Gance joined her. "I told Arthur I would walk you home. I promised him that I would be a gentleman and reminded him that honest solicitors are far harder to find than beautiful women." He took her hand and placed it on his arm, then led her across the street.

"And what do you think makes a gentleman, Lord Gance?"

"A simple thing, Mrs. Harker. As every woman knows and rarely admits, a gentleman is one who always gives a lady no less than what she wants."

"A gentleman can hardly know what is in a woman's heart."

"It is his responsibility to inquire. For example, I wish I knew what you desired, because I would like to offer it to you, now and as often as you like."

Mina blushed, and felt thankful for the darkness that hid it. "I would think you more sincere if you had waited to know me better before saying such things."

"I know you. I know you through your eyes and the tilt of your head and the firmness of your step. I know you by the way you dance, the friends you have chosen, the causes you support, even by your devotion to your husband."

Mina laughed. "You are hardly a romantic, Lord Gance." "Call me Winston, please. Let me think I am making some progress here. And I am a romantic, romantic enough that I do not understand why the devoted bride is here in the shadow of St. Paul's Churchyard with another man rather than at her wounded husband's bedside."

"How dare you!" she exclaimed as she pulled her arm away and turned to leave.

He gripped her shoulder. "Because I dare anything," he replied and kissed her, holding her so tightly that she had no chance to resist.

His face glowed in the distant gaslight, his hands gripped her arms painfully, his eyes seemed so dark and inviting. For a moment she was no longer in London but in the little room in Purfleet, and Dracula, not Gance, was holding her.

"No!" she screamed. She pulled herself out of his grasp and ran. The cobblestones were uneven, her balance a bit skewed from what she had drunk. Her ankle twisted and she fell, fighting back the tears. She had not felt so helpless for so long. And the horror was that it reminded her of the past and, more, that somewhere deep within her she reveled in it.

Gance crouched beside her. "Mina!" he exclaimed, and when she did not answer, he repeated again, "Mina, can you stand?"

"I think so." She let him help her up, then tried to walk and winced.

"Here." He held out his arm so she could lean on it. After a few steps, she felt steadier, the pain less acute. "I'm sorry," he said as they went on. "But I cannot believe that was your first stolen kiss. Even if it were, I would never have expected that a woman as strong-willed as you would . . ."

"It was not my first, Lord Gance. It was how you took it."

That part of the street was quieter, darker. She knew she had given him an invitation, but nonetheless she felt brave rather than foolish.

"Gently then, dear Mina." He lifted her chin and looked at her, prolonging the moment until their lips touched. For an instant, she thought that he would not kiss her, and she frowned. It was what he had been waiting for, and he pulled her to him, kissing her with a pa.s.sion that demanded a response.

It was dark. She had had too much to drink. She had no choice. And there was the matter of the vampire's life, his memory, still too much a part of her. She responded.

He pulled away and smiled down at her. "I think it's time I take you back to your hotel," he said.

They returned in silence, Mina conscious of the motion of his body beside her, the grip of his hand in hers as he supported her weight. At the door, he stopped. "I do not love you," he said. "I do not wish to love you or to replace your husband in your life. But if what I sense is true, you are my mate in ways I doubt your husband understands. It's your decision now, Mrs. Harker. I will wait to hear it."

He turned and left her standing there. He did not look back.

Jonathan had left a single lamp burning for her, its light so weak it scarcely threw shadows in the dark room. The smell of blood seemed to hang in the air, the scent half real, half memory. As Mina turned up the light, Jonathan stirred. It was her chance to go to him, to see how he was, but she wanted to be alone with her thoughts of pa.s.sion, and wickedness, and selfishness.

She should have hated herself, and yet as she sat in front of the mirror combing out her hair, her reflection showed a vague smile of satisfaction, a flush of excitement in her cheeks.

If Gance had hailed a carriage, had taken her away to some secluded room, she would not have said a word of protest, or of a.s.sent, and could have ended the evening with some sense of virtue intact. Instead, he had left the decision entirely up to her. She realized now how corrupt he was, how careful, and how brutally fair.

