Bite Me, Your Grace

Four


When Angelica arrived at the headquarters of The New Monthly Magazine, not only was the owner, Henry Colburn, present but he was also unoccupied and eager to read new material. Best of all, her disguise seemed to pass muster. Without the slightest odd glance, an assistant served her a cup of tepid tea and bade her to wait in the outer office while Colburn retired to his private office to read. Out of the corner of her eye, Angelica peered out the window and watched Liza’s pacing, envious that her maid was allowed to indulge in an outward display of nervousness.

Angelica lounged in her chair instead, trying to look bored and resisting the urge to pick at invisible lint on her coat. Just as she was ready to tap her uncomfortable Hessians in impatience, Colburn emerged from his office.

“I like it,” he said.

“You do?” Angelica held back a whoop of joy.

As if sensing her restraint, Colburn’s thin lips twitched in a slight smile. “Indeed. These tales are all the rage and I admire your descriptive ability. I’ll give you six pounds.”

Six pounds! Angelica could hardly contain her glee. Finally she was a real author, paid for her work.

The money exchanged hands, and her joy was compounded when Colburn asked, “Do you have any more?”

Angelica coughed and stammered, “W-well, I do have an idea about a haunted mansion.”

The editor nodded stiffly. “Excellent. Have the manuscript ready by next week and I’ll pay you double. That is, if this first one sells, which I believe it will. Good day, Mr. Winters.”

Angelica grinned and almost curtsied. She recovered herself and shook his hand, squeezing with all her might. “And a good day to you, Mr. Colburn!”

Once she and Liza were settled in their rented hack, Angelica bounced up and down as she changed back into her dress and recounted the events to the maid, punctuating each sentence with, “I will be a published author!”

“’Ey, there’ll be no ’anky-panky goin’ on in my coach, gov’ner!” the driver shouted.

“We’re behaving,’” Liza called back as she untied Angelica’s neckcloth.

Changing back into her dress was a struggle, but the task was managed by the time the carriage stopped. Angelica patted her reticule containing her disguise, her head spinning in delirious glee as they walked around the block to her home.

“Whatever took you so long?” Margaret demanded the moment they entered the front parlor.

Not even her mother’s anger at the lateness of their arrival dampened Angelica’s spirits. “I am sorry, Mother. The traffic was a veritable stalemate out there.”

Margaret sighed and looked at the mantel clock. “Very well, just do not let it happen again. Now, hurry up to your bath. The doors close at Almack’s at eleven o’clock sharp, and not even the King himself would be admitted one minute after.”

Liza helped her into her ivory silk ball gown while Angelica muttered, “I wish I didn’t have to spend the evening being paraded about the marriage mart drinking lukewarm lemonade and making small talk to the dandies as they sniff out my dowry. Do you think Mother would let me stay home and write if I plead the sick headache?”

The maid chuckled. “She wouldn’t believe the lie for a second, miss. Now I’ll see to your hair and you can tell me about your next chilling ghost story.”

***

Angelica’s heart warmed when she entered the dining room to see her father seated at the table in evening wear. As her eyes met his, she realized that Jacob Winthrop was a noble man, no matter what the ton said.

“You look stunning, my dearest,” he said and rose to pull out her chair.

She smiled and curtsied. “Thank you, Papa.”

“Well, Jacob,” Margaret said, her voice trembling with ill-concealed excitement, “are you going to tell her the good news?”

Her father cleared his throat with authority and winked at Angelica. “Your season is already a success. While you were gone, I’ve received three offers for your hand today.”

“What?” Angelica gasped as her veins seemed to fill with ice.

He nodded. “Yes, apparently Lord Makepeace, Sir George Wiltshire, and Baron Osgoode are quite taken with you.”

“An earl already!” her mother exclaimed.

“Wh-what did you say to them?” Angelica kept her shaking hands in her lap and out of sight.

“I told them I would consider their offers, but I would like for you to enjoy a full season as this is the only opportunity a girl has to be courted. I placated them by giving them full permission to call upon you in the meantime as I believe it’s only fair that you should have the opportunity to get to know them better.” He raised his glass in a toast to her. “I intend for you to have some opinion in the matter, my dear.”

Angelica almost opened her mouth to say she wanted none of them, but her mother silenced her with a glare and a shake of her head. Instead, she regarded her father’s loving smile and managed a wan one of her own.

“I appreciate your consideration, Papa.” She struggled to keep her dread from showing.

Margaret nodded in approval. “And just think, that gives us time to see if we can wring an offer from someone better, perhaps even a duke!”

***

Ian growled low in his throat as he viewed the most recent entries in the White’s betting book. Usually the bets were harmless, ranging from the commonplace, such as horse races and boxing matches, to the ludicrous, such as when one of the patrons would catch a cold. However, two wagers had him grinding his teeth. One was that he, the Duke of Burnrath, would bed the saucy Winthrop heiress.

The bet was only for one hundred pounds, but it still left a foul taste in his mouth. He had done little more than dance with the young lady. Ian was somewhat placated to see counter-bets that Ponsonby or Wheaton would do the deed, for at least he was not singled out. Even better, there were wagers to see who would marry her, those raised already as high as one thousand pounds.

What truly enraged him was the betting that he was, indeed, a vampire. Apparently, his appearance before mirrors and dining on garlic were not enough to still the wagging tongues.

