《What Manner of Man》


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    I''m a huge fan of Georgette Heyer''s regency novels so when Pat Elrod asked me to do a story for a historical vampire anthology she was editing, I asked, in turn, if I could use Regency England. Pat was agreeable and so Henry Fitzroy sat down to play cards.


    WHAT MANNER OF MAN


    Shortly after three o''clock in the morning, Henry Fitzroy rose from the card table, brushed a bit of ash from the sleeve of his superbly fitting coat and inclined his head toward his few remaining companions. "If you''ll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I''ll call it a night."


    "Well, I won''t excuse you." Sir William Wyndham glared up at Fitzroy from under heavy lids. "You''ve won eleven hundred pounds off me tonight, damn your eyes, and I want a chance to win it back."


    His gaze flickering down to the cluster of empty bottles by Wyndham''s elbow, Henry shook his head. "I don''t think so, Sir William, not tonight."


    "You don''t think so?" Wyndham half rose in his chair, dark brows drawn into a deep vee over an aristocratic arc of nose. His elbow rocked one of the bottles. It began to fall.


    Moving with a speed that made it clear he had not personally been indulging over the course of the evening''s play, Henry caught the bottle just before it hit the floor. "Brandy," he chided softly, setting it back on the table, "is no excuse for bad manners."


    Wyndham stared at him for a moment, confusion replacing the anger on his face, instinct warning him of a danger reason couldn''t see. "Your pardon," he said at last. "Perhaps another night." He watched as the other man bowed and left, then muttered, "Insolent puppy."


    "Who is?" asked another of the players, dragging his attention away from the brandy.


    "Fitzroy." Raising his glass to his mouth, his hand surprisingly steady considering how much he''d already drunk, Wyndham tossed back the contents. "He speaks to me like that again and he can name his seconds."


    "Well, I wouldn''t fight him."


    "No one''s asking you to."


    "He''s just the sort of quiet chap who''s the very devil when pushed too far. I''ve seen that look in his eyes, I tell you ¡§C the very devil when pushed too far."


    "Shut up." Opening a fresh deck, Wyndham sullenly pushed Henry Fitzroy from his thoughts and set about trying to make good his losses.


    His curly brimmed beaver set at a fashionably rakish angle on his head, Henry stood on the steps of his club and stared out at London. Its limits had expanded since the last time he''d made it his principal residence, curved courts of elegant townhouses had risen where he remembered fields, but, all in all, it hadn''t changed much. There was still something about London ¡§C a feel, an atmosphere ¡§C shared by no other city in the world.


    One guinea-gold brow rose as he shot an ironic glance upward at the haze that hung over the buildings, the smoke from a thousand chimney pots that blocked the light of all but the brightest stars. Atmosphere was, perhaps, a less than appropriate choice of words. "Shall I get you a hackney or a chair, Mr. Fitzroy?" "Thank you, no." He smiled at the porter, his expression calculated to charm, and heard the elderly man''s heart begin to beat a little faster. The Hunger rose in response but he firmly pushed it back. It would be the worst of bad ton to feed so close to home. It would also be dangerous but, in the England of the Prince Regent, safety came second to social approval. "I believe I''ll walk."


    "If you''re sure, sir. There''s some bad''uns around after dark." "I''m sure." Henry''s smile broadened. "I doubt I''ll be bothered."


    The porter watched as the young man made his way down the stairs and along St. James Street. He''d watched a lot of gentlemen during the years he''d worked the clubs ¡§C first at Boodles, then at Brook''s, and finally here at White''s ¡§C and Mr. Henry Fitzroy had the unmistakable mark of Quality. For all he was so polite and soft-spoken, something about him spoke strongly of power. It would, the porter decided, take a desperate man, or a stupid one, to put Mr. Fitzroy in any danger. Of course, London has no shortage of either desperate or stupid men.


    "Take care, sir," he murmured as he turned to go inside.


    Henry quelled the urge to lift a hand in acknowledgement of the porter''s concern, judging that he''d moved beyond the range of mortal hearing. As the night air held a decided chill, he shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his many-caped greatcoat, even though it would have to get a great deal colder before he''d feel it. A successful masquerade demanded attention to small details.


    Humming under his breath, he strode down Brook Street to Grosvenor Square, marveling at the new technological wonder of the gaslights. The long lines of little brightish dots created almost as many shadows as they banished but they were still a big improvement over a servant carrying a lantern on a stick. That he had no actual need of the light, Henry considered unimportant in view of the achievement.


    Turning toward his chambers in Albany, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a fight. He paused, head cocked, sifting through the lives involved. Three men beating a fourth.


    "Not at all sporting," he murmured, moving forward so quickly that, had anyone been watching, it would have seemed he simply disappeared.


    "Be sure that he''s dead." The man who spoke held a narrow sword in one hand and the cane it had come out of in the other. The man on the ground groaned and the steel point moved around. "Never mind, I''ll take care of it myself."


    Wearing an expression of extreme disapproval, Henry stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the swordsman by the back of his coat, and threw him down the alley. When the other two whirled to face him, he drew his lips back off his teeth and said, in a tone of polite, but inarguable menace, "Run."


    Prey recognized predator. They ran.


    He knelt by the wounded man, noted how the heartbeat faltered, looked down, and saw a face he knew. Captain Charles Evans of the Horse Guards, the nephew of the current Earl of Whitby. Not one of his few friends ¡§C friends were chosen with a care honed by centuries of survival ¡§C but Henry couldn''t allow him to die alone in some dark alley like a stray dog.


