief moment the three of them struggled, both men cursing at the interruption. Raphael’s fist shot over her shoulder and landed on Luke’s nose.
A footman, holding a tray of wineglasses, paused nearby to watch the fight, his eyes widening at the spilled blood. Jane twisted away, grabbed the tray, and tipped the contents over Raphael and Luke.
“You fool! Do you think I’ll still want you with a nose that’s squashed flat?” It was her turn to snarl now as she pushed Luke against the wall.
“What are you—” Luke fell silent as she pressed her hips and thighs against him to hold him still and placed her forefingers against his broken nose. She winced as she heard the crunch of damaged cartilage returning to its rightful place. So did he. “Ouch! Who taught you to do that?”
She regarded her handiwork, his nose bloody and swollen but restored to its natural shape. “I saw it done once in Bath.”
He shook wine from his hair. “Very effective if inelegant.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Kiss me.”
“Kiss you while you were fighting? I would have been lucky to keep my own nose intact.”
“No. Kiss me now.”
“I’ll taste Raphael’s blood on your mouth.”
He snarled and then laughed. “So, a little perversity will not harm you, my dear.”
She did not put her lips to his immediately. She spent some time cleaning and breathing on his wounds to close and heal them, paying particular attention to the gash at his collarbone for the opportunity it gave her to breathe carelessly on his neck. She apologized extravagantly and at length; he growled with lust.
She blew on his nose to aid in healing, which made him laugh, but his grip at her waist told her he was becoming impatient. The nudge of her lips against his became her capitulation, a heady, prolonged kiss where she tasted both Raphael’s and Luke’s blood, a deliciously wicked mingling of flavors.
“I think,” he said finally, “we should declare formally that we are Consorts.”
“I did not think we were not Consorts.”
“Ah. A formal declaration is old-fashioned, and during the invasion many of our customs were abandoned. A mutual agreement then was enough, and besides, we were middling sort of Damned. But now, as William’s successor, I must consider my honor and yours, too.”
“Very well. You know this time I shall not leave.”
“Indeed.” He looked away, and a shadow passed between them.
“You don’t believe me?”
He shrugged and laughed. “It is nothing. See, we have kissed so long everyone has become bored at the spectacle and gone in to dine. Shall we join them?”
She would rather they dined alone, but she knew his position as leader demanded he play host. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they proceeded out of the Great Hall and upstairs to the Gallery, where the footmen not only served delicacies but provided themselves as such; and a group of visitors from London eagerly awaited the attentions of the Damned.
Luke greeted these new mortal guests with great affability, pleased that the Prince of Wales’s rejection of the Damned had not been adopted by all society, and gossiped with them of the activities of the ton. The Gallery was lit by only a few candles, and in the pools of darkness, on satin and velvet sofas, the Damned dined. Soon enough, Luke took Jane’s hand and drew her into the darkness and the pleasures that awaited them there.
She had forgotten the casual squalor of a morning among the Damned, the discarded garments and spilled wine, the mortals made crapulous and wobbly from too much wine and the loss of blood. Luke was gone, which did not worry her particularly as she knew he slept little.
She peered out of the nearest window. Morning? It was closer to afternoon, from the quality of the light. A gentleman, half dressed and yawning, dried blood on his neck and shirt, held a glass of wine out with a shaking hand.
“Ma’am, if you could be so kind?”
She bit into her wrist and let a drop of blood fall into his glass. Someone else must have revived the footmen, for they moved quietly among the sleeping Damned and their guests, clearing up glasses and plates and cleaning. Jane smiled as a footman lifted the dangling leg of a woman, propping her foot against his hip so he could sweep beneath a sofa.
Yawning, she left the Gallery and sought out the bedchamber where she had been imprisoned the day before. A maidservant looked up from laying a fire and scrambled to her feet. She was from a local family, one of those who were attached to Edward’s estate. She struggled to remember the girl’s name. Rebecca, that was it, shortened to Becky.
“Beg your pardon sir—
Miss Austen, that is. Why, I didn’t . . .” Her voice faded away.
“Can you find me a gown to wear, Becky?”