Lord Makepeace nudged in to write his wager on that very line.

“And just how am I to prove this silly speculation one way or the other?” Ian asked.

Makepeace jumped, face white as his cravat. “I-I say, Burnrath, I did not recognize you at first!” He managed a nervous chuckle. “I implore you not to drink my blood.”

Ian laughed. “According to the stories, I think I am supposed to prefer the blood of innocent maidens.”

The earl looked at him in confusion before comprehension finally dawned and he let out a hearty guffaw, clapping Ian on the back. “Quite so.”

Makepeace returned to the betting book and wagered six hundred pounds that Ian Ashton, Duke of Burnrath, was not a bloodsucking fiend. He then wagered eleven hundred that he, Lord Makepeace, would wed Miss Winthrop.

The earl clapped Ian on the shoulder. “I’ve enjoyed chatting with you, Burnrath, but I must leave for Almack’s and pay court to a certain lovely young lady.”

As the earl left, Ian suppressed the urge to wrap his hands around the fop’s scrawny neck. Surely a lady as witty and beautiful as Angelica could do better than a mutton-headed cad like Makepeace. He shook his head, frowning. The decision would be in her parents’ hands as it always had been in the upper classes. The poor girl would be lucky to wed a man young enough to give her pleasure. A full-blown image of the little temptress struck him. Ian cursed himself for wanting something he could never have and vowed to keep Angelica Winthrop from his mind.

Ian sat down at one of the green felt tables to play a hand of cards. He may have dissuaded one man’s suspicions tonight, but apparently he would have to do more to stop the talk altogether. He hoped his informants would track down Polidori soon.

As the game progressed, Ian found it more and more difficult to focus on his cards and the conversation with his opponents. Something hadn’t been right when he met with his subordinates the night before. Nothing obvious had appeared to be amiss, but the more he pondered, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. A detail of that conversation teased his memory with infuriating vagueness. Perhaps he should discuss the matter with his second in command. Rafe was ruthless in ferreting out mischief.

Ian gave up on the game with a sigh, turning in his markers. As he turned toward the door, lukewarm liquid splashed in his face. The slight odor of beeswax and incense revealed the liquid to be holy water. From the corner of his eye he spied the young Baron Osgoode stuffing a flask in his pocket, trying to look inconspicuous, and failing miserably. He seized the boy by the shoulder and spun him around.

“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.

***

Castlecoote, Ireland

Ben Flannigan groaned as he pulled on the stake, using all of his strength to work the sharpened piece of ash out of the monster’s breast. The stake came free with a squelch and a crunch of bone. He took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow before he squared his shoulders and turned back to the corpse. His work was only half finished. Now he needed to drag nearly two hundred pounds of deadweight out from the crypt and into the sun.

By the time the task was complete, the hunter was gasping for breath. He pulled a flask of good Irish whiskey from his pocket and settled back against a tombstone to watch God’s light do its work.

Contrary to the legends, a vampire did not burst into flames the moment the body came into contact with the sun’s rays. The body’s pale visage pinkened as if embarrassed by its predicament, then slowly darkened to a red not unlike that of a boiled lobster. Steam rose from the corpse with a hiss, emphasizing the comparison.

Ben chuckled and raised his flask in a toast to the sun before taking a deep drink. This was his favorite part. The vampire’s crimson flesh now began to blacken and crackle. Tendrils of acrid smoke curled up and out of the body. Moments later, the first flames flickered out of the melting eyeballs as well as the thing’s nostrils.

Once the body was engulfed in flames, Ben retrieved two large jugs of holy water from his bag. The first he poured out in a circle around the corpse to keep the flames from spreading. The second he would use when the creature had been reduced to ashes.

While he waited, the hunter logged the details of the kill in his journal. His count was now fourteen, one of the highest of all hunters. He was not as pleased with those accomplishments as another might be, however. This vampire, as well as the other that he had destroyed in Windsor, had been a disappointment, no older or craftier than his last thirteen kills. Since he had failed at attaining the priesthood, Ben Flannigan was determined to excel at this profession and it was past time for more challenging quarry.

He rummaged in his pack until he found his tattered copy of “The Vampyre” by John Polidori. Ever since he had read the story, a question had invaded his mind and refused to be ignored. Could a vampire truly pose as a member of the nobility?

The more he thought about it, the more he concluded such a thing was indeed possible. He’d read that those in the ranks of high society engaged in mindless revelry until dawn and then slept the day away during the social season. The rest of their time they spent sequestered on their country estates. A vampire could do very well in such an environment if it were very powerful and extremely clever.

The last line of the story was a whispered echo in the back of his mind, filling him with an odd mixture of dread and predatory titillation: “The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a VAMPYRE!”

Ah, to face such a clever enemy, to cast off its mask and expose its deception to all before dispatching the abomination back to hell. The thought warmed Ben like the flames of a Yule log. He longed to try his hand at such prey.

Aside from the fact that travel to London, not to mention lodgings, would be costly, Ben had put off his decision to go there for well over a year. After all, facing an ancient vampire would be nothing like the younglings he had slain. His teacher, God rest his soul, had told him such stories.

But now, after fourteen kills, nine of those in the last year, Ben was ready. He could feel it down to the marrow of his very bones.