The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 4

  Cross scratched his chin. “A bare foot, you say?”

  Dawson nodded listlessly. “I can’t show you, I’m afraid. I—my nerves got the better of me. I scrubbed it clean.”

  Indeed, the floor showed signs of more recent cleaning than Julian, who had witnessed Dawson’s studio in Armadale, had expected. He took his courage in hands, stepping forward to look at the last painting. “What’s this?”

  “An experiment.” Dawson’s knuckles were white. “I wanted to see what would happen if I gave them free reign, so to speak. No model, just me and my paint. I set myself down, brush in hand, and waited. Nothing happened. After a few hours of sitting, I began to feel a bit of a fool. So, I just started filling the canvas. There was no pattern to it. I used what was left on my easel from the last painting. Eventually, I got into a rhythm. My mind drifted. I got swept up in the pattern of the colours. I was not thinking but working—and then the landlady rang the bell for dinner, startling me out of my—I suppose you could say trance. When I stood, I saw for the first time what I’d created.” He waved a hand towards the canvas. “You can see why I couldn’t finish it.”

  Sitting down to this canvas would have been unbearable. Julian didn’t even like looking at it. All his senses stood at alert.

  And yet there was nothing in it. A wood, at night. A single hill, illuminated by the moonlight, almost perfectly even and round. A natural clearing giving way to the woods beyond.

  “In my youth, that would have been known as a fairy mound,” Cross remarked suddenly. “Look. You can even see the toadstools.”

  Pip looked at him, eyebrows raised. “I never thought I’d see the day where you quoted fairy tales!”

  Cross ignored him, studying the canvas closely. “In fact, I’m not sure that this isn’t Upper Wrangleford. My grandmother married a Wrangleford man, we used to go there occasionally to visit. The giant’s table, I think it was called. There were a few local legends about it.”

  It was the sort of place that cried out for a story. The more Julian looked at it, the more unsettled he became. In the gaps between the trees, the shadow was uneven, suggesting figures standing, watching, waiting.

  “Ever been to Wrangleford?” Pip asked Dawson.

  He shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. What do you think? Are my nerves gone or is this—” He stopped as if he was not sure whether he wanted to allow the possibility that this was real.

  “It’s definitely strange,” Pip allowed. “And I have to say that while I am no expert in matters of the mind, I am impressed by the story you’ve told us. I would be happy to look into this further—” He stopped, casting a look at Cross and Julian. “If I was at leisure to do so.”

  Julian breathed out in relief. He was eager to leave the studio. The longer they stayed, the strong the itch to do something very ungentlemanly grew.

  Dawson’s face fell. “You cannot help?”

  “You’ve still got me, old chap.” Scott thumped him on the hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take those first two paintings away with me to study.”

  “And the third?”

  “Lock it up here, where it’s secure,” Scott said. “And in the meantime, give yourself a break from painting. Go to the theatre, swan about in cafés, even, god forbid, spend some time with people. Whatever it takes to get you out of yourself.”

  “People—meaning you?” Dawson cocked an eyebrow.

  Scott met his gaze without blushing. “I do happen to be available.”

  Julian shifted, glancing towards the door. The small studio felt uncomfortably close, not intended for six men.

  Six? Julian jerked his head up. Dawson, Scott, Cross and Pip. Add himself, that was five. Why did he feel so strongly that there was another with them?

  He turned his head. A movement in his peripheral vision. It stilled.

  Julian deliberately turned his gaze aside. He walked casually closer, seemingly interested in a faded calendar pasted to the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched.

  A flicker of movement. Julian leaped.

  He collided with the canvas, sending easel and painting to the ground. Julian blinked, his hands flat against the cloth surface. Canvas. Ordinary canvas. So why had he thought—

  “Julian!” He was suddenly aware that conversation had come to a complete halt, all four men staring down at him with varying degrees of surprise. Pip looked horrified. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Julian’s cheeks heated. So much for ordinary.

