- Prologue

by Quincy Morris, Vampire (BAEN) (v5. 0)

  "My God, what sort of rumors could they be?"

  "That, sir, I may confide to you when I know you a great deal better."

  I liked the sound of that happy possibility, though I had to wonder what the rumors were about. I couldn't imagine her doing anything seriously untoward, like robbing a bank. "I am ever at your service, Miss Bertrice."

  "You are most kind, Mr. Quincey."

  "How did you end up as ramrod to the Ring Players?"

  "Through a series of chances and missteps. Looking back I wonder if it was less those than Fate itself drawing me down paths I might never have trod. Because of my painting I have many friends in the artistic community. They know me only as Bertrice Wood."

  "Why is that?"

  "If I signed my paintings as `Lady Bertrice' they would be judged on the basis of my title, not my talent. As it is, they are already being judged on the basis of my being female, and in this world that is quite enough of a handicap. Most of the reviews were very favorable at first, before the critics discovered my sex, then they became harsh indeed or detestably patronizing. `For a woman, Miss Wood shows a certain modicum of promise.' A week earlier, the reviewer was wildly enthusiastic over the `rising star of B. Wood.' Bloody Philistine."

  God help him if she ever meets the fellow, I thought.

  She rounded on me. "Do you know that until I was twenty I had no idea that there were any female artists?"

  Until this moment, I could have said the same for myself.

  "All the art history books—all of them!—make no mention of female artists. You'd think we were born without talent at all, but not so. We were simply ignored!"

  Once more I felt the blaze of her inner electricity. Thankfully it was not directed against me or I'd have been smoked to a cinder. No doubt but I was in the company of an English wildcat. And I liked it. She was wonderful. "Perhaps you will be the one to change that, Miss Bertrice."

  "I can make a start. I'm already compiling a book on women artists through the ages, but it's going to be damnably thin."

  Artist, actress, and writer. She certainly possessed a boundless energy for such pursuits, but where did she find the time? "It sounds like it could be mighty interesting reading."

  "It will be. But finding a publisher, I fear, will be something of a nuisance. I may have to fall back on the generous patronage of `Lady Godalming' to influence things in my favor. Oh—you don't know about her connection to me."

  "But you're the same."

  "Not in these artistic circles I'm not. But this has to do with the Ring Players and wants explaining."

  " `Speak; I am bound to hear.' " I intoned, raising a flash of amusement in her eyes. What a smile she had. Made me want to see her happy like that all the time.

  "That drawl of yours brings out a whole different nuance," she said. "I should try it some night. No, perhaps not. You might make an interesting Hamlet, though."

  "No, thank you. I'd rather watch someone who knows what they're doing. Just how did you come to be on the stage? What's this `Lady Godalming' connection?"

  "Yes. That. Well, one evening at a party some of the actors there wanted to stage a reading of a new play, and being short by one they asked me to fill in. Afterward, they insisted I join their company, thinking I had potential. It was there I did my apprenticeship. When I was not in my studio I was in the theater."

  "Having the time of your life?"

  A laugh. "You are most perceptive. I was indeed. My studio, or a portion of it, soon became a rehearsal hall. It was at that time I got the idea of the Ring Players. We always had far too many actresses and too few roles to cast them in. The material that is available for women is dismal and sparse."

  "Even Shakespeare?"

  "Especially Shakespeare. It is well and good to play Lady MacBeth or Juliet, but nearly all the rest of the characters are men. How boring for us, so I formed the Ring Players, after having secured the patronage of a certain Lady Godalming."

  "So you are playing the angel for them. Does Art know?"

  "Not at all! I've not even told him I'm acting yet."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he might be tiresome and mention it to someone in the family who would duly pass it on to Aunt Honoria. He doesn't need the complication of her roaring into his study insisting he do something to stop me. She plagued poor Father like that when she discovered I was living like a Bohemian artist and—horrors!—selling my art. What an awful row she made. Weary months of it. I'll not put my good brother through such purgatory."

  "I'm sure if you insist he keep shut, he will."