The doctor had left a codeine elixir for the pain, but Jonathan would only take a little on the journey to Exeter.

Once they reached home, however, he gave in to the pain, took a large dose of the drug and went to bed. Mina sat beside him, holding his hand while he slept, squeezing it each time he moaned and whispering to him that she was near. Though she was reading a book, the words meant nothing to her. Her mind was entirely on Gance, as if vice rather than virtue would free her soul from the past.

Later, when Jonathan's sleep became more natural, Mina unpacked the gifts she had brought and took Millicent's downstairs.

The woman was reading in the parlor. On the carved oak sideboard, the framed picture of Jonathan and her had acquired a central place. Mina picked it up, commenting as she did, "It looks so right here among our other treasures. I brought you something." She handed Millicent the package, wrapped in lace and satin ribbon.

Millicent opened it and pulled out a lifelike bluebird on a carved wood perch. It wound like a music box and, when the lever in its base was pushed, began to chirp and move its wings.

"Jonathan said there were bluebirds in the fields around your farm. I thought it would remind you of home."

The woman did not smile, did not thank her. "You have been so kind to me, even to the point of letting me into your house," she said, the coldness of her tone so at odds with the words and the intent of the gift she held in her hands. "While you and Jonathan were away, I thought of how sad it was here with only Laura for company. Then I considered how marvelous it was that Jonathan had acquired so much through hard work and ambition. I would not want him to lose it, and since I am convinced that you truly love him, I know you feel the same way."

"Of course I do. Millicent, what is it?"

The woman ignored the question, instead fingering the feathered head of the mechanical bluebird in her palm. "If you do, you will not bring any scandal on him. Solicitors, and their families, must be above reproach."

How could she know about one stolen kiss? It had to be something else, perhaps some silly breach of Millicent's rigid etiquette.

"Neither Jonathan nor I have done anything detrimental to his reputation."

"I'm pleased to hear of it. Perhaps you would tell me, then, why you lied to me. The pictures of Jonathan and me were drawn here in Exeter."

Mina hesitated then responded with the truth. "I lied because it was kinder than saying that my reasons for going to London were private. However, my journey had nothing to do with some lovers' meeting or any other scandal. You said it yourself, I love my husband."

"You are flushed, my child. I hope it is out of righteousness." Millicent paused, then added, with apparent sincerity, "Indeed, I'm certain of it."

Tell me a secret, Mina thought, any tiny secret at all. Tell me why you don't like to wear the blue brooch or the real reason you detested Jonathan's mother, and even though Jonathan will object, I will tell you where we went on the Continent and why. You will have to believe it when Jonathan agrees with my story.

She said none of that, however. She had been so fearless when she was among the men, part of their team. Now, in the face of one old woman, she was a coward. "I'm going to bed early," she said. "Good night, Aunt Millicent."

Millicent paused. "Good night, child," she said wearily.

In Mina's absence, Jonathan had rolled over and lost some of his covers. His face was damp with sweat, and when Mina touched his forehead to see if he had a fever, he woke with a start.

"Are you in pain? I could get some ice for your head," Mina said.

"Pain? ... Yes. Just stay with me as you did in the hospital in Budapest. I feel so much better with you here."

She undressed quickly, put on her cotton nightgown and joined him, lying with her back against his chest. In spite of his illness, he was hard. She could feel his p.e.n.i.s pressing against the base of her spine. Usually she would roll over now and touch him, and he would kiss her and whisper some loving endearment. Not tonight, she decided, not when he was so ill and she so very confused.

She kissed the back of his hand, snuggled closer to him and closed her eyes.

"Mina," he whispered, his hand on her thigh. She did not reply, and in a moment, he rolled over and went to sleep.

A cry that did not seem to be human woke her hours later. In the dim light from the candle she had left burning on the table, she saw her husband's terrified expression. As she reached for him, his hands moved out, pushing some unseen creature away. The cry came from him again, a low, drawn-out howl of misery from deep within him, followed by her name.

