Ok, here is a new story that's a bit different. I tried with my first four books to portray Regency life accurately. I will continue to do so but this book will contain a major fantasy element.

I'm running the chapter-naming competition again. Send in your entries by review of the relevant chapter. I will announce the winner of the previous chapter when I post the next chapter. All chapter winners enter a draw to win one of five Kindle copies of the published book.

Incidentally, not all of the five prizes for The Lectrice have been claimed, so check your ff inbox or my profile page if you entered. Thank you for your support. Your reviews keep me motivated and influence the story as I write,

Fred

Go down red roses

(With apologies to Dorothy Hewitt)

Oh when shall we two meet again,

In thunder, lightning or in rain?

Your lips like red roses say my name,

But you beseech me all in vain.

For I shall never give myself to he

Who seeks my blood before he seeks me.

Chapter 1 Compassion is everything

Darcy's life had changed irrevocably on his grand tour. Napoleon had been exiled to Elba. His cousin the Honourable Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had been selected to accompany Wellington to Vienna as part of the peace negotiations, replacing Lord Castlereagh who had been at it for four months. And Richard had asked Darcy to come along—not officially, but as a guest. There was no time like the present to view the Continent, reasoned Colonel Fitzwilliam. Who knew how long the peace would last? Particularly when the negotiations were so protracted...

Richard and Darcy had grown up together in Derbyshire, and despite pursuing very different careers, the constant companionship of their youth had been kept up intermittently in London and in their native shire, and had only been seriously interrupted by Richard's participation in the Penisular Campaign of the long-running war with Napoleon. Richard knew that Darcy had always regretted the fact that the war had prevented him taking the grand tour after his graduation from Cambridge, as his father had done before him.

Instead of a tour, Darcy had spent six weeks in London after graduation, celebrating with his colleagues with whom he was discussing travel of an entirely different kind—he wished to join their scientific expedition to the North Pole. It was a journey Darcy longed to undertake although he knew it might be difficult to obtain his father's permission. After two days crafting the letter requesting paternal consent, Darcy had spent the entire week biting his nails, even though he knew he could not reasonably expect a response from his father in Derbyshire within the first three days.

Darcy never received a reply. Instead a letter from Mrs Reynolds arrived heralding the first disaster—his father had died unexpectedly. Instead of becoming a famous explorer like his friends, Darcy had posted home immediately to Pemberley to attend his father's funeral and assume the yoke of responsibility that was his patrimony: Master of Pemberley—an estate worth ten thousand a year; feudal lord to hundreds of dependants; custodian of an independent fortune built on industry and joint guardian with Richard Fitzwilliam of his nine-year old sister Georgiana, now orphaned.

It had been a shock. Not only had Darcy's dreams of pursuing a character-building career before assuming his patrimony been nipped in the bud, he hardly felt prepared to take over his parent's role. Darcy's father had only partly schooled him in his responsibilities, not having expected to meet his Maker so prematurely. Having grown up on the Pemberley estate, some things came as naturally to Darcy as the air he breathed, but for the most part he was back at school again, with his steward and his man of business as his tutors.

The trip to the Continent had at first seemed a wonderful break after six years as Master of Pemberley. The first two years had been years of stress as Darcy struggled to fill the shoes of his father, haunted by dreams that he was not equal to the task. In addition to management of the estate, there were interests in lead mines in Derbyshire and mills in the north—iron in Sheffield and textiles in Yorkshire—to be taken care off. But the initial stress of learning so much that was unfamiliar had gradually dissipated into boredom as the challenges seemed to leach from his life to be replaced by the endless grind of tedious work. The collection of rocks and fossils in his library, which had once been his joy, gathered dust while account books occupied all the space on his desk.

Worse still, even his evenings had begun to become interminable. Formerly he might have spent them relaxing with a volume of poetry or attending a lecture of the Royal Society—he had at least tried to keep up with the latest discoveries, even if he could not make them himself. But the evenings of the past year had largely been spent in ballrooms as his aunt, Lady Matlock, tried to find him a suitable bride as his third decade approached. It was not that he was fussy, Darcy insisted to his aunt, he just could find nothing in common with the pampered damsels she presented to him. Surely, if he was to spend the rest of his life with one of these ladies, they should at least be able to conduct some sort of rational conversation?

