An Excerpt from A Curio for the Count

PROLOGUE

Witherick House
London
1818

THE nightmare was not new. He’d had it many times before. But in it Armand Danger saw himself as three-years-old once more.

It was mostly dark, and he was running, running, running. First awakened by his nanny, then dragged along by his maman.

Out of bed. Down the darkened corridors. Into the woods. Out to sea.

He was frightened, but then he saw his papa in the study, so everything would be all right.

And yet, what was once a neat and orderly room was  a snowstorm of paper glowing white in the lamplight.

Paper became flame.

Three-year-old Armand ran once more.

The thudding of his heart became the sound of the tattoo of drums outside, where the flames chased him faster and faster, away from the safety of his home to the place where he dreaded to go.

The giant lady pointed the way. He went as she directed.

To the building that was the home of the Dead.

The rap, rap, rap of the drums became a tick, tick, tick of a clock keeping time. The giant lady was now tiny, but the tick, tick, ticking she made was insistent, maddening. So much so that papa ripped the swinging ball from her hand and broke it into pieces.

The tiny lady was now silent.

Armand half-emerged from his sleep, aware his heart pounded double time,  but unable to force his way back to wakefulness.

The nightmare continued in its disjointed awfulness.

He had a dread fear of this place where the Dead lived.

The Dead lived.

How could the Dead live? Unless they were not truly dead?

He’d seen the wizened body of his grandmere in rigor, old, desiccated. Would she be like that if the dead lived? Mouth open, sunken cheeks, hands clawed?

His mother and father argued. That frightened him more than being among the dead that lived. He cried and cried, but no one paid him heed.

The rap, rap, rap of the drums came closer and closer. The pounding in his ears became the pounding of his heart.

The tiny lady was giant again, and they ran away from her – but only he and his maman. Not Papa.

The flames of Hell chased them, louder, hotter, larger than he’d ever experienced. That must be his punishment for being in the home of the Dead.

Je suis désolé, je suis désolé! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!

The words, a mix of English and French, were on Armand’s lips as he woke. Decades had passed since that terrifying night, but his heart still hammered in his chest as though he were that young boy once again.

He sat up, knowing sleep would now elude him for some hours. He scrubbed his stubbled face and went in search of a brandy. A large one.

Why did he have this dream now? It had been years since it last tormented him, and yet the power of it still managed to catch him unawares, creeping up on him as he slept.

He retreated to the library, the banked fire still radiating enough heat to be comfortable. He poured a measure of the amber liquid into the glass closest at hand, a whisky tumbler. Worse than being disturbed from sleep was the restlessness that came after, impossible to shake. It would be foolhardy — not to mention too damned cold – to go out and walk the dark, deserted, early morning streets to enervate the dream and give some hope of gaining at least a couple of hours’ rest before dawn.

And where would he walk? To some undefined there and back again? To paint a target on his back for murderers and footpads who used the cover of darkness for their sins?

He pulled a copy of yesterday morning’s paper towards him.

Perhaps reading the doings of the ton and the machinations of those who sat in parliament would distract him.

He skimmed a few paragraphs, the words slipping through his mind like sand through his fingers. Nothing captured his attention, but it was still better than the dream.

Armand turned the page. His eyes fell across an advertisement.

Curios for the discerning
Highly sought-after desirable objects found
Discreet valuations and disposals Our specialty.

Auction on Saturday.
Bridges & Sons
Southwark

Curios and Jewelry
Bridges & Sons
Bond Street

Armand stared at it a moment and was struck by a sudden resolve. He tore the advertisement from the page and slipped it into his dressing gown pocket.