Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  I backed away, not to sit, but to pace about the room and work off the energy that had set my limbs to quivering. Had he been like this to Clarinda? If so, then though I could not excuse her crimes, I could understand one of the reasons why she’d committed them. Certainly continual contact with his abrasive manner could not have done her much good. Or had it been Clarinda’s endless infidelities that made him like this? Had they driven him to live in what was apparently a constant state of bitter exasperation? Perhaps by now he knew of no other way to express himself to the world.

  “Why am I here, Edmond?” I asked, when I’d gotten my temper under control.

  “Because I wanted to have a good look at you. Your sister and I had quite a talk earlier today. . . .”

  “Yes, she said something of it to me.”

  “She was most informative about your high sense of honor and good character, but I needed to see for myself what you’re made of. A man usually shows one face to women and another to other men, just as they do for us. It would seem that for you there’s little difference between the two.”

  “You have a provoking way of fashioning and bestowing a compliment, sir, if that was your intent.”

  “The shortcoming has been mentioned to me by others, but for the sake of exactness think of it as less of a compliment and more of an observation.”

  I paused by the fireplace. “So you’ve observed that I seem to be a man of honor and good character. What of it? I thought you wanted to talk about Richard. I am willing, provided that you refrain from insulting him.”

  He snorted. “The truth is not an insult, and you’d best get used to hearing such once news of this gets out. There are others ever willing to make a cruel cut when the fancy strikes ’em. Then what means will you take to improve their manners? More duels?”

  “Only when it’s impossible to avoid. That business with Ridley—”

  “Was part of Clarinda’s scheming, I know. You’re damned lucky he didn’t kill you. Now that you’ve raised the subject, how the devil are you to be rid of him without another fight? However right and pleasing it may be, we can’t keep him locked in the cellar forever.”

  “Put your mind at rest on that. I’ve already dealt with him. He’s presently asleep upstairs in Arthur Tyne’s room, and they’ll both leave in the morning.”

  Before he could master himself I had the great satisfaction of seeing a look of boundless astonishment seize control of Edmond’s features. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s cleared up and put away, so to speak. He and his cousin will trouble us no more. I have his word on it.”

  “His word!”

  “It was quite easy, once I got him to settle down and listen to reason.”

  In light of the quarrelsome nature of his character, and not forgetting the implausibility of what I was telling him, I was convinced that my best assurance would not be enough for Edmond. Even as the words tumbled easily from my mouth, the corners of his own turned markedly down, and he looked ready to offer a considerable debate and a number of bothersome questions I was not prepared to answer. Consequently, I made sure to guarantee a successful imposition of my will over his own.

  “You don’t have to worry about him at all. . .” I whispered.

  He was not easy to influence; for that difficulty I could blame the brandy. It was like talking to a wall—a rather stoutly made one composed of brick. Several moments passed without my noticing any visible effect beyond a slight deadening of his countenance, but I’d seen that face on him before, usually prior to the delivery of some trenchant remark. Just as I thought my efforts would come to naught, I observed that he had ceased to blink his eyes quite so much. For that good blessing I allowed myself a small sigh of relief, but continued to concentrate the greater part of my thought and will upon him. There was a kind of instinctual feeling within me that if I let my focus wander for even a second, I’d lose him.

  “It’s been sorted out.”

  When finally finished, I’d acquired a nasty, droning ache behind my eyes, but at least there would be no more discussion of Ridley for now and probably for good. It was well with me; I was altogether sick of the subject. Returning to my post by the fireplace, I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to diminish the pain. Though fading, it was an annoyance. I hoped I could get through the rest of the night without having to resort to that handy talent again.

  “Now what about young Richard?” I asked seeing Edmond needed the prompting.

  “Yes. Well. . . .” He rubbed his face and neck like a waking sleeper. I was happy to wait him out, for it had been hard going for us both. “You’ve seen him. According to Mrs. Howard you seem to like him. So what do you want to do?”

  A vague enough question, requiring a general sort of answer, though in my heart I’d already made a thousand plans for the boy. “What’s best for him, of course. You’re his father as well; what do you recommend?”

  “Father? Father in name only,” he rumbled, coming fully awake. “I knew he wasn’t mine the moment I clapped eyes on him. She used to delight in pretending—oh, never mind. It’s all over.” He made a casting-away motion with one hand.

  I frowned at him. “Did that child ever suffer because of his mother’s betrayal of you?”

  His snapped-out answer told me he spoke the truth. “I’ve never laid a hand on him. God’s death, I only saw the boy when it was necessary. He never took to me.”

  That I could understand.

  His gaze canted sharply over to meet mine, and he correctly interpreted my expression. “What would you have? For me to play the saint and clasp him to my bosom as my own? Then wish on, for such sham is beyond my ability.”

  “My wish. . .” I began with a return of hot anger, but trailed off and made myself cool down. There was no point to it now. There was no point in wishing the child had had even a vestige of kindness from the man he perceived as his father. Whether or not ignoring the boy was better than pretended affection I could not judge. It was just so unutterably sad.