Thankfully, when the question of his 'Grand Tour' had been raised, his steward and his man of business had agreed that things were going so smoothly that they could do without him for a while. Gratefully, Darcy announced his intention to be off. His aunt, hoping he might find a suitable bride at the Congress wrote him several letters of introduction. Lady Matlock had spent some time at the French court before the disruption of the revolution and had high hopes for her restored Bourbon connections.

The Continent had indeed been a revelation. Darcy had spent a wonderful month in Vienna with his cousin. They engaged in swordplay early in the morning before Richard went off to the Congress while Darcy spent his days in libraries and museums. Less palatable were the evenings, when Darcy accompanied Richard to various diplomatic functions associated with the Congress, but at least these allowed Darcy to spend some time with his cousin. Of course, Richard was not entirely his own master at such events—he had to dance with the wives of various dignitaries. Darcy got to dance with their daughters, some of them very beautiful, but he had little enjoyment in it. These extremely well-to-do ladies seemed even more pampered and false than their English counterparts of the Ton. When the Congress continued to drag on in endless negotiation, the monotony of it all began to plague him. He got itchy feet. Darcy had taken to going off on side-trips to see a little more of the world beyond Vienna.

That was how he had ended up in Pest, which he'd been encouraged to visit by a young officer* whose father had started a grand library and whose mother had an enviable mineral collection. He had arrived at the recommended lodgings in Pest, which was a beautiful city built on the Danube in the vicinity of natural hot springs. On this fellow's advice, in the early mornings Darcy took a ferry across the river to Buda where he competed at singlestick before relaxing in the Turkish baths, which were a welcome change from the frigid weather he had experienced during the journey. Having exercised his body, he spent the rest of his days exercising his mind in the recommended Széchenyi library in Pest, walking back to his hotel after dark.

It was on his way back to his lodgings on his second evening in the city that Darcy got the uncanny feeling that he was being watched or followed. Darcy stopped several times and turned around but he never saw the slightest evidence of anyone lurking in the shadows; nor did he ever hear a footstep that could not be attributed to some harmless person in the street. The feeling continued intermittently during the following days. Darcy began to wonder if he was developing some strange psychosis as a result of being too much alone. He asked his valet Finn whether he had noticed anything unusual in their surroundings or in his own behaviour and was answered firmly in the negative.

The third day in the city started a trifle differently when the ferryman, who usually made his way across the wide Danube with the assistance of sail, was obliged to pick up his oars due to the unusual stillness of the air. One quarter of the way across, Darcy was already impatient to be at the baths so that he might sooner get to the library. Sitting down next to the ferryman, he demanded one of the oars and they sped across the river with great celerity, overtaking several other similar conveyances. Having reached the Buda side, Darcy had warmed up appreciably and, deciding that he had already sufficient exercise without the singlestick and sufficient warmth without the baths, he promptly paid the ferryman for both the forward and return journey and picked up his oar again. The ferryman looked at him with some incredulity, but took the proffered coins without demur. It was only when Darcy disembarked and headed off along the quayside that he heard the ferryman yell something to his compatriots in his native tongue which Darcy fancied translated as "mad Englishman".

But the feeling of being followed persisted, and Darcy began to notice an unusual black carriage—a very fine carriage such as might carry a member of the nobility, but rendered strange by the thick velvet curtains that shrouded its windows. He fancied he might have seen it on the quayside on that morning he had rowed across the river, but mostly he had noticed it standing outside the bibliotheca on several occasions when he emerged. Darcy had not thought much of it, merely assuming it belonged to another patron. Were it not for its funereally black colour and the curtains, he would likely not have noticed it at all. But when he spotted it again upon emerging from the library one evening after sunset, Darcy was in time to glimpse a startlingly pale face at the curtains, which was gone before he had a chance to further study it. Darcy had gone home, eaten his supper alone with his valet and retired. As he settled down in bed with a book, his valet had retreated to his dressing room where he slept on a camp bed.

That night Darcy had a strange dream. He dreamt that he woke to find that same pale face from the carriage staring in at him from the window of his hotel room, which was impossible, for he was on the second floor and the ledge outside would not have admitted a cat. He watched, mesmerised, as the figure opened the window and climbed inside. As the man approached, he moved with unusual grace. Darcy had every chance to study him, for in his dream everything occurred very slowly, as if the man was moving through treacle. The slowness was quite striking, almost portentous, and Darcy could only liken it to one other event in his life—a carriage accident that had taken the life of his coachman when a wheel had disintegrated at speed. He had remembered the horrible sound of the wheel cracking and then the slow tumbling as the carriage fell on its side and slid along the ground, drawn on by the terrified horses. The windows had broken and as Darcy held himself above the ground rushing beneath him, his legs and arms splayed against the floor and roof of the carriage, he was sprayed with glass and dirt. The moments before the body of the carriage became wedged in the earth and he realised that he had escaped serious injury had seemed to last for minutes, but could only have been a few seconds.