  7

  “I really wonder if anything we say has any impact whatsoever.” Pip began his lecture the moment the carriage door shut behind himself, Cross and Julian. “I have impressed on you the need to be normal dozens, if not scores of times, and still! Leaping on an easel as if it were an assailant! And in full view of Scott and Dawson, no less!”

  “Scott seems to have reached his own conclusions about Julian,” Cross observed.

  “Even so. Dawson doesn’t know—though he is going to be wondering now! I—” A coughing fit interrupted Pip’s tirade.

  Cross gripped his arm until the fit passed.

  Julian clutched his seat. Every explosion sounded like a reprimand. Even after the fit relented and Pip’s harsh breathing filled the carriage, he could not relax. His keen nose had caught a tinge of copper.

  Pip wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “It’s passed. I should have known better than to allow myself to become upset.”

  “It’s my fault,” Julian said at once. “If I hadn’t—” He stopped, not wanting to trigger another explosion with the reminder of his actions.

  “Let’s leave the matter for now,” Cross said. “You can recover your strength and Julian can ponder what he could have done differently.”

  Julian winced. Just as well Scott had stayed behind to see about the transportation of the paintings. He could not have endured another witness to his utter mortification. “I really am sorry. I was trying very hard. But I—” It sounded even worse when he tried to explain. “I thought I saw it move.”

  “Interesting,” Cross said. “I didn’t notice anything of the sort, although I did find the room rather stuffy. Pip?”

  “Curiously crowded, I thought. While nothing at first, the painting—the one at night—gave me a strange feeling. I didn’t like having my back to it while we looked at the other two.”

  “Yes. I own that I am glad Scott did not suggest bringing it back with him.” Cross stroked his beard, his eyes resting thoughtfully on Julian. “I would be curious to know if the landlady continues to hear noises of footsteps and the like now that Dawson has quit the studio.”

  “Oh, she does,” Pip reported immediately. “I asked her while you were hailing the carriage. Not as frequently, but every other night, and there’s music too.” He stopped, making a show of straightening his jacket sleeves. “Not that I’m interested in such things. I just thought I’d enquire, in case Scott forgot.”

  Cross’s expression was deeply ironic. “Naturally. And I suppose the fact that you have with you a large collection of books dealing with the spiritual realm…?”

  “When Scott returns, I’ll let him know that my library is at his disposal,” Pip said stiffly. “But a gentleman doesn’t interest himself with things like fairy tales or ghost hunts.”

  Cross’s snort was so loud, Julian jumped.

  Pip glared at Cross, putting his hand on Julian’s arm. “I’m ashamed at you, Thomas, startling Julian. Hasn’t the afternoon been trying enough? I think we’re all due a quiet night. An early dinner, and perhaps a few rounds of cards—something nice and ordinary.”

  The evening passed pleasantly enough. The only problem was that most card games required a fourth, and by the time Scott returned with Dawson’s paintings, Pip had retired to bed.

  “Have I missed Mr Leighton?” Scott said, looking at the unoccupied sofa. “What a blow. I was hoping to pick his brain for some book recommendations.”

  “What did you have in mind?
” Cross asked.

  Scott grimaced. “That’s where I need Mr Leighton’s expertise. He didn’t happen to mention if Dawson’s case reminded him of anything?”

  “I’m afraid not. Julian, why don’t you assist Mr Scott in his search?”

  “Me?” Julian looked up from his novel with some dismay.

  “Why not?” Cross said blandly. “Three sets of eyes are better than one.”

  “Three—oh, I couldn’t presume on your time, Lord Cross.” Scott tugged his collar.

  “It is no intrusion. I’ll take a book with me to bed.” Cross glanced at his watch. “I think it time I retire.” He was as good as his word, staying only long enough to see that Pip’s cases of books were opened for Scott and Julian, select a volume of strange tales and bid the pair of them goodnight.

