Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances (10 page)

As they descended to the drawing room, she heard Anne’s tinkling laughter rising above her cousin’s nasal voice. As Neville had never been particularly amusing, Josie had to guess Anne was humoring him. Tom ushered her in, and she immediately caught the slightly pained look on her sister-in-law’s face.

“You’re finally here,” Anne said. “Did Tom ‘accidentally’ lose his dinner jacket again?”

“Have no idea what you’re talking about,” her husband grumbled, kissing his sister-in-law on the cheek.

“Neville,” Josie said. “How good of you to come.”

Her cousin looked irritated that he’d been distracted from the lovely Anne Murphy.

“Hello, cousin. And belated felicitations on your union.”

“Thank you.”

Murphy came over accompanied by a pale gentleman with a rather unexpected halo of blond curls and a narrow nose.

“My dear Josephine,” her brother-in-law said, “may I introduce Mr. William Beecham?”

“Of course,” Josie said, inclining her head. “Mr. Beecham, welcome to our home. And thank you for joining us for dinner.”

Cunning green eyes glinted at her before he bowed. His skin was frightfully pale, and Josie wondered at the temperature outside. They’d been having a mild winter, but Dublin weather could be unpredictable.

“I thank you for your hospitality, madam,” Beecham said. “And my felicitations on your union as well. Seems Tom fooled you after all.”

There was a meanness in his voice that made Josie want to curl into her husband. Perversely, that fear compelled her to be as clever as possible.

“I assure you,” Josie said, tucking her hand in the crook of Tom’s elbow, “any subterfuge was on my part. I hid all my most irritating qualities and hurried him to the altar. Poor Mr. Murphy never stood a chance.”

The company laughed, but Mr. Beecham’s gaze never left hers. They rested on her with a kind of furtive glee. As if he knew a secret she would soon discover and hate.

“Mr. Beecham, you must be a villain,” she quipped.

Neville laughed, unaware the rest of the room had gone silent. “Why must he be a villain, cousin?” He nudged Beecham’s shoulder. “Josephine tells the most amusing stories, William. She has since she was a child.”

“Has she?” The handsome man’s eyes hadn’t left her. “Pray tell, Mrs. Murphy, why must I be a villain?”

“Your face is too handsome, sir, and your hair too angelic.” She smiled innocently. “I daresay it is your fate to be a villain or a saint. And isn’t a villain the more interesting role?”

Beecham threw his head back and laughed. “Tom, your wife amuses me. I quite approve.”

She felt her husband tense when Beecham said he “approved,” but he only said, “Thank you, Mr. Beecham.”

It was the oddest dinner party Josie had ever attended.

Mr. Beecham clearly occupied some role of authority among the gentlemen, though he was vague about his occupation. Neville seemed to worship the man. Murphy and Tom offered him grudging respect, and Anne ignored him as much as possible. It was so unlike her husband to condescend to a man of Beecham’s character that Josie thought she must have frowned at Tom through dessert.

She and Anne were the only ladies in attendance, so when the gentlemen called for the port and cigars, they both retired for the night. Anne, she could tell, had something troubling her. And though she was growing closer to her new sister-in-law, she did not yet consider herself a confidante.

She went to her sitting room, which doubled as her study, and started to work on the next chapter of the new story she’d been sending to Lenore. It was a departure for her, inspired by some of the fantastical tales of Jules Verne she’d been recently engrossed in. Her new husband was a fan of the scientific adventures, and she’d taken a liking to them as well. She was so engrossed in the tale of airships, resurrectionists, and questionably honorable demons that she missed Tom’s entrance entirely. She looked up when the coals shifted in the fireplace, and he was sitting across from her, watching her work.

“Tom! I didn’t see you there. Is it very late?” Josie struggled to focus. She was still lost in the story and wanted to finish the scene.

“Not so late,” he said quietly. “Why don’t I go change out of this jacket? I was smoking.”

And smoke bothered her lungs, so he would change. Because he was Tom.