Darcy saw that with the exception of the man's top-hat, his clothes were rather outdated, like those of an older man; though the man did not look much older than himself. Darcy realised, too, that he had not at first noticed the style of the gentleman's clothes, for such he clearly was, because they were all entirely black—a black velvet cape thrown over a black tail coat embroidered with black thread, even black ruffles and lace. The gentleman was handsome despite his pallid countenance. His eyes seemed to glitter strangely in the darkness, like a cat's. When the gentleman reached Darcy's bed, he put out his hand, which was clad in a black glove and lightly touched Darcy on the chest. Although only his fingertips made contact, the gentleman was able to exert sufficient force to push Darcy backwards onto the mattress. Darcy had not resisted, but the steely force behind that gentle touch had been quite apparent. He felt very heavy, unable even to lift his head. Then the gentleman opened his mouth and in heavily accented but perfect English said:

"You are worthy, Englishman. I take you as my disciple. Go spread my creed to the English."

Darcy woke in the morning to find the window open, the cold air streaming in. It was when he got up to shut the casement that he found his valet sprawled on the floor with his body twisted in an unnatural way. Darcy's heart gave a strange leap of fright. He immediately concluded they had been burgled as he slept and quickly scanned the room, lest the intruder still be present; but no one was about.

Darcy felt a coldness creep over his skin that could not be ascribed to the chill of the room as he bent over Finn, fearing his man was dead. But despite his valet's icy cold hands, under his clothes his chest was still warm and his heart beat, though Darcy thought it unusually fast. Having arranged his valet in a more comfortable position on the floor, Darcy closed the window, tried to stir the hearth to life and, failing, rang for a chambermaid.

Then Darcy picked Finn up, removed his boots and placed him under the covers of his own bed. It was in doing so that he noticed two strange wounds on his valet's neck, like puncture marks, that had been hidden by his cravat. Darcy pulled the cravat off entirely, and stared at the marks. They did not seem consistent with shaving cuts. They were deep and crescent-shaped and his mind wanted to immediately attribute them to a snake, which he thought unlikely to be occupying their hotel room—but he checked under the bed and other likely places of concealment anyway. Still at a loss to think what could have caused such an injury, he more sensibly concluded that Finn's attacker must have been responsible and began to imagine cudgels with nails protruding from them.

When the chambermaid arrived to deal with the hearth, Darcy resolved to check their papers and money, fully expecting everything to be gone. But all was intact. He wracked his brain trying to think what the intruder could have been after. He could only think it must be a case of mistaken identity—the thief having entered the wrong room in the hotel. Clearly Finn had disturbed him and he had fled. Feeling guilty that he had not woken, Darcy checked Finn once more and finding his hands still icy, began to chafe them. By the time the chambermaid declared herself satisfied with the fire, Darcy had become so worried by his valet's lack of response to succour that he asked the maid to fetch a doctor. Once she left, Darcy did the only other thing he could think of to warm his valet up—he climbed into bed beside him.

The doctor took an inordinately long time to arrive. In his consternation, Darcy had rung the bell for the chambermaid twice to receive her assurances that help was on its way. But just after she departed for the second time, Finn awoke and Darcy's anxiety abated a little.

On questioning, his valet could remember nothing of his attacker. He had got up when he heard a strange noise, but beyond that his memory was a blank. He tried to get out of Darcy's bed but found himself so weak he could not even rise on his elbow. Darcy told him firmly to remain in bed, but rose himself to change into his day clothes before the doctor should arrive.

The doctor concluded that Finn had merely been hit with some object by their intruder; his rapid heartbeat he attributed to fright and prescribed laudanum for the shock.