  “What is your wish?” he finally asked.

  “Nothing. As you say, it’s over.”

  For several more minutes neither of us spoke. I was now abrim with dark perturbation, and Edmond seemed in no better shape. I could almost feel the restless shift of our combined emotions churning through the room like a fog composed of feeling instead of mist. I wanted to remove myself from its ill effect, but there was no help for it; I’d have to see this through.

  “Edmond.”

  He didn’t move.

  “You’ve asked me what I want. Tell me what it is that you want.”

  He laughed once, softly. “Another life might serve me well, or fewer mistakes in this one.”

  “I meant concerning Richard.”

  “I know what you meant. You said you want what’s best for him. On that we are in full accord; we should certainly try to do what’s best for him. It’s not his fault that his mother’s a murdering sow.”

  The brandy must have been having its way with him, else he might not have been so free with his speech, but after looking up the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him by his own dear wife, he was more than entitled to call her names. Indeed, I could respect him for his extreme restraint in the matter.

  He glowered at the fire. “For as long as she lives I’ll have to be her keeper. It’s my just punishment for marrying the wrong woman and hers for marrying the wrong man. We’re stuck with each other, she the prisoner, me the turnkey—not unlike most marriages, I suppose.”

  Just the subject I’d have to question him about, but it would have to hold for a bit longer, for this one was far more important to me. “What has this to do with Richard?”

  “I’m attempting to give you an idea of what sort of growing up awaits him once we’re home again.”

  He allowed me time to think on it. I didn’t like the images my mind
was busily brought forth for consideration.

  “What’s best for the boy,” Edmond said, reaching for his unfinished glass, “is to not be in a house where his mother must be locked away like the lost soul that she is. What’s best is for him to be with his real father.”

  “Wh-what? “

  He caught hold of the glass and downed the last half of his drink. “Would you consider taking him away?”

  “To where?” I asked stupidly.

  “To any place you damned well please.”

  I shook my head, not as an answer to his question but from sheer disbelief. The longer I stared, though, the more certain I became that he was utterly serious. “You’re willing to make such a sacrifice?”

  Now it was his turn to favor me with his disbelief. “Sacrifice? Haven’t you yet gotten it through your head that I care nothing for the boy? Did someone stuff cloth in your ears when I wasn’t looking? God help me, but knowing the things I know I can hardly endure the sight of him anymore. D’ye think I’m making a sacrifice? Don’t flatter me.”

  “But—”

  “If it’s true that we both want what’s best for him, then that’s for him to be well away from my house.”

  “But for you to give him up just like that?”

  “Damnation, I’m giving him to a man who might be able to provide better for him than I ever could. I know my limit, Barrett, and I’ve long since reached the end of it. I talked of this matter with your sister. She has no objection—far from it—but said the decision was yours and she would respect it.”

  By God, Elizabeth had given me no hint of that in her manner. Of course, she knew me too well not to be confident of what my choice would be.

  “If you don’t want him, then I’ll find someone else who does and bless him for the favor. Staying with me would be the worst thing for the boy, I know that.”

  “This is the brandy talking—”

  “Brandy be damned, I’m trying to do something right for once! I’m trying to give the misbegotten brat a chance to know true kindness and love. I’ve none left in my heart; that bitch I married burned it out of me.” He hurled the empty glass across the room. Though aimed nowhere near me, I still instinctively ducked as it flew past, so savage was the force behind his action. It shattered upon the wall, scattering shards everywhere. Next he picked up the brandy bottle and seemed for a moment ready to send it crashing after the glass, but the moment passed. He collected himself and fell back on the settee. “D’ye want ’im or not?” he asked, his voice drained of everything except weariness.

  “Yes, of course I do. I should be delighted to take care of him.”

  “Good.” He took a long drink right from the bottle. “You can sort the details with Mrs. Howard. Take her along as well if you like. I can give her an excellent reference if you need it.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure she will do admirably with us.” God, the man must truly be distracted if he thought I’d separate Richard from the one person who had been his chief source of affection and guidance from the cradle. “What about Clarinda? What if Richard should want to see her?”

  “No.” There was a finality in Edmond’s tone reminiscent of the gallows. “Your sister and I discussed that already. Until he’s old enough to understand better, you tell him his mother is ill and that’s the end of it.”

  “It’s a hard business never to see his mother again.”

  “I cannot say that it would be of much advantage to him in the future, since he saw little enough of her in the past.”

  “Hard for Clarinda, too.”

  “Indeed it would be if she cared a fig for him. For either of her sons,” he added, reminding me of the other child who was away at school. I wondered if that boy was a true son of Aunt Fonteyn’s brother or the first of Clarinda’s changelings. Now was not the time to make an inquiry, though. Besides, this was in direct opposition to the impression Clarinda had given me on her feelings for either of them and it wanted sorting.

