Bite Me, Your Grace

Thirty-three


24 August 1821

Though the day was hot and sweltering, the crowd that had gathered outside the house on Great Pulteney Street shivered as if chilled. Death had visited here.

The coroner shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow as he stepped back into the August heat. The victim had very obviously committed suicide. A bottle of prussic acid was tipped over by the body’s outstretched hand, and the substance was all over the corpse’s face. But the constable had put considerable pressure on the coroner to write “natural causes” on the report.

Besides consideration for the family’s reputation, the fellow had been something of a notorious writer and a friend of the infamous Lord Byron. That was sufficient cause for lengthy paperwork and irritating hounding by the press, which had already gathered outside like carrion birds. A suicide would send the lot into throes of ecstasy and scandal broth.

The coroner addressed the crowd. “The death was of natural causes, and God rest his soul. I have been informed that his family is away in Italy, so unfortunately they will not be able to attend to a funeral. Due to the heat and possibility of contagion, I recommend that he be buried immediately.”

He watched as the crowd stepped back at the mention of contagion. It was all well and good to write “natural causes” on the report to avoid scandal, but the real reason he did it was to ensure the young man had a proper burial. If people discovered that Polidori committed suicide, he would not be buried in hallowed ground. Surely it was unfortunate enough that the poor chap had died so young.

As the coroner awaited the undertaker’s carriage, he listened to the snatches of conversation around him.

“…was completely estranged from his family, y’know,” a man was saying to a journalist who eagerly jotted down notes. “His dissolute behavior and gambling debts became too much for them.”

“I cannot believe he is dead!” a woman cried out.

“Yes, the news is so very tragic, isn’t it?” another answered.

A man coughed. “Indeed. The bastard owed me thirty pounds.”

A fop brandished his cane as he shouted over the crowd. “Well, I for one maintain that he was struck down by the almighty for his foul lies about authorship on that vampire story. Even an idiot would recognize the tale as the work of Lord Byron.”

Another glared and yelled, “You are a fool! Dr. Polidori wrote ‘The Vampyre.’ Lord Byron was the fraud!”

A riot would have broken out if the undertaker had not arrived. The sight of the somber black carriage pulled by black horses, and the grim-faced man driving it, automatically sobered the spectators. Silence reigned until the coffin was carried out and loaded into the carriage. The crowd dispersed then, most heading to the nearest pub to drink to the deceased, and only a few following the undertaker to the St. Pancras old churchyard to hear the priest say words over him before the burial.

By the time the undertaker patted down the last bit of earth on the new grave, the sun was setting. The graveyard was empty of all witnesses, except for a boy who hadn’t moved from his vantage point since the undertaker began digging.

The lad was awfully young. The undertaker would eat his hat if the boy had seen his first whisker.

“Ye should leave this place before dark, laddie,” he hollered as he loaded his tools back into the carriage. “Lest the ghosts and other sorts of nocturnal beasties get ye.”

“I would like to stay a bit longer,” the boy replied. “Dr. Polidori was a friend of mine.”

“Suit yerself,” the undertaker grumbled as he climbed up on his carriage seat and flicked the reins of his horses. “Don’t say I didn’t caution ye.”

In truth he was more concerned with the dangers of the living. This neighborhood was no place for a boy alone, especially one as pretty as that one. If he didn’t take care, he’d likely be robbed or buggered. The undertaker shook his head. Well, there was nothing he could do. After all, the dead ones were his business. And a fine business it was. He would have to be sure to pad the bill when Polidori’s family returned to London.

***

When the graveyard was empty at last, Angelica whipped off the woolen cap and shook out her sweat-drenched hair, grateful to feel fresh air on her scalp. She paced around Mary Wollstonecraft’s grave, thinking how romantic it was that this was the place where her daughter and Percy Shelley had their clandestine meetings.

Polidori had told her that Percy Shelley was constantly unfaithful to his wife, and he not only lived with Mary and her stepsister, Claire Clairmont, in a ménage à trois, but he was also constantly trying to get Mary to sleep with other men. The contempt had been so thick in John’s voice when he described the Shelleys’ marriage that Angelica wondered if he had been a little in love with Mary himself, or perhaps his Catholic upbringing made him frown more on adultery than most.

