by P. N. Elrod
No, that wouldn’t be right, either. Not with Edmond lurking around as we arranged trysts for ourselves. I liked Clarinda, but not to the point of having her as my mistress.
Then there was Elizabeth to consider.
And Oliver.
One look at Clarinda’s throat and they’d instantly know what was going on.
No, it was simply too complicated. 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 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. Or use my influence.
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 a consummation. And if, in the throes of the event, I lost myself and took from her anyway . . .. Once started it was difficult to stop, for when the passions are aroused, it’s 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 internal debate was much like the other I’d held before 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 could 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 lovely 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 reviving after the press of tonight’s gathering.” After all this I wanted some time on my own, which is why I had not arranged for any of those with carriages to give me a ride back. I’d had my fill of family for one night.
“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 healthful ramble 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 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 of company.
Damnation.
Again.
* * *
Out the front doors and down along the long drive I went, moving briskly.
The sleet had stopped and the wind had lessened, but that which remained was still knife-sharp and unforgiving. 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 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 run 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 jealousy and temper?
Then the thought of Nash reminded me of home and of Father and 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 ocean 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 thrice-damned, so-called fool Patriots 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 the bad news off to Father 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, probably frozen. The tip of my cane made no impression in it. Just as well Aunt Fonteyn went into her box 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 bone house 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, cold stone and so far from everything and probably just as bleak in the summer. A pity it wasn’t summer; oh, but 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, considering her supremely bad temperament and acidic nature. She’d ever been 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? With whom would she talk?
My speculations were nothing new; many of the family both before and after the funeral 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 was investigated. No one at the Masque had noticed her leaving the house for the garden that night. They’d be
en too involved with their own pleasures to pay attention to one disagreeable old woman. Those friends 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 is that . . . ?
Well ahead of me were the gates to the property, wide open, with torches on either side to mark the entry, their flames nearly exhausted. 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 awaited 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 behind high walls and closed gates.
Then it jumped into my head that he might be a medical student come to steal a body for study. Oliver had told me many 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 a subject on a dissection table. I hadn’t liked her, but even 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 the one man was visible. Though one alone could 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 at least one friend to bolster his courage and help with the lugging.
I held to the same pace, pretending not to see the fellow. He must have been aware of me, but made no move to further conceal himself. I expected him to do so as I got closer, and that’s when I planned to spring on him for a reckoning on his intrusion.
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.
The intruder had not moved yet. I was nearly 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 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, moving to my right, where the 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 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—
And on the edge of vision glimpsed something scything down in a fearful rush.
Instinct made me throw my right arm high to shield my head. The thing, whatever it was, crashed solidly into my forearm, sending a shock through my whole body. My headlong pursuit immediately ceased as I dropped straight to the frozen earth like a block of stone.
I was aware of a terrible pain along my arm, as if a giant had seized me there and pinched it between finger and thumb. The agonizing pressure changed to an agonizing burning so great that the force of it left me immobile for several terrible moments. I could see and hear nothing, taste and smell nothing; the only sense I had was for the grinding torment that had fastened itself to my flesh.
What had they done to me?
They. On the dim borders of the mind between sense and nonsense, I was aware of two of them. Footpads or grave robbers, it mattered not. Whoever struck me might do so again. The panicked thought whipped through my mind.
Helpless. I was utterly helpless.
I must get away . . . vanish . . . .
But the pain continued, and I lay there quite horribly solid.
Couldn’t move. Whatever the damage, it must be appalling to paralyze me like this. As bad as I’d ever known before. Worse than the time I’d broken my arm or when that bastard Drummond cracked my skull like a ripe melon.
I tried again to take myself out of the world, seeking near-instant healing, and damnation to whoever saw. This effort made the burning hotter than it already was, as if someone had stabbed a fiery brand into my arm. I instantly ceased trying and cursed instead.
“He’s alive,” a man above me said.
“Good,” said another a little breathlessly. The one I’d been chasing apparently.
Bloodsmell. My own.
It was all over me.
Ice danced with the fire as the wind struck the red outflow of my life, chilling it. The simple knowledge that I must have been bleeding freely was enough to raise another panic-inspired attempt to vanish.
Another flare of pain. I stopped and cursed again.
“How does it feel Mr. Barrett?” the breathless man taunted. “That’s more than a scratch from the look of it. You’ll not jump up so quick this time, I’m sure.”
I knew his voice now. Thomas Ridley.
“He’ll bleed to death,” his companion pointed out. Arthur Tyne.
“He’s going to die one way or another, but I’d rather it be me that dispatches him.”
Sweet God.
I was on my left side, exactly as I’d fallen. I saw their boots and little else. Couldn’t really move. Not at all. Just softly curse.
“Listen to him whine,” said Ridley, enjoying himself.
“You would, too, with something like that in you.”
“Then pull it free and see what other noise he makes.”
“We don’t want to wake anyone, Tom.”
“Who’s to hear? The house is far enough and closed fast for the night. Come and do it.”
Arthur bent and worked at something, and I madly thought he was tearing my arm from its socket. The fire plaguing me before were cold ashes compared to this. I couldn’t help but cry out. The sound itself was frightening, as though it had come from someone else. I did not know my own voice.
Ridley laughed, giggling like a young child over an evil and forbidden amusement.
No breath remained in me to curse. I could only lie inert despite the feeling that my arm had been thrust into a furnace.
“I think I’ve killed him,” said Arthur. He did not seem unduly worried over the possibility.
Ridley crouched next to me, turning me over. He was still swathed in his disguising scarf and cloak; the latter had slipped open enough to reveal his right arm in a sling. He moved carefully so as not to jar it. He put his left hand on my chest, but withdrew it when he saw me glaring at him, very much alive.
“Not yet,” he said, grinning. “He’ll last a bit l
onger, I think. Though I’ll lay good odds he’ll wish otherwise. Here’s a pretty souvenir.” He reached over to pick up my blade and scabbard.
“You won’t want to keep that. Someone’ll know it.”
“I’m not planning to keep it, but I’ll put it to good use.” He rose slowly. “Stand him up and let’s get on from here.”
Stand? He must have been mad.
“Right, take this, then.” Arthur gave Ridley a sword he’d been holding. Not an ordinary dueler, but a heavy cavalry blade. Blood was all along its curved edge. My blood. My God, he’d hit me with that? It should have taken my arm right off. Maybe it would have, too, had I been an ordinary man.
Arthur was a strong lad. He had no trouble shifting me around like a sack of grain to hook my left arm ’round his shoulders. It didn’t matter to him whether I could walk or not, he’d drag me along regardless. As he hauled me upright, agony blasted through my body again. I bit out a grunt of protest, which was ignored.
With a heave, he boosted himself straight, taking me with him. The sudden shift from lying down to fully upright had its effect. My vision flickered, then faded altogether. For an instant I thought myself to be vanishing, but the feel of it was different this time. There was no ease from the pain, no continuation of thought. The world, all sense of it, of everything . . . simply ceased to be.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Too soon, the god-awful agony in my arm tore me from the comfort of unconsciousness.
I woke aware only of the hurt, lying on something hard and brutally cold. With no understanding of what had happened, I moved not a muscle. It seemed . . . safer.
Some battered portion of my mind that was not wholly consumed by the distraction of pain whimpered, feebly protesting something I was unable to comprehend.
It was afraid.
Things had gotten bad. They could get worse.
They will get worse. That’s why you’re afraid.
