P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque

by Death Masque(Lit)

  "You are such a sweet fellow. I see no real distinction between the two, myself, but can respect that you do." She pushed from the door, going to the settee, sitting wearily. "Such a ghastly day it's been. This is the first time I've had a bit of quiet for myself and enjoyable conversation with another. I hope I wasn't too alarming when I lured you back here."

  "A bit mysterious, nothing more."

  "I had to be, what with Edmond in plain sight, but you were about to leave, and I wanted a word with you on this before you got away."

  "It couldn't wait until a better time?"

  "When might that be with this houseful? I had to act while the chance existed, while you were alone and no one else about to see and tell tales. Please say that you will be careful around him."

  "Very careful. He's not likely to give challenge, is he?"

  "No. Not that he's a coward to dueling, but the scandal involved would be abhorrent to him. He's very proper, y'know."

  That sparked a question in me. "Clarinda, if you would not mind my asking you something personal..."

  "After what we've shared here? What have I to hide? Ask away."

  "I was only wondering why you did... why you... that is, does Edmond not fulfill his duty toward you?"

  She stared blankly a moment, then softly laughed. "Goodness, that is personal-but easily answered. The fact is that Edmond cares for me in his own fashion and I care for him in mine, but we are two extremely different people with different tastes and appetites. To be perfectly honest, the main reason we married was that he wanted a stronger connection within the family by fostering Aunt Fonteyn's pet nephew, and I very much wanted security and a father for my boy. Boys," she corrected, flashing me a rueful look.

  "We've had a child since, y'know."

  "Yes, Oliver mentioned something of it, congratulations. But I thought your children were taken care of by Grandfather's estate."

  'To a degree, but Edmond has friends throughout London that will help them when they're older. It's not enough to have money, one must have influence as well, but being in law yourself, you understand that."

  "Yes, I do have an idea on the importance of influence," I said, smiling at my unnatural talent in that area.

  "As for the interest I have in handsome young men, well, I just can't seem to help myself. Edmond knew about it before our marriage, and we talked about how we would conduct things afterward. He said he wouldn't mind as long as I was discreet, but that didn't last long. He tries not to be jealous, but sometimes he..."

  "He what? He doesn't mistreat you, I hope?"

  Her eyes suddenly dropped and she primly laced her fingers together. "No more than many other husbands with their wives."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Now, Jonathan, I must insist you stop there, as what goes on between us is really not your business. He can be churlish, but I know how to handle him." She still wasn't looking at me.

  After her warnings, I could only assume them to have been inspired by her direct experience with his temper. The idea of him harming her in any way was sickening. Perhaps I could arrange an interview with Edmond on the subject. A private little talk to spare Clarinda from future harm... Yes, that was very appealing to me. On the other hand, if an alternative presented itself, it should also be explored. My influence, unless regularly reinforced, had its limitations.

  "Can you not leave him? I mean, that is, if you don't love him-"

  She sighed and shook her head. "God have mercy, but you are so young and dear. You have no idea how complicated life can be for a woman."

  "I'm not entirely ignorant. If you need a place to go, Oliver will gladly put you up here and protect you."

  She was shaking her head again. "No, no, no, it's impossible or I'd have done that ages ago with Aunt Fonteyn. I have to live the life I've got, but that's all right, I'm happy enough. Besides, it's not as bad as you seem to be imagining. He's very decent most of the time, but the funeral has upset him greatly. I was thinking that with you here he might be tempted to do something rash."

  I again reassured her of my intent to avoid all trouble with Edmond.

  "Then I shall be relieved on your account. I should feel awful if anything happened to you because of him."

  "You flatter me with your concern."

  "Hatter? It's more than flattery on my part. My dear, you have no idea of the depth of pleasure you've given me."

  "It was so brief, though."

  "But treasured, as you've said. Of course, we can always make another happy memory for ourselves... if you like."

  Oh, but did she not have a bewitching smile? I couldn't help but feel that delightful stirring through all my body as 1 looked at her. She'd not altered much, a little fuller of figure, but that just made more of her to explore. I wondered if her thighs were as white and silken as I remembered----

  Don't be a fool, Johnny Boy.

  It wasn't just that she was married, though that was a major detraction; it was my change that made me hesitate over her invitation.

  I could surge upon her here and now like a tide and bring her to a point where she wouldn't notice my biting in and drinking from her until it was all over. But then she'd want an explanation, and I wasn't about to sit down and tell her my life's story concerning Nora. Enough people knew already. No more.

  Or I could make her forget about the blood-drinking part, but Clarinda deserved better treatment than that. It was different when I was with women like Jemma at The Red Swan; their favors were for sale and well paid for, but to treat Clarinda in the same cavalier manner smacked of theft in a way. Or rape. Certainly / was not comfortable with either idea.

  Perhaps if there was a possibility of having a lengthy liaison with her as I'd had with Molly, I might then...

  No, that wouldn't be right, either. Not with Edmond lurking around any given corner as we arranged trysts for ourselves. I liked Clarinda, but not that much.