    A sudden noise drew his attention around to the man with the sword-cane. Up on his knees, his eyes unfocused, he groped around for his weapon. Henry snarled. The man froze, whimpered once, then, face twisted with fear, scrambled to his feet and joined his companions in flight.


    The sword had punched a hole high in the captain''s left shoulder, not immediately fatal but bleeding to death was a distinct possibility.


    "Fitz...roy?"


    "So you''re awake are you?" Taking the other man''s chin in a gentle grip, Henry stared down into pain-filled eyes. "I think it might be best if you trusted me and slept," he said quietly.


    The captain''s lashes fluttered then settled down to rest against his cheeks like fringed shadows.


    Satisfied that he was unobserved, Henry pulled aside the bloodstained jacket ¡§C like most military men, Captain Evans favored Scott ¡§C and bent his head over the wound.


    "You cut it close. Sun''s almost up."


    Henry pushed past the small, irritated form of his servant. "Don''t fuss, Varney, I''ve plenty of time."


    "Plenty of time is it?" Closing and bolting the door, the little man hurried down the short hall in Henry''s shadow. "I was worried sick, I was, and all you can say is don''t fuss?"


    Sighing, Henry shrugged out of his greatcoat ¡§C a muttering Varney caught it before it hit the floor ¡§C and stepped into his sitting room. There was a fire lit in the grate, heavy curtains over the window that opened onto a tiny balcony, and a thick oak slab of a door replacing the folding doors that had originally led to the bedchamber. The furniture was heavy and dark, as close as Henry could come to the furniture of his youth. It had been purchased in a fit of nostalgia and was now mostly ignored.


    "You''ve blood on your cravat!"


    "It''s not mine," Henry told him mildly.


    Varney snorted. "Didn''t expect it was but you''re usually neater than that. Probably won''t come out. Blood stains, you know."


    "I know."


    "Mayhap if I soak it..." The little man quivered with barely concealed impatience.


    Henry laughed and unwound the offending cloth, dropping it over the offered hand. After thirty years of unique service, certain liberties were unavoidable. "I won eleven hundred pounds from Lord Wyndham tonight."


    "You and everyone else. He''s bad dipped. Barely a feather to fly with so I hear. Rumor has it, he''s getting a bit desperate."


    "And I returned a wounded Charlie Evans to the bosom of his family."


    "Nice bosom so I hear."


    "Don''t be crude, Varney." Henry sat down and lifted one foot after the other to have the tight Hessians pulled gently off. "I think I may have prevented him from being killed."


    "Robbery?"


    "I don''t know."


    "How many did you kill?"


    "No one. I merely frightened them away."

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    Setting the gleaming boots to one side, Varney stared at his master with frank disapproval. "You merely frightened them away?"


    "I did consider ripping their throats out but as it wasn''t actually necessary, it wouldn''t have been..." he paused and smiled, "...polite."


    "Polite!? You risked exposure so as you can be polite?"


    The smile broadened. "I am a creature of my time."


    "You''re a creature of the night! You know what''ll come of this? Questions, that''s what. And we don''t need questions!"


    "I have complete faith in your ability to handle whatever might arise."


    Recognizing the tone, the little man deflated. "Aye and well you might," he muttered darkly. "Let''s get that jacket off you before I''ve got to carry you in to your bed like a sack of meal."


    "I can do it myself," Henry remarked as he stood and turned to have his coat carefully peeled from his shoulders.


    "Oh, aye, and leave it lying on the floor no doubt." Folding the coat in half, Varney draped it over one skinny arm. "I''d never get the wrinkles out. You''d go about looking like you dressed out of a ragbag if it wasn''t for me. Have you eaten?" He looked suddenly hopeful.


    One hand on the bedchamber door, Henry paused. "Yes," he said softly.


    The thin shoulders sagged. "Then what''re you standing about for?"


    A few moments later, the door bolted, the heavy shutter over the narrow window secured, Henry Fitzroy, vampire, bastard son of Henry the VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Lord President of the Council of the North, slid into the day''s oblivion.


    "My apologies, Mrs. Evans, for not coming by sooner, but I was out when your husband''s message arrived." Henry laid his hat and gloves on the small table in the hall and allowed the waiting footman to take his coat. "I trust he''s in better health than he was when I saw him last night?"


    "A great deal better, thank you." Although there were purple shadows under her eyes and her cheeks were more than fashionably pale, Lenore Evans'' smile lit up her face. "The doctor says he lost a lot of blood but he''ll recover. If it hadn''t been for you..."


    As her voice trailed off, Henry bowed slightly. "I was happy to help." Perhaps he had taken a dangerous chance. Perhaps he should have wiped all memory of his presence from the Captain''s mind and left him on his own doorstep like an oversized infant. Having become involved, he couldn''t very well ignore the message an obviously disapproving Varney had handed him at sunset with a muttered, I told you so.


    It appeared that there were indeed going to be questions.


    Following Mrs. Evans up the stairs, he allowed himself to be ushered into a well-appointed bedchamber and left alone with the man in the bed.


    Propped up against his pillows, recently shaved but looking wan and tired, Charles Evans nodded a greeting. "Fitzroy. I''m glad you''ve come."


