Chapter 7
In which there are humbling reflections on the ducal character
Dacian
Dacian knew he ought to be sleeping. The candles left by the guards were close to guttering. He had saved one of the wax sticks as a precaution, but it was next to useless having a spare light when there was no way out.
There was no point staying awake. He was trapped here, not merely behind an iron lock but also beneath weighty spells of Defence layered into the stone.
His hands flexed into fists. The little bat claimed that Dacian was ordinarily flush with power, but even if he had it now, he suspected he would not be able to break out of this cell.
It was pointless to glare threateningly at the walls.
There wasn’t even a guard outside for him to rattle, that’s how certain they were of his immobility.
Still, he did not trust sleep. He was starting to remember things.
Just small flashes of knowledge, suddenly resolving in the dark corners of his mind.
It was like finding something under a blanket: once you knew it was there, you couldn’t forget it again.
He had recollected his sister Agatha, a little termagant with dark colouring and a sharp tongue, and his father, a cold, hard duke.
But he suspected they were old memories: his father might be dead by now, and his sister older than twelve.
He had more memories to unfold, he knew it.
Yet if he fell into a slumber, he might wake up back at the beginning, knowing nothing, in that awful place of emptiness and uncertainty.
Whoever he was, he knew that he was better than this. He would not allow some upstart captain to hold him here for long. There must be some way to turn the tables, if only he could remember what was going on.
So he sat in his throne of stone and red carpets, watching the shadows flickering on the wall.
He had taken the bats’ advice: both Wooten and another little French one (who had flown off for now) had told him not to eat or drink anything, and this advice had been echoed by the beautiful woman who had thrown herself down by the grate in the early hours of the morning.
Judith, she had called herself. A stranger to him, but she swore she knew him well, her eyes filling with tears and her knuckles white on the bars.
He had wanted to believe her, but innate caution warned him not to trust anyone in this godforsaken place.
It could have been a nice little piece of theatre when the captain had marched in and hauled her out, an attempt to convince him she was on Dacian’s side.
An old trick, sending in the gentle gaoler after the harsh.
He wasn’t going to play that game. He wasn’t going to play any game.
He wasn’t going to eat or drink either, until he knew more of the pieces on the board, like his own goddamn memories.
So now he was hungry, and very thirsty.
Wooten had tested the last bottle of water himself, and had not died or lost his wits, but that was several hours ago.
Or perhaps he had lost his wits, because at the moment Wooten was blathering on about Dacian’s state of attire.
“Absolutely abhorrent,” he was muttering, “to leave a duke without recourse to his valet. The Custos should know better. You don’t even have a coat. Though quite frankly,” he added, “it was a mercy that they took your cravat, the state that it was in.”
“I’m not cold, flittermouse.”
Wooten fixed with him with a withering glare. “I’m not a flittermouse, as you very well know. And the point is that leaving you thus attired puts you at too much of a disadvantage. No wonder you don’t know yourself.”
Dacian sighed. “I doubt a coat would grant me self-knowledge.”
“You’d be surprised what a good coat can achieve. And boots. And a decent cravat.”
“What’s a cravat?”
Wooten gasped in horror.
Dacian was only teasing. He knew cravats.
His condition—or the drug—seemed to grant him general knowledge of the world while drawing an impenetrable veil over anything of a personal nature.
He could tell Wooten about the war against France, but he didn’t know if he had fought in it, or even his own title.
Wooten had informed him that he’d done covert work while he was in exile from England.
To Dacian’s mind, that was even more reason to be suspicious of his current predicament.
He flung a hand over his head, and felt it thud against cold rock.
His mind wandered to the woman again. Judith.
She could be working covertly. Yet something in her eyes, as they rested on him, had seemed genuine.
Though that could be his own wishful thinking.
She had claimed to be an old friend, but he rather hoped that they had been lovers too.
Surely he wouldn’t have let a bosom like that pass him by?
Especially when topped by such a face, and those pleading eyes.
