by P. N. Elrod
There it was. The intervening floor had muffled the sound of his breathing.
Beyond that doorway. Soundlessly I glided toward it, taking form only when I was on the threshold. I peered in.
It was a bedroom. A single candle burned on a table by the bed. By the window, his back to me, stood my man. He had one eye pressed close to a thread-thin opening in the curtain and his posture was such as to indicate his whole attention was upon the street below. Had he seen me vanish? Not that it mattered; I could make him forget, and now was a good time as any to begin.
“Hallo, Arthur.” The devil was in me, else I’d have had mercy and given him some gentler warning of my intrusion.
He fairly screamed as he whipped around. I gave an involuntary twitch at the row and hoped it wouldn’t disturb his neighbors to the point of investigating.
And then. . . I didn’t give a tinker’s damn for any of them. The dunce pressed against the far wall panting with fear was Arthur’s butler.
“Damnation!” I snarled. “Where is your master?”
Under the circumstances I was much too optimistic about getting an immediate response from him, and too impatient to wait for him to calm down and collect himself. While his knees were still vigorously knocking one against the other, I stepped close and forced my influence upon him, once more demanding an answer.
“N-not home,” he finally choked out.
“So I gathered. Where has he gone?”
The combination of his fear and my control was a bad one. His heart hammered away fit to burst. I relaxed my hold on his mind and told him to be easy. It worked, after a fashion, and I was almost able to hold an ordinary conversation with him.
“I don’t know,” he said in a faded voice after I’d repeated my last question.
“When did he leave?”
“Earlier today.”
“Did he know about his cousin’s death?”
“Cousin?”
“Thomas Ridley.”
“I don’t know.”
Well-a-day And I thought it was impossible to keep anything hidden from one’s butler. “Where are the other servants?”
“Dismissed.”
“What? All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he dismiss them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he dismiss you?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you still here?”
The answer was not instantly forthcoming, having stopped somewhere halfway up his throat. And little wonder, I thought, once I’d looked around the room; the man had been so terrified not just from my sudden appearance in the house, but because I’d interrupted his thieving. Two bundles lay on the bed, one tied up and ready to carry, the other open to reveal a pile of clothing, some trinkets and two silver candlesticks. I also noticed why I’d mistook him for Arthur, for he’d donned some of his former master’s clothing, a silk shirt and a dark green coat with gold buttons.
“You’ll not get a good character doing that, my lad. A noose more like. “
He didn’t disagree.
I spent the next quarter hour in a weary bout of questioning, and though plagued with headache for my efforts, learned a few interesting things.
Arthur had been somewhat mysterious in his behavior for the few last days, being rather quiet and subdued. Nothing odd in that, considering the injuries he’d suffered along with the effect of my influence, I thought. He’d kept to his room, resting and refusing to see a doctor for his condition, which was rapidly improving. Today he’d recovered enough to walk to his favorite coffee house to read the papers there as was his habit. Hours later he’d returned a changed man, being nerved up and restless. Pale and abrupt, he ordered the packing of a traveling case, had his horse brought around, and mounted up. He then summarily discharged the entire household and rode off without another word.
This astonished the lot of them, to say the least. Some departed immediately after packing their own belongings. The kitchen staff saw no reason why the food, wine, and spirits should go to waste and walked off with all they could carry in lieu of their unpaid wages and a character. The butler, left ostensibly in charge, made no objection and let them plunder at will. Once gone, though, he had his own plan to enrich himself by lifting whatever choice objects Arthur in his haste had left behind.
The pickings were lean. No money, not even a stray silver snuffbox was to be found. If it was small and valuable, Arthur had already taken it. However, he’d left behind some fine clothes and other, less portable things, enough to keep the butler in comfort for the next year, longer if he decided to strip and sell the household linens, too.
And though I pressed him until the sweat ran down his face, he could not offer the least clue on where Arthur had gone.
Disgusted at this turn, I asked where Arthur kept his papers and was directed to a downstairs room that served as a sort of library. I told the man to continue his business, and pay no mind to me, and in fact he could forget he’d even seen me at all. I had no care for his thievery; he could do what he liked so long as it did not interfere with my own search.
The library had few books, certainly not in the numbers I was used to having about. Some of them had to do with law, indicating what Arthur had read for when he’d been at university. I’d heard nothing about him to indicate he’d taken up practice, and thought it likely he was merely biding his time on a quarterly allowance until coming into his parental inheritance like so many other young men of our generation—that or hoping for a rich marriage.
The writing table he used as a desk held an untidy pile of paper, mostly old invitations, bills and household accounting. It was haphazard; some of the stuff was months out of date. I found a few letters from his family, who were presently enjoying the Italian climate, but no other correspondence. A note from one of his Mohock friends with a name and address would have been useful, but none were to be found. I pocketed a letter from his mother on the small chance its address might be of use later, then checked the fireplace. He’d burned paper there recently. The stuff missing from Ridley’s flat, perhaps? The ash was thoroughly broken up so there was no way to tell what it had been. I couldn’t think why he’d want to kill his own cousin, though; their fellowship of murder had struck me as being thicker than cold porridge. Perhaps Clarinda could clear things up.