    Henry inclined his own head in return, thankful that the bloodscent had been covered by the entirely unappetizing smell of basilicum powder. "You''re looking remarkably well, all things considered."


    "I''ve you to thank for that."


    "I really did very little."


    "True enough, you only saved my life." The captain''s grin was infectious and Henry found himself returning it in spite of an intention to remain aloof. "Mind you, Dr. Harris did say he''d never seen such a clean wound." One hand rose to touch the bandages under his nightshirt. "He said I was healing faster than any man he''d ever examined."


    As his saliva had been responsible for that accelerated healing, Henry remained silent. It had seemed foolish to resist temptation when there''d been so much blood going to waste.


    "Anyway..." The grin disappeared and the expressive face grew serious. "I owe you my life and I''m very grateful you came along but that''s not why I asked you to visit. I can''t get out of this damned bed and I have to trust someone." Shadowed eyes lifted to Henry''s face. "Something tells me that I can trust you."


    "You barely know me," Henry murmured, inwardly cursing his choice of words the night before. He''d told Evans to trust him and now it seemed he was to play the role of confidant. He could remove the trust as easily as he''d placed it but something in the man''s face made him hesitate. Whatever bothered him, involved life and death ¡§C Henry had seen the latter too often to mistake it now. Sighing, he added, "I can''t promise anything, but I''ll listen."


    "Please." Gesturing at a chair, the captain waited until his guest had seated himself, then waited a little longer, apparently searching for a way to begin. After a few moments, he lifted his chin. "You know I work at the Home Office?"


    "I had heard as much, yes." In the last few years, gossip had become the preferred entertainment of all classes and Varney was a devoted participant.


    "Well, for the last little while ¡§C just since the start of the Season, in fact ¡§C things have been going missing."


    "Things?"


    "Papers. Unimportant ones for the most part, until now." His mouth twisted up into a humorless grin. "I can''t tell you exactly what the latest missing document contained ¡§C in spite of everything we''d still rather it wasn''t common knowledge ¡§C but I can tell you that if it gets into the wrong hands, into French hands, a lot of British soldiers are going to die."


    "Last night you were following the thief?"


    "No. The man we think is his contact. A french spy named Yves Bouchard."


    Henry shook his head, interested in spite of himself. "The man who stabbed you last night was no Frenchman. I heard him speak, and he was as English as you or I. English, and though I hesitate to use the term, a Gentleman."


    "That''s Bouchard. He''s the only son of an old emigre family. They left France during the revolution ¡§C Yves was a mere infant at the time and now he dreams of restoring the family fortunes under Napoleon."


    "One would have thought he''d be more interested in defeating Napoleon and restoring the rightful king."


    Evans shrugged, winced and said, "Apparently not. Anyway, Bouchard''s too smart to stay around after what happened last night. I kept him from getting his hands on the document, now we have to keep it from leaving England by another means."


    "We?" Henry asked, surprised into ill-mannered incredulity. "You and I?"


    "Mostly you. The trouble is, we don''t know who actually took the document although we''ve narrowed it down to three men who are known to be in Bouchard''s confidence and who have access to the Guard''s offices."


    "One moment, please." Henry raised an exquisitely manicured hand. "You want me to find your spy for you?"


    "Yes."


    "Why?"


    "Because I can''t be certain of anyone else in my office and because I trust you."


    Realizing he had only himself to blame, Henry sighed. "And I suppose you can''t bring the three in for questioning because two of them are innocent?"


    Evans'' pained expression had nothing to do with his wound. "Only consider the scandal. I will if I must but, as this is Wednesday and the information must be in France by Friday evening or it won''t get to Napoleon in time for it to be of any use, one of those three will betray himself in the next two days."


    "So the document must be recovered with no public outcry?"


    "Exactly."


    "I would have thought, the Bow Street Runners.


    "No. The Runners may be fine for chasing down highway men and murderers, but my three suspects move in the best circles. Only a man of their own class could get near them without arousing suspicion." He lifted a piece of paper off the table beside the bed and held it out to Henry, who stared at it for a long moment.


    Lord Ruthven, Mr. Maxwell Aubrey, and Sir William Wyndham. Frowning, Henry looked up to meet Captain Evans'' weary gaze. "You''re sure about this?"


    "I am. Send word when you''re sure, I''ll do the rest."


    The exhaustion shading the other man''s voice reminded Henry of his injury. Placing the paper back beside the bed, he stood. "This is certainly not what I expected."


    "But you''ll do it?"

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    He could refuse, could make the captain forget that this conversation had ever happened, but he had been a prince of England and, regardless of what he had become, he could not stand back and allow her to be betrayed. Hiding a smile at the thought of what Varney would have to say about such melodrama, he nodded. "Yes, I''ll do it."


    The sound of feminine voices rising up from the entryway caused Henry to pause for a moment on the landing.


    "...so sorry to arrive so late, Mrs. Evans, but we were passing on our way to dinner before Almack''s and my uncle insisted we stop and see how the Captain was doing."


    Carmilla Amworth. There could be no mistaking the faint country accent not entirely removed by hours of lessons intended to erase it. She had enough fortune to be considered an Heiress and that, combined with a dark-haired, pale-skinned, waif-like beauty, brought no shortage of admirers. Unfortunately, she also had a disturbing tendency to giggle when she felt herself out of her depth.


    "My uncle," she continued, "finds it difficult to get out of the carriage and so sent me in his place."


