Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (23 page)

Tom offered a brief and graceful endorsement of Jane’s virtues, which Charlotte dismissed with a casual wave of her hand and the comment that he did not know Jane at all as one of the Damned.

“Your family, Jane Austen. What of them?” Charlotte asked. “From whom are you descended?”

“My father was a clergyman, the descendant of a respectable family that has lived in these parts for some generations. I have brothers in the law and the Navy and—”

“Middling folk.” The contempt showed on Charlotte’s face. It was a matter of pride among the Damned that most of them, or so they claimed, were descendants of great and noble families, even royalty. She addressed the room again. “Before I pass sentence, is there anyone else who wishes to speak on this woman’s behalf?”

“I do, ma’am.”

The redheaded woman strode to the front of the room, her gauzy green gown flowing behind her. She ignored Jane and curtsied to Charlotte.

Jane glanced at Luke, but he met her gaze with indifference.

So she was doomed by her birth and the woman who had betrayed her once before. Luke’s attempts to find a character witness had failed, and there was little he could do now. She forced herself to stand upright and keep her expression calm.

Chapter 22

C
harlotte looked at Margaret, eyebrows raised. She must surely know the history of Luke and Margaret, and how Jane had been Margaret’s rival.

“Proceed.” Charlotte fingered the heavy jewels at her throat.

“I am Margaret. I met Jane in Bath in ’97. She was there to take the Cure and so was I, for I had left the Damned and my former Consort, Luke. After twenty years, my mortal husband wished for a reunion and an heir, and I thought that was what I wanted. Jane took me to Luke, for she wished to fight the French, as did I, and I feared I should not survive the Cure and that my death as a mortal was close. But Luke, though he revived me and accepted me back into the household, no longer loved me. He loved her. She fought bravely against the French to whom I betrayed her.”

A small gasp ran around the room.

“I was discovered. William asked Jane to make the judgment, and she chose that I should be banished. She thought it more merciful than the knife.”

Charlotte nodded. “So she did you a great wrong.”

“Not at all, ma’am, if you refer to that judgment. Some survive banishment, and I did not become
sale
. I was fortunate. As to the rest, I learned a bitter lesson, that I could not pursue one who loved me no more. I suffered enough that I knew I would never betray one of my own kind again, particularly over a gentleman.” She glanced across the room at Luke, and they exchanged the ironic, rueful smiles of former lovers who knew each other too well. “But that is nothing to do with this court. She is an honorable woman, ma’am. She longed to return to her mortal family, which she did at great cost, for in so doing she lost Luke’s love as surely as I did. Has there not been sorrow enough, already, ma’am? I beg you, despite her inferior birth and her ignorance, proclaim her innocent.”

“Very well.” Charlotte gazed out over the room. “What say you? Guilty or not guilty?”

Jane supposed the Damned might retire for their decision; she hoped they might do so, for she found it agonizing to watch their expressions and small gestures and to catch snatches of silent conversation.

Luke did not speak. She did not expect him to, for he must remain impartial.

To banish one of her kind over a love affair gone sour . . . No, sir, I assure you it was more than that . . . You did not fight against the French, you have no notion of what it was like . . . You accuse me of cowardice?

Charlotte sent a warning glance at this particular group, who stood, backs stiff,
en sanglant,
ready to fight.

I put little store by Margaret’s testimony. Consider she left her Consort . . . Indeed, she reveals her own poor character with her story. I am surprised she was not hanged as a traitor . . . Jane spoke well if briefly. She made no excuses, and remember she has experienced a recent metamorphosis. We should exercise leniency . . .

She was not accustomed to following several complicated silent conversations and realized the futility of trying to interpret what she heard. Instead she closed her mind to the hubbub and resolved to show bravery at the verdict. Had she not once narrowly escaped the guillotine? She had proved her courage once and could do so again.

One of the Damned she did not know stepped forward and announced, “Not guilty.”

A burst of applause ran around the room, and Jane bowed like an actor upon the stage, remembering with a pang of nostalgia the family theatricals of her childhood.

“Very well.” Charlotte stood and turned to Luke, running a carelessly seductive hand down his sleeve. “Well, now that is over, sir, we must talk. We must decide on the disposition of
les Sales,
whose houses they should go to, and—”

“Another day, ma’am,” Luke said to Charlotte, brushing her hand away. To Jane he murmured, “Do you think you could try to look less murderous? You know there is no woman for me but you.”

