Jane and the Damned (13 page)

“No, I seek to become foxed,” Margaret said. “Good morning to you, Luke.”

Luke came into the room, yawning and rubbing his head, his hair rumpled. He wore a shirt open at the neck and breeches, his legs and feet bare as though he had risen hastily from his bed. “You’re up devilish early.”

Jane handed Margaret her second glass of wine.

“Your blood isn’t too bad,” Margaret said. “A little too much garlic, though.”

Luke dropped into a chair and called out to the footman. “Fetch Miss Austen some parsley, if you please, and bring us some tea.”

“Could I not bite someone who had eaten parsley?” Jane asked, attempting to lighten the situation.

They both frowned at her.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Luke said. He turned to Margaret. “So Mr. Cole proved incapable of providing you with babies?”

Margaret wrinkled her nose at him. “I have scarcely been able to sit up, let alone resume my marital duties.”

They sat in silence as Margaret sipped her wine, eyes closed, as though that moment of animation had cost her dearly.

Luke yawned but Jane noticed his gaze never left Margaret. Once he reached out to steady the glass, touching the back of her hand with his fingertips. She stirred and opened her eyes and Jane thought she smiled a little at him. Luke looked away as though unsettled by the brief exchange.

The footman entered with a limp bunch of parsley on a plate and tea things on a tray. “Yesterday’s parsley, sir, and yesterday’s milk, too, but I think it’s still good. The housekeeper is out looking for supplies.”

Luke directed Jane to a tea caddy on the sideboard and she made tea; after which, seeing that Luke was quite serious about the consumption of parsley, she took a handful of the sorrylooking herb.

“Do we eat in the normal course of things?” Jane asked.

“Of course. We do not need to, but it is—or should be—a pleasurable pursuit. You may have noticed how things taste and how you can sense their origin. But if you need sustenance, food or drink will be of little use.” Margaret sat up a little straighter on her chair. She was still pale, but her skin had lost its translucent fragility and Jane could see now the traces of the extraordinary beauty that the Damned possessed.

Upstairs, someone started to play scales on a pianoforte, an ordinary, familiar sound.

Luke stood abruptly and moved away, teacup in hand. “And what are we to do with you, Jane?”

She looked at his unyielding back and then at Margaret for support. “I told my father I wished to join you in the fight against the French.”

“Indeed. And then you intend to leave us, I suppose.”

“You forget a precedent has been set,” Margaret interposed.

Luke shrugged. Upstairs, the musician launched into a sonata by Clementi that Jane recognized.

“You are horrid when you are cross,” Margaret commented.

“My apologies, ma’am.” Luke turned and bowed. “Allow me.” He raised one hand to his mouth and dripped a little blood into her teacup. Jane heard him release his breath as Margaret drank and smiled at him.

The intimacy of the moment sent a pang of loneliness through her. She wished to leave but scarcely knew what etiquette demanded. What was worse, Luke probably sensed her unease but did little to reassure her, with his attention on Margaret.

“Jane,” he said, without looking at her, “if you have finished your parsley, you may go upstairs to the drawing room and meet our newcomer. Then I suggest you go home to your family and return here at six o’clock, when we dine.”

Dine? She hoped he meant she could feed again.

She stood and dropped a curtsy. Luke now sat next to Margaret, her hand in his. He raised the other to her cheek and swiped away a tear.

Jane closed the door, glad to escape the intensity of the moment, although she also found it excessively interesting. She must remember it for a book, if it did not smack too much of indecency. An adulterous relationship might be frowned upon, but possibly the reunion of two former lovers overcoming their injuries to each other could prove an interesting topic; and certainly the gentleman would never appear unshod and in his shirtsleeves.

Upstairs, the drawing room was empty, apart from a man who sat, his back to her, at the pianoforte. His musical skills were superb, and to her great pleasure, the instrument was perfectly
tuned. He nodded his mane of chestnut-colored hair to indicate that he had heard her enter and she bent over his shoulder to take the page and turn it for him.

As she did so she studied him. There was something familiar about him, the curved nose and arrogant set of the head, the bright blue eyes.

She gasped and he stopped playing as she dropped into a curtsy. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, I did not expect …”

She could not finish the sentence. No one expected the heir to the throne to be one of the Damned.

“Bless my soul,” the Prince of Wales said. “Or rather—since I have no soul at the moment, I beg your pardon, ma’am. Pray do not stand on formality with me. I did not mean to take you by surprise.”

He stood, offering her a hand, and raised her from her deep curtsy.

“But you!” she said. “You have become—I am all astonishment. How long since? By design?” She stopped, remembering her frequent breaches of etiquette.

“It seemed the best course of action,” he replied. “Certain among us knew the French were to invade at any time, so only a few days ago I was created. Capital fellow, William—I beg your pardon, ma’am, did I speak out of turn?”

“He is your Bearleader?”

“Indeed, yes. Who is yours?”

I have none.
“Luke, but he did not create me. He adopted me, so to speak.”

“My commiserations. They will treat you like a poor cousin, you know, as though it were your fault.”

“I know, and to make it worse I fear I have offended him.”

“Oh, he’s a Bearleader with a sore head.” The Prince of Wales laughed uproariously at his own joke. “There’s some trouble with a lady, I believe. It’s why they all came to Bath, for normally they wouldn’t be here—the waters are poison to our kind, as you know. I can’t countenance having all of eternity to bicker with one’s beloved. I was adamant the Princess of Wales should not be created, nor the rest of the family.”

“Are they safe?”

“I believe so. I don’t know where they are, and they don’t know where I am or what I have become. It’s safest that way, you see, although the French are welcome to Her Highness.”

Jane was silent. Everyone knew of the Prince of Wales’s animosity toward his wife.

“So, you must call me George, and you are …?”