    "I quite understand." The smile in the answering voice suggested a shared amusement. "Please tell your uncle that the captain is resting comfortably and thank him for his consideration."


    A brief exchange of pleasantries later, Miss Amworth returned to her uncle''s carriage and Henry descended the rest of the stairs.


    Lenore Evans turned and leapt backwards, one hand to her heart, her mouth open. She would have fallen had Henry not caught her wrist and kept her on her feet.


    He could feel her pulse racing beneath the thin sheath of heated skin. The Hunger rose and he hurriedly broke the contact. Self-indulgence, besides being vulgar, was a sure road to the stake.


    "Heavens, you startled me." Cheeks flushed, she increased the distance between them. "I didn''t hear you come down."


    "My apologies. I heard Miss Amworth and didn''t wish to break in on a private moment."


    "Her uncle works with Charles and wanted to know how he was but her uncle is also a dear friend of his Royal Highness and is, shall we say, less than able to climb in and out of carriages. Is Charles...?"


    "I left him sleeping."


    "Good." Her right hand wrapped around the place where Henry had held her. She swallowed, then, as though reminded of her duties by the action, stammered, "Can I get you a glass of wine?"


    "Thank you, no. I must be going."


    "Good. That is, I mean..." Her flush deepened. "You must think I''m a complete idiot. It''s just that with Charles injured..."


    "I fully understand." He smiled, careful not to show teeth.


    Lenore Evans closed the door behind her husband''s guest and tried to calm the pounding of her heart. Something about Henry Fitzroy spoke to a part of her she''d thought belonged to Charles alone. Her response might have come out of gratitude for the saving of her husband''s life, but she didn''t think so. He was a handsome young man, and she found the soft curves of his mouth a fascinating contrast to the gentle strength in his grip.


    Shaking her head in self-reproach, she lifted her skirts with damp hands and started up the stairs. "I''m beginning to think," she sighed, "that Aunt Georgette was right. Novels are a bad influence on a young woman."


    What she needed now was a few hours alone with her husband but, as his wound made that impossible, she''d supposed she''d have to divert her thoughts with a book of sermons instead.


    Almack''s Assembly Rooms were the exclusive temple of the Beau Monde and vouchers to the weekly ball on Wednesday were among the most sought after items in London. What matter that the assembly rooms were plain, the dance floor inferior, the anterooms unadorned, and the refreshments unappetizing ¡§C this was the seventh heaven of the fashionable world and to be excluded from Almack''s was to be excluded from the upper levels of society.


    Henry, having discovered that a fashionable young man could live unremarked from dark to dawn, had effortlessly risen to the top.


    After checking with the porter that all three of Captain Evans'' potential spies were indeed in attendance, Henry left hat, coat and gloves and made his way up into the assembly rooms. Avoiding the gaze of Princess Esterhazy, who he considered to be rude and overbearing, he crossed the room and made his bow to the Countess Lieven.


    "I hear you were quite busy last night, Mr. Fitzroy."


    A little astonished by how quickly the information had made its way to such august ears, he murmured he had only done what any man would have.


    "Indeed. Any man. Still, I should have thought the less of you had you expected a fuss to be made." Tapping her closed fan against her other hand, she favored him with a long, level look. "I have always believed there was more to you than you showed the world."


    Fully aware that the Countess deserved her reputation as the cleverest woman in London, Henry allowed a little of his mask to slip.


    She smiled, satisfied for the moment with being right and not overly concerned with what she had been right about. "Appearances, my dear Mr. Fitzroy, are everything. And now, I believe they are beginning a country-dance. Let me introduce you to a young lady in need of a partner."


    Unable to think of a reason why she shouldn''t, Henry bowed again. A few moments later, as he moved gracefully through the pattern of the dance, he wondered if he should pay the Countess a visit some night, had not made a decision by the time the dance ended, and put it off indefinitely as he escorted the young woman in his care back to her waiting mama.


    Well aware that he looked, at best, in his early twenties, Henry could only be thankful that a well-crafted reputation as a man who trusted to the cards for the finer things in life took him off the Marriage Mart. No matchmaking mama would allow her daughter to become shackled to someone with such narrow prospects.


    As he had no interest in giggling young damsels just out of the schoolroom, he could only be thankful. The older women he spent time with were much more...appetizing.


    Trying not to stare, one of the young damsels so summarily dismissed in Henry''s thoughts leaned toward a second and whispered, "I wonder what Mr. Fitzroy is smiling about."


    The second glanced up, blushed rosily, and ducked her head. "He looks hungry."


    The first, a little wiser in the ways of the world than her friend, sighed and laid silent odds that the curve of Mr. Henry Fitzroy''s full lips had nothing to do with bread and butter.


    Hearing a familiar voice, Henry searched through the moving couples and spotted Sir William Wyndham dancing with Carmilla Am worth. Hardly surprising if he''d lost as much money lately as Varney suggested. While Henry wouldn''t have believed the fragile, country-bred heiress to his taste ¡§C it was a well known secret that he kept a yacht off Dover for the express purpose of entertaining the women of easy virtue he preferred ¡§C upon reflection he supposed Sir William would consider her inheritance sufficiently alluring. And a much safer way of recovering his fortune than selling state secrets to France.


