Jane Vows Vengeance (8 page)

“I didn’t know anybody actually read that magazine,” Walter joked.

“I do,” Suzu said, her tone so soft that she might have been apologizing.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get mixed up with
us lot?” asked Brodie. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t seem like an architect.”

“You mean you’ve never heard of me,” Suzu said, smiling lightly.

“That’s precisely what I mean,” Brodie admitted. “So who are you?”

“I teach aesthetics at Kumamoto University,” said Suzu.

“Ah,” Brodie said. “A professor.”

“Yes,” Suzu said. “Well, good night. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other in the days to come.”

They said their good nights and watched as Suzu left the bar. When she was out of earshot Brodie looked at Walter and Jane. “I still have no idea why she’s here.”

“Is it so odd that a professor would be invited?” asked Jane.

“Not if she was a professor of something useful,” said Brodie.

“Aesthetics is useful,” Walter countered, although he sounded less than convinced himself.

Brodie shot him a look. “Like I said, must be a friend of Enid’s.”

“Well, she seems sweet enough,” said Walter.

“Careful,” said Brodie. “She’s the enemy.”

“Enemy?” Walter said. “Oh, you mean the whole Chumsley-versus-Enid thing.” He laughed. “I’ll be careful not to share any state secrets with her, then.”

More drinks were produced, and Jane listened as Brodie and Walter exchanged stories about people she didn’t know doing things she cared little about. Still, she was having a good time. Chumsley and Enid had, she thought, assembled quite an interesting cast of characters. With a bit of luck they would provide entertaining company for the next two weeks.

Suddenly a hush fell over the room. The piano player, who was halfway through “Happiness Is a Thing Called Joe,” hit a wrong note and stopped. Even the ice ceased its tinkling. Jane looked
around to see what was happening and saw the guests looking in opposite directions—half toward the front of the bar and half toward the back.

At the front stood a short, stout woman, her graying hair cut in an unflattering shag. She wore a plaid skirt that did little to flatter her figure, a bulky sweater of green wool that was equally unhelpful, and heavy black shoes that could only be described as sensible.
That must be Enid
, Jane thought.

Enid—along with half of the guests—was staring at a man who Jane assumed to be Chumsley. He was all that his name implied. As short and stout as his ex-wife, he too had gray hair, although less of it. Curiously, he was dressed in what appeared to be some kind of riding outfit, including brown twill breeches tucked into leather boots, a yellow high-collared shirt beneath a red vest, and a herringbone ivy cap.

“Is he carrying a crop?” Jane whispered to Walter.

“And here we go,” Brodie said as Enid and Chumsley advanced on each other. They stopped when they were about a yard apart and as if by some unspoken cue turned so that they were back to back.

“Welcome, friends,” they said in unison. Oddly, it was impossible to tell their voices apart.

“We have a terrific trip planned,” Chumsley continued.

“We’ve each selected our favorite homes to show you,” said Enid.

“Some of which are more exciting than others,” Chumsley added.

“Indeed,” said Enid icily.

“Our tour will begin on Wednesday, when I take you to one of the finest homes in all of England,” Chumsley announced. “It’s one that is seldom visited, as the owner is a reluctant host. But as it happens, he is a good friend of mine and has graciously allowed us a visit. We’ll journey by railway to the village of Cripple Minton in Warwickshire and spend the day touring the house.
That evening, following a delightful dinner, we’ll board another train, which will take us through the night to arrive the next morning in Pembroke, Wales, where we’ll catch a ferry to Rosslare, Ireland.”

He said
Ireland
as if he were naming a particularly vile type of pudding, and Jane caught his eyes cutting to a lanky, red-haired man leaning against the wall behind Enid.
That must be Ryan McGuinness
, she thought.
Oh, this will be fun
.

“And
that
is where the tour will truly begin,” Enid said loudly. “But enough of what’s to come. Let us enjoy the rest of the evening together.”

