The Oldest Living Vampire Unleashed

by Joseph Duncan

  “Have we not spoken of it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh! Well, hmmm… Lord Venport, amongst others.”

  “Lord who?”

  “I’m speaking, of course, of the gentleman we saw at the Adelphi,” said Aunt Minerva. She had taken Nora’s hand on the way down to the conservatory. Now she let it go so they could pass through the heavy glass doors into the humid chamber. “His name is Guy Venport of the Sudbury Venports,” she went on. “Third Marquess of Haltwhistle, I believe. Or was that Hereford? I forget which it is. It’s a tragedy to get old, my dear. The mind begins to lose its grip.”

  Nora chuckled. “So you have made inquiries,” she said.

  “You’re not getting any younger, dear,” Lady Harcourt pronounced. “And I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t find you a suitable mate.”

  “Marriage!” Nora sniffed. She had no intention of marrying soon, and certainly no interest in an arranged marriage, but she loved the old woman so she protested no further.

  The atmosphere inside the greenhouse was dense and warm and moist. Condensation dripped from the fleshy petals of rare orchids and African violets. It rolled in glinting globules down the stalks of exotic bromeliads and tropical vines as if the vegetation was sweating in the heat. The twittering of birds and the trickle of a fountain conveyed a sense of openness, made the greenhouse seem more expansive than it actually was. The two women followed a curved stone path through the jungle-like growth, the sun a hazy disc beyond the steamy panes of the domed structure.

  Finally, reluctantly, Nora asked, “And what else have you discovered about our mysterious gentleman?”

  Lady Harcourt smiled knowingly. “He is recently repatriated from Darjeeling, where his family owned a prosperous tea plantation. He’s the only living heir of his family’s holdings, both his parents having passed away from some obscure and no doubt horrid foreign disease. And he is unmarried. There is some speculation he’s returned to England to find a bride. A proper English bride, as well he should.”

  “Rich and unmarried?” Nora said. “He is a catch!”

  “Don’t be facetious, dear,” the countess responded.

  “One must wonder where the flaw in his character lies,” Nora said. “He is handsome, a member of the peerage, and rich. The defect must be terrible!”

  “So you still think our Lord Venport an attractive man,” Lady Harcourt remarked.

  “A pleasant veneer,” Nora said. “I don’t even know the man. For all I know, he might be an appalling bore. Or worse, an idiot. I can’t abide a fool. They are always so loud and sure of themselves.”

  “My father always said, ‘A fool thinks himself wise, while it is a wise man who knows himself to be a fool’,” Lady Harcourt mused.

  “He was very handsome,” Nora admitted. “But handsome men, in my experience, are tiresome company. They only ever wish to talk of shallow things and never anything interesting like philosophy or science. Unless they mean to prove themselves more educated than you. That’s even more tiresome.”

  “We’ll know soon enough if he is more than just rich and handsome,” Lady Harcourt said. “He’s lodging in Chelsea with Duke Crowden until he can find suitable accommodations here in London. I sent a post to the Duke inviting him and his intriguing guest to dinner this Saturday. I received his confirmation this morning.”

  “Duke Crowden?” Nora said, and had to repress a shudder. She had endured the duke’s company far too often in the brief span of her life. He was an old family friend, a member of the House of Peers and quite prominent in local society. He was also brutish, strange and much too liberal with his hands. And there was something in his eyes, something dark and rapacious that put her in mind of a spider. Whenever their paths crossed, she could not help but recall the poem by Mary Howitt. "Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly." Every time she departed his company, she found herself desirous of a bath. Why no one else seemed disturbed by his perverseness she could not fathom.

  “Why in God’s good creation would anyone want to stay with that old satyr?” Nora said. In her estimation, it did not bode well for Lord Venport’s character.

  Lady Harcourt shrugged. “Perhaps the duke was a business associate of the senior Lord Venport. Or maybe he’s a relative. I’m not certain why Lord Venport is lodging with him. Regardless, you should take care when sharing your opinion of men like the duke. He’s served in the House of Peers for forty years. Twice as long as Lord Harcourt. And his father before him served nearly as long.”