    With one of Captain Evans'' suspects accounted for, Henry began to search for the other two, moving quietly and unobtrusively from room to room. As dancing was the object of the club and no high stakes were allowed, the card rooms contained only dowagers and those gentlemen willing to play whist for pennies. Although he found neither of the men he looked for, he did find Carmilla Amworth''s uncle, Lord Beardsley. One of the Prince Regent''s cronies, he was a stout and somewhat foolish middle-aged gentleman who smelled strongly of scent and creaked alarmingly when he moved. Considering the bulwark of his stays, Henry was hardly surprised that he''d been less than able to get out of the carriage to ask after Captain Evans.


    "...cupped and felt much better," Lord Beardsley was saying as Henry entered the room. "His Royal Highness swears by cupping, you know. Must''ve had gallons taken out over the years."


    Henry winced, glanced around, and left. As much as he deplored the waste involved in frequent cupping, he had no desire to avail himself of the Prince Regent''s blood ¡§C which he strongly suspected would be better than ninety percent Madeira.


    When he returned to the main assembly room, he found Aubrey on the dance floor and Lord Ruthven brooding in a corner. Sir William had disappeared but he supposed a two for one trade couldn''t be considered bad odds and wondered just how he was expected to watch all three men at once. Obviously, he''d have to be more than a mere passive observer. The situation seemed to make it necessary he tackle Ruthven first.


    Dressed in funereal black, the peer swept the room with a somber gaze. He gave no indication that he''d noticed Henry''s approach and replied to his greeting with a curt nod.


    "I''m surprised to see you here, Lord Ruthven." Henry locked eyes with the lord and allowed enough power to ensure a reply. "It is well known you do not dance."


    "I am here to meet someone."


    "Who, if I may be so bold as to ask. I''ve recently come from the card rooms and may have seen him."


    A muscle jumped under the sallow skin of Ruthven''s cheek. To Henry''s surprise, he looked away, sighed deeply, and said, "It is of no account as he is not yet here."


    Impressed by the man''s willpower ¡§C if unimpressed by his theatrical melancholy ¡§C Henry bowed and moved away. The man''s sullen disposition and cold, corpse-grey eyes isolated him from the society his wealth and title gave him access to. Could he be taking revenge against those who shunned him by selling secrets to the French? Perhaps. This was not the time, nor the place, for forcing an answer.


    Treading a careful path around a cluster of turbaned dowagers ¡§C more dangerous amass than a crowd of angry peasants with torches and pitchforks ¡§C Henry made his way to the side of a young man he knew from White''s and asked for an introduction to Mr. Maxwell Aubrey.


    "Good lord, Henry, whatever for?"


    Henry smiled disarmingly. "I hear he''s a damnably bad card player."


    "He is, but if you think to pluck him, you''re a year too late or two years too early. He doesn''t come into his capital until he''s twenty-five and after the chicken incident, his trustees keep a tight hold of the purse strings."


    "Chicken incident?"


    "That''s right, it happened before you came to London. You see, Aubrey fell in with this fellow named Bouchard."


    "Yves Bouchard?"


    "That''s right. Anyway, Bouchard had Aubrey wrapped around his little finger. Dared him to cluck like a chicken in the middle of the dance floor. I thought Mrs. Drummond-Burrell was going to have spasms. Neither Bouchard nor Aubrey were given vouchers for the rest of the Season."


    "And this Season?"


    He nodded at Aubrey who was leading his partner off the dance floor. "This Season, all is forgiven."


    "And Bouchard?" Henry asked.

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    "Bouchard too. Although he doesn''t seem to be here tonight."


    So Aubrey was wrapped around Bouchard''s little finger. Wrapped tightly enough to spy for the French? Henry wondered.


    The return of a familiar voice diverted his attention. He turned to see Sir William once again playing court to Carmilla. When she giggled and looked away, it only seemed to inspire Sir William the more. Henry moved closer until he could hear her protests. She sounded both flattered and frightened.


    Now that''s a combination impossible to resist, Henry thought, watching Wyndham respond. With a predator''s fluid grace, he deftly inserted himself between them. "I believe this dance is mine." When Carmilla giggled but made no objection, there was nothing Wyndham could do but quietly seethe.


    Once on the floor, Henry smiled down into cornflower blue eyes. "I hope you''ll forgive me for interfering, Miss Amworth, but Sir William''s attentions seemed to be bothering you."


    She dropped her gaze to the vicinity of his waistcoat. "Not bothering, but a bit overwhelming. I''m glad of the chance to gather my thoughts."


    "I feel I should warn you, he has a sad reputation."


    "He is a very accomplished flirt."


    "He is a confirmed rake, Miss Amworth."


    "Do you think he is more than merely flirting then?" Her voice held a hint of hope.


    Immortality, Henry mused, would not provide time enough to understand women. Granted, Sir William had been blessed with darkly sardonic good looks and an athletic build but he was also ¡§C the possibility of his being a spy aside ¡§C an arrogant, self-serving libertine. Some women were drawn to that kind of danger; he had not thought Carmilla Amworth to be one of them. His gaze dropped to the pulse beating at an ivory temple and he wondered just how much danger she dared to experience.


    Obviously aware that she should be at least attempting conversation, she took a deep breath and blurted, "I hear you saved Captain Evans last night."


    Had everyone heard about it? Varney would not be pleased. "It was nothing."


    "My maid says that he was set upon by robbers and you saved his life."


    "Servants'' gossip."


    A dimple appeared beside a generous mouth. "Servants usually know."


    Considering his own servant, Henry had to admit the truth of that.