Wooten was monologuing about the function and beauty of cravats. Dacian interrupted. “That woman, Judith Avely.” The name felt strange on his lips. “How well did I know her, exactly?”
Wooten paused. “Very well, I believe. I met her only upon our return to England, but you’ve known her since you were a young man. Or so you informed me.”
“Carnally?”
Wooten coughed, displeased. “I believe not. Though I gather it was not for lack of trying on your part, your grace.”
“You mean she refused me?” Dacian raised a brow, somehow not surprised.
“I believe so.”
“Well, look at me. My attire leaves much to be desired.”
Wooten sniffed. “You were better dressed on the occasions.”
“In the plural? Even more humbling. Why did she rebuke my overtures?” Dacian could believe it, even putting aside his incarceration and evidently terrible temper.
Even kneeling on the floor, she had seemed untouchable, contained within herself, resolute.
What did she want with a reprobate like him?
Though surely he was worth a second glance, at least. He had a feeling that he was quite handsome.
Wooten appeared to weigh his words. “Well, you lied to her, pushed her away, and also disappeared without a trace for several years.”
Lord. A litany of sins. Dacian sighed. It seemed he was a right bastard. “So why, then, has she come back for me?”
Wooten did not answer. Instead, he stiffened and held up a warning finger. Then, in a blink, he disappeared under a pile of cushions, whisking under a particular richly patterned blue one with golden tassels. A few moments later, Dacian heard footsteps descending the stairwell.
He feigned sleep, tipping his head back and peering through closed lashes.
It was most likely the captain again, bringing him another bottle of tampered wine, or a bowl of poisoned soup.
Fortunately, Dacian had gone past hunger now, into a hard place of impervious denial.
If only he wasn’t so goddamn tired as well, and his mind so murky.
It was not Drumpellier. It was the lieutenant, Greene or something, his round face peering through the grate.
Dacian watched, tense, as he scanned the room.
What the hell was the lieutenant searching the room for?
Wooten had better not twitch those cursed gold tassels.
Suddenly, Dacian felt protective of the little creature.
For all his lecturing, the bat was his only ally in this place (besides the mysterious Miss Belfleur), and he’d be damned if he’d let this soldier find him.
He kept his breathing even, and his eyes fixed on the lieutenant.
To his astonishment, the man proceeded to kneel by the grate, a little like Judith had done, though without the same grace or charm.
He held a bottle of water in his hand, and he waved it about, as if trying to gain Dacian’s attention.
Dacian remained still. The lieutenant sighed and then made a great performance of drinking out of the bottle.
Dacian saw his throat bob and heard the gulping swallows, and watched him wipe the liquid from his lips.
He stayed quiet, regulating his breath. The soldier carefully set the bottle down on the ledge, and then pulled out a pie, mangled, from a napkin wrapped in his pocket.
He enacted the same performance, taking a large bite and chewing solemnly before placing the pie next to the glass bottle.
He cleared his throat. Dacian continued to feign sleep, his senses acute. With a sigh, the lieutenant stood up and assumed his position of guard duty, facing out towards the passageway.
Dacian dared shift his gaze. He saw Wooten’s eye peering up from under a tassel, wide and startled. He had obviously witnessed the pantomime too. The vampiri gave a jerk of his head, encouraging.
Suddenly, Dacian did not feel so impervious. With the possibility of real, untainted food before him, he was abruptly ravenous. Still, he waited another twenty long minutes, his eyes fixed to the grate, watching, reluctant, and fearing a trick.
When he felt his eyelids begin to droop, he made a decision.
Better to eat it now, than fall asleep and have it whisked away or ruined.
He shook himself and gave a theatrical yawn.
Two could play at charades. Clearing his throat and groaning a little, he ambled over to the grate, his bare feet kicking a cushion out of the way.
The lieutenant was still standing there, his shadow long against the ground. He stared straight ahead, and did not turn, though he must have heard Dacian approach. Quietly, Dacian took the food and drink, and retreated.
Then he sat cross-legged on a rug like a sultan and wolfed it down.