“Thank you, darling. Just give me a few more minutes. The heroine…” She drifted off, still thick in the middle of describing a haunting scene in a foggy graveyard. She was considering a new villain for the story. One with a high forehead, a halo of curls, and unnatural, glowing green eyes. After all, it was the most beautiful faces that hid the most horrible demons.

The fire was dying by the time she put her pen down. Tom was watching her again, stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves, lounging on the couch across from her desk.

“I love watching you work,” he said quietly. “You frown and scowl. Then smile and cry. Sometimes I see your mouth moving when you say their words. Every emotion is on your face as you write. Is it whatever the character is feeling?”

She tried not to be embarrassed. “I don’t know. Probably. Do you want to read this chapter?”

Josie had found Tom to be quite the excellent editor. Talking over story ideas with him had become one of her favorite pastimes, though he often laughed at the outlandish plot devices the newspaper audiences seemed to love.

“Course I want to read it. Has she discovered the hero isn’t what he seems?”

“Yes, but I’m thinking about adding a new villain. One with blond curls and green eyes.”

Tom smiled, but only for a moment. “Not too obvious, all right?”

“Would he even know?”

“William Beecham is… resourceful. Dangerous. If you ever meet him in town, avoid him. If you can’t avoid him, speak as little to him as possible. And don’t be clever or interesting. You don’t want Beecham interested in you. He’s interested enough as it is.”

Josie blinked. “Tom, I was joking, but you act as if he
is
a villain.”

“He’s powerful. And not to be crossed lightly.”

“Is Neville safe?” A chill crept over her, despite the warm room. “Why was he in our house?”

“He wanted to meet my new wife. Murphy thought it would be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“We must do business with the man. We… condescend when we must. For now.”

“He said he ‘approved’ of us.” She couldn’t stop the shiver. Mrs. Porter would say someone had walked over her grave. “What an odd thing to say. Who is he to approve of us?”

“He’s…” Tom’s eyes burned. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t approve enough.”

“What—”

“Forget William Beecham.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Josie, if there were a way to… cure you. If there were a way to get better—even if you had to leave Dublin—would you want it?”

She could feel the color drain from her face. “What?”

“If there were a treatment—”

“Stop.” Her voice grew hoarse. “There’s nothing, Tom.”

“But if there were—”

“Don’t you think Father looked? Do you know how many years I spent being poked and prodded? I’ve inhaled the most horrendous concoctions you could imagine. We tried sanatoriums and hospitals. I went to Switzerland, for God’s sake. Don’t be cruel.”

“I never want to hurt you.” His eyes were red again. “But if there was a way—”

“Stop!” She stood, knocking over her inkwell in her haste. She must have stood too fast, because it seemed Tom was there before she could blink, righting the bottle and blotting the ink so it didn’t spill over her manuscript.

“Careful,” he murmured. “I’m only asking. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Of course I’d want it,” she said. “Don’t you think I’d do anything to stay with you? I… I love you, Tom. So much. But there’s nothing.” She cleared her throat and felt the beginning press of tightness in her chest. “So please don’t give me some kind of false hope. It’s not fair.”

He said nothing more. Tom straightened her desk, laid aside her work for the evening, then took her to bed. He spent hours making silent love to her. He didn’t return her words, because he didn’t have to. Josie knew her husband wasn’t a talkative man. His touch. His kiss. Every caress was its own declaration.

But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together.

What foolish words she’d once found romantic. Her lover could not die! Tom had to live so he could remember. Because if he remembered she had lived and loved him, then Josie could find the courage to say good-bye.

Chapter Seven

TOM TAPPED A PEN on the table as Declan finished up the monthly financial report for Murphy.

“I’d say the boat works will be profitable within two years with this expansion. While merging our existing works with Shaw’s will cost in the short term, it’ll be worth the investment.”

“And Beecham?” Murphy asked.

“We’ll be bigger, not just in holdings but in name. He won’t like it.”