  "Yes, but not just yet. I'm far too busy at the moment. Anyway, concerning my secret patronage: I told the girls this `Lady Godalming' wished to remain anonymous lest she offend her stiff-necked family—which is perfectly true! I act as general manager and go-between, and hired a clerk for all the real work of balancing the accounts and issuing the pay packets. When time permits, I have the fellow instructing me in his bookkeeping methods as my deportment school fell short on certain practicalities. I'm sure Father would not have approved of this undertaking, thinking I should save my inheritance for a dowry, but since I shall never marry I might as well enjoy myself."

  "Never marry?" Not unheard of, but surprising to me. She sure didn't look like a spinster. "A fine filly like yourself? You must have had a hundred offers."

  "Oh, at least," she said lightly. "But none of those moonstruck fools were worth ten minutes of my attention, much less a whole lifetime. The sort of man I find even remotely interesting is very rare. When I do find one he's either not interested in me or already married."

  "Poor fellows. If any of the unmarried ones truly had sense, they would have done the same as that merchant who'd found his pearl of great price."

  "You're very kind, Mr. Morris," she said, after a pause.

  Damnation. She'd gone back to my last name again. Had I been too enthusiastic? She had fine spirit about her that I found more fascinating with each passing moment, but was also skittish. It would take a bit of doing, but I'd have to slow myself down if I wanted to continue keeping company with her. There was never any mention in the Bible about how long it took the merchant to sell all he had so he could get his pearl.

  Something like a glint returned to her eyes, hardening them. "I hope you don't mean that, like the pearl, I may be bought?"

  The air suddenly got all thick between us. Where the devil had that come from? "No. Miss." I said it with feeling.

  She pursed her lips. "I'm sorry. That was extremely rude of me. You did not deserve that."

  Unique as she was, maybe she was more trouble than I wanted to tackle.

  "I was trying to be clever, and instead I was insulting. I have a tendency to babble and say the most awful things. I don't mean any harm, but harm happens. I am sorry, Mr. Morris."

  A handsome apology. But I couldn't help but get the idea that she'd done it all on purpose, the purpose being to show me the door. Was this what she did to the men she wasn't interested in? I hated to think she viewed me as yet another moonstruck fool not worth ten minutes of her time. "No harm done, Miss Bertrice. I think we can forget it. Why don't you tell me about this gathering?"

  She accepted the distraction, and launched into a description of the host and possible guests. Artistic types they seemed to be. I didn't catch more than one word in five, and none of the names were familiar. Much of my mind was still turning over that last odd exchange. A man with a shorter temper would have probably made an excuse and found a way to leave. Was she testing me?

  "Here at last," she announced. Before I could do anything about it, she quickly hopped out, paid the driver, and bade him a good night.

  That fair flummoxed me. I'd heard of such a thing, but never experienced it for myself. What an infuriating female she could be. I resolved to make a point of paying for the return trip.

  "Do hurry, Mr. Quincey, I'm half frozen," she urged, tugging her vast cloak more tightly about her.

  I ha
d half a notion to vanish from the hansom and reappear right next to her. Maybe she'd think that was quick enough. Pushing the idea to one side, I escaped the seat and offered her my arm the way a gentleman should. She took it the way a lady should, and we walked up the steps to the house.

  There was a footman just within the door who opened it for us before I could try the bell. He was a young fellow and looked rather foolish, for his head was wreathed round with a garland of flowers. He seemed unaware of this fantastical addition to his otherwise sober garb. In fact, as soon as he took charge of our outer garments he held forth a tray stacked high with similar crowns.

  "No, thank you," said Bertrice, with a quick sidelong look at me. "Let's get our feet wet slowly."

  "Flowers? In February?" I asked.

  "Lord Burce has a huge greenhouse on the grounds. I don't know how he does it. Claims that a few drops of whiskey is his fertilizing secret, but that has to be nonsense. I should think the alcohol would burn the roots up."