She frowned as her gaze rested on the freshly dug grave. It was so tragic that he was mourned by so few. In fact, many people did not even know who he was! And of those who did, many either defamed him by calling him a fraud or scorned him for his drinking and gambling habits. Perhaps, she thought as she looked up at the moon, he would gain more prestige in death than he had in life.

A movement at the corner of her eye brought her attention to the three cloaked figures approaching her.

“Thank you for keeping vigil,” one whispered then stood by her as the other two attacked John Polidori’s grave with shovels under the cover of darkness.

With inhuman speed, the coffin was unearthed and the body removed. Rosetta left Angelica’s side and looked upon the face of her beloved with fearful concern. “Is he—?”

“He is stirring. The drug is wearing off,” Ian said as his companion placed the man in her arms. “We must refill the grave and leave before we are discovered.”

By the time the group had returned to Burnrath House, John Polidori had regained consciousness. Angelica was relieved that Ian had dismissed the servants for the night.

“I cannot believe I was buried alive,” Polidori said after his thirst was slaked with a cup of water. “In a way, I wish I had been able to be aware of the situation. The experience would have been interesting, in a morbid sort of manner.”

“You will have your chance soon enough,” Rafael Villar told him. “You and your bride will be transported by coffin on the journey to France and then to America, only able to rise at night to feed. I wager you’ll be sick of being a corpse by the end of it.”

Angelica shuddered at the thought of being trapped in a box on a ship for a journey halfway across the world. She wished Rosetta and John didn’t have to go so far, but she knew that America was the safest place for them. Though John had “died” to the public, there was still a great chance that he would be recognized in England or on the Continent.

The Spanish vampire that would rule London for the next fifty years stalked toward Polidori with a scowl. “Are you ready, doctor?”

John kissed Rosetta and nodded. “Yes.”

Since Ian was to Change Angelica tonight, Rafael had agreed to Change John, for Rosetta was not old or powerful enough to be able to do the deed herself.

Rafael fixed Angelica with an intent stare. “Consider my debt to you repaid, duchess.”

Angelica swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Rafael.”

Ian took her in his arms. “Would you like to watch the process before I Change you?”

Angelica smiled at her husband with shining eyes. He had worked so hard to form a plan to keep John and Rosetta together safely.

“No. I trust you with all my heart.” She grabbed the candelabra with one hand and extended her other for his escort. “Shall we retire to our room, Your Grace?”

Ian nodded. “Indeed, my duchess.”

They mounted the stairs to the bedchamber, his hand clinging to hers as if he would never let go of her grasp.

Once the lamps were lit, Ian tilted her chin with reverent fingertips. “Angel, I have been meaning to inform you, there were many historical inaccuracies in your vampire story. For example, potatoes and beer were not around until the Elizabethan era, when they were introduced from the New World. Ale and wine were the preferred beverages of Henry’s reign.”

Angelica stiffened at the painful reminder of the manuscript he had burned. “And just what point are you trying to make, Your Grace?”

He smiled. “If you were willing to rewrite the tale, I would be happy to help you with the historical details of the reign of Henry VIII. And then there is the matter of the ending. You left the characters in quite a bind. How did you intend for that to work out?”

Her heart nearly burst with joy. “You want me to write the story again, truly? I struggled unbearably with it, for I was unable to come up with a suitable happy ending for my characters. Things were so strained between us, you see.” A frown marred her brow. “But what would people say? What if another hunter comes after you?”

“Thanks to Polidori’s tale, vampire stories are springing up everywhere. I’m sure the hunters are chasing their tails trying to find the real ones. Still, I feel it would likely be prudent to wait a while before publishing your tale.”

Angelica blinked in disbelief at his cavalier words. “I believe we have plenty of time, Your Grace. I still have no idea how to end the dratted thing.”

Ian caressed her cheek. “Then we will have to seek inspiration.” He captured her lips until she was breathless from his kisses before he sank to his knee. “Angelica Ashton, will you be my eternal bride and companion? Will you walk beside me every night for as long as we both shall live?”

She melted into his embrace. “I will.”

As his fangs sank into her throat, she smiled. None of her stories could have ended this perfectly.