“I am Jane.”

“Capital. Would you care to play a duet?”

“I’m most honored that you asked, but you play far better than I.” She tried to smile. Jilted by William for the Prince of Wales and the security of the succession—it was an honor of sorts, she supposed.

“Odd, ain’t it,” George continued, “you and I both know we’re young for the Damned, but I’m damned if I can tell the age of the ladies. But then I’ve always favored ladies somewhat older than myself, although I never thought I’d meet ladies who were several hundred years my senior. So how do you get on, Jane? Can you retract your canines yet?”

“I certainly can.” She showed him.

“Very good. I tend to lisp if I do not watch out.”

She laughed, and realized then that he could sense her distress and had attempted to put her at her ease. “You know, I always thought you were fat and stupid.”

He burst into easy laughter and slapped his flat abdomen. “I’ll never have to hear a doctor or my tailor complain about my girth while I’m one of the Damned. And to be honest, Jane, I’m not the cleverest of fellows, and those devilish caricaturists have no mercy for my expanding waist or my mishaps. But I think I could be a pretty good vampire and prove myself against the French. Poor old Papa would never let me go for a soldier. Now, about that duet—do have pity and play with me, Jane. I fear I shall lose the knack and I need someone to keep me up to scratch. I am sure you are a clever woman and can play and sing and embroider and do all those things young ladies have drummed into their head.”

“Mostly indifferently, I fear. My greatest, or rather my only true accomplishment, is as a writer.” She paused. “Or as a former writer. I have a novel written and ideas for several others. But since this—since I was created—I had almost forgotten about it.”

“Well, there’s no denying it’s a shock to the system. Turns you upside down and inside out. D’you feel hungry all the time? But to return to your writing—I’d be most honored if you’d let me read your novel. My friends have told me I have an eye for a well-ritten page.”

She shook her head. “I regret I cannot let anyone read my imperfect work at the moment.”

“I apologize. I did not mean to press you.” He handed her a book of music. “Please, choose a duet you know or one you can read at sight.”

He was kind to her and she was grateful, even if he had what she could not, William’s care and regard. She found a duet by Haydn that she and Cassandra had played. They argued politely over who should take the top part, and she insisted she should take the bass part, suspecting he would enjoy the flourish and melody of the upper. Her extreme sensitivity to the ivory and ebony of the keys
had faded and she was able to enjoy the experience, even when the pianoforte began to lose its pitch.

They finished the piece with a resounding, triumphant chord, and both winced.

“A mixed blessing where music is concerned, is it not?” Jane said.

“I don’t think I could bear to hear anyone sing,” George commented, fishing the tuning key from its hidden compartment. “You play exceedingly well, Jane.”

“Thank you. You too.”

“I’m interested in this sort of thing. Music, books, art. Architecture. Or I was. Now I tend to think only of the next feed.”

“Some would say little has changed.”

He laughed.
“Touché,
Jane. Do you stay at the house with us?”

She shook her head. “My family is nearby. They brought me here for the cure and my father knows of my condition and that I intend to fight the French, but the rest of the family think I take the waters. And so I will, when the French have gone. You too, I suppose?”

He nodded. “An unpleasant experience, from what I have heard, but you and I shall suffer together. Misery loves company, as they say.”

“Indeed. I don’t enjoy deceiving my mother and sister; I’m not even sure I can.”

“William taught me a little of that. It takes some concentration. You have to look into their minds frequently and tell them what they want to hear. They don’t want you to be a vampire, you know, unless they want you to drink from them, and you’d know that soon enough.” His eyes gleamed. “Some very pretty girls are in and out of this house. Gentlemen too, for the ladies of the Damned, and I daresay they’ll find a way even with the curfew. We shan’t be hungry for long. It’s rather like gambling or laudanum,
you know. Why, in London, some of the most respectable matrons of the
ton
bare their necks and raise their skirts for handsome vampires. Has not Luke introduced you to a suitable partner yet?”

“I believe he will tonight.” She tried to keep her voice calm. She wanted to dine but the circumstances appalled her; she could not imagine such intimacy and gratification with a stranger, but the more she tried not to think about it, her excitement and extending canines shamed her. She touched a discreet finger to her lips.

He burst into one of his sudden laughs. “All this formality—it’s almost as bad as being at court, but here most of them—or rather us—are half undressed and mad for blood. Well, Jane, at least you don’t have to look like a hot-air balloon in one of those damned silly court gowns to meet me.”

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you very much, George.” She slipped from the piano bench and offered him her hand. “I shall return tonight.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then backed away, looking exceedingly embarrassed. “Dreadfully thorry,” he said, and brought a finger to his mouth.

Back at the house at Paragon Place, Jane found her sister once again in the kitchen.

“I am so glad you are home,” Cassandra said. “Where have you been?”

Jane concentrated hard and drove the question from Cassandra’s mind.

Cassandra blinked. “What did I just say? This is dreadful, Jane. Papa has shut himself into our uncle’s study, and Mama will not be comforted. She has taken to her bed. The only good thing is that the French soldiers left the house and then they brought
back this, so we shall have something for dinner tonight.” She indicated a large cut of meat that lay on the kitchen table. “I think it is mutton. At least, I hope it is so.”

Jane laid her hand on the cold, clammy stuff. Woolly bodies shoved against each other in a windy field, seeking warmth. “Yes, it is mutton. Would you like me to make pastry again?”

“Yes, indeed. Your pastry is excellent, and we have some lard and flour still. Our chickens—or rather, our aunt and uncle’s chickens—still lay, but I wonder how soon it will be before we must eat them. Papa told us commerce will return to the city, but Mrs. Burgess says everything is so expensive and there are French soldiers everywhere.” Cassandra picked up a cleaver and regarded the meat with trepidation. “How shall I cut this up?”