She forced a smile, curtsied to Charlotte, and approached Margaret. “I wish to thank you. Your testimony was entirely unexpected.”

“I wronged you once. Now that the score is even we may go back to being enemies.” Margaret gave her a friendly smile—at least, Jane thought it was friendly. “How amusing to see Raphael and Luke snarling over you.”

“Is it?” Jane said.

But their conversation was interrupted by others who came to shake or kiss Jane’s hand and welcome her back to the company of the Damned. Someone thrust a glass of wine into her hand. A little apart from the others, Luke and Raphael, wary and
en sanglant,
watched each other like a pair of animals about to fight.

But that’s what they were—certainly not human, and even two gentlemen vying for the hand of the same lady might well behave in similar fashion, although their teeth would remain firmly under control. What, she wondered, was the correct etiquette for such a situation?

Tom touched her arm. “I’d kiss you, Jane, but I think Luke would tear out my throat, even if it was truly a gesture of relief or brotherly affection. I regret my testimony did so little to help.”

“Thank you for trying.” Jane grasped his hand and shook it. “Do you know—did Luke ask Margaret to speak on my behalf?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“What will Luke and Raphael do? Will they have a duel?”

“Pray try not to sound so avid, my dear.” Tom smiled. “A little bloodletting, perhaps—why, you may see for yourself.”

For Luke and Raphael now circled, coats tossed aside and fists aloft, as Jane had seen her brothers fight. But it was clear their fangs would be used also, for Raphael aimed a blow at Luke’s face and backed away, his knuckles slashed and blood dripping on the floor. Jane found herself
en sanglant,
as were several of the Damned near her, and they gathered in a crowd around the two fighting men.

Luke snarled and attacked, his fist connecting with Raphael’s ribs.

They appeared to be in deadly earnest, but the watching Damned cheered and laughed and placed bets. Many of the women were
en sanglant,
eyes bright and greedy.

“My dear, you must stop the fight,” Charlotte murmured in Jane’s ear. “You must let the favored gentleman know your preferences.”

“How?”

A cheer arose as Raphael slashed Luke’s collarbone with his fangs, dangerously close to the neck.

Jane removed her coat and laid it on a chair. Squaring her shoulders, she strode forward and forced the two men apart, at some risk to herself from exposed fangs and flying fists. She rather wished she had a bucket of water to throw over them as one might break up a fight between two dogs. For a brief moment the three of them struggled, both men cursing at the interruption. Raphael’s fist shot over her shoulder and landed on Luke’s nose.

A footman, holding a tray of wineglasses, paused nearby to watch the fight, his eyes widening at the spilled blood. Jane twisted away, grabbed the tray, and tipped the contents over Raphael and Luke.

“You fool! Do you think I’ll still want you with a nose that’s squashed flat?” It was her turn to snarl now as she pushed Luke against the wall.

“What are you—” Luke fell silent as she pressed her hips and thighs against him to hold him still and placed her forefingers against his broken nose. She winced as she heard the crunch of damaged cartilage returning to its rightful place. So did he. “Ouch! Who taught you to do that?”

She regarded her handiwork, his nose bloody and swollen but restored to its natural shape. “I saw it done once in Bath.”

He shook wine from his hair. “Very effective if inelegant.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Kiss me.”

“Kiss you while you were fighting? I would have been lucky to keep my own nose intact.”

“No. Kiss me now.”

“I’ll taste Raphael’s blood on your mouth.”

He snarled and then laughed. “So, a little perversity will not harm you, my dear.”

She did not put her lips to his immediately. She spent some time cleaning and breathing on his wounds to close and heal them, paying particular attention to the gash at his collarbone for the opportunity it gave her to breathe carelessly on his neck. She apologized extravagantly and at length; he growled with lust.

She blew on his nose to aid in healing, which made him laugh, but his grip at her waist told her he was becoming impatient. The nudge of her lips against his became her capitulation, a heady, prolonged kiss where she tasted both Raphael’s and Luke’s blood, a deliciously wicked mingling of flavors.

“I think,” he said finally, “we should declare formally that we are Consorts.”

“I did not think we were not Consorts.”

“Ah. A formal declaration is old-fashioned, and during the invasion many of our customs were abandoned. A mutual agreement then was enough, and besides, we were middling sort of Damned. But now, as William’s successor, I must consider my honor and yours, too.”

“Very well. You know this time I shall not leave.”

“Indeed.” He looked away, and a shadow passed between them.

