The Worst Behaved Werewolf Read online

  Julian gave a wavering smile and nodded. His existence was far too precarious to risk for a cat. Even one that was sometimes a boy.

  3

  Compared to the frosty winter night, the hotel room was downright tropical. The fire burning in the grate of their private drawing room was generous, the windows shut, and the curtains drawn against the noxious influences of the Parisian miasma.

  Julian didn’t notice, attention fixated on the thin figure sitting on the sofa before the fire. Pip looked up as they entered. His expression lifted as his eyes fell on Julian, saying more than words could. Julian dashed across the room to fling his arms around him.

  Behind him, Cross cleared his throat. “I found our prodigal. You were right; he returned to the bridge.”

  Pip patted his head. “That was very clever of you, Julian.”

  He hadn’t felt clever. He hadn’t even considered doing anything else. Julian nuzzled Pip’s coat, breathing in the scent of home.

  Cross snorted. “I’d better find Scott and let him know he can call off the police search.”

  Julian could never tell which of Cross’s dry tones was his joking one, but Pip smiled. “Tell the restaurant to send up Julian’s meal now. He’ll be famished.”

  He was, but dinner came a distant second to the sheer relief of being home. The door clicked shut behind Cross. Julian lifted his head. “It was your scarf. I smelled it first.”

  “Did you?” Pip’s hand rested on his head. “I must apologise to Thomas. I wanted to go with him, but he insisted I wait here in case you came back to the hotel. He took my scarf with him as a compromise.”

  Julian’s arms tightened reflexively around Pip. He did not want to think about why Cross had insisted Pip remain behind, but it was too late. His nose had caught the bitter scent of the medicine.

  Pip coughed. “I’m very glad to see you, but your father needs to breathe.”

  Reluctantly, Julian disengaged himself. He unwound the scarf, holding it out to Pip.

  A rattle in the corridor outside indicated a waiter was on his way with his dinner. Julian opened the door before the man reached it. He looked at Julian with surprise. “The young gentleman has good ears!”

  Julian winced. He hadn’t even thought!

  “The young gentleman is very hungry.” Pip chuckled. “He’ll eat at the table.” He seated himself at the table, waiting as Julian was served. As the door closed behind the waiter, he spoke. “Did you really get lost chasing after a cat?”

  Julian winced. “Yes, sir.”

  Pip sighed. “How many well-brought up people have you seen chasing cats?”

  Julian’s heart sank further. “Not very many.” Pip eyed him, waiting. “In fact, it might be more accurate to say none.”

  “Exactly. You know better than this, Julian. What were you thinking?”

  Julian concentrated on the steak in front of him, cutting it into tiny pieces. His stomach was empty, but he’d lost his appetite completely. “I wasn’t. Thinking, I mean.” How to explain to his father that rush of instinct?

  Worse, how to explain the cat? He’d seen many cats shy away from him, sensing the other part of him. The urge to pursue them had been there, but not as strong as this one. Julian chewed slowly. If well-brought up young gentlemen did not chase cats, they especially did not chase cats that turned into boys. He swallowed. If his fathers found out about the boy, he would be in serious trouble.

  Pip placed his hands flat on the table, leaning forward. “It’s imperative that no one suspects you are anything but the gentleman you appear. You understand that, don’t you Julian? Otherwise…”

  Otherwise cages and injections and endless experiments. Julian tensed, fingers locking around his knife and fork. “I understand.”

  “Quite apart from the danger to you, it was terribly rude to Mr Scott. As your tutor, you should be giving him all your respect, and that means obeying his instructions. When he returns, you’ll apologize for worrying him.”

  Julian winced. He could see Latin translation in his future. “Mr Dawson, too?”

  Pip looked up. “Mr Dawson?”

  “He was with us when I saw the cat.”

  Pip frowned. “Dawson. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He’s the artist we met in Armadale.”

  “The one who painted the selkie?” Pip’s eyes shone. “And he’s in Paris? I have been wanting to—” He caught himself abruptly, the enthusiasm fading from his face. He cleared his throat. “Thank him. For those charming sketches of you.”