  “Of course, Aunt Minerva,” Nora said.

  Lady Harcourt searched Nora’s eyes, then squeezed her hand in sympathy. They came finally to a stop and Lady Harcourt released the girl’s grasp. “There it is!” she cried, clapping her hands in appreciation. When she smiled like that, with such unaffected joy, Nora could see the girl she once was.

  Mr. Burroughs approached, brushing his hands on his trousers. “Lady Harcourt, Lady Nora,” he said, nodding proudly toward the tulips, “The Generael der Generaelen van Gouda.”

  “What a delight!” Lady Harcourt exclaimed.

  5

  “Men like to claim that we are the fickle ones,” Lady Dereham pronounced, “when in fact it is we who usually know exactly what it is we want. No, I would assert that it is men who are the inconstant ones. By your nature, you are constitutionally incapable of being faithful to a single woman, so you seek to justify your infidelities by pretending you do not understand the female mind.”

  Hiding a smile behind her napkin, Nora observed the reactions of the other diners around the table. Her uncle, Lord Harcourt, with his big brush of a mustache, did not seem to appreciate Lady Dereham’s assertion. He frowned faintly and narrowed his eyes, but that was the extent of his response. His wife, Lady Harcourt, seemed slightly embarrassed and looked as though she wished to apologize for her friend. Doctor Chapelwhite, who was a handsome older man (and who had, Nora was certain, enjoyed his fair share of infidelities in the past) seemed to take it as a point of pride and tilted a smirk toward Lord Harcourt as if to remind him of some shared secret. Nora’s cousin Molly and her husband Howard Sutton, an up-and-coming solicitor, were having their own low exchange, completely ignoring the rest of the guests. They were newlywed and still had eyes, and ears, only for each other. Duke Crowden leered at Nora in a most dismaying fashion (he had already pinched her bum twice tonight and she was determined not to come within arm’s length of him again) but it was Lord Venport’s reaction Nora was most interested in.

  Such a handsome fellow, she thought.

  Even up close, his beauty was impressive. That is not always the case with beautiful people. Sometimes nearness reveals flaws one might not otherwise have noticed. Pimples. Scars. Rotten teeth. Not so with Lord Venport. He was a large man, larger than she’d realized previously, but with a trim and well-proportioned build. He had a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and a high commanding brow. He was terribly pale, as Lady Harcourt had observed, but he had bright, almost jewel-like eyes and dazzling white teeth. A red silk ribbon tamed his auburn hair tonight, and he was dressed in an immaculate black waistcoat and neat bow tie. When he arrived with Duke Crowden—fashionably late, but not offensively so—she caught a glimpse of him climbing down from his carriage and her breath had lodged in her throat. Even now at the dinner table, he need only glance her way and she felt that same delicious rush of tingling warmth. To be honest, she was finding it quite difficult to order her thoughts, much less make intelligent conversation.

  The Duke, alas, was quite another story.

  The man was a beast. There was no other way to describe him. He even resembled a beast with his great frizzy muttonchops and bushy black eyebrows. Nora had known the man most of her life, and though he’d never done her any lasting harm, he was not the sort to let a young rump pass by without giving it a pinch, and always with that terrible leer, as if daring her to tell. Just who, that leer asked, will look more the fool? His gaze rak
ed her body whenever he addressed her, never rising any higher than her collarbones, and then there were his teeth--! White and straight and fine, yes, but with unusually prominent canines. They were almost fangs, those teeth!

  He was staring at her right now, head low between his shoulders, the candles glinting in his eyes. So intense was his gaze that Nora fought the urge to cross her arms in front of her breasts.

  Before Lady Dereham got any more vulgar, Nora’s aunt addressed Lord Venport.

  “Is it true you’ve returned to England in search of a wife?” she asked, glancing sideways at her niece.

  Nora wanted to slide right under the table!

  “Is that the gossip?” the young lord said with amusement. When Lady Harcourt answered in the affirmative, he chuckled and continued on, “I think men, like women, are always in search of transcendental experience, be it intellectual, spiritual or carnal in nature.”