  Then there was Elizabeth to consider.

  And Oliver.

  One look at Clarinda's throat and they'd know what was going on.

  No, it was simply too embarrassing. I couldn't possibly...

  Still, I could go in, leaving my mark on an area not readily visible to others. Her soft belly or the inside of one of those wondrous thighs suggested themselves readily to my hot imagination. The very thought made my mouth dry and my corner teeth begin to extend. I put a hasty hand to my upper lip, trying to push them back.

  But even with that caution taken I'd have the same problem as before, having to explain everything about myself to her.

  Then again, I could just pleasure Clarinda in the more acceptable fashion. I was yet capable of that, but how frustrating since it denied me any kind of a consummation. And if, in the throes of the event, I lost control and took from her anyway... I knew myself well enough. Once started it was hard for me to stop, for once the passions are aroused, it's all too easy to forget solemn promises made when the mind is cool and capable of sensible thought.

  No. Not this time, sweet Cousin.

  Damnation.

  "Is something wrong, Jonathan?"

  My debate was much like the other I'd held with myself in this room, running through my head in the blink of an eye. Only this time I would have to steel myself and hold to my decision. "I wish things-circumstances-could be other than what they are."

  "Such as my being married?"

  I nodded, grateful to have her taking that as the most obvious excuse for my refusal. "You are a most beautiful, desirable lady, and it is with the greatest reluctance that I must decline your gift."

  Another rueful smile. "Then I shall have to be satisfied with a memory?"

  "I fear you must, as I must. I do apologize."

  "Oh, nonsense. You've not lost your manners, anyway. Yours is the most polite refusal I've ever gotten. Besides, I can hardly force you to bed me-not that I wouldn't like to try-but I've no wish to impose upon your honor."

  I thanked her for her consideration,
then begged to take my leave. "It's a bit of a walk home for me-"

  "Walking? You're going to walk in this weather?"

  "The sleet's stopped and the wind is down. The cold air should be most reviving after the press of tonight's gathering."

  "You are perfectly mad," she said, with something between admiration and alarm.

  I waved a careless hand. "You are not the first who has made that observation, madam. Nor, I think, the last, but I enjoy a good walk and-"

  "No doubt," she interrupted, standing. "Well, my dear cousin, if you are sure of your decision-you are?-then I shall have to wish you Godspeed home. It is very late, after all...."

  With that broad a hint placed before me, it would have been rude not to take it. I bowed over her hand, wished her a very good evening, and let myself out.

  Apparently that was her room for the night, for she did not follow as I made my way back to the entry hall. I wondered if she'd arranged to have it for her use with a mind to sharing it with me. Now, there was an interesting thought. Instead of a hasty and surreptitious coupling, we could have had hours and hours to-

  None of that, Johnny Boy. You 've made your bed, and you will sleep in it-even if it is empty.

  Damnation.

  Again.

  Out the front doors and down along the long drive I went, moving briskly.

  The sleet had indeed stopped and the wind had lessened, but that which remained was still knife-sharp and unfor- giving. Though I possessed a degree of immunity to the cold, I was not going to unduly strain it. Halfway between Fonteyn House and Oliver's home lay The Red Swan, and there I planned to stop for a time and warm myself by taking full advantage of its hospitality. Clarinda had gotten me quite thoroughly stirred up, and I had a mind to settle those stirrings in the company of the lovely Jemma or one of her sisters in the trade.

  Dour Cousin Edmond was also in my mind. If he was treating Clarinda roughly, I wanted to do something about it. We'd likely be running into each other again soon, and it would be the work of a moment to take him to one side to deliver a firm speech on the subject of treating his wife gently from now on. I'd done similar work with Lieutenant Nash often enough to curb his greed; why not again with Edmond for his temper?

  Then the thought of Nash reminded me of home and of Father and all the others. I hoped that he was all right, as I'd so quickly assured Elizabeth. We had no letters from him yet, but it was getting on into winter, and the crossing was bound to be more difficult for the ships that followed ours. The war would cause additional delays... wretched business, that. As if there weren't enough troubles in the world, those fools and their congress were wanting to add to them. Nothing like a bit of war, famine, and death to provide entertainment for those who would not be directly involved with such horrors.

  Death...

  I'd have to write something tonight on it, or at least begin writing. It had been several days since the accident and past time that I sent off the bad news about Aunt Fonteyn, though it could hardly be called bad from Oliver's point of view now. (I'd not mention that in my missive.) I'd enclose a mourning ring for Mother in the packet and hope she wouldn't make life too hellish for Father. God, she might even find a way to blame him for the business. I wouldn't put it past her.

  Worry, worry, worry.

  So sounded my footsteps as I paced carefully down the drive, avoiding patches of ice. The ground was hard, prob- ably frozen. The tip of my cane made no impression in it. Just as well Aunt Fonteyn went into her niche in the mausoleum instead of a grave; it'd be much too much work for the sexton and his fellows to chop their way down through this stuff. It was probably one of the only times in her existence that she'd done anything for the convenience of another person.