  Julian paused, weighing his father. He wasn’t sure about much when it came to human behaviour, but he was almost certain that was not how Pip had intended to finish the sentence. What had stopped him?

  “It’s not polite to stare at people, Julian. Go on. Eat your meal before it gets cold.”

  Julian obediently turned his attention to his steak.

  Pip stood, rearranging the ornaments on a side-table. “Did you run across Mr Dawson by chance?”

  “It depends on your definition of chance.” Julian swallowed a mouthful of meat. “Mr Dawson wrote Mr Scott from Paris. He was surprised to see us at least.”

  “Mr Scott was very helpful in finding hotels for us and assisting with all the travel arrangements. It was his suggestion we linger in Paris.” Pip and Julian shared a smirk. “Well, it doesn’t hurt anyone, I suppose. We would have stopped here regardless, and you could do with a bit more culture.”

  Julian nodded thoughtfully. Dawson was culture, was he?

  There was a distinctive tread in the corridor outside. The drawing room opened to admit Cross, followed closely by Scott. “Here he is. Julian, you have something to say to Mr Scott.”

  Julian stood obediently, puzzled. Scott looked fatigued, but both Pip and Cross were firm that polite society did not comment on such things. What did he that leave him to say? He caught Pip’s eye. Right. “I’m very sorry, Mr Scott. I shouldn’t have run off like I did.”

  “Scared me half to death.” Scott walked over to him. “You’re all right?”

  “My feet are sore, and I was very hungry. But I’m all right.”

  “Well, that is something.” Scott collapsed into an armchair. “Not quite the introduction to Paris I had in mind.”

  “No, but an educational outing, nonetheless. Julian will think twice before dashing off by himself.” Pip patted Julian’s head. “I’m thinking bed with no supper.”

  Julian schooled his expression into impassiveness. After the day he’d had, curling up in his bed was a relief, not a punishment.

  “An early night for all of us,” Cross suggested, drawing up his habitual armchair. “We’ve earned it.”

  Pip cleared his throat. “Is the acquaintance you ran into by the Seine the same Mr Dawson responsible for those lovely sketches of Julian?”

  Scott glanced at Julian. “That’s right. I’d forgotten you were acquainted with his work.”

  Julian kept his expression bland. Scott never forgot anything.

  “Invite him to join us for afternoon tea. I’d like to thank him for taking such an interest in Julian. No, I forgot—they don’t do afternoon tea here.” Pip turned to Cross. “Would dinner be better?” His tone was so casual that Julian would have believed it entirely spontaneous—if he hadn’t known his father better than that.

  “Dinner should be fine. It’s not as if we’re drowning in acquaintances.” Cross took the armchair nearest Pip’s sofa.

  Scott was quiet a moment, evidently weighing Dawson’s probable response against his desire to see him again. “I’ll ask, but I must warn you, he is not a sociable fellow.”

  “Naturally,” Pip said. “The artistic temperament.”

  Julian cocked his head. “How come when I am unsociable it’s rude, but when Mr Dawson does it, it’s artistic?”

  Cross scratched his chin. “An excellent question. You can ruminate on it in your bedroom.”

  It didn’t matter how many lectures he received on the
extra work created for the chambermaid, or the questions it raised, but Julian slept best only after trampling his bedsheets into a more comfortable nest. He curled up in the centre, shutting his eyes and preparing for sleep. But although his body was exhausted, his mind was another story. Just as his pursuit had been automatic, his thoughts strayed back to the cat boy with unerring persistency. Who was he? What was he? Why did he want to know Julian’s secrets? Did he get told off for forgetting himself? What did he mean by ‘too much time’ spent with humans?

  His ears caught the tread of feet outside his door. Julian shut his eyes and concentrated on keeping his breathing regular.

  The door cracked open. “Fast asleep,” Cross pronounced.

  He heard footsteps approach and a blanket drawn up over him. “Are we doing the right thing?” Pip asked.

  “We couldn’t leave him to be raised by scientists,” Cross said. “And there’s no one else we could trust with his particular needs.”

  Pip stroked Julian’s hair. “I know. But even so, it’s hard being a good example of a proper gentleman.”