  I recalled her mentioning Lord Burce as being the host. I'd never heard of him, which was strange, since Art had an extensive circle of friends in the nobility to whom he'd introduced me. This part of Grovesnor Square was familiar, though I'd never been inside this particular house. It was a grand one, even compared to Ring, but much more modern, boasting the installation of electricity. As we passed from the entry hall to the inner rooms I saw each one ablaze with its own bright white light. It took some getting used to having so much of it around. I liked it, though. There was none of the usual smell of gas, nor the constant hiss that a person had to learn how to ignore.

  The place was lavish on the decoration, maybe even overdone, indication that Lord Burce had no money worries. We strolled into a very large parlor where dozens of guests were gathered. Things were noisy, for they were all talking at once, trying to be heard over the play of music. The rich ornamentation touching the eye at every turn was appropriate once one got an eyeful of the guests, who seemed to be in competition with the house.

  And here I'd thought the players at the music hall were exaggerated with their various costumes. The people here would make a pack of circus clowns look like Quakers. Indeed, there was a white-faced clown amongst them, along with various Romans, Indians—both east and west, Gypsies, a sultan and his harem, and others I could not readily identify.

  "Oh, rot," said Bertrice frowning at the gaudy company. "I forgot it was fancy dress tonight."

  Chapter Nine

  "Bertie! Darling girl!" A very large, full-blown woman in a white powdered wig and red ball gown swooped toward us. She swept Bertrice right off the floor in a bear's hug. Then I got a closer look under the heavy face paint she affected and realized the woman was a man. That gave me a turn.

  "Wyndon, how lovely, now put me down, you great oaf," Bertrice cheerfully ordered.

  "Your wish is my command," he boomed. He looked at me. "My word, but that is an original. You must be the only Frenchman here who is not dressed as Napoleon."

  "He's not a Frenchman, Wyndon—"

  "You're absolutely right, dear girl. Bonaparte was from Corsica. My apologies, sir." He curtsied at me, and I almost bowed back before catching myself.

  She patted his arm and had to reach up to do so, for he was very tall. "Wyndon Price, may I introduce you to Mr. Quincey P.—"

  "Quinn," I hastily finished, thrusting out my hand to him. Bertrice only blinked at my interruption, not giving away any startlement. She understood the value of anonymity, even if she didn't know my particular reasons for wanting it.

  "How do you do, Mr. Quinn," said Wyndon Price. "Were your parents at a loss for a name?" Anyone else might have sounded rude, but this fellow seemed only innocently curious.

  "I could not rightly say, Mr. Price, but people always remember me for the repetition."

  "He's delightful, Bertie. Where did you find him?"

  "He found me—that is, he's an old friend of the family. He saw the scene my company did at the hall tonight and came backstage." She watched me for a reaction, probably mindful that I might object to what she said, but I only nodded agreement. It was the truth, after all.

  "Yes, she and all her ladies did a real corker of a job," I added. "I am filled with admiration for their effort."

  "That makes one for your side, Bertie, out of… what is the population of London again?"

  "Hush, Wyndon, or you shall annoy Mr. Quinn. He thinks you're serious."

  "How gallant. You've found yourself a knight-errant, albeit an American in French clothes. There's a story, I'm sure." He looked at me expectantly.

  "A dull one, Mr. Price. I spent some time on the Continent looking after my businesses, is all. Nothing nearly as interesting as this."

  "Oh, but this is dull as ditch-water, sir. You should come 'round the place when Burce really gives a show. Puts the old Roman emperors to shame."

  "That I should like to see. May I ask what prompted this occasion?"

  "Just a little birthday party for one of the crowd. I forget whose, but you know Burce, any excuse to have people over. He hates getting drunk alone."

  As there seemed no proper way to respond to that, I gave what I hoped was an amused smile.

  "Speaking of refreshment," said Bertrice. "I'm famished. Is the feed trough in the usual place?"

  Price pointed. "Right through there. Mind you don't trip on the fallen. Some of the revelers arrived early and the servants haven't cleared them away yet."

