All it had taken was one brush of her hand.
Charles intended to reach out to Amanda. To touch this wonderous woman, this impossible woman.
She’d been arm in arm with Kitty Soames, the former Lady Hampshire. Edward Collins’s guest.
Lady Hampshire, who might have been Amanda’s sister. Something about her chin was so similar to the other woman’s, like something Charles recalled from a dream. So familiar.
He’d ended up brushed against Lady Hampshire’s gloved hand instead, a webbing of lace which barely covered the flesh.
One touch brought back memories. Of another time, another place.
Lady Hampshire weeping in his arms. Only it hadn’t been her.
He’d promised to find her again. Only he hadn’t been Charles Tate.
Charles Delaware Tate, not that this was his name, backed away from the two women, fleeing from them down a hall, leading outside.
Only to be caught in the arms of his patron.
"My dear boy, whatever is the matter with you?" Victor, a.k.a. Count Petofi's eyes gleamed with what might have been concern, but the artist knew better.
It was interest. It had always been interest.
The artist who wasn't truly Charles Delaware Tate shrank away from that interest. “Who are you?”
***
“Who are you?” Peter Bradford demanded of the stranger who’d wandered into his studio. A stranger with gray hair, dressed in a simple tradesman’s sturdy brown coat, yet holding himself like a gentleman.
“You paint. You build. What an accomplished man you are, Peter Bradford.” The mysterious intruder gazed at him with heavily lidded eyes which hinted at dissipation and secrets. “You’ve certainly caught the melancholy fire and carefully controlled arrogance of Barnabas Collins.”
Peter looked at the canvas, almost completed of his friend. Destined to hang in the halls of the newly built Collinwood, another of Peter Bradford’s creations.
Not that Barnabas thought much of him these days. He and Jeremiah were much preoccupied with the wit of Nathan Forbes, holding them in thrall, too charmed to notice his mercenary intentions.
“Come, Mr. Bradford, you must indulge my curiosity, given your close relationship to the heir to Collinwood.” Something in the stranger’s voice coaxed him to speak. Something also raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “Why does Barnabas Collins carry a cane?”
“An injury in Martinique.” Peter turned the full force of his frown upon the intruder. “Do we have an appointment? Are you here about a commission?”
“I’m thinking of making one.” The man turned his intense stare to the half-finished painting of delicate, dark-haired woman. “You do like painting that particular lady. I believe I’ve seen her at the Old House?”
“That was Josette Du Pres, Barnabas’s bride to be.” Peter relaxed a little at the mention of Josette. This was someone who’d had access to the Collins family estate, enough access to see Josette’s portrait. “In spite of the likeness, this is another young lady, the Collins’s family governess.”
“Victoria Winters.” The man uttered her name with slow consideration, something almost like pain. He studied Victoria’s long neck, the long white gown which similar yet different from Josette’s. “Such a curious young lady. Even curiouser how she happened to come here.”
“The Collinses are a very curious family. As are the Du Pres that they’re marrying into.” Peter pressed his lips together. “Victora Winters strikes me as a very pure, unspoilt soul, even if those very things leave her bewildered and unworldly.”
“Sounds as if this curiously pure soul could use a friend.” The stranger gave him an intense look, taking in his eyes, lips, chest, and other regions best not dwelt upon. “See that you are a good friend to her, Mr. Bradford?”
“And how does it concern you if am, sir?” Peter gazed at the impeccably combed hair, tied back with non-descript ribbon. The equally respectable if non-descript coat. They struck the young artist and lawyer as being a disguise. “Who are you? Why all this interest in Victoria Winters? Not to mention me?”
“How rude of me not to say so!” The man slapped his chest, made a little bow. “Ben Stokes. Tradesman, artisan, and granter of dreams. I came here to grant Barnabas Collins’s dream. The sight of more than one portait done by your hand made me curious about the artist. Mr. Jeremiah Collins directed me to your studio.”
“Of course he did.” That’s right. Peter had done a painting of Jeremiah, as well as Josette and Barnabas, if with a far less sure hand than the others. It was hanging in the Old House, along with Josette’s.
“A most fascinating man, Mr. Jeremiah Collins, and so attatched to Mr. Barnabas Collins. Indeed, I thought they were brothers until Lieutenant Forbes informed me that Mr. Jeremiah was actually Mr. Barnabas’s uncle, Mr. Joshua Collins’s younger brother.” Mr. Stokes puffed out his chest with a bit more pride than Peter generally saw in an artisan. “I was commissioned to make a music box for his bride, to capture the very tune which played when Mr. Barnabas first asked the Lady Josette to dance.”
