Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls (6 page)

As the nobleman blathered away, Elizabeth kept her eyes on her father, gauging his reaction. Though Mr. Bennet was usually a master of
droll dispassion, Elizabeth detected a seething uneasiness beneath his cultivated blankness. Before she could stop herself, she found herself giving voice to the words she guessed he was thinking.

“So you had dealings with zombies during The Troubles, then?”

Lord Lumpley, Mrs. Bennet, and even Jane flinched. The Zed Word wasn’t supposed to be spoken in polite company.

The baron took a moment to compose himself before making his reply.

“I am but six-and-twenty years of age, so obviously I took part in no battle lo those many years ago. Yet I have faced the creatures. Before they became extinct—if something already dead can be said to do so!—my father used to import some from the north for the shooting season. Pathetic, shambling things, they were. It didn’t even make for good sport.”

“I would guess it is a bit more sporting, My Lord, if they outnumber you and there are no shotguns at hand,” Elizabeth said. “Would you not agree, Father?”

“I might choose a word other than
sporting
,” Mr. Bennet replied.

“Papa saw a zombie eat a Scotsman once!” Lydia threw in, oblivious, as always, to subtext and nuance in conversation or anything else. “Mary told me he said . . . what?”

She glared over at Kitty, who, ever her mother’s daughter, was delivering a vicious pinch under the table.

“I’m sure His Lordship doesn’t want to hear about that,” Kitty said. “Particularly from you.”

Then she turned back to the baron, hacked out what she took to be a decorous little cough, and didn’t so much steer the conversation back to safer territory as pick it up and hurl it there.

“My, but the sun
was
strong today. Can you believe it’s only April?”

For the next eternity or so, by Elizabeth’s reckoning, the conversation limped along this line of thought very much like a zombie: lifeless and mindless and making a jelly of whatever healthy brains were within its reach. So oppressive did talk of the weather eventually become, Elizabeth very nearly offered to fetch a barometer and an almanac so the amateur meteorologists
in the room could make a real study of it.

Her father finally put the conversation out of its (and Elizabeth’s) misery.

“I do not wish to be rude, Sir, but I feel it my duty to point out the time. Soon enough, the roads of Hertfordshire might not be safe even in the daytime. At night, I fear, you already risk disaster.”

Lord Lumpley’s fleshy face went grave as he tore his gaze away from Jane (whom he’d been staring at without stop even though she, like Elizabeth, had been weathering the weather talk without adding a word to it).

“Your concern does you credit, Mr. Bennet. If only other responsibilities had not delayed me so long in reaching your door this evening.” The baron turned toward the nearest window, and his lip curled ever so slightly—either a show of dread as day turned to dusk outside or distaste for the iron bars Mr. Bennet had insisted the servants put up the day before. “Yes, perhaps I should go . . . though if it’s as dangerous as you say, I wonder if I should risk the trip at all.”

And immediately, Elizabeth knew. The young nobleman had arrived late intentionally. He’d been fishing for an invitation to stay all along. He meant to sleep in their home! Or claim a bed in it, at any rate.

The young nobleman had a reputation for taking liberties, one Jane refused to give credence to, so without guile or distrust was she. But it was plain to Elizabeth he’d earned his reputation. And sought to do so again.

Mrs. Bennet seemed to see it all, as well—or at least that part of the picture that suited her. She perked up and leaned forward, eyes wide with delight.

Mr. Bennet was just the opposite: still, stone faced, inscrutable. It was a race to see who would speak first.

For once (and to Elizabeth’s infinite relief), Mr. Bennet won.

“I think you need not worry, My Lord, assuming you don’t allow us to detain you any further. After all, it is well established that you have the fastest carriage in the county. No doubt you could easily outpace any
stiff-legged unfortunates we might have lumbering about—so long as you still have a few rays of light to steer by. And I’m sure you’re anxious to begin the preparations we spoke of earlier, as well. You have many messages to dispatch, come morning—for which I again thank you. How lucky we are to have a young man as energetic and
fearless
as you to spearhead these vital efforts for us.”

The baron’s already ruddy face went a shade rosier. Mr. Bennet had assigned him a role—the courageous man of action—and he had no choice but to play it.

He cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Yes, well . . . a man does what he must. Even more so when he has rank and responsibility.”

Mr. Bennet nodded solemnly.

Mrs. Bennet looked like she’d have used the Fulcrum of Doom on him, if only she knew how.

Before leaving, Lord Lumpley recovered enough to step to the divan and take Jane’s hand in his. He lingered over it at such length and with such obvious longing Elizabeth began to wonder whether he was going to kiss it or eat it.

“I will see you at the ball at Pulvis Lodge, I presume?”

Jane nodded. “I will be there.”

“Excellent. I ask now for the first dance. And the last. And as many in between as you might spare.”

Though it was Jane’s fingers he finally kissed, it was Mrs. Bennet who was on the brink of swooning.

“The least you could’ve done was invite him to stay to supper,” she snipped at her husband when he returned to the drawing room a short while later, having seen the baron on his way. “Didn’t you notice how he fawns over Jane?”

“A syphilitic bat could’ve seen it.”

“Oh! Mr. Bennet! Really!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennet. I misspoke.” Mr. Bennet dropped wearily into the very chair their guest had warmed with his well-padded
hindquarters. “I meant to say, ‘Yes. I noticed.’”

“Well, didn’t it occur to you to capitalize on that?”

Mr. Bennet didn’t speak to her or look at her. Instead, he turned a wistful, almost remorseful gaze on Jane.

Somehow, Elizabeth got the feeling he already
was
capitalizing on the baron’s infatuation—and already regretting it, as well.

__________________

WHEN RICHARD George Saunders-Castleton Harper-Milford Norman-Stilton-Harrowby Lumpley II, sixth Baron of Lumpley, knight of the Bath, and defender of the realm, awoke the next morning, the first thing he did was kick the empty gin bottles from his bed. Then he kicked off the dogs. And last (and with some regret) he kicked out the chambermaids.

He had things to do this day. Important matters that demanded his attention.

He needed a new truss, and only the best would do.

He stood and admired himself in the full-length mirror strategically placed near the bed. True, his manly pear-shaped form had been swelling of late—it was now more like a gourd mounted on the twin stickpins of his legs. But, oh, his regal brow! His piercing eyes! His lordly chins! His soft, pale, pillowy arms unsullied by sinew or muscle! It was, in all respects, not just his mirror image he beheld, but that of his friend and fellow master of the bacchanal arts, the Prince Regent.

What woman could resist such a man? What female—be she girl, matron, or crone—would not fling aside her dignity and self-respect like so many hastily discarded underthings at his first wink? What delicate beauty could he not gently coax into his tender embrace . . . and then give
the old how’s your father?

Well, there might be one: fair Jane of the golden hair and the milk-white skin and the inviting décolletage and the horrid, horrid family. But he had reason to hope her virtue wasn’t long for this earth.

And then the Baron of Lumpley groaned, for he remembered at last that he had work to do. Actual work! Damn the incessant burdens of noblesse oblige.

Without dressing (how could he without the usual retinue of six to help him?) he walked to the study and wrote the following note:

Hunt today—3 o’clock—come!

L
.

Then he rang the bell and sat back, wrist aching from the strain of unaccustomed toil, and waited for his man Belgrave.

“My Lord?” Belgrave said blandly when he walked in a moment later. He was a studiously stoic little fellow of forty-and-some years with gray at his temples and a pale gray complexion and a gray,
gray
soul. If he noticed that his employer was lolling about without a stitch on, he didn’t show it. He never seemed to notice anything, which was one of the reasons Lord Lumpley depended on him so. As a test, the baron had once strutted around an entire morning with half an apple clinched between his naked cheeks, and when at last Belgrave commented upon it, it was only to say, “Pardon me, My Lord, but you seem to have bruised your fruit. Shall I fetch something fresh?”

“Take this.” Lord Lumpley held out the note. “Make copies, stamp them with my seal, and have them dispatched immediately to . . . oh . . . everyone.”

“Everyone, My Lord?”

“Everyone within a twenty-mile radius.”

“
Everyone
within a twenty-mile radius, My Lord?”

The baron heaved a sigh. Work, work, work!

“Everyone who matters.”