Darcy did not go out that day, choosing to sit by the fire reading while his valet slept. Darcy got up regularly to check him. For the first few hours Finn's hands and feet remained cold, but towards the end of the evening a fever came upon him. Darcy rang for vinegar and barley water, fervently wishing he had his housekeeper's expertise to call on. But Reynolds was a thousand miles away. After midnight the fever seemed to mount and Darcy rang for a hip bath. After much grumbling, this was duly delivered by the butler of the hotel who exerted himself sufficiently to help Darcy undress Finn and lay him in the bath. After Darcy had hovered anxiously near Finn for several hours, his valet's fever suddenly abated and he began to shiver. Darcy promptly transferred him back to the bed, laying him on towels and blotting him with some more. Having drawn the covers over Finn, Darcy promptly fell asleep beside his valet atop the coverlet, fully clothed and still wearing his boots.

It must have been shortly before sunrise that he had another strange dream. The gentleman appeared at the window again and entered the room as before. Darcy seemed more alert this time but had the same sensation of heaviness. He wanted to ask the gentleman who he was, but his lips could not form the words. The gentleman bent over him and, taking off his glove, ran his finger along Darcy's cheek. It was as cold and steely as any knife.

"I knew I was not wrong about you, my beauty," the gentleman whispered and bent closer. "Compassion is everything."

Darcy woke to a loud knocking at the door. The sun was shining brightly and with a lurch, he realised he must have been asleep for several hours. He quickly checked Finn and, discovering him to be sleeping more comfortably, jumped up to answer the door. Finding it to be the chambermaid with their breakfast, Darcy deduced it must be after ten, when the coffee room below stopped serving while the midday meal was prepared. Grateful the butler had thought of them, Darcy apologised to the maid for keeping her standing in the hall and asked her to pass on his thanks to the butler. It turned out that their meal was due to the maid's solicitude.

Finn proved well enough to eat a little, propped up on his elbow, which greatly relieved Darcy. But afterwards his valet insisted on removing to his cot in the dressing room. Darcy tried to dissuade him from this exertion, pointing out that it was easier to watch over him if he was in the same room. Finn then suggested they solve this problem by moving his cot into the main room. It was clear that Finn was far too weak to participate in this operation. After reassuring his valet it was no trouble, Darcy easily moved the cot, leaving only a large scratch upon the doorpost of the dressing room in his efforts to move the cumbersome object.

They then spent a companionable day together. Darcy read to himself by the fire while Finn dozed. Darcy had high hopes they could return to their normal routine on the morrow, for they had but a week left before they had promised to return briefly to Richard in Vienna before choosing their next expedition and there was still much that he wanted to do. However towards the evening, Darcy realised that he was also running a temperature and he withdrew from the fire to sit near the cooler window. He thought it likely he had caught Finn's chill, but given he usually suffered less with any lurgy than his fellow men, it did not greatly concern him. A tray was brought for dinner, but it was left largely untouched by Darcy who had no appetite. Finally, it became difficult to read—his eyes felt too lazy to even scan the page— and, laying his book down, Darcy nodded off.

He woke in a fever to find the gentleman once more in the room.

"You will be more comfortable in your own bed," said he, and picking Darcy up easily, the gentleman conveyed him to the bed.

Darcy definitely knew he was dreaming then for he was no light weight: riding at thirteen stone and being over six feet in height. The man's icy hands were like a balm and in a moment of incoherence, Darcy imagined that the man might be his father, for he had only ever been carried in such a fashion as a youngster.

"Papa?" he managed.

"Yes, I am your father," the gentleman replied. "And already you grow stronger."

Darcy woke in his own bed the next morning and knowing the gentleman was a figment of his dreams, concluded he must have removed there himself sometime during the night. Finn was up and about and asked if he should go down to procure them some breakfast. Before Finn could properly complete this speech he broke into a paroxysm of coughing. Darcy told him he was not hungry but to ring the bell to have something brought up and to go back to bed.

Then the delirium set in. Darcy only had vague notions of being violently ill; Finn and the chambermaid lifting him off the bed, into the bath; thrashing about; a priest.

Finally, he came to his senses. It was a dull day outside, raining heavily. Darcy was still feeling unwell—the light bothered him and he felt odd—but he had regained his strength and could sit up in bed. He was able to eat for the first time, but the soup they brought him tasted strange, slightly tasteless, and the toast like cardboard. How he wished he was back in Derbyshire, with a steaming bowl of porridge cooked by Mrs Reynolds!

He ate what he could while Finn fussed over him and took the draught that was proffered. When the chambermaid knocked at the door, Finn let her in before apologizing to Darcy profusely, saying he needed to step out to the apothecary to get more of the doctor's prescription. The maid had agreed to sit with Darcy while Finn was away. His valet then donned gaiters, his coat and a hat, picked up an umbrella and departed.