“Of course, miss. I believe Mrs. Kettering’s maid may help.” She stared at Jane. “I’d never have thought . . . I’ll fetch her.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and ran out of the room. This was something Jane had not anticipated, that every day would bring a reminder of the life she had left, that the staff, particularly the lower staff of the house, would include people whose families she knew and who would know her. She suspected that as her metamorphosis developed she would lose the yearning for her family; meanwhile, every day in this house would remind her of what she could no longer have.
Becky returned shortly, carrying a collection of gowns, undergarments, and shoes chosen by Maria, Mrs. Kettering’s maid. Jane watched as Maria scolded Becky, pushing her aside to lay gowns flat on the bed and smooth out creases, exclaiming at her clumsiness.
“These are all too grand,” Jane said. “I should like a simple day dress and a cap.”
“A cap! I don’t even know if we have such a thing, ma’am. Becky, fetch Miss Jane some hot water, if you will.” She sorted through the gowns, laying some in the linen press. “Those you shall have for evening until Mr. Venning buys you some new.” She gave them a covetous glance, anticipating likely ownership of the gowns after Jane had ordered new ones.
Jane sighed. How Martha and Cassandra would have enjoyed this! She wished she could take more pleasure in the process, but decided a cotton gown, far smarter than anything she had owned, and a matching spencer were suitable.
“What do you want with the spencer, miss?” Maria asked.
“I want to take a walk.”
Maria shrugged as though Jane had admitted to some inexplicable eccentricity but grudgingly allowed her a scarf to tie around her head in an improvised turban.
The borrowed stays were not a good fit, designed for another woman, and the shoes slightly too large, but after washing and dressing, Jane prepared to go outside. Edward had great plans for the gardens, she knew, and she wanted to see how work progressed. But here she was again, thinking of the Austen family of which she was no longer a part, filled with regret. This would not do.
She lingered among the rosebushes that were showing plenty of buds and bent to see if they yet held a scent.
“Jane?”
She whirled around. Raphael stood there, wearing a greatcoat and hat.
“I have come to bid you farewell,” he said.
“You are leaving? For long?”
He patted his waistcoat pocket. “I am leaving this household. Luke has written me letters of introduction. I had long intended to meet with men of science in England, and now William is dead I have little to hold me here.”
“I’m sorry. I shall miss you.”
“I shall miss you, Jane, but I cannot stay. This house holds too many memories.”
“It does for me, too.”
“Ask Luke to take you elsewhere. They—or rather, we, the Damned—rarely stay long in one place.”
“Yes, I think that would be best.” She hesitated. “Thank you for speaking for me yesterday, and I am sorry if I offended you, Raphael.”
“You didn’t. We cannot choose whom we love. You and he were Consorts, once, after all. I lost the fight, and that’s an end to it.” He smiled and held out a gloved hand. “Shall we shake hands and depart friends?”
“With all my heart.” She took his hand. “Raphael, I do not wish to pry, but will you take your cure?”
He shook his head. “I have work to do yet. I wish you well, Jane.”
He turned her hand in his and kissed her palm. The brief touch of his lips told her more than he could say aloud of his sorrow, disappointment, and anger, and of the bitter relief of leaving her. She gasped and would have spoken, but already he strode away from her.
She had not treated him well. But if she had given rein to her desire and flung them both into a metamorphosis, would they not have savagely resented each other for it? She shook her head. As one of the Damned she must learn not to linger over what might have been.
She walked on, enjoying the pulsing life of the world around her, the energy of plants and of tiny creeping things. This is what she had now, this perception and capacity for amazement. She would like to write about . . .
She stopped. She would like to write about this? But what was she thinking? She was one of the Damned. She could not write anymore.
She bent to pluck a rosebud, running it through her fingers, and laughed as it pricked her. Her blood welled crimson and powerful. She breathed on the tiny wound to close it, and the rose unfolded its petals, miraculous, displaying its fragile golden heart with a gust of sweet scent, a taste of the summer to come. Of many summers to come, too many to count. Jane would live to see this rosebush withered to dust and the Great House a deserted ruin.
But she could not dwell on such things, for now she must accept the pleasure of the moment.