She and Chumsley exchanged curt nods and walked to separate parts of the room. Chumsley, seeing Walter and Brodie, came over to their table.

“Gentlemen,” he said expansively. “So good to see you.”

“And you, Chumsley,” said Walter, shaking the man’s hand.

“Chumsley,” said Brodie, “you appear to have lost your horse.”

Chumsley tapped him on the shoulder with his crop. “Enough out of you, you cheeky bastard,” he said. “You know I wear this only to annoy Enid.” He looked at Walter and Jane. “My ex-wife is deeply afraid of horses,” he explained. “As a child she was nipped quite badly by an Icelandic fjord pony, and ever since has harbored a fear that she might be eaten by one. If you want to give her a good fright, sneak up behind her and give a little whinny. She’ll likely soil her knickers.”

Jane laughed despite herself, earning a smile from Chumsley. “A lady with a wicked sense of humor,” he said. “I like you already.”

“That fine young lady is soon to be Walter’s wife,” Brodie informed him. “Tomorrow, to be exact.”

“A lucky man he is, then,” said Chumsley. “I’ll drink your health as soon as I can find someone to give me a whiskey. Will you all join me?”

Walter glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid we should be getting to bed,” he said. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow night, then,” said Chumsley. “Once you’re properly married. We’ll have dinner at the Lord and Lamb.”

“I look forward to it,” said Walter.

“As do I,” Jane said.

“And I,” said Brodie.

Chumsley looked at him. “Who said you were invited?”

“I suppose I could always go with Enid’s group,” said Brodie. “They seem like a jolly bunch.”

“Like hell you will,” said Chumsley. “Now you two lovebirds run along. This degenerate and I have some drinking to do.”

Walter stood, as did Jane, and they exchanged good nights all around. Jane, now even less stable on her feet thanks to the gin and tonics, took Walter’s arm. “Should we say hello to Enid?” she asked, glancing toward the back of the bar.

“Best not to start a civil war on our first night,” said Walter. “There will be plenty of time for that.”

As they waited for the elevator to arrive Jane happened to glance toward the reception desk and saw that Gosebourne was standing behind it. Seeing her, he looked around and then waved her over.

“I’ll be right up,” Jane told Walter. “You go on ahead.”

“Are you sure?” asked Walter. “I can wait.”

“It’s fine,” said Jane. “I’m just going to get some … mints. At the gift shop.”

Walter gave her a peculiar look. “Mints?”

Jane nodded. “I have gin breath,” she said.

The elevator came and Walter stepped inside. Jane began walking toward Gosebourne when suddenly Miriam came walking briskly past her.

“Hold the doors!” Miriam yelled, ignoring Jane.

Jane turned and watched as Miriam entered the elevator.

“Mother,” she heard Walter say, “I thought you were with Ben and Lucy.”

“I was,” Miriam snapped. “But I wanted to talk to you. I can’t believe you want to have your wedding at—”

The elevator doors shut, cutting off the end of her remark.

“Bloody old vampire hunter,” Jane muttered as she went to see what Gosebourne wanted. When she reached him he seemed slightly agitated. “Is something wrong?” Jane asked.

“No,” Gosebourne said. “Not wrong. In fact, it might be something very good. I wanted to mention it earlier, but thought it best to wait until we could speak privately.”

“Something good?” said Jane. She leaned in and whispered. “Is it something about our kind?”

Gosebourne nodded. “I think it may be of particular interest to
you
,” he said. “Given your … situation.”

“Which situation might that be?” Jane asked. “There are several.”

“The man you’re marrying, he’s mortal?” asked Gosebourne.

Jane nodded.

“And you don’t wish to turn him?” Gosebourne continued.

“I’d prefer not to,” said Jane.

Gosebourne licked his lips. “Then I might know of a way,” he said.

“A way to what?” Jane asked. “I don’t understand.”

“A way to turn you back,” said Gosebourne.

Tuesday: London

“I
S THIS WHERE
A
NNE
B
OLEYN IS BURIED
?” L
UCY ASKED, LOOKING
around the room.

