The Ravencliff Bride (14 page)

“I cannot speak with Dr. Breeden down on the strand now, Mills. It has to be done at once, and it has to be done here out of the range of hearing of the inmates in this asylum. There is less likelihood of being overheard way back in this dressing room, than in the master bedchamber.”

“I shall keep watch if needs must, my lord,” said Mills. “You have got to let others do for you now. You must recover quickly. Duping the staff is one thing; my lady is quite another—she is already asking questions. Nero hasn’t returned, and she is beside herself. How long do you think she will accept that you’ve gone traipsing off on business, with a guest in the house? And we can’t keep her confined to her suite indefinitely. You know firsthand the folly of attempting that.”

“Where is Alex?”

“No one has seen him since the . . . incident, my lord.”

“
He has been bitten
, Mills. Nero took a healthy chunk out of the bounder’s arm. Do you know what that means?”

“No, my lord, I do not, and neither do you. That is why Dr. Breeden has come.”

“That aside, Alex is in need of medical attention. There is no doubt of it.”

“Mr. Mallory is an enterprising chap, my lord. Once he sobers up—”

“Once he sobers up and realizes what he’s done, God only knows what he’ll do. She’s going to leave that deuced door ajar in anticipation of a visit from Nero, and we’ll have it all over again!”

“Whose fault is that, my lord?”

“Mine, I’ll own, but admitting it by no means negates the danger. We’ve no time here now for fondling regrets. I must get back on my feet.”

“Then rest there, and mind,” said the doctor, turning both their heads. He stretched, and got up stiffly, limping to the lounge. Laying his hand on Nicholas’s brow, he frowned. “You’ve a fever. Bilberry or black currant juice should do the trick. Could you consult your housekeeper, Mills? ’Tisn’t serious—unless, of course, it goes untreated.”

“I shall go at once,” said Mills.

“Bilberry or black currant juice for a
dog?
” Nicholas put in. “They will never credit that.”

The doctor nodded. “Why not?” he said. “Injured dogs suffer from fevers, too. And bring some clear broth, while you’re at it, Mills. You shall have to pilfer what food you can scrounge from the kitchen once his lordship is recovered enough to take it, but for now the broth will do.”

“Yes, Dr. Breeden.”

“See if anyone has news of Alex,” said Nicholas. “Check with Watts in the stables. See if he might have taken a coach, or one of the horses. I shan’t rest until I know where the bastard is.”

“Oh, you’ll rest, my lord,” said the doctor, offering a brimming spoon. “Open!”

“What is that?” Nicholas demanded.

“Laudanum,” Breeden pronounced. “I cannot help a cadaver, and I’d hate to have come all this way for naught. Open, and swallow.”

“It first occurred when I was twelve,” Nicholas said, giving account to Dr. Breeden. He was propped up with pillows in his bed, while the doctor sat in the Chippendale chair alongside, close enough so that they could converse low-voiced. Even though Mills kept watch outside the master bedchamber, they decided to guard their speech, and continue to endow the manifestation with the name of
Nero
, in case they were overheard. “I believe it was the emotional impact of Mother’s death that set off the transformations. Before that, I hadn’t a care in the world in my prepubescent bliss.”

“You say your father was bitten by a wolf.”

“In India, yes.”

“Did he suffer from similar manifestations?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Breeden. I was in my cradle when he passed. That’s why I’m concerned about Mr. Mallory. I have no idea how that bite is going to affect him. Will he be as I am . . . or something worse, like the wolf that bit my father?”

“Has Nero ever bitten anyone before?”

“No, and that’s another thing that worries me. Is the manifestation evolving into something . . . more?”

“It was my papers on lycanthropy that prompted your invitation, was it not?”

“Yes. I read them with much interest, just as I have devoured every bit of material ever penned on the subject.”

“You are not a lycanthrope, my lord. That is not to say that the wolf that bit your father wasn’t a werewolf, however. I wish we knew more about that.”

“But . . . Nero attacked Alex. He meant to kill him, Dr. Breeden. Believe me, I
know
.”

