Mr. Darcy Vampyre by Amanda Grange

draught-blown torches and its gloomy wall hangings. But once they were shown into the drawing room things improved. The room was warm with the heat of a log fire, which crackled in an enormous stone fireplace. The carpet was old but not threadbare, and the furniture, though dark and heavy, was of a good quality. Sitting in a chair with his legs stretched out to the fire was a man whom Elizabeth took to be the Count.
    The butler announced the Darcys in a foreign tongue and the Count rose, surprised, his look of astonishment quickly giving way to one of welcome. He was somewhat strange of appearance, being unusually tall and very angular, with a finely-boned face, long, delicate fingers, and features which gave him a perpetual look of haughtiness, yet his manner when he greeted Darcy was friendly.
    Elizabeth let her eyes roam over the Count’s clothes, which were reassuring in their familiarity, for they were the kind worn by country gentlemen in England. He wore a shabby but well-cut coat of russet broadcloth with a ruffled shirt, which had once been white but was now grey with many washings, beneath which he wore russet knee breeches and darned stockings. His black shoes were polished, but they too were shabby. The only thing she could not have seen on some of her more countrified neighbours was his powdered wig, which would have marked him out as old-fashioned, eccentric even, in Hertfordshire.
    The two men spoke in a foreign tongue which Elizabeth did not recognise. It seemed to bear some resemblance to French but many of its words were unfamiliar, and she could not understand what was being said. Darcy quickly realised this and reverted to English. The Count, after a moment of surprise, glanced at Elizabeth and then, understanding, spoke in English too, though he spoke it with a heavy accent and a strange intonation.
    â€˜Darcy, this pleasure, it is not expected,’ he said, ‘but you are welcome here. Your guest, too, she is welcome.’
    He extended his hand and the two men shook hands with a firm grip.
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Darcy. ‘I am sorry I could not give you warning, but I did not like to send a messenger on to the castle alone.’
    â€˜The road to the castle, it is not a safe one,’ the Count agreed. ‘But what does it matter? My housekeeper, she is always prepared for guests. And this so charming young woman is…?’ he asked.
    â€˜Elizabeth,’ said Darcy, taking her hand and drawing her forward.
    â€˜Elizabeth,’ said the Count, bowing over her hand. ‘A beautiful name for a most beautiful lady. Elizabeth…?’
    â€˜Elizabeth Darcy. My wife,’ said Darcy with wary pride.
    â€˜Your wife?’ asked the Count, recoiling as though stung.
    â€˜Yes. We were married three weeks ago.’
    â€˜I had not heard,’ said the Count, quickly recovering himself, ‘and that, it is not usual; en général I hear of things which concern the family very quickly. But we are out of the way here…’ he said, looking at Elizabeth curiously before turning his attention back to Darcy. ‘And so, you are married, Fitzwilliam. It is something I thought I would not see.’
    â€˜There is a time for everything,’ said Darcy, ‘and my time is now.’ He completed the introduction, saying, ‘Elizabeth, this is my uncle, Count Polidori.’
    Elizabeth dropped a curtsey and said all that was necessary, but she was not entirely at ease. Though the Count was courteous and charming she sensed an undercurrent of curiosity and something else—not hostility exactly, but something that told her he was not pleased about the marriage. She wondered if he too thought that Darcy should have married Anne.
    â€˜The day, it is not a pleasant one for your journey,’ said the Count. ‘Alas, it rains often in the mountains and we have many storms. The darkness, too, it is not agreeable. But no matter, you are here now. My