Tom gritted his teeth. Murphy’s refusal to confront William Beecham had become a bone of contention between them. Once Beecham had flat out stated the Shaw heiress was not to be turned—even before Tom had brought it up with his sire—any interest in concession had flown out the window. He wanted Beecham gone. Wanted Murphy to take over. And he wasn’t quite rational about it.

Murphy tapped a long finger on the papers in front of him. “Beecham is… problematic.”

“Beecham’s a monster,” Tom muttered. “And you’d have the support of more than half the immortals in Dublin. You don’t hear what I do among the workers.”

“And you don’t hear what Anne and I do among the gentry,” Murphy said. “It’s not a simple thing, Tom. If I’m to avoid bloodshed, we must tread carefully.”

“There’ll be no avoiding bloodshed,” Tom said. “That’s not how these things work.”

“I have no interest in ruling a city where half the immortal population has been slaughtered and the other half only follows me out of fear.”

“Why not?” Tom asked. “It works. Vampires respect power.”

“They also respect intelligence. A bloody coup is not what Dublin needs right now. Not with all the unrest in human politics and not when the city is finally beginning to prosper. It’s simply not wise. Neither is turning humans who are notable in society.”

It was the closest they’d ever come to speaking of it, though Tom knew his anger at his wife’s failing health had not gone unnoticed by his sire.

Declan was completely silent, and Tom felt an irrational spike of anger toward his brother. If Declan had been the one to marry Josephine Shaw, Tom would barely have known her. He’d not feel this tearing pain at the thought of her loss. He’d not have tasted the joy of her devotion only to have human disease snatch it away.

“Tom,” Murphy said softly, “you knew it would end this way. It was why I forbade you from revealing yourself. It has nothing to do with my trust, respect, or affection for Josephine.”

Tom slammed his hand down and stood. He tried to keep his voice level, but he knew he failed.

“If it were Anne—”

“But it’s not Anne. There is a reason I’ve never allowed myself to become emotionally attached to humans. Added to that, Beecham has flatly denied—”

“Fuck Beecham!” he yelled. “We dance politely around the monster as he runs this city into the ground. He doesn’t care about the people, vampire or human. He’ll drain it like a docklands whore, and don’t think he hasn’t been doing more of that too. Is that the kind of men we are? To give allegiance to a monster like him? He isn’t as smart as you, isn’t as cunning as you, and he doesn’t have the loyalty you’ve built. So why aren’t you challenging him, boss? Why?”

Murphy stood and Tom tried not to shrink from the censure on his sire’s face. It was instinctual, this need to please him. But other loyalties now tore at him, and Tom didn’t shrink away.

“Your wife is human, and she is ill. There are reasons we do not turn the sick, Tom Dargin. And prematurely confronting a rival can lead to disaster. I’ll not upend my plans for sentiment.”

Declan slammed into Tom’s chest and pushed him back before he could reach Murphy with bared fangs.

“Tom, stop!” his brother yelled. “Dammit, man. Leave it!”

He punched Declan in the face, tossing the man halfway across the room before Murphy was on him. He gripped Tom by the neck and shoved him into the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing, Dargin?” Murphy said, his fangs bloody from piercing his own lips. “Stop acting the fool.”

“You’ll kill ’er,” he choked out.

“She was dead before you met her.”

Tom shook his head and shoved Murphy away. He had to leave. If he stayed, he’d do something unforgivable.

He couldn’t change her himself. He knew that much. Any love they had would be twisted by the bond between sire and child. Stories of lovers who’d been changed inevitably led to nothing but tragedy and usually the death of one or both vampires.

But Murphy could change her. Anne could. Even Declan. Vampires he thought of as family. And yet they watched her every night as she withered away. She was failing along with her father. Her breathing was shallower, the smell of sickness around her more pronounced. More, her spirit—the playful, passionate spirit he’d fallen in love with—was withering. The haunted love in her eyes was enough to drive him to madness.