“Nero was protecting his mate, my lord. If lycanthropy were involved, he would have torn
her
throat out as well. There have been many documented accounts of werewolves worldwide. Some in which the victims only imagine themselves transformed—that is to say, the transformation only takes place in their mind—and others where an actual physical transformation occurs. There are more cases of the former, of course, but either way one common thread binds all cases ever recorded: rampant, indiscriminate violence and blood lust. Nero is not a killer. If he were, he would have turned on the baroness the minute your steward left and deprived him of his kill, not gone to her for stroking and reward. From all accounts, never once was she fearful of her life in Nero’s presence. That, my lord, is not in any way characteristic of a lycanthrope.”

Nicholas thought on it. “What
is
it then?”

“We will get to the bottom of this, my lord,” said the doctor, “but first, I need to know what triggers these manifestations. Are they connected perchance to the phases of the moon?”

“No, they have occurred in moon dark as well as when the moon is full, and all the phases between—even in broad daylight. They come upon me when I am angry, emotional . . . and aroused. The hellish thing is that I cannot control them. They control me.”

“Has the transformation ever occurred during sexual congress? Forgive me, but I do need to ask some rather personal questions, my lord.”

“No, not thus far,” said Nicholas, “but there has been precious little sexual congress of late—not since the incidents have become more frequent. I’ve lived a rather celibate life these past few years.”

“Then, why on earth did you marry, my lord? I’m given to understand that your nuptials are quite recent.”

Nicholas heaved a ragged sigh that brought his posture down and sent ripples of pain through his shoulder. It had only been two days since the bullet was removed. He would not let the doctor know about the pain and risk being dosed with the opiate again. The subject at hand had to be broached now, before he got out of that bed again, no matter the cost.

“I am hounded by the
ton
to enter the marriage mart,” he began. “Scads of invitations arrive on a daily basis, which I must decline. No wife, no mistress—people were beginning to talk. I’ve had to have my servants turn away at the door, some well-meaning callers determined to draw me into the social whirl. I cannot leave Ravencliff, for fear of this madness coming upon me at some inopportune moment in some ballroom, opera house, or open market. I’ve been abroad, Dr. Breeden, trying to live a normal life, and I was very nearly found out in just such a situation. That’s why I’ve become somewhat of a hermit here. I needed to marry to put paid to the hounding that I become an active part of society, and I couldn’t even do that other than by proxy.”

“But to send your steward, my lord?” said the doctor. “What sort of woman—”

“No, no, Sara is quite well to pass,” Nicholas interrupted. “She’s the daughter of a knight, Sir Jacob Ponsonby, a Colonel in the army, before he died and left her scorched. There
was no male heir, and none to designate. The Crown took back the land, and her personal assets were not great enough to keep her out of the Fleet. Colonel Ponsonby served with my father in India at the beginning of the occupation, as I told you. What I didn’t tell you, or her, is that he was with my father when the wolf bit him, and it was he who killed the animal and saved my father’s life. They were close friends—military chums. Father mentions him repeatedly in his journals, including the incident of the wolf. You are welcome to peruse them if you wish, though I have done again and again and found no clue to this nightmare that plagues me now.

“When I heard of Sara’s misfortune, I offered for her at once. She was hardly in a position to refuse. I took advantage of that, hoping that putting her in my debt might be enough to keep her here once I made my intentions plain and she realized the benefits of the arrangement. The Fleet is an odious place. It would have pleased my father that I do such a thing for the daughter of his friend, but my motives were more selfish than philanthropic, Dr. Breeden. I am . . . so lonely.”

“What were the terms of the arrangement, my lord, if I may be so bold as to inquire?” the doctor queried.

“It was an honorable proposal. I explained that I wanted to marry for the reasons I’ve already told you—that I required a hostess to preside over gatherings at Ravencliff, such as your visit here now, and that since I did not want an heir, sharing my bed was not part of the arrangement. Furthermore, she would be treated like a queen, want for nothing, and gain title and lands. I own properties abroad that are not attached to the estate. It was a very attractive offer, Dr. Breeden. I am a man of means, and a generous one.”