"Jonathan, I'm here. Wake up."

He opened his eyes and pulled her to him, holding her as he trembled in her arms. "The drug. It made the pain go away, but what came in its place was far, far worse."

"It helps to tell a nightmare, Jonathan," she said.

"The vampire women. They came for me. They wanted me even though they were nothing more than ghouls, their bodies rank and decayed. I was pushing them away, but they were as strong as they had been when they were alive. If you hadn't been here, I would have died in my dream, I'm certain of it."

"I'll always be here, Jonathan," she whispered, pushing back the damp dark hair from his forehead, checking the bandage though she already knew he had not opened the wound.

Mina lay awake the rest of the night, listening to Jonathan's even breaths, ready to battle the demons that still plagued him. By dawn, she had reached a decision about Gance. She would write him and tell him that she could never consider his proposal. She would do it now. Once it was done, she would never change her mind.

She dared not use the writing desk in her room. Instead, she went downstairs to Jonathan's study and desk drawer for some paper. There, along with his pipe and pens and ink bottle, beside the gold-plated watch that had been his father's, she discovered his pastel chalks. Beneath them lay his sketchbook.

He'd begun drawing again! How pleased she was to see that. If he would not come to her for solace as he once did, he had at least found another outlet.

The first picture was of her as she had looked on their wedding day, with the little white hat and veil the only semblance of bridal dress. She turned to the second page and almost dropped the book. There in plain charcoal gray was Dracula's castle-the ruined walls, the ancient doors, the stark beauty of clouds above it. She went on to the third drawing and stared with astonishment at what he had done.

It was the woman, the dark one who had been Dracula's wife. She stood beside a bed draped in heavy hangings, her pale, naked body so lean, her expression so erotic. If he had drawn her hurredly, Mina might have considered the work a kind of exorcism. But the woman had been drawn with exquisite care. The cascade of dark hair was exactly as Mina remembered it, the full lips that same shade of red, the nipples of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s large and dark against her white skin. And he kept it where he could stare at it often.

"Jonathan," she whispered. If she had been able to feel true righteousness, she would have taken the book upstairs and confronted him in private. With misery, she realized that her sin was so much worse. He was attracted to a memory, playing with it like some dirty fantasy while she considered taking a flesh-and-blood lover to dispel the nightmares of her past.

She returned the sketchbook to the drawer, arranging the chalks and other items as closely as she could recall to how they had been before, then quietly returned to their room. Nothing was settled, she realized sadly. At least, not yet.

SIXTEEN

I

The following Wednesday, Mina received a note from Winnie asking her to stop by. When she got there, she discovered that there had been an answer to her inquiries in London. James Sebescue, owner of Z. Becks Books in Chelsea, had written that his father had retired but was most interested in taking the work.

She read the letter aloud, giving special emphasis to the final sentence, There are many charlatans who can give you an approximate translation, Mrs. Beason. But my father is from that part of the world. This is his native language, and he will be as faithful to the original doc.u.ment as he is able. Please reply through me.

"He makes a persuasive case," Winnie commented.

"Far too persuasive. I was in 'that part of the world' as he calls it, and I saw how suspicious the natives were, even of perfectly normal strangers. I'm thankful I found Mr. Ujvari, for he seems a dedicated and sensible man."

"Will you answer Mr. Sebescue's letter?"

"I suppose I should, since he replied so quickly." Mina wrote a short note, thanking him for responding and stating only that she had hired another translator, a young man who she was certain would be faithful to the text. She hoped the curtness of her reply would discourage him from contacting her again.

Business concluded, she sat in Winnie's parlor drinking coffee and discussing her London vacation, the evening at Rules and Jonathan's accident. She did not mention Gance, but he was foremost in her mind, his proposition making her feel more lighthearted than she had in weeks. It seemed a genuine happiness. Someone loved her. Another desired her. She knew how wrong the satisfaction was, for she was not vain, or shallow. It was boredom, she decided. Though the thought of entering the hospital wings terrified her, she nonetheless asked, "Would there be some work I could do at the children's hospital? I don't think [ can work as a nurse but perhaps in some other capacity?""There is something you can do from home, and it's important. We need someone to raise money for us, and to contact physicians to donate their services. Personal contact is so important. In the past I have done it, but I simply don't have the time to devote to calls. Could you go in my place?"