  “How can a mother not care for her children?” I said in a way meant to draw him out. Even my own mother, distorted in mind and heart as she was, cared—in her twisted fashion—for her two children. She’d removed her damaging presence from us all those years ago, after all. Not unlike what Edmond was trying to do now for Richard.

  His answer was curt and lacking in interest. “Ask her sometime; you’ll find out soon enough that she hasn’t a jot of regard for anyone but herself. But if it were otherwise with her, it still wouldn’t matter. She forfeited all rights to them when she did her murder.”

  I looked at the stone bust on the mantel. On impulse I picked it up and turned it over to see if anything might be marked on the base to indicate who it represented. Neither Aristotle nor a Caesar; the neatly carved inscription identified it to be Homer. That little mystery explained, I put it back in place.

  Since Edmond had ascertained for himself the fact of my honor, now would be the time for me to return the favor, to make sure that all would be reasonably well for Clarinda, if not for her sake, then for Richard’s. “With you as the turnkey how will she be treated?” I asked quietly.

  “A damned sight better than she deserves. Don’t worry yourself. It won’t be a Bridewell—she’ll not want for creature comforts—but I’m going to make damned sure she has no opportunity to kill ever again.”

  I believed him. He was as he presented himself. Perhaps Clarinda’s constant lies had created in him a need to cleave to the absolute truth. So said all my instinct as I studied his hard face. It was no small reassurance to me that my growing respect for him was not misplaced.

  He took another long drink, then glared at me.

  “What is it? You want to toast her health or something?” He nodded toward my untouched brandy.

  Damnation, but I was tired. “No. Nothing like that.” Just the prospect of trying to pierce through his brick wall again was enough to renew the ache behind my eyes. He could think what he liked about my not drinking his brandy, to hell with it.

  “What, then?”

  For all his roughness, his willingness to do well for Richard spoke of an innate decency in his heart. This told me that Clarinda would be all right for the time being. Complete confirmation of it could wait for another night.

  “I just wanted to say that should you come to feel differently about the boy, then you’re welcome visit him any time. He knows you to be his father and loves you. Young as he is, there can be no replacement for you in his heart.”

  Edmond seemed on the verge of tossing the invitation back in my face, if I could judge anything by the sneer that briefly crossed his own. Then he visibly reigned himself in. “I’ll consider it,” he muttered. “Now get along with you. I need my rest.”

  I took this servant’s dismissal in good grace. The man was in pain and only wanted the privacy to get thoroughly drunk. God knows, I’d do the same were I to find myself in his shoes. I wished him a good night, getting no reply beyond an indifferent grunt, and shut the door on him.

  Halfway along the hall I had to stop, staring at nothing in particular while my thoughts finally caught up with events.

  Good God in heaven. . . . Richard coming home with me.

  Then I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from shouting the house down.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Faster! Faster! Faster!” Richad yelled into my right ear. “Yah-yah-yah-yah-yah!”

  I did what I could to oblige him, though things nearly came apart when I made a sharpish turn into the parlor. Our progress was nearly defeated by the high polish on the floor causing my shoes to lose a bit of their grip on the turf so to speak. I just managed to regain the safety of balance in time to keep us from taking a slide into an inconveniently placed chair. We flashed by Elizabeth and Oliver, who were sensibly sitting and having their tea before the parlor fire, whooped a hallo at them, then shot out
the other door and into one of the narrow back halls where the servants usually lurked. It was a straight path on this part of the course, so I stepped up the speed and galloped hard and with lots of needless bounce, much to the delight of my rider. Richard giggled and gasped, tightened his stranglehold around my neck, and dug his heels more firmly into my flanks.

  “Have a care,” I told him, making sure of my own hold on his legs. “We’re coming to a hill.”

  He shrieked encouragement to his steed and I carried us up the back stairs three at a time, wound my way through the upper back hall to the upper front hall, then jounced roughly down to the front stairs landing, startling the one maid in the house who hadn’t heard our noisy progress. She let forth a satisfying screech, an action that amused Richard mightily. He yelled out a view-halloo, told her she was the fox, and we gave roaring chase as far as the entry leading to the kitchen. Showing an unexpectedly fleet turn of foot, she ducked through to safety, smartly shutting the door in our faces just in time.

  “Outfoxed!” I cried in mock despair to my laughing rider. “She’s gone to ground and the dogs can’t find her. What shall we do now? Another steeplechase?”

  “Yes, please!” he bellowed, freshening his hold ’round my neck. I took us through the house twice more as we pretended each corner was a church steeple we had to make in time to stay ahead of a pack of pretend horsemen who were hot on our heels. We naturally won each race, for I was a steed of superior stock, a point I’d confided to him when I initially proposed our horseback riding game.

  This was his first night in London, and it was proving to be a memorable one—for us both. I could not have been happier, and never before in my life had I felt this particular kind of happiness. No plans, no speculations, nothing I’d ever imagined had remotely prepared me for the actuality of his constant and immediate presence. He filled the house; he filled the whole world for me. At times I could scarce take in that he was real, and at others, it seemed that he had been with me always.