    "Were they robbers?"


    "I didn''t know you were so bloodthirsty, Miss Amworth." When she merely giggled and shook her head, he apologized and added, "I don''t know what they were. They ran off as I approached."


    "Surely Captain Evans knew."


    "If he did, he didn''t tell me."


    "It must have been so exciting." Her voice grew stronger and her chin rose, exposing the soft flesh of her throat. "There are times I long to just throw aside all this so-called polite society."


    I should have fed before I came. After a brief struggle with his reaction, Henry steered the conversation to safer grounds. It wasn''t difficult as Carmilla, apparently embarrassed by her brief show of passion, answered only yes and no for the rest of the dance.


    As he escorted her off the floor, Wyndham moved possessively toward her. While trying to decide just how far he should extend his protection, Henry saw Aubrey and Ruthven leave the room together. He heard the younger man say "Bouchard" and lost the rest of their conversation in the surrounding noise.


    Good lord, are they both involved?


    "My dance this time, I believe, Fitzroy." Shooting Henry an obvious warning, Sir William captured Carmilla''s hand and began to lead her away. She seemed fascinated by him and he, for his part, clearly intended to have her.


    Fully aware that the only way to save the naive young heiress was to claim her himself, Henry reluctantly went after Aubrey and Ruthven.


    By the time he reached King Street, the two men were distant shadows, almost hidden by the night. Breathing deeply in an effort to clear his head of the warm, meaty odor of the assembly rooms, Henry followed, his pace calculated to close the distance between them without drawing attention to himself. An experienced hunter knew better than to spook his prey.


    He could hear Aubrey talking of a recent race meeting, could hear Ruthven''s monosyllabic replies, and heard nothing at all that would link them to the missing document or to Yves Bouchard. Hardly surprising. Only fools would speak of betraying their country so publicly.


    When they went into Aubrey''s lodgings near Portman Square, Henry wrapped himself in darkness and climbed to the small balcony off the sitting room. He felt a bit foolish, skulking about like a common housebreaker. Captain Evans'' desire to avoid a scandal, while admirable, was becoming irritating.


    "Here it is."


    "Are you sure?" Ruthven''s heart pounded as though he''d been running. It all but drowned out the sound of paper rustling.


    "Why would Bouchard lie to me?"


    Why indeed? A door opened, and closed, and Henry was on the street waiting for Ruthven when he emerged from the building. He was about to step forward when a carriage rumbled past, reminding him that, in spite of the advanced hour, the street was far from empty.


    Following close on Ruthven''s heels ¡§C and noting that wherever the dour peer was heading it wasn''t toward home ¡§C Henry waited until he passed the mouth of a dark and deserted mews then made his move. With one hand around Ruthven''s throat and the other holding him against a rough stone wall, his lips drew back off his teeth in involuntary anticipation of the other man''s terror.


    To his astonishment, Ruthven merely declared with gloomy emphasis. "Come Death, strike. Do not keep me waiting any longer."


    His own features masked by the night, Henry frowned. Mouth slightly open to better taste the air, he breathed in an acrid odor he recognized. "You''re drunk!" Releasing his grip, he stepped back.


    "Although it is none of your business, I am always drunk." Under his customary scowl Ruthven''s dull grey eyes flicked from side to side, searching the shadows.


    That explained a great deal about Ruthven''s near legendary melancholy and perhaps it explained something else as well. "Is that why you''re spying for France?"


    "The only thing I do for France is drink their liquor." The peer drew himself up to his full height. "And Death or not, I resent your implication."


    His protest held the ring of truth. "Then what do you want with Yves Bouchard?"


    "He said he could get me..." All at once he stopped and stared despondently into the night. "That also is none of your business."


    Beginning to grow irritated, Henry snarled.


    Ruthven pressed himself back against the wall. "I ordered a cask of brandy from him. Don''t ask me how he smuggles it through the blockade because I don''t know. He was to meet me tonight at Almack''s but he never came."


    "What did Maxwell Aubrey give you?"


    "Bouchard''s address." As the wine once again overcame his fear ¡§C imitation willpower, Henry realized ¡§C Ruthven''s scowl deepened. "I don''t believe you are Death. You''re nothing but a common-cutpurse." His tone dripped disdain. "I shall call for the Watch."


    "Go right ahead." Henry''s hand darted forward, patted Ruthven''s vest, and returned clutching Bouchard''s address. Slipping the piece of paper into an inner pocket, he stepped back and merged with the night.


    Varney would probably insist that Ruthven should die but Henry suspected that nothing he said would be believed. Besides, if he told everyone he''d met Death in an alley, he wouldn''t be far wrong.


    As expected, Bouchard was not in his rooms.


    And neither, upon returning to Portman Square, was Maxwell Aubrey. Snarling softly to himself, Henry listened to a distant watchman announce it was a fine night. At just past two, it was certainly early enough for Aubrey to have gone to one of his clubs, or to a gaming hell, or to a brothel. Unfortunately, all Henry knew of him was that he was an easily influenced young man. Brow furrowed, he''d half decided to head back toward St. James Street when he heard the crash of breaking branches coming from the park the square enclosed.

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    Curious, he walked over to the wrought iron fence and peered up into an immense old oak. Believing himself familiar with every nuance of the night, he was astonished to see Aubrey perched precariously on a swaying limb, arms wrapped tightly around another, face nearly as white as his crumpled cravat.