"I could."

"Then wait a moment." Winnie left Mina alone for a few minutes, then returned with the rough draft of a letter and a list of donors.

"These people always give something, but a visit seems to raise the donations considerably."

Mina looked at the donor list and the amounts given. Most of Exeter's wealthier individuals were on it. Near the top, she saw Lord Gance's name. She had expected to see it, but the amount he donated, over five hundred pounds a year, astonished her.

"Have any of these people ever visited the hospital?" she asked.

"Lords Somersby, Gance and Fenton. Lady Fenton did volunteer work when we first opened our doors, but soon lost interest. It is not particularly fashionable work. I can understand why she did not like it."

"Have you considered offering tours of the hospital?"

"We held one open house a year after we opened. Five people came, and they would have come later anyway. People don't mind paying to alleviate misery, particularly if they don't have to look at it."

"They look at it every day," Mina commented, and shook her head sadly. Tomorrow she would start her work, sending notes to the top five donors, asking permission to call. Gance was one of them. She wanted an excuse to see him again, to judge him, to decide.

II

Gance fingered the far too formal request to call that Mina Harker had written him. In it, she had made it clear that the visit to his business address was on behalf of the Exeter Ladies Society and their hospital. It was possible that she was intending to reject his proposal. On the other hand, this could also indicate her great discretion. He approved of that. He was not one to boast of his affairs; the few that had become public knowledge had been trouble enough. A tarnished reputation made him interesting; a blackened one would make him an outcast.

He had already made his arrangements for Mina. His mistress had wanted to travel to India and visit her brother. Gance had provided the steamer ticket and two hundred pounds for expenses. She had not asked him to take her to Plymouth to board the ship, nor had he volunteered. They had not said good-bye, but he doubted he would see her again. He briefly considered that she had loved him, then dismissed the thought. If she had loved him, it was of no consequence, save that the emotion had made her less amusing.

He had dressed carefully for this meeting, choosing a businesslike jacket and vest in black wool, white silk shirt and, for effect, a deep blue ascot. The colors made him seem paler, thinner. He had always detested the look, for it made him appear ill, but he sensed that Mina Harker found this appealing. After nights listening to Arthur rave about demonic seductions by the walking dead, he understood why.

How much of Arthur's story was real? How much a shared delusion? Mostly the latter, no doubt, particularly since that idiot Jack Seward was involved. Nonetheless, had he not been attracted to Mina Harker before, he certainly would have been after hearing Arthur's story.

Mina arrived punctually at eleven. Though Gance knew his clerk had asked for her coat, she left it on, no doubt intending to leave as soon as possible. The black fur of the high collar was dotted with snow. There was snow in her chestnut hair as well, and her cheeks were red from the cold. She seemed younger than she had looked the other times they'd met, perhaps no more than twenty.

No wonder she had been so coy.

He offered her a seat then sat behind his desk, waiting for her to speak. After all, she had come to see him.

She immediately began her presentation on the hospital-the number of children who had been cared for over the last year, the need it had to expand. Throughout it, she handed him photographs of the wards, drawings of the proposed changes. He suspected that she had given the same presentation a few times before. He doubted she had been so nervous on the other occasions. "So, of course, I came to see you," she concluded. "You have been so generous in the past."

"Of course. I wish to be known for my generosity." "How oddly you put it," she commented.

He smiled. He'd expected it would take longer to put her at her ease. "Oddly? How so?"

"As if your generosity were no more than an affectation. It makes you seem conceited somehow."

"Conceited? Oh, I am that, But I'm also a realist. I live up to my own expectations. As they are quite high, it can be a demanding ch.o.r.e."