  Cross snorted. “Perhaps Julian would benefit from a bad example.”

  “I’m perfectly serious. You know that we won’t be around to take care of him forever. When we’re gone, he’ll have to be able to comport himself properly.”

  Julian fought back a gasp. Where were they going?

  “There’s plenty of time for that yet.” Cross’s voice was the gentle one that only came out when the three of them were alone. “Mereweather has worked miracles with his patients. He’ll do the same for you.”

  Pip’s fingers stilled on Julian’s hair. “If I go into the sanitorium, it will be alone. You and Julian won’t be able to accompany me.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, it’s high time you were in bed. This has been a tiring evening for you.”

  Julian stayed still as Cross shepherded Pip from the room, but the moment the door closed behind them, he sprang to his feet. He paced up and down his bedroom, venting his agitation. Where was Pip going? Why was he not taking Julian? Because of his behaviour?

  Julian came to a halt. He’d been sent away once before, to school, to learn proper behaviour. If he wanted to stay with his fathers and not be sent away, he had only one option. To behave exactly as a gentleman should.

  He climbed back onto his bed, pulling his blankets straight and smoothing them out before climbing beneath them. The blankets felt both cold and too heavy. Julian lay still, willing himself to sleep. From now on, this was how he slept: perfectly ordinary.

  He must.

  4

  Julian presented himself at Scott’s door the next morning, ready to begin their lessons. Scott waved him towards the table set up as their desk. “Put Tacitus away. We’re reading Cicero.”

  He was in deep trouble. Julian’s shoulders drooped. Cicero made any idea so hopelessly convoluted and weighed down with flourishes that meaning was indecipherable.

  A well-brought up young gentleman did Cicero without complaint. Julian pulled up his chair and opened his book. “Very well.”

  Scott gave him a suspicious look and opened his own text.

  Julian’s nose twitched. New books smelled of ink and crisp pages. Scott’s emitted a woody odor, with overtones of something dry and smoky. An old book. A glance at the spine confirmed his guess: the leather cover was cracked, and the gilt lettering worn. He peered at the title. “Aus der Oberpfalz – Sitten und Sagen.” Customs and legends? “One of Father’s books?”

  Scott didn’t look up from his book. “Apply yourself to your Latin, not my reading material.”

  Julian turned back to his task.

  He was spared by an entirely unforeseen rescuer. Cross rapped on the door. “I apologize for the interruption, Mr Scott. We have a visitor of interest to the both of you.”

  Julian tilted his head. “A visitor?” They had few acquaintances in Paris.

  Cross inclined his head. “After your actions yesterday, Mr Dawson called to make sure you had returned safely.”

  Julian closed his book. This bore investigation. Dawson had not cared enough about an attempt on his own life to stop painting, but he would visit Julian?

  Dawson waited in the drawing room, standing as Julian and Scott entered. “Excuse my showing up like this. I wanted to know if Julian was found.”

  “It’s no intrusion.” Cross motioned him to take a seat.

  No intrusion? Turning up without even a letter of introduction was a faux pas so major even Julian recognised it. Cross met such invasions with an expression so stern that even the most shameless of invitation-seekers left, defeated, after a mere ten minutes. Instead, he appeared not welcoming—Cross didn’t do welcome—but tolerant.

  Julian sat on the sofa beside Pip, studying Dawson. Why did he get such a reception?

  Pip placed his hand on Julian’s shoulder. “You’re not intruding. No parent objects to someone taking an interest in their child. I’m inclined to take it as a compliment.”

  A compliment to who? Julian? If so, why was he doing Cicero? “No one found me. I made my way back.”

  “However you got back, I’m glad you did. We took off after you, but you lost us in no time.” Dawson’s mouth curled. “You’ve got a good career in front of you as a sprinter, if you’re inclined.”

  To running? Julian turned the idea over in his head. Neither Pip nor Cross would allow it. Running wasn’t gentlemanly.

  “No harm done, I trust?” Dawson continued.

  “Only to my nerves.” Scott flung a hand across his forehead. “Here I thought taking care of one boy would be easier than an entire classroom. I misjudged Julian.”