She tucked the rose into the pin that held her fichu closed and smiled as she recalled Maria’s amazement that one of the Damned would want such a thing; did not the ladies of the Damned flaunt the display of bosom and throat? But Jane had insisted, claiming she did not want to freckle, although she doubted she could.
After a while she strolled back into the house, wondering where Luke was, or any of them, for she had seen only servants busy about their work this morning. The small book-lined room at the rear of the house that had been William’s particular haunt was empty now. She had hoped to find Luke there.
Possibly she needed to dine again, even though it was some hours from darkness. She trudged up the stairs, but outside the bedchamber was alerted by a soft whimper. This was really too bad, that she was destined always to be on the other side of this particular doorway while others took their pleasure.
She pushed the door open and stopped in horror at what she saw.
“Will you not join us, my love?” Luke smiled at her from the bed, where he held a half-naked woman in his arms, Becky, the maidservant from earlier that day.
Luke could see Jane was en sanglant, and, to her mortification, was probably amused at her embarrassment and jealousy. “She’s quite sweet and tender. A lovely scent, too, like lilies.”
“Get her out!” Jane shrieked. She bounded to the bed and dragged Becky away from Luke.
Becky, a goose-feather duster still in her hand, fell onto the floor with a soft thud, a silly lopsided grin on her face. “Sorry, miss.”
Jane turned to Luke. “I thought you loved me!”
“So I do, which is why I allowed you to deplete me last night. Forgive me if I seek merely to replenish the stock, so to speak.”
“And is your state of undress absolutely necessary?”
He propped himself up on one elbow and scratched his chest. “What is the matter, Jane?”
Jane glanced at the girl at her feet. “I trust you do not expect me to revive her.”
“Of course not.” Luke sighed and got out of bed. In response to Jane’s scowl, he donned shirt and breeches and poured a glass of wine.
Becky, propped up against the side of the bed, watched Luke drip his blood into the wine and licked her lips.
“Pray fasten your gown!” Jane said. “I have no wish to view your bosom.”
“He said it was a very fine one,” the girl replied. But she made an effort to make herself decent once more and, having drunk the wine, straightened her skirts and rose. “Do you want me to finish dusting, sir?”
“Absolutely not!” Jane said.
“He said he’d give me a sixpence, miss.”
Luke reached into his breeches pocket and removed a handful of change. He handed her a coin, and with a toss of her head, apron tied once more and the feather duster tucked into its waistband, Becky strutted out of the room.
“You gave her half a crown!” Jane said, outraged.
“I didn’t have a sixpence. I was not about to
engage in vulgar bickering over coinage.” He sat on the bed to pull on his stockings. “I assure you I did not mean to injure you, and I am somewhat surprised you should be so distressed. I am aware your metamorphosis is imperfect at present, but we are the Damned, Jane. This is what we do.”
“Pray do not preach at me!” She had been en sanglant the whole time since seeing Luke and Becky coupled, and she raised her hand to her mouth to retract her aching teeth.
“You’ll become accustomed to it, Jane.”
She nodded, aware that he was probably right.
“And probably the best thing you could do is summon one of our footmen and rid yourself of these fancies.”
“Fancies? You do me wrong, to take my feelings so lightly.”
He looked up from pulling on a boot. “Your feelings? But they are remnants of your mortal life. What you have just witnessed is not inconstancy or infidelity.”
“But it feels like it.” She became en sanglant again, embarrassingly so.
“You will feel differently in a few days when your metamorphosis is complete.” He reached for his other boot. “You must dine often and lightly.”
She sat beside him on the bed, not from any amorous intention but because she was weak and defeated. “What shall I do, Luke?”
“What do you mean, my love?”
“To occupy myself.”
“Ah. Well, we have the best of society—that is, country society—some excellent dining, and there will be cards and dancing, too.”
“And conversation?”
“Conversation? I suppose so, if you wish.” He leaned to kiss her lips and neck. “I regret we have no war at present if you wish for more excitement.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Not enough?” He reached for his coat. “Would you like to take a ride? We’ll have the horses prepared so they’ll tolerate us. I don’t know if we have a habit in the house, but you could dress in your men’s clothes if you like.”
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 23