“Forgive me, but you hardly needed to marry. Except for the title as part of the package, you could have taken a mistress, my lord. London is swarming with all sorts of prospects these
days—gentlemen’s daughters, society mavens, respectable widows—all quite well to pass, who would jump at the chance to broker such an arrangement.”

“No,” Nicholas returned. “A mistress would have expected bed sport, and I couldn’t risk it. Besides, the way mistresses are flaunted in Town these days, taking one wouldn’t have exempted me from the marriage mart. It would have made me even more desirable.

“I foolishly imagined that sharing my bed might be a concern. I was counting upon Sara’s relief that she hadn’t been brought out here to be ravished by a total stranger to get me past that hurdle. I was hoping that once we’d gotten beyond that awkward bit, we might settle into some sort of amiable platonic relationship beneficial to us both. It isn’t quite working out that way.”

“You expected her to live a life of celibacy as well, my lord?” said the doctor, clearly nonplussed.

“Of course not,” Nicholas replied. “I told her I would not object to her taking a lover, as long as she was discreet and it wasn’t Alex Mallory. He resides here much of the time, and that would have been awkward. I was soundly upbraided for making such a suggestion.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“What else was I to do? I thought I was offering her a practical solution to a problem I hadn’t anticipated. Added to it, she couldn’t imagine why I wouldn’t want an heir. She even questioned my sexual preference. You can certainly see why I cannot have children. I cannot risk passing this . . . whatever it is on to another generation. The madness must end with me. I couldn’t tell her that, of course. I did say that there was a defect in the blood that I did not wish to pass on. It was half-truth, and I doubt she believed it. God knows what she believes.”

“Yet she has remained,” the doctor mused.

“Unfortunately, there is a mutual attraction,” said Nicholas.

“Why is that unfortunate?”

“Surely you can see the impossibility of such as that? I am aware of her attraction to me, and I’ve done everything in my power to keep her from realizing that it’s mutual—even to the point of boorish behavior that disgusts me.”

“You are falling in love with her.”

“That is something else I didn’t anticipate.”

“Love conquers many things, my lord.”

“Not this.”

“Do not sell love short, Baron Walraven.”

“There is . . . something else,” Nicholas said. He couldn’t meet the doctor’s eyes. The man saw more with that silver gaze than any man had a right to see. “She has become . . . attached to Nero,” he murmured.

There was a long silence. It tasted of death. Not even the sun shone on that moment. Clouds scudding before the risen wind had obliterated it, and though it was midday, the room was clad in bleak semidarkness.

“How did that happen?” said the doctor at last.

“I am at fault,” Nicholas confessed. “It was the only way I could be near her . . . close to her . . . bear her touch . . . touch her myself. It is torture. I live with her scent. It is with me always. It is
in
me.
She
is in me. Nero gives me what little I will ever have of her—the innocent, unconditional love of a mistress for her pet.”

“This must cease.”

“I have tried.”

“A man was nearly killed, my lord. We do not yet know how badly he was mauled till we find him, and that is the least of the danger in such an association. The hopelessness alone! How do you bear it? The baroness believes that Nero is dead. I implore you, let him stay so.”

“He very nearly was, wasn’t he, Dr. Breeden?” Nicholas murmured.

“Do you always remember what has occurred during the transformations once they are over, my lord?”

“For the most part, yes—in bits and pieces according to their importance, the way you remember parts of a dream.”

“What does happen usually?”

“Nothing memorable,” said Nicholas. “Nero runs off whatever emotion it was that summoned him. He and I both have an affinity for the sea, and he haunts it—runs the strand in a way that I long to do, but never could in my two-legged incarnation, through the surf, over the rocks. He bathes in the tide pools, and races the wind, free, as I can never be free as long as we are joined.

“Sometimes, he prowls the house, observing the servants, and Alex. You would be amazed at what those occasions yield. He roams at will, virtually ignored, privy to all sorts of shocking tidbits. Through Nero’s eyes, I know who’s diddling whom, and who would like to be. Who can be trusted, and who cannot. What the servants really think, and how they gain and cull and hone the bits of information they gather for their deuced
on-dits
. Every estate in the kingdom should have a Nero wandering about, Dr. Breeden. There’d be far less skullduggery afoot, I guarantee you.”