“Ahhhh.” Belgrave nodded. “The gentlemen of the area.”

“Yes, yes. The usual bunch, you know who. Oh, and alert the Master of the Quorn. I’ll be needing all his dogs this afternoon. We’re to have one more hunt before The Season!”

“Very good, My Lord.”

Belgrave began backing toward the door.

Lord Lumley cleared his throat.

“Tell me, Belgrave . . . what do you think of my riding attire?”

Belgrave regarded the baron with cool, pale blue eyes that never blinked. Ever.

“His Lordship is, as always, the very picture of virile English manhood. Though I might point out that the traditional color for the hunt is red.”

“Ahhh, right you are, Belgrave. Make it so.”

A few minutes later, the baron’s dressing team arrived to begin stuffing him into his clothes. As the sockman worked on his left foot and the drawersman fussed over the fit of his trousers and the trussmen strained to stitch him up from behind in his fraying, crack-ribbed girdle, Lord Lumpley set his mind to the hunt.

How to snare Miss Jane Bennet?

Young ladies were always the most difficult quarry to corner, for they were ever surrounded by protectors: parents, patrons, governesses, guardians, chaperones. That’s why he loved orphans and working girls so—and so often! Like that milliner’s daughter, Emily What-Have-You. One day she was delivering him some new hats; practically the next, unfortunately, she was threatening to deliver a lot more than that. Such naifs were his bread and butter.

Yet a gentleman cannot survive on bread alone, even buttered. He must have fine caviar. Champagne. Fresh meat. Like Jane Bennet.

He even thought he might make a full meal of her instead of the usual snack. She was so very, very proper—and so wonderfully
passive
. Just
what he needed in a wife. An impenetrable veneer of propriety, and not a lot of questions.

Of course, she was miles beneath him, but who above would have him? He was, after all, only a baron—enough to impress the rustics thereabouts, but barely a step above a peasant so far as dukes and earls were concerned. Even a viscount outranked him. A bloody viscount!

It would have been possible, once, to marry an equal. But that had its disadvantages, seeing as he was related to most of them. His family used to push cousins on him all the time:
Keep it in the family, Dickie. Why marry an outsider?
He’d seen where that lead, though. It had been the Lumpley way for generations, and now his relations were as inbred as a pack of shipwrecked poodles. It was a miracle he’d turned out as well as he had.

Of course, that hadn’t kept him from flirting with the idea—and doing much more than flirting with a few of his cousins. Which was why the rest of the family liked to pretend he was dead, and now he had this big old house all to himself.

“
Fini
, My Lord,” his topsman said upon setting the hat just-so upon his head.

The baron’s dressing team waited with bated breath as he took his time inspecting himself in the mirror. At long last, he nodded with satisfaction, and the dressers tried to hide their sighs of relief. As one, they bowed and began backing toward the door.

“Not just yet,” the baron said, and he tapped a finger against his lower lip in a way his servants had all learned to dread. “It shall be quite some time before my guests arrive. I think I shall have a bath in the meantime.”

He held his arms out straight to the sides and waited for his dressers to begin his
un
dressing. He didn’t have to wait long. Thirty minutes later, he was naked again.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity. Bath, dressers, meal, chambermaid, bath, dressers, meal, chambermaid (a different one), bath,
dressers. And then at last it was time to head back downstairs and greet his guests.

He found his favorites—the young bounders, rakes, and scoundrels—red-coated and, having already polished off enough of the baron’s port to float a small boat, rosy-cheeked. An assortment of stick-in-the-muds, some dressed for the hunt, some not, stood around trying to hide their disapproval with varying degrees of success. In their midst, Lord Lumpley noted with an annoyance
he
certainly didn’t try to hide, was the stickiest stick from the muckiest mud: the local vicar, the Reverend Mr. Cummings. And—damnation!—the vicar noted him noting and headed his way.

The baron might have beat a quick retreat, but a thought hobbled him. He had agreed to speak to Cummings about a supposedly urgent matter—something that smug little nobody Bennet was insisting upon. The man actually wanted the vicar’s permission to . . . oh, it was simply too ghastly.

And even ghastlier—Mr. Cummings was now upon him, and there was no escaping conversation.

“If I might have a word, My Lord.”