  Pip’s fingers pressed down on Julian’s shoulder. He looked up, catching the frown that passed between Cross and his father.

  Cross cleared his throat. “I hope we’re not preventing you from your work.”

  “Not at all. Now that I’m assured of Julian’s well-being, I’m glad of a break.” Dawson tugged at the end of his moustache.

  Scott shot him an anxious look, his mouth pinched shut.

  “Have you been working on any portraits?” Pip asked. “We have one of yours at Foxwood, and I admit I am very cu—” He stopped. “Charmed by it.”

  Cross snorted.

  “A portrait of mine?” Dawson frowned at Scott.

  He nodded. “I presented the painting I brought from you in Armadale to Mr Leighton. It hangs in the library at Foxwood Court.”

  The look Dawson gave him was pure suspicion. “I’m glad it has a good home.”

  “We all admire it,” Cross said. “If you are so inclined, we’d be interested in hearing the story behind that painting.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Dawson said. “Like most artists, I’m incapable of talking about my work in any sensible way.”

  A flat-out refusal, but neither Cross nor Pip looked disappointed. If anything, Pip looked even more intrigued. He put a finger on his lip, as if the physical preventative was all that kept him from asking further questions.

  A shriek split the air. Dawson jerked.

  “A departing train. Or is it arriving?” Pip waved towards the window. “We’re close to le Gare du Nord. Hoping to reduce the amount of walking we’d need to do, though that has not gone to plan. From the sounds of things, Julian walked halfway across Paris last night.”

  Dawson nodded. “Scott mentioned you were en route to the south of France and merely breaking your journey in Paris.”

  “You can’t visit France and not see Paris.” Pip settled back against the sofa. “What brings you here?”

  Julian listened with half an ear. Most of his attention was on Dawson. If Scott had shown up unexpectedly, he’d have suspected an ulterior motive. But Scott had barely spoken, and Dawson had yet to say a word to him. Despite that, both were keenly aware of each other. Odd.

  The arrival of a maid with a tray of tea things interrupted Julian’s reflections. Pip waved him towards
the tray. “Since Mr Dawson is your guest, you can do the honours. Remember to ask him how he takes his tea.”

  Making it hard for Dawson to excuse himself. Had Pip done this on purpose? “Do you take milk or sugar?”

  Dawson weighed his options and gave in. “Milk please.”

  “And me.” Scott pulled up an armchair near Dawson. “Perhaps you can solve a problem for me, Dawson. I’m planning to take Julian to the Louvre, but the jolly thing is so big. Where would you recommend that we focus our attention?”

  Dawson nodded thanks as he took his cup of tea. “That depends on your motives for visiting the Louvre. The antiquities collection is excellent. As a complement to Julian’s Latin studies—”

  “No,” Julian said, giving Scott his cup of tea. “Translating them is bad enough.”

  Pip chuckled. “The Louvre has more than just the Greek and Roman collection, doesn’t it? Their Egyptian relics are supposed to be top notch.”

  Cross looked up from his newspaper. “You’re still recovering from the journey.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. All the same, it’s not every day that we’re in Paris. And since I’m not allowed my own collection...”

  “I’d better accompany you if only to make sure you don’t overtire yourself.”

  His fathers would accompany them? Julian’s spirits soared. Nothing compared to the quiet joy of having Pip and Cross where he could see and hear both of them at once. Pip complained that their rural home of Foxwood Court lacked the necessary amusements for a child. Julian, however, was never happier than during the quiet evenings they spent in the drawing room, with Pip, Cross and Scott reading aloud at intervals from their book of choice, and Julian sprawled before the fire, revelling in his utter content.

  There would be no such evenings if Pip and Cross left. Julian concentrated on the cup of tea he poured himself. He sat beside Pip with the gravity expected of a gentleman.

  “You have an interest in antiquities, Mr Leighton?” Dawson asked.

  “An interest in customs and folklore,” Pip replied casually. “Which is why I enjoy your portrait so much. The reference to Scottish folklore in the title is intriguing—” He stopped. “In a purely academic sense.”