  “And under which of those would you categorize matrimony?” Lady Harcourt pressed.

  Lord Venport pursed his lips in thought, then said, “All three, I suppose. But to answer your question: no, I’ve not returned to England to find a bride. I would not be opposed to marriage if I should chance to meet a woman whose heart spoke to my own. Only a fool rejects love, whether it be ephemeral or enduring. But that is not my main objective.”

  “He comes in search of enlightenment,” the Duke interrupted. He spoke as if in jest, hovering over his plate like a dog guarding its dinner bowl. His grin, however, was cruel. He was, Nora believed, mocking his young houseguest.

  Lady Harcourt looked confused.

  “So you’ve come to London in search of enlightenment?” Nora put in, hoping to dispel the tension she sensed between Lord Venport and his ill-mannered patron. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll find enlightenment in short supply here. The city is stimulating, no doubt of that, but there is little to satisfy the contemplative soul.”

  “On the contrary,” Lord Venport said. “To me, all new experiences are a revelation.”

  “A Libertine!” Lady Dereham exclaimed. Her exultant tone was that of a woman whose base suspicions had been confirmed—to her delight. “I thought as much. I saw it in your eyes. They drink in all they settle upon, as if you take nourishment merely from the sight of things. There is a hunger in your gaze. Tell me, young lord, are you ever satisfied?”

  “Rarely,” Venport confessed.

  “A man after my own heart!” Lady Dereham cried. “Alas, were I but a few decades younger…!”

  Lord Venport laughed, clearly enjoying the elderly woman.

  “When a man loses his appetite for new experiences, that is the beginning of his ultimate decline,” Doctor Chapelwhite interjected. “That is my opinion on the matter.”

  “I agree,” Duke Crowden said emphatically.

  “But surely one must exercise some self-control,” Lady Harcourt said, sounding almost plaintive. She did not like vulgar talk, especially at dinner, and though nothing licentious had been spoken at the table, the entire conversation smacked of mischief to her. “Even the sweetest candy sickens when indulged to excess.”

  “I agree,” Lord Venport said thoughtfully. “A true Libertine should learn to appreciate self-denial as well as indulgence. There is as much to learn from hunger as there is in satiation.”

  “How so?” Nora asked.

  “Both states are merely sensory phenomena,” Lord Venport answered. “They have no significance on their own, only to the individual who experiences them.”

  “They are entirely subjective,” Nora nodded.

  “I have found that my mind is keener when I deny myself,” Venport said. “Hunger, thirst… other corporeal desires. Deprivation heightens the senses. There is no sweet so tasty as the one you’ve been denied.”

  “An ascetic Libertine!” Lady Dereham scoffed. “Now I’ve heard everything!”

  “Life is too short to deny oneself pleasure,” Duke Crowden said, looking exasperated. He shifted in his seat as if the very thought of abstinence caused him discomfort. “I shudder to think I might pass up a treat only to be run down by a hansom on the morrow!”

  Lady Dereham laughed brightly. Her diamond earrings flashed, swinging pendulously from her earlobes. “Spoken like a true aristocrat, Duke Crowden! Let the plebes have their scruples, and they’re welcome to them. It is lust for life that separates the working class from the aristocracy. That, and good breeding.”

  “Some say luck of birth is all that separates the nobility from the working class,” Lord Venport said.

  “As I said, good breeding,” Lady Dereham said, and laughed again.

  Something quickened in Lord Venport’s gaze at the woman’s contemptuous laughter, a predatory gleam that Nora had never seen in a man’s eyes before. Duke Crowden appeared to be the only other diner to notice the young lord’s glare. As Nora furtively observed, the duke came to attention, like a hound pricking its ears. The two guests shared a glance and a brief wordless exchange seemed to pass between them. And then Lord Venport twitched a pair of fingers in the Duke’s direction, an all but imperceptible gesture, and the Duke, with a sigh, settled back in his seat.