Or Litton.
I’d wasted too much of the night on this project. I’d best get along to see Ridley’s lapdog before he disappeared as well.
This time I took to the sky—after first ascertaining the event went unobserved. The wind was not so bad tonight. My progress was swift and exhilarating, but I had little mind for enjoyment of it as a diversion.
Perhaps later, after this business was past, I’d be free to explore and appreciate, but not now.
As Litton’s place was so close to Oliver’s I decided to delay going there just long enough to look in on our house and street. All was quiet and normal for the latter, not so for the former. Immediately upon my touching to earth and growing solid I saw the lights showing past the edges of the drawn curtains. What infernal cheek—had the bastards invaded our home and were even now plundering it like Tyne’s butler?
Of course, Edmond might have come back. . . but no, his coach wasn’t waiting for him. More likely Oliver had gotten tired of waiting at Fonteyn House and returned to see how I’d progressed. Blast the man. I’d tell him a thing or two about putting himself at risk—if it was Oliver.
Just to be safe, I let myself inside without using the key and listened hard. Someone was in the sitting room. The door was open and the golden glow from many lighted candles spilled into the hall. I heard the crackle of flames in the fireplace, and a faint step or two, then came a few experimental notes from the new spinet. Good God, Elizabeth? Fingers ran up and down the scale, faltered, missed a note, then stubbornly re
sumed.
I drew my pistol—in case I was wrong—and hurried forward, intending to surprise the player. But when I rounded the doorway and saw who stood within, the surprise doubled and redoubled back upon me. I stopped, turned to stone with disbelief.
The woman standing before the spinet was not my sister, but Nora Jones.
She looked up, blank-faced at first with startlement, then her features relaxed into warm recognition. That slow smile, that bewitching smile, the one she gave to me alone emerged to light her expression.
I’d forgotten, forgotten, forgotten how beautiful she was; my heart gave such a leap that my chest hurt. I staggered forward a step. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. Through a blur of tears I saw her coming toward me, arms outstretched. She whispered my name. I wanted to shout hers, but it was hopeless. Giving up, I simply held her hard and close as we wept and laughed at the same time.
CHAPTER NINE
Eventually we had to part, if only to look at each other. She touched my face with one hand, even as I touched hers, and probably for the same reason: to reassure herself of my reality.
“I got your letter,” she finally said. “The one you left in my house. I didn’t know you were in England or I’d have come sooner. I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Can you forgive me for what I did at Cambridge?”
I could forgive her anything now that she was here and told her as much, swiping at my eyes with my sleeve.
“I had to do it. You needed to go home, and I had to take care of Tony Warburton and—”
“Never mind. It’s past. Other things . . . there are other things to speak of. Oh, God, there’s so much to tell you!”
She smiled up to me, a little one, wavering between joy and tears. I’d missed how her lips curled in just that way. I kissed them, softly. The hunger for her was very much with me, but there would be time for that soon enough, I hoped. For now I was content to hold her close.
“I’m so glad you’re back, Jonathan. I’ve so missed you. ’Fore God, I think you’ve grown even more handsome.”
That was pleasing to hear. “Where have you been? I’ve had Oliver searching for you for more than a year. Are you all right?”
“Of course I am.”
I pulled away to look at her. “But Tony Warburton said that you’d been ill. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, as you see.” She covered her hands tightly over one of mine. “You spoke to him, then?”
“Almost as soon as we landed in England—I thought he might tell me where you were. You’ve been trying to help him all this time, haven’t you? Oliver said that you’d been in Italy with the Warburtons, and—”
“Then you remember all that happened that night?”
“Every minute of it.”
Lifting my hand, she kissed it. “And I’d hoped to spare you from—”
“It’s nothing, now. It doesn’t matter. You’re here and well, and that’s all that’s important to me. Why did he say you were ill? I was so worried for you. Is it to do with his madness?”
“No, no, he must have been speaking of my aunt. Mrs. Poole took sick just before we left Italy. We’ve been living quietly in Bath since then.”
“Most quietly indeed. Why, then? No one in our circle had any word of you. I was coming to think you’d dropped off the face of the earth or something awful had happened to you or you were purposely hiding for some reason.”
“For one such as myself privacy is necessary. I have to maintain a certain distance from people, as you well know.”
“But so much distance? And for so long?”
“I’d had my fill of society. It was empty without your company.”
For this I embraced her again, laughing. It promised well for us both to know she’d missed me. I was sorry about Mrs. Poole’s sufferings, but within was a selfish gratitude that it had not been Nora. My arms wrapped around her, and I gave heartfelt thanks to the heavens for her present and continued well-being.