    "What the devil are you doing up there?" Henry demanded, beginning to feel that Captain Evans had sent him on a fool''s mission. The night was rapidly taking on all the aspects of high farce.


    Wide-eyed gaze searching the darkness for the source of the voice, Aubrey flashed a nervous smile in all directions. "Seeber dared me to spend a night in one of these trees," he explained ingenuously. Then he frowned. "You''re not the Watch are you?"


    "No, I''m not the Watch."


    "Good. That is, I imagine it would hard to explain this to the Watch."


    "I imagine it would be," Henry repeated dryly.


    "You see, it''s not as easy as it looks like it would be." He shifted position slightly and squeezed his eyes closed as the branch he sat on bobbed and swayed.


    The man was an idiot and obviously not capable of being a French spy. Bouchard would have to be a greater idiot to trust so pliable a tool.


    "I don''t suppose you could help me down."


    Henry considered it. "No," he said at last and walked away.


    He found Sir William Wyndham, the last name on the list, and therefore the traitor by default, at White''s playing deep basset. Carefully guarding his expression after Viscount Hanely had met him in a dimly lit hall and leapt away in terror, Henry declined all invitations to play. Much like a cat at a mouse hole, he watched and waited for Sir William to leave.


    Unfortunately, Sir William was winning.


    At five, lips drawn back off his teeth, Henry left the club. He could feel the approaching dawn and had to feed before the day claimed him. He had intended to feed upon Sir William, leaving him weak and easy prey for the captain''s men ¡§C but Sir William obviously had no intention of leaving the table while his luck held.


    The porter who handed Mr. Fitzroy his greatcoat and hat averted his gaze and spent the next hour successfully convincing himself that he hadn''t seen what he knew he had.


    Walking quickly through the dregs of the night, Henry returned to Albany but, rather than enter his own chambers, he continued to where he could gain access to the suite on the second floor. Entering silently through the large window, he crossed to the bed and stared down at its sleeping occupant.


    George Gordon, the 6th Lord Byron, celebrated author of Childe Harold''s Pilgrimage, was indeed a handsome young man. Henry had never seen him as having the ethereal and poignant beauty described by Caroline Lamb but then, he realized, Caro Lamb had never seen the poet with his hair in paper curlers.


    His bad mood swept away by the rising Hunger, Henry sat down on the edge of the bed and softly called Byron''s name, drawing him up but not entirely out of sleep.


    The wide mouth curved into an anticipatory smile, murmuring "Incubus" without quite waking.


    "I don''t like you going to see that poet," Varney muttered, carefully setting the buckled shoes to one side. "You''re going to end up in trouble there, see if you don''t."


    "He thinks I''m a dream." Henry ran both hand back through his hair and grinned, remembering the curlers. So much for Byron''s claim that the chestnut ringlets were natural. "What could possibly happen?"


    "You could end up in one of his stories, that''s what." Unable to read, Varney regarded books with a superstitious awe that bordered on fear. "The secret''d be out and some fine day it''d be the stake sure as I''m standing here." The little man drew himself up to his full height and fixed Henry with an indignant glare. "I told you before and I''ll tell you again, you got yourself so mixed up in this society thing you''re forgetting what you are! You got to stop taking so many chances." His eyes glittered. "Try and remember, most folks don''t look kindly on the bloodsucking undead."


    "I''ll try and remember." Glancing up at his servant over steepled fingers, Henry added, "I''ve something for you to do today. I need Sir William Wyndham watched. If he''s visited by someone named Yves Bouchard, go immediately to Captain Evans; he''ll know what to do. If he tries to leave London, stop him."


    Brows that crossed above Varney''s nose in a continuous line, lifted. "How stopped?"


    "Stopped. Anything else, I want to be told at sunset."


    "So, what did this bloke do that he''s to be stopped?" Varney raised his hand lest Henry get the wrong idea. "Not that I won''t stop him, mind, in spite of how I feel about you suddenly taking it into your head to track down evil doers. You know me, give me an order and I''ll follow it."


    "Which is why I found you almost dead in a swamp outside Plassey while the rest of your regiment was inside Plassey?"


    "Not the same thing at all," the ex-soldier told him, pointedly waiting for the answer to his question.


    "He sold out Wellington''s army to the French."


    Varney grunted. "Stopping''s too good for him."


    "Sir William Wyndham got a message this afternoon. Don''t know what was in it, but he''s going to be taking a trip to the coast tonight."


    "Damn him!" Henry dragged his shirt over his head. "He''s taking the information to Napoleon himself!"


    Varney shrugged and brushed invisible dust off a green striped waistcoat. "I don''t know about that but, if his coachman''s to be trusted, he''s heading for the coast right enough, soon as the moon lights the road."


    Henry stood on the steps of Sir William''s townhouse, considered his next move and decided the rising moon left him no time to be subtle.


    The butler who answered the imperious summons of the polished brass knocker, opened his mouth to deny this inopportune visitor entry but closed it again without making a sound.


    "Take me to Sir William," Henry commanded.


    Training held, but only just. "Very good, sir. If you would follow me." The butler''s hand trembled sightly but his carefully modulated voice gave no indication that he had just been shown his own mortality. "Sir William is in the library, sir. Through this door here. Shall I announce you?"


    With one hand on the indicated door, Henry shook his head. "That won''t be necessary. In fact, you should forget I was ever here."