  “It’s good of Lord Cross to interest himself in Dawson,” Scott remarked as he dug into a pile of German folklore. “What exactly did you talk about this evening?”

  Julian winced. The less said about that painful carriage ride, the better. “Nothing.”

  “It can’t have been nothing for him to display so keen an interest. For that matter, what on earth made you tackle Dawson’s easel?”

  He should have known that Scott would ask. “I caught it out of the corner of my eye. It looked like a person.”

  “You didn’t see any movement within the painting?”

  Julian blinked. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “Did you?”

  “I’m not quite sure what I saw,” Scott said. “I’ll be interested to see if the paintings are any different out of Dawson’s presence.”

  Julian licked his lips. Dangerous ground. “Of course, they’ll be the same paintings. For them to be anything else would be ridiculous. Paintings don’t change, not unless someone changes them.”

  “A very sensible statement. If only this were that simple.” Scott sorted the likely looking books into two piles. “Here. I’ll take the German and the Latin, you take the English and the French.”

  Julian looked at the rapidly growing pile of books. “I have to read all these?”

  “Skim them, at least. And you’ve got no reason to complain. Compared to the novels you read, these are fine art.”

  Better not to reply to that and retreat while his pile of books was still bearable. Julian returned to his bedroom, placed the pile on his desk, and picked up the top volume. The thin leather-bound book was titled ‘Concerning the Ancient Beliefs and Not So Ancient Beliefs of Upper Wrangleford.’ The title page intimated this was the work of a vicar and had been paid for by the donations of his friends, to whom he was greatly indebted. Not a good beginning. The vicars of Julian’s acquaintance were far more concerned with his education than his entertainment. He flopped onto his bed, book in hand. After a moment’s consideration, he sat. Sprawling was comfortable, but was it gentlemanly?

  Something knocked at the glass of his window.

  Julian looked at the drawn curtains. At home in Foxwood Court, there was a tree close enough to his bedroom that in high winds, the branches sometimes brushed against the walls. This was not Foxwood Court, but Paris, and the second floor of a prominent city hotel. There were no trees. Nor was there any wind to produce the sound.

  Regardless, the knock repeated.

  Julian drew the curtain.

  The cat boy perched on the edge of the balcony, grinning at him.

  Julian pulled the curtains shut.

  Immediately, the boy rattled the glass doors, creating such a racket, Julian expected either one of his fathers to burst in immediately. He flung open the curtains and stepped through the balcony door. “Will you stop that? You’ll wake someone.”

  “Good,” said the cat boy loftily. “Maybe then you’ll pay attention to me.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “It was very rude of you to ignore me earlier. Not so well trained as I thought. Or did your masters tell you to do that?”

  Blood rushed to Julian’s face. He felt his pulse in his ears, almost drowning out his own thoughts. “They’re not my masters.”

  “No?” The boy looked at him, his gaze mocking. “They certainly keep you under close watch. I’ve been following you most of the day. You haven’t had a moment to yourself.”

  The boy’s words gave his chest a tight, uneasy feeling. “I might have had one now—if it wasn’t for you.”

  His smile deepened. “Have I touched a nerve?”

  “No nerve to touch. I have time to do what I want.” Though admittedly, never as much as he liked. But that was only because he was young and had not completed his education. Wasn’t it?

  The cat boy’s smile was superior, his eyes indecipherable in the moonlight. “Prove it then.”

  Julian blinked. Distracted by those eyes, he’d forgotten to be on guard. “How?”

  “Come out with me. Now.” The boy motioned. “We had fun yesterday, didn’t we? The city’s even better at night. Less people, more of the wild creeps in.”

  The thought of chasing the cat over those wide empty streets made Julian’s heart give an excited leap. He shook his head with difficulty. “I can’t.”

  The boy’s lip curled. “Because they’re preventing you.”

  “No, not at all.” His rejoinder sounded too immediate to be believable. “I don’t want to.”

