“It w-was an accident, Your Grace!” Osgoode stammered. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
“You lie, you little fool,” Lord Wentworth countered, approaching him from behind. “I saw the whole thing. What did you expect to happen? Did you think His Grace would burst into flame?”
Ian wiped his face with a handkerchief, resisting the urge to bare his fangs. Those who weren’t staring at the altercation swarmed to the betting book to place wagers.
“Name your second,” Ian snarled. “I expect to see you at Chalk Walk in one hour!”
A white-faced fop came forward and put a hand on Osgoode’s shoulder as he faced Ian. “Er… Your Grace? Shouldn’t we be doing this at dawn?”
“I am disinclined to wait.” Ian spun on his heel and left. His temper made his blood thirst rise to a furious pitch.
The incident went off without a hitch. As was expected, the baron deloped, admitting guilt. Ian accepted the apology, and the seconds heaved sighs of relief. Both gentlemen tossed the yawning Dr. Sampson a sovereign for his troubles. There were a few grumbles of disappointment from the more bloodthirsty spectators, but most were eager to get back to their drink and games.
As Ian shook hands with his opponent before departing, he whispered, “Let this be a lesson to you to curb your impulses, Osgoode. And know this: I could have your blood if I wanted it.”
***
Word of the duel spread like a conflagration through every drawing room, gaming hall, and brothel in England’s hallowed capitol. Violent arguments broke out about the cause of the delicious incident. The more fantastical members of the ton averred that the duke was enraged at having holy water thrown at him because he felt his dastardly secret was at risk of exposure. Others were of agreement that purposeful damage to one’s neckcloth more than merited pistols at dawn. Many wielded their copies of “The Vampyre” as they again debated about Lord Burnrath’s status. Was he man or monster?
“Listen to this,” Lord Makepeace demanded of his inebriated audience as he opened the book and read, “‘It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank.’ That describes Burnrath right from the start!”
“Ah, but that is not quite accurate, for Burnrath is a duke,” Viscount Wheaton countered with a slight slur. “If you ask anyone, especially the mother of a debutante, she would say his rank is far more remarkable than his ‘singularities.’” Brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass as he raised it to his lips. “I daresay m’mother-in-law would welcome a match between Burnrath and Claire, even if the chap were to drain the chit’s blood on their wedding night!”
Makepeace glowered as the intoxicated group roared with laughter at Wheaton’s sally. Still, there were a few grumbles from those who were envious of Lord Burnrath’s wealth, title, and desirability. Lord Ponsonby, still slighted over Ian’s monopolizing of the Winthrop heiress, rose to the debate.
“Edward may have the right of it.” He nodded at Makepeace. “Duke or not, Burnrath has never been seen buying horses at Tattersall’s, racing at Rotten Row, or even boxing at Gentleman Jack’s.”
“Perhaps His Grace does not ride, and not all gentlemen are avid pugilists,” the Marquess of Wakefield argued, waving his cigar impatiently. “However, he does sponsor a boxer in Cheapside, I’ve heard.”
Ponsonby refused to be thwarted and tore John Polidori’s tale from Makepeace’s grasp. “What about this, eh?” he said, starting to read. “‘Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead gray eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass.’”
All shivered at the ghastly, yet visceral description. Ponsonby smiled in triumph. A young viscount nodded in eager agreement, swept away by the imaginative speculation going on in the club. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel when he looks at me!”
“His eyes are silver, not gray,” another man argued skeptically.
“All the more inhuman!” Ponsonby declared and continued reading, “‘He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned.’”
The men continued to drink and argue. The further into their cups they fell, the more convoluted their logic became until thoughtlessness did indeed reign.
***