“You don’t believe me?”

He shrugged and laughed. “It is nothing. See, we have kissed so long everyone has become bored at the spectacle and gone in to dine. Shall we join them?”

She would rather they dined alone, but she knew his position as leader demanded he play host. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they proceeded out of the Great Hall and upstairs to the Gallery, where the footmen not only served delicacies but provided themselves as such; and a group of visitors from London eagerly awaited the attentions of the Damned.

Luke greeted these new mortal guests with great affability, pleased that the Prince of Wales’s rejection of the Damned had not been adopted by all society, and gossiped with them of the activities of the
ton
. The Gallery was lit by only a few candles, and in the pools of darkness, on satin and velvet sofas, the Damned dined. Soon enough, Luke took Jane’s hand and drew her into the darkness and the pleasures that awaited them there.

S
he had forgotten the casual squalor of a morning among the Damned, the discarded garments and spilled wine, the mortals made crapulous and wobbly from too much wine and the loss of blood. Luke was gone, which did not worry her particularly as she knew he slept little.

She peered out of the nearest window. Morning? It was closer to afternoon, from the quality of the light. A gentleman, half dressed and yawning, dried blood on his neck and shirt, held a glass of wine out with a shaking hand.

“Ma’am, if you could be so kind?”

She bit into her wrist and let a drop of blood fall into his glass. Someone else must have revived the footmen, for they moved quietly among the sleeping Damned and their guests, clearing up glasses and plates and cleaning. Jane smiled as a footman lifted the dangling leg of a woman, propping her foot against his hip so he could sweep beneath a sofa.

Yawning, she left the Gallery and sought out the bedchamber where she had been imprisoned the day before. A maidservant looked up from laying a fire and scrambled to her feet. She was from a local family, one of those who were attached to Edward’s estate. She struggled to remember the girl’s name. Rebecca, that was it, shortened to Becky.

“Beg your pardon sir—Miss Austen, that is. Why, I didn’t . . .” Her voice faded away.

“Can you find me a gown to wear, Becky?”

“Of course, miss. I believe Mrs. Kettering’s maid may help.” She stared at Jane. “I’d never have thought . . . I’ll fetch her.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and ran out of the room. This was something Jane had not anticipated, that every day would bring a reminder of the life she had left, that the staff, particularly the lower staff of the house, would include people whose families she knew and who would know her. She suspected that as her metamorphosis developed she would lose the yearning for her family; meanwhile, every day in this house would remind her of what she could no longer have.

Becky returned shortly, carrying a collection of gowns, undergarments, and shoes chosen by Maria, Mrs. Kettering’s maid. Jane watched as Maria scolded Becky, pushing her aside to lay gowns flat on the bed and smooth out creases, exclaiming at her clumsiness.

“These are all too grand,” Jane said. “I should like a simple day dress and a cap.”

“A cap! I don’t even know if we have such a thing, ma’am. Becky, fetch Miss Jane some hot water, if you will.” She sorted through the gowns, laying some in the linen press. “Those you shall have for evening until Mr. Venning buys you some new.” She gave them a covetous glance, anticipating likely ownership of the gowns after Jane had ordered new ones.

Jane sighed. How Martha and Cassandra would have enjoyed this! She wished she could take more pleasure in the process, but decided a cotton gown, far smarter than anything she had owned, and a matching spencer were suitable.

“What do you want with the spencer, miss?” Maria asked.

“I want to take a walk.”

Maria shrugged as though Jane had admitted to some inexplicable eccentricity but grudgingly allowed her a scarf to tie around her head in an improvised turban.

The borrowed stays were not a good fit, designed for another woman, and the shoes slightly too large, but after washing and dressing, Jane prepared to go outside. Edward had great plans for the gardens, she knew, and she wanted to see how work progressed. But here she was again, thinking of the Austen family of which she was no longer a part, filled with regret. This would not do.

She lingered among the rosebushes that were showing plenty of buds and bent to see if they yet held a scent.

“Jane?”

She whirled around. Raphael stood there, wearing a greatcoat and hat.

“I have come to bid you farewell,” he said.

“You are leaving? For long?”

He patted his waistcoat pocket. “I am leaving this household. Luke has written me letters of introduction. I had long intended to meet with men of science in England, and now William is dead I have little to hold me here.”

“I’m sorry. I shall miss you.”

“I shall miss you, Jane, but I cannot stay. This house holds too many memories.”