“How romantic.” Barnabas had mentioned a little of his plans for this music box, plans it looked like he’d carried out. “Barnabas can be quite generous and loyal to those he’s chosen to devote himself to.”
“Yes, I’ve experienced some of that myself. Not mention been informed of this many a time by Lieutenant Forbes.” Mr. Ben Stokes cocked his head. Such a calculating gaze he fixed upon the artist. It reminded Peter far too much of Forbes himself. “He’s been telling me quite a few tales, including ones of you. He urged me to follow Mr. Jeremiah Collins’s advice to seek you out.”
“Why would he do that?” The only time Nathan Forbes drew attention to Peter Bradford was when there was something for Nathan Forbes to gain. Having supplanted Peter at Barnabas and Jeremiah’s side, Forbes had little use for Peter these days. Forbes had seen to it that Barnabas and Jeremiah didn’t either.
It was something Peter Bradford struggled not to be bitter about.
“I did talk a little to the lieutenant while conversing with Mr. Barnabas and Mr. Jeremiah.” Glittering dark eyes assessed him, appraising Peter’s strengths while looking for weakneses. “I may have need of an artist in the future. May I keep you in mind, Mr. Bradford?”
“You may,” Peter said, eager to secure a future customer, wondering as soon as the words left his mouth if they’d been a mistake.
Those dark eyes glittered like a serpent’s with a squirrel in sight. “Excellent.”
***
“You,” Charles gasped, swooning with the force of Peter Bradford’s memory. His own memory. “You were that tradesman. How…?”
He trailed off, gazing at the graying chesnut hair which must have been so similar to Quentin’s long ago. “Ben Stokes. You couldn’t have been Ben Stokes. You looked completely different, but it was you.”
“Well done, my dear boy. You’ve caught a glimpse of one of my secrets.” Petofi chuckled, fixing his dark eyes upon him which were actually a very deep blue. “I’m much older than I look. Finding a way to move through time has always been a fascination of mine. Sometimes I succeed at doing so.”
Petofi looked down at his gloved hand. “I’ve always had a passion not only for rare art, but for rare artists. You had talent. It just needed to be cultivated with the right touch.”
“I died.” Charles Delaware Tate/Peter Bradford rubbed his neck, feeling the soreness of those long ago fangs which pierced his flesh. “You sent a vampire to kill me.”
“I needed to take you out of time to preserve you.” Petofi clenched his hand into a fist. “You’ve had a taste of what I can do. Are you unsatisfied? Shall I show you a little more of my power?”
Charles/Peter didn’t see the man move before his fingers gripped his throat.
Images flashed through his mind, including her. The girl he dreamed of, crying his name. “Peter!”
“Yes,” Peter managed to gasp in spite of the fingers. “Please.”
“Don’t beg, Charles. Peter Bradford may have been forced to beg in order to live, but Charles Delaware Tate is above such things.” Victor let him go. “Stop worrying about a past you’re no longer connected to.”
The count fixed his glittering gaze upon the man who’d been Peter Bradford. “You’re my creature, Charles Delaware Tate. Don’t forget it.”
“Didn’t you choose that name because of Charles Collins?” Curiosity might be the death of artists as well as cats. Charles couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. “Did you have similar plans to him that you do for Quentin? Is Quentin your second chance?”
Victor looked down at his fingers. “Charles Collins was many things, all of them interesting. Quentin has more in common with him than his beauty.”
The count reached out to pat the artist on the cheek. “Not that you should worry your pretty head about such matters.”
“I worry about what will happen to Quentin. No matter how much he might deserve it.” Charles/Peter decided to brave another truth. “I worry about Victoria Winters as well.”
“You remember Victoria Winters.” Victor dropped his hand. “The power of love is capable of confusing and distorting even the strongest determination to enjoy life.”
“My determination has never been strong.” Charles shivered. “Are you considering taking a woman’s body for your vessel? Just for a change.”
His heart nearly stopped beating in his chest when Victor paused, considering his words.
“It might be amusing.” Whatever Petofi saw on his protègè’s face, it made him chuckle. “Don’t worry, Charles. Victoria Winters may interest me, but it’s Quentin Collins whom is currently engaging my attention.
Not a statement to stop him from worrying. Charles Delaware Tate decided to keep quiet about it. No point in letting Victor know how much it bothered him.
Victor. Victoria. Such similar names. Charles had a bad feeling it was no coincidence.
All of knowledge would be used against him if Victor was aware that Charles had it. Victor used knowledge to entangle and ensnare his victims.
Victor Fenn-Gibbons, a.k.a. Count Petofi, a.k.a. Ben Stokes might not be the devil, but he was too close to being the devil for Charles Delaware Tate…and Peter Bradford’s taste. Way too close.