  He was not exaggerating. Bertrice bade him good-bye for the moment, then threaded a path through the crowds of guests, several of whom were asleep or passed out on the floors and stairways. With no pause in their conversations people stepped over them as though nothing were amiss.

  "What was that about with your name?" she asked. "I know why I'm incognito, what's your excuse?"

  "It has to do with rumors of my untimely passing. I want to keep my head down for awhile yet."

  "Why?"

  "It's pretty complicated."

  "I'm an excellent listener." But she saw my reluctance. "Oh, very well. Be secretive, but tell me why you even bother with it here. No one knows you."

  "That you're aware. I'd just rather be safe than sorry."

  "Is it connected with Arthur?"

  "Pretty much. He is my best friend. Of all people he should be the first to know of my return. I don't want to make a big to-do until I've had a chance to talk with him."

  "Why haven't you? Why haven't you rushed up to Ring and let him know you're all right? He's all miserable and moping while you're out having a night at a music hall."

  My face fell. She'd hit the bulls-eye, and I said as much. "I will see him as soon as may be. I don't like the idea of his misery either, but I wanted a chance to settle in and think how best to approach him."

  "There's nothing to think about, you just go."

  "Miss Bertrice, no one in the world admires your directness more than I, but this situation needs a little more subtlety. I don't want to walk into his study like some ghost and scare him out of his wits."

  "Then let me go in first and prepare him."

  I started to object, then caught myself. "You might have something there. Maybe I could write out a message for you to give to him."

  "Anything to speed you along. When are you going?"

  "Tomorrow night—if he's still at Ring."

  "I'm sure he will be. Since he and Dr. Seward came back from their hunting trip, he can't be budged. Last I was there he spent most of his time in his room. Seward comes often to see him, else I should be worried that Arthur might give himself a fit of brain fever. Between losing Father, Lucy, and you in so short a space of time…"

  "Yes, Miss Bertrice, I understand." No more delays, I thought. "He's been carrying a burden, three of them. I want to lighten the load by one, I hope."

  "So do I. Unlike me, he's not had work or other distractions to help ease his grief. What family that is at Ring is of no help. They're all too old or too distant from him to
be able to truly give comfort. God knows I've urged him time and again to come stay in town to give himself a change. He just puts on a ghastly thin smile and says he'll think about it. You speak of a ghost, I think he's turning into one."

  I made surrendering motions. "All right, you're preaching to the choir. I'll go tomorrow for sure."

  She seemed about to argue that, then relaxed into a smile. "There I am again. When I feel strongly about something I get like an overwound clock: ticking along too loud and fast to hear anything. Forgive me, Mr. Quincey. I shall be much better after I've had a bite of food."

  "Let's see to it, then."

  We entered another vast room where long tables groaning with victuals of every description had been set up. A small army of servants tended to the needs of the hungry. I was not among them and felt my belly turn over at the stench.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "You look very green all of a sudden."

  "I… think I had a bad—uh—biscuit with my tea this afternoon. The butter must have gone rancid."

  "You put butter on your biscuits?"

  I'd forgotten about the Yankee-British language barrier. She thought I was talking about cookies. "Toast, then. You go ahead, and I'll take in the sights."

  "You'll not mind?"

  I did very much mind being deprived of her company. But if I stayed with her I'd be talking, and that meant breathing in the cooked-food stink. It was very irritating. "There seems plenty to look at. Maybe Mr. Price will be kind enough to give me a tour."

  Her gaze darted longingly toward the tables. "All right, if you're sure."

  One thing I have learned in my travels is never get between artists and food. I bowed her into the room and retreated.

  Wyndon Price wasn't difficult to find, not wearing that get-up. He seemed strangely comfortable in it, causing me to wonder just how artistic he might be.

  "Mr. Quinn!" he said, laying a friendly hand on my arm. "Lost her already?"

  "She's busy filling up a hollow leg."

  "Yes, trodding the boards is famishing work. How long have you known her?"

  "I'm more of a friend of the family. Business connections. Could have knocked me over with a feather seeing her tonight doing that show."