Darcy felt very silly being watched over by the maid, as if he had returned to the nursery. Aside from the strangeness, he felt perfectly fine. After a halting exchange in three different languages, he made himself understood—the maid let herself out and locked the door behind her.

He had not intended to fall back asleep, having picked up a book to read, but the effort of scanning the lines must have been too much for him, for the next thing Darcy remembered was waking as the key scraped in the lock of the door. But it was not Finn who entered the room but the maid again. Darcy had only time to notice the blank look on her face when his heart froze, for out of the dimness of the hallway stepped the odd gentleman.

"Good morning," said the gentleman, holding the brim of his hat down over his eyes. "Forgive me, but would you mind if I drew the curtains?"

"Who are you?" croaked Darcy, alarmed by the transmogrification of his dreams, "and what do you mean by barging in here?"

Having closed the curtains, the gentleman returned to the bed.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, gently addressing the maid. "You may go."

The maid did not move but stared blankly at the gentleman with her mouth open. He gave her a gentle push and she turned and walked out the door very slowly, like an automaton. She did not lock the door behind her.

The gentleman removed his cloak, pulled up a chair and sat down in it.

"I apologise for this unheralded call, but it is not my first."

Darcy realised he was clutching the sheets protectively about his chest and tried to relax. Whatever this unexpected intrusion, the gentleman did not seem threatening.

"I remember you, from my dreams," he said.

"Ah? Do you? How interesting. I knew you were different from the moment I first..." the gentleman hesitated, "saw you," he concluded. "Please forgive me; my name is Charles Báthory."

"Báthory?"

"Yes, Báthory. Have you heard the name before?"

"I have. In Vienna."

"Do tell," urged the gentleman. "You may save me a world of bother."

"Well," said Darcy. "It is rather silly, actually. I accompanied my cousin to a salon given by a Madame Vauban. It was rather embarrassing—not the sort of thing I would attend at home. She was running a competition for the best hair-raising story—ghosts and that sort of thing. One of the Austrian officers related a story of Elizabeth Báthory. He called her The Blood Countess and claimed her story was true."

"Indeed, Elizabeth Báthory was a noblewoman whose life is very well documented. I am a relation of hers."

"I beg your pardon. I would not have said as much had I known. It is not then a common name?"

"No, but it is a proud one. But do not worry, you have not offended me. So you know the story and I can confirm that the basis of it is true."

"But you do not know all," protested Darcy. "The officer's story was quite ridiculous—he claimed she was a vampire."

"Indeed. And I am telling you it is true. When I claimed kinship earlier, I was being sly. I am, in fact, her son."

Darcy laughed uneasily. "But that is impossible! She was said to have lived two hundred years ago."

The gentleman merely nodded. "Well, Mr Darcy, for I believe that is your name, I realise you are a man of science, which is one of the reasons I chose you. So am I. I am a student of the natural world. Trees live for hundreds of years; so do some animals. What is so preposterous about a two hundred-year old man?"

"You jest," said Darcy. "Methuselah is said to have lived almost a thousand years, but that was before the flood, which seems to have changed things. Furthermore, I expect he showed his age. You look not much older than myself."

"And what if I were to tell you that like my mother, I am a vampire and that changes everything."

"I'm afraid I would not believe you."

The gentleman nodded, as if in agreement. "Your scepticism is natural. But think on the events of the last few days—your illness and that of your valet's. I have been watching you. I know you noticed the bite marks on your valet's neck. The doctor said he was in shock but were not some of his symptoms consistent with loss of blood? And... are you not feeling a little different?"

"My symptoms were completely different to those of my valet and I have no bite marks!" replied Darcy hotly.

"Your symptoms are different because I merely took blood from him, but I have transformed you. As to the bite marks, I bit him on the neck for a purpose; generally I take blood from the upper classes and their servants from less exposed arteries. Concealment is the only way if one is to avoid continually committing murder."

Darcy began to be a little afraid. Just who was this madman who spoke of vampires, immortality and murder and how was he to be rid of him? A silence stretched between them. You could have heard a pin drop.

"I beg your pardon," said the gentleman, getting up to don his cloak and hat. "I believe I have overstayed my welcome. Think carefully about what I have said and do not do anything rash. Once you have distilled your thoughts, just whisper to the breeze, "Charles, I believe you" and I will come.

Footnotes

*most likely Captain István Széchenyi

lurgy—an unspecified or indeterminate illness resulting in lethargy