  Wicked thought, Jonathan.

  I grinned. Not all that capering in the mausoleum had been for Oliver's benefit. I'd thoroughly enjoyed myself- once I'd gotten over the unease of being there in the first place. Nasty spot, all cold stone and so far from everything and probably just as cold in the summer. A pity it wasn't summer; then she wouldn't have had any ice to slip on. What had the old crow been doing out in the middle of the maze for, anyway?

  An assignation with some man? Not likely with her supremely bad temperament and acidic nature. She'd ever been very clear in her views on carnal exchanges, being so strongly opposed to the act that I wondered just how Oliver had ever come to be conceived.

  It was also unlikely that she'd been enjoying the innocent folly of the maze for its own sake. Again, her temperament forbade it.

  Also, the wind that night had been almost as keen and cutting as it was now. She would have needed some strong reason to give up the comfort of a fire to be out there.

  To meet someone for a private talk? But why go to the maze when there were any number of warm rooms in the Bolyns' house to accommodate a discreet conversation? And what had she to talk about? Whom would she talk with?

  My speculations were nothing new; many others both before and after the funeral had asked as much from one another, but without forming any satisfactory answer. The gossips in Fonteyn House could only conclude that It Was Very Mysterious.

  But it had all been investigated. No one at the Masque had particularly noticed her leaving the house for the garden that night. They'd been too involved with their own pleasures to pay attention to one disagreeable old woman. Those friends as she'd been with at the ball had likewise nothing to contribute; besides, if she'd been meeting anyone, they'd have come forward by now, wouldn't they? But if not, then why not?

  Heavens, I was getting as bad as the gossips.

  It was easy for them to speculate, easy to wonder and whisper, but so hard to-

  Now who the devil was that?

  Well ahead of me were the gates to the property, wide open with torches on either side to mark the entry. Their flames were nearly burned out by now. Had my eyes not been so well suited to the dark, I'd have missed seeing the figure entirely. A man it was, made anonymous by the masking shroud of his cape. He stood in the shadows-or what should have been shadows to anyone else-and his posture suggested that he was waiting for someone.

  A footpad? They usually operated within the warrens of the city, where the harvest was more abundant, not away here on the West End, where the grand houses stood on their own spacious grounds.

  Then it jumped into my head that he might be a medical student come to steal a body for study. Oliver had filled me with plenty of grisly tales on the difficulties of mastering anatomy. So desperate were some for specimens that if they couldn't get a corpse from Tyburn, then they resorted to theft for their needs. Good God, but that would be the worst, for Aunt Fonteyn to end up as a subject on a dissection table somewhere. I hadn't liked her, but she deserved better than that.

  Having come to this conclusion-and it seemed likely, given the late hour and the fact the funeral had hardly been a secret-I debated how best to deal with the situation. Only one man was visible to me, and though one alone could easily bear away her corpse, I could not discount the possibility of his having allies present. The macabre nature of such a dark errand as grave robbing must dictate that the thief bring along at least one friend to bolster his courage.

  I held to the same pace, pretending not to see the fellow. He must have been aware of me by now, but made no move to further conceal himself. I'd fully expected him to do so as I got closer, and that's when I'd planned to spring upon him for a reckoning on his intrusion here.

  He continued to wait, though. Perhaps he was a footpad, after all, or some highwayman sheltering behind the gates, hoping for a late traveler on the road outside to prey upon. I worked the catch on my cane, readying to draw forth its hidden blade. There's nothing like a yard of Spanish steel for discouraging a man from breaking the law-unless it's a six-shot flintlock revolver by Powell of Dublin. Unfortunately, I'd left that most useful weapon at Oliver's house in the mistaken belief I would not need it while attending a funeral.

  He'd not moved yet. I was nea
rly to the gate, close enough so that even ordinary eyes could see him. As it seemed pointless to extend the fraud of being ignorant of his presence, I slowed and stopped, looking right at him.

  "Who are you, sir, and what business have you to be here?" I demanded, half expecting him to run like a startled cat at my hail.

  He made no reply.

  His lower face was covered by the wide scarf wrapped 'round his head and hat; the brim of the hat was pushed well forward to further obscure things.

  "I'm addressing you, sir. I expect an answer." I stepped toward him and pulled the blade free of the cane.

  That got a reaction. He slipped away suddenly from the gate, moving to my right, where some trees offered a greater darkness to hide in. Because of the wind battering my ears, I couldn't hear his progress, so he seemed to glide along very fast in preternatural silence. Well, he wasn't the only one who could show a bit of heel. I hurried after, almost catching him up until he reached a particularly fat tree and darted sideways. It was a feint, though. Instead of waiting to ambush me from there, he sprinted ahead, perhaps thinking its intervening trunk would conceal his progress. All it did was speed me up. I lengthened my stride, blurring past the tree-