  Duke Crowden turned his attention to his wine with a petulant expression. After a moment of reflection, he brought the glass to his lips and appeared to drink, though Nora saw that he did not actually imbibe the ruby-colored liquid. He merely tipped the goblet so that the fluid moistened his lips, and then he set it back on the table. At the same time, Lord Venport turned pointedly away from the duchess, an expression of distaste flitting across his features, like a cloud shadow passing over a hill.

  Her curiosity piqued, Nora determined to watch the two men more closely.

  For the remainder of the meal, she studied their guests surreptitiously. Neither of the men actually seemed to eat or drink anything that was placed before them, although they went through the motions of dining like ordinary men, raising and lowering their silverware and glasses, cutting their food, bringing it to their lips, flexing their jaws as though they were chewing. Even more baffling, although their food and drink vanished at a steady rate, she could not discern the method of its disposal. She did not see either of the men spit into his napkin or tuck a morsel of food into the cuff of his jacket.

  Their pantomime of eating was eerie enough, but the manner in which they moved was just as peculiar. Neither of the men moved in what she would call a natural fashion. It was obvious now that she was observing them with a more critical eye. Although their movements had the appearance of leisurely activity, that casualness was actually a very precise imitation of human movement. Both men acted with great care, as if everything they touched was terrifically fragile, like giants handling fine china.

  Their expressions, too, were a clever performance, she thought, much like their pretense of dining. The smiles and frowns that passed across their faces never quite seemed to touch their strangely prismatic eyes. It was as if invisible strings were plucking at the flesh of their faces, tugging their features into approximations of human emotion.

  The more Nora watched them, the more uneasy she became, and that disquiet grew and grew until it was all she could do to force herself to remain seated. There was a part of her that wanted to leap up from the table and flee from the dining room.

  Flee from them!

  She considered feigning an illness. Something trivial. A headache, perhaps, so that she didn’t alarm her aunt. Retire to her chambers so she could chew over all she had seen. But she could not bring herself to do it. Their guests held too powerful a fascination over her. It was the glamour of the mystery box. The more peculiar the Duke and his handsome young protégé seemed, the more determined she was to pierce the veil.

  Not human, she thought.

  But that was ridiculous! If they were not human, what were they?

  You’re letting your imagination run wild, Eleonora, she said to herself. She always addressed herself by her full name when she scolded herself. Eleonora, as her mother
had scolded her when she was alive.

  But was she imagining things? Was she really?

  She looked down at her wineglass and tried to calculate how much she’d drank that evening. She rarely indulged. Perhaps she had drunk more than she realized. Was that not more reasonable than believing their guests some sort of… inhuman creatures?

  Pushing her glass away, she decided “temperance” was the byword for the remainder of the evening.

  When she looked up, she saw that Lord Venport was staring at her.

  It gave her a little start when their eyes met, and she broke out into a fine sweat.

  But Venport only smiled, and returned his attention to her aunt, who had steered the conversation to politics.

  Later, her aunt invited their guests to come down to the hothouse to view the Generael der Generaelen van Gouda, the flamed tulips she was so proud of. The oppressive heat and moisture of the conservatory made Nora’s head spin, and she stumbled once on the edge of a loose flagstone. Lord Venport was at her side in an instant, though she did not think he was walking so near to her when she tripped.

  “Careful,” he said, hand on her elbow, and she was struck by two realizations at once: his touch was like ice in the cloying heat of the greenhouse, and she would do anything, absolutely anything, if only he would make love to her!

  She gaped at him, mortified by her desires. The fire that leapt in her at his touch-- his icy, inhuman touch!—frightened her. Even the instinctive revulsion she felt at his touch, which was cold and lifeless and strangely stone-like, fueled the conflagration raging in her belly. Were they alone, she was quite certain she would have thrown herself at him like some shameless tart.

  “Thank… thank you,” she fluttered, heart galloping in her breast.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  As are you, she thought, and she resisted the urge to reach out and stroke his cheek. She wondered if the flesh of his face was as strange to the touch as it was to the eye. It looked like marble, or perhaps moonstone or milky quartz, yet it moved with the suppleness of flesh: smooth and white and flawless.