  “Don’t want to—and your entire body straining at the mere thought of it?” The cat shook his head. “Come on. You want to. We both know you want to. You’ve spent the entire day holding back. Now it’s time to let go and to live a little.” The boy’s tone dropped, a low, breathy whisper that made Julian’s body heat and his pulse race in an entirely different way.

  He looked away, needing some distance from the boy’s direct stare. “Well—”

  The boy leaned in, whispering directly into Julian’s ears. “There’s a park across the road and down a block. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes, but I won’t wait any longer than that.” And then he patted Julian’s cheek and swung himself over the balcony—

  “Wait!”

  —and into nothingness. Julian stared down at an empty street, the cold night air stinging his overheated cheeks. He clutched the balcony railing, staring beyond it into the dark.

  Across the road and down a block. He had a key to their suite of rooms. No one would notice him slip outside, not if he used the porter’s entrance… Julian glanced over his shoulder at the door to his room. His fathers would not approve.

  Neither would they approve of the cat coming back and making an even bigger racket. Or worse… Julian closed the balcony door and slipped out of his room. Ten minutes did not give him time to regret this. He made his way down the back staircase and out the porter’s entrance. The night was cold, but his feeling of anticipation warmed him.

  The cat waited in the park. Julian’s other self leaped to the fore. After a long day of holding himself in check, he simply couldn’t resist any longer. When he took off after the cat, it was on four paws.

  8

  Julian entered the drawing room, tired but immensely satisfied. Dawn broke as he crept back up the stairs and into his bedroom, and he’d only managed to snatch a couple of hours sleep. He would regret this later, he knew. For now, the thrill of having the entire city to explore still beat in his veins.

  Scott served himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the sideboard. Cross looked up from the morning paper. “Morning, Julian. Sleep well?”

  Julian shrugged, sitting down at the table. “I suppose so.”

  “You must be the only one who did,” Scott remarked. “As I was just telling Lord Cross, I had restless dreams that kept me tossing most of the night. Footsteps hurrying to and fro, snatches of conversation half heard and music…” He frowned. “I’d heard that song before.”

  Was this a chance to skip lessons? “Now that you mention it, I am fatigued.”

  “Your father also passed a restless night,” Cross announced. “I’ve sent for Dr Mereweather as a precaution.”
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  “Dr Mereweather’s in Paris?” Mereweather was a specialist whose usual haunt was Harley Street. Why he’d be in Paris at all was a mystery. Had he come at Cross’s bidding? But it took a lot longer than one night to make the journey from London to Paris… The toast that had smelled so inviting a moment ago lost all appeal. Julian pushed his plate away. “What is he doing here?”

  “He has established a sanatorium in Nice for patients with complications of the lungs,” Cross said. “Your father was due to meet with him tomorrow, but in light of the night he’s just had, I have brought the appointment forward.”

  Julian stood, making for the connecting door to Pip’s bedroom.

  The curtains were still drawn, but Julian’s keen eyes had no problems seeing his father in the dim light. Pip muttered in his sleep, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. When he was asleep, and not arguing with Cross or laughing at a remark, his illness was more obvious. He’d lost weight, his face was gaunt, and there were dark shadows around his eyes. The room smelled sour, of sweat and something indefinable that made Julian’s stomach twist with fear.

  Cross’s hand settled on his shoulder. He steered Julian towards the door, shutting it behind him. “He needs his rest.”

  No one suggested lessons. Cross smoked and turned the pages of his newspaper. Scott wrote in a notebook. Both appeared preoccupied. For his part, Julian sat on the sofa, ears attuned to any disturbance that occurred behind Pip’s closed door. He heard every cough, every creak of the mattress as Pip shifted in his sleep.

  Julian worried the tasselled edge of a cushion as he listened. Was his cough growing more frequent? He did not remember this from Foxwood Court. But he’d not been paying attention then, convinced that this was another of his father’s colds and that he would soon recover.