    Lost in the surprisingly dark depths of the visitor''s pale eyes, the butler shuddered. "Thank you, sir. I will."


    Three sets of branched candelabra lit the library, more than enough for Henry to see that the room held two large leather chairs, a number of hunting trophies, and very few books.


    Sir William, dressed for travel in breeches and top boots, stood leaning on the mantelpiece reading a single sheet of paper. He turned when he heard the door open and scowled when he saw who it was. "Fitzroy! What the devil are you doing here? I told Babcock I was not to be.


    Then his voice trailed off as he got a better look at Henry''s face. There were a number of men in London he considered to be dangerous but until this moment, he would not have included Henry Fitzroy among them. Forcing his voice past the growing panic he stammered, "W-what?"


    "You dare to ask when you''re holding that?" A pale hand shot forward to point at the paper in Wyndham''s hand.


    "This?" Confusion momentarily eclipsed the fear. "What has this to do with you?"


    Henry charged across the room, grabbed a double handful of cloth and slammed the traitor against the wall. "It has everything to do with me!"


    "I didn''t know! I swear to God I didn''t know!" Hanging limp in Henry''s grasp, Sir William made no struggle to escape. Every instinct screamed "RUN!" but a last vestige of reason realized he wouldn''t get far. "If I''d known you were interested in her..."


    "Who?"


    "Carmilla Amworth."


    Sir William crashed to his knees as Henry released him and stepped back. "So that''s how you were going to hide it," he growled. "A seduction on your fabled yacht. Was a French boat to meet you in the channel?"


    "A French boat?"


    "Or were you planning on finding sanctuary with Napoleon? And what of Miss Amworth, compromised both by your lechery and your treason?"


    "Treason?"

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    "Forcing her to marry you would gain you her fortune but tossing her overboard would remove the only witness." Lips drawn back off his teeth, Henry buried his hand in Sir William''s hair and forced his head back. Cravat and collar were thrown to the floor, exposing the muscular column of throat. "I don''t know how you convinced her to accompany you, but it doesn''t really matter now."


    With the last of his strength, Sir William shoved the crumpled piece of paper in Henry''s face, his life saved by the faint scent of a familiar perfume clinging to it.


    Henry managed to turn aside only because he''d fed at dawn. His left hand clutching the note, his right still holding Sir William''s hair, he straightened.


    "... I can no longer deny you but it must be tonight for reasons I can not disclose at this time." It was signed, C. Amworth.


    Frowning, he looked down into Sir William''s face. If Carmilla had insisted that they leave for the yacht tonight there could be only one answer. "Did Yves Bouchard suggest you seduce Miss Amworth?"


    "I do not seduce young woman on the suggestion of acquaintances," Sir William replied as haughtily as possible under the circumstances. "However," he added hurriedly as the hazel eyes locked onto his began to darken, "Bouchard may have mentioned she was not only rich but ripe for the plucking."


    So, there was the Bouchard connection. Caught between the two men, Carmilla Amworth was being used by both. By Bouchard to gain access to Wyndham''s yacht and therefore France. By Wyndham to gain access to her fortune. And that seemed to be all that Sir William was guilty of. Still frowning, Henry stepped back. "Well, if you didn''t steal the document," he growled, "who did?"


    "I did." As he turned, Carmilla pointed a small but eminently serviceable pistol at him. "I''ve been waiting in Sir William''s carriage these last few moments and when no one emerged, I let myself in. Stay right where you are, Mr. Fitzroy," she advised, no longer looking either fragile or waif-like. "I am held to be a very good shot." Her calm gaze took in the positions of the two men and she suddenly smiled, dimples appearing in both cheeks. "Were you fighting for my honor?"


    Lips pressed into a thin line, Henry bowed his head. "Until I discovered you had none."


    The smile disappeared. "I was raised a republican, Mr. Fitzroy, and I find the thought of that fat fool returning to the throne of France to be ultimately distasteful. In time..." Her eyes blazed. "...I''ll help England be rid of her own fat fool."


    "You think the English will rise and overthrow the royal family?"


    "I know they will."


    "If they didn''t rise when m..." About to say, my father, he hastily corrected himself. "...when King Henry burned Catholic and Protestant indiscriminately in the street what makes you think they''ll rise now?"


    Her delicate chin lifted. "The old ways are finished. It''s long past time for things to change."


    "And does your uncle believe as you do?"


    "My uncle knows nothing. His little niece would come visiting him at his office and little bits of paper would leave with her." The scornful laugh had as much resemblance to the previous giggles as night to day. "I''d love to stand around talking politics with you, but I haven''t the time." Her lavender kid glove tightened around the butt of one of Manton''s finest. "There''ll be a French boat meeting Sir William''s yacht very early tomorrow morning and I have information I must deliver."


    "You used me!" Scowling, Sir William got slowly to his feet. "I don''t appreciate being used." He took a step forward but Henry stopped him with a raised hand.


    "You''re forgetting the pistol."


    "The pistol?" Wyndham snorted. "No woman would have the fortitude to kill a man in cold blood."


    Remembering how both his half-sisters had held the throne, Henry shook his head. "You''d be surprised. However," he fixed Carmilla with an inquiring stare, "we seem to be at a stand-still as you certainly can''t shoot both of us."


    "True. But I''m sure both of you gentlemen..." The emphasis was less than complimentary. "...will co-operate lest I shoot the other."


    "I''m afraid you''re going to