“No,” said Walter. “She’s buried downstairs in the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula. So are a lot of other people, most of them executed for one thing or another. This is the Chapel of St. Paul the Evangelist. It was used primarily in private services for the royal family, and occasionally by the condemned before they went out to meet the axe. Prisoners were housed upstairs.”

“It’s so beautiful for a place that has such a bloody history,” Ben remarked.

“Isn’t it?” said Walter. “It’s one of the finest examples of Norman-period architecture we have. See the groin vaulting above the aisles? And look at the scallop and leaf designs on the capitals—so simple, but so beautiful. The proportions here are absolutely perfect.”

“How about looking at the bride for a minute?” said Jane.

Walter turned and his mouth dropped open. Her dress was amazing. Unsure what she wanted, Jane had started looking through photographs for inspiration. Somehow she had stumbled upon a series of images of Paris in the 1950s, photographs of people
at cocktail parties. There was something glamorous about them—about the highballs and cigarettes, the furniture with its modern shapes, the suits on the men and the dresses on the women—that appealed to her. One dress in particular had caught her eye, and she had gotten a local seamstress to make her a version of it.

Made from lightweight pearl-pink silk taffeta jacquard with a muted pattern of roses and swirls, the dress had a sweetheart décolletage with bolero-style bodice and
manches-cape
. Fitted tightly at the waist, the fuller A-line skirt fell below the knee, and Jane had found the perfect pale pink pumps to pair with it. That morning she’d had her hair done at the hotel’s salon. It was now in a low chignon, perfectly set and polished. On her ears were a pair of vintage diamond and pearl earrings, an unexpected gift from Walter, featuring numerous small diamonds in an intricate white gold star-shaped setting with pearls between each arm of the star. It was her only jewelry. Her makeup was similarly low-key, and she carried a simple bouquet of pale pink roses and white hydrangeas.

“Well?” Jane asked when no one spoke.

“You look beautiful,” said Lucy, putting her hand to her mouth as if she might cry.

“You look like you’re freezing,” Miriam said. She herself was wearing a heavy wool fisherman’s sweater and a knitted hat, looking more like a Maine sea captain than the mother of the groom.

In truth it
was
cold. Eleventh-century castles are not the warmest places in early March, and the snow outside did little to create an air of cheer. But Jane didn’t notice, and not just because being undead made her fairly immune to cold. She was too focused on finally becoming Walter’s wife to care about anything else, even her intractable mother-in-law-to-be.

“Walter?” she said when he’d stared at her for a full minute without making a sound.

He smiled. “I’ve never seen anything so wonderful,” he said, his voice cracking.

“It is a nice dress, isn’t it?” said Jane.

“It’s not the dress,” Walter said. “It’s you.”

Jane felt her breath catch in her throat. She thought she might cry. But she couldn’t look away from Walter. He was so handsome in his dark suit, white shirt, and pale pink tie (she’d told him that much about her dress, so that they would match) that she felt as if she’d never seen him before.
He’s going to be my husband in a few minutes
, she thought, walking toward him.

Ben was standing in front of the altar at the east end of the chapel. Jane and Walter stood in front of him. Behind him snow fell gently past the stained-glass window, which glowed faintly in the midmorning light.

“She’s much prettier than Catherine Howard.”

A boy’s voice cut through the morning stillness. Jane, wondering if someone had crept into the chapel unannounced, turned around.

“What is it?” Walter asked.

“Didn’t you hear that?” said Jane.

Lucy and Miriam, seated on opposite sides of the narrow aisle, looked at her, puzzled.

“Yes, but not as pretty as Lady Jane Grey,” argued a second voice, also male and also young.

Jane looked up, wondering if the boys had snuck into the triforium and were playing a prank, but no small faces peered back at her.
Perhaps they’re hiding behind one of the pillars
, she thought.

“Do you think she can hear us?” said the first voice.

“Don’t be daft,” the second answered. “Of course she can’t.”