“How fares your aunt?” I asked, at last recalling my manners.
“The waters there have been a help to her, thank God,” she answered. “She’s recovered enough that I thought of coming back to London. I sent one of my men to check on the house, and he found your note telling me to see Oliver. I came as soon as I could. No one’s here, though. What’s going on? Where’s Oliver? Why are the servants gone?”
Suddenly remembering the Dublin revolver I’d been holding all this time and why I was holding it, I leaned over and put it on a table. There was no chance that I would complete my dark errand tonight. Compared to Nora, the importance of finding and dealing with Ridley’s murderer lost all impetus. Tomorrow would do just as well for that unpalatable task.
Her eyes went large at the sight of the weapon, bemusement drawing up the corners of her mouth. “What on earth? Jonathan?”
“This may take awhile. You’ve walked into the middle of a very bothersome situation. I’ll explain everything, I do promise.” I gently led her to the settee. We seated ourselves, each turned slightly so as to better regard the other. I wanted to look at her all night—that, and other things. “So much has happened I hardly know where to begin. I’ve so many questions for you.”
“And I for you.”
I gave a short laugh. “I’ve the feeling yours will be easier to answer. You go first.”
She fell in with my humor. “Well, is your family well? The war news—that letter you got from your father . . . .”
God, that was ages ago. “They’re fine or were when I left last September. Father’s decided to move the family back to England. That’s why I’m here now, or part of the reason. I’d have come back to you no matter what, you have to know that, but—”
“I know.”
“—but I was afraid you didn’t want to see me again. You made me forget, and I didn’t know why. And I couldn’t underst—” I caught myself. This wasn’t the best way to go about it, plunging into the middle with questions sounding too much like accusations. One thing at a time. “My—my sister Elizabeth came over with me; I can’t wait for you to meet her. She very much wants to meet you.”
She stiffened. “You told her about me? About us?”
“Of course I did. I had to—in order to try to explain what had happened to me.”
“What ha—I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t either at first. And I was so frightened then.” I was frightened now. The words were trying to stick in my mouth again. Rather than fight them, I took her hand and pressed its palm flat against my chest. I knew she would sense the utter silence there even as I perceived the stillness of her own heart. “This is what’s happened.”
She went absolutely quiet, and her color drained away. She shook her head, first in doubt, then in denial. “No . . . it cannot be.”
“I’m like you, Nora.”
“No, you ca—no, oh, no!” She pulled her hand away, stood and backed quickly from me, shaking her head the whole time.
I reached out, but she drew farther and farther off until she bumped against one wall. She stared as one stricken and said nothing.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
She would only shake her head and stare.
“What is wrong? For God’s sake, settle yourself and talk to me!” All I wanted was to go to her, but some wise instinct told me to stay as I was and not make the slightest move. She was like a terrified bird ready to take flight. Why was she like this? Why was she afraid of me? I softened my tone. “Nora, please . . . I need you. I love you. For all that’s happened I have never stopped loving you.”
Trembling, she made an effort to steady herself. At least she was listening.
“Whe—when?”
“A year ago last August,” I answered, divining her meaning.
&nb
sp; “How?”
I touched my chest. “I was shot . . . here. When I woke up, I came to realize I was like you. Those times when we exchanged blood. . . that’s how it was passed on, wasn’t it?”
She nodded once.
“Since then I’ve been living as you live—”
“Feeding as I feed?” she demanded sharply, voice rising.
“No, not exactly.”
There was no breath left in her. Her next whispered question was inaudible. I only saw the words forming on her white lips. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She swallowed hard and breathed in through her mouth. “Have you. . . .” Another swallow, another breath. “Have you killed anyone?”
I gave back a shocked stare. “Killed?”
“You heard me.”
Certainly I had killed, at Mrs. Montagu’s to save Father and Dr. Beldon from those damned rebels, at Elizabeth’s house when I’d shot Ash and thrown Tully like a doll across—but how could that matter to Nora? Could she somehow know what was going on here in London? Have heard some garbled story about Ridley?
“Because of the war, in my own defense, in defense of others,” I began, but stopped, seeing the dismay taking hold of her features. “Nora, what is it?”
She closed her eyes, refusing to meet mine.
Comprehension, ponderous, slow and appalling, finally dawned for me. “Dear God—I obtain what I need to live from horses or cattle. You don’t think I’d kill someone for their blood?”
Oh, but that’s exactly what she was thinking if I read her aright. Had I not come close to it with Arthur Tyne? I’d been injured, starving and mad for revenge of my hurts, but still. . . .
“I’d not do that. I’d never do that! You must believe me, Nora.”
“Never?” Her voice was high with doubt.
I nearly groaned, but nothing less than the truth would serve either of us well. “I almost did. Once. He’d nearly killed me, and I had to take from him to save myself . . . but I didn’t kill him. I let him go.”
“Who?”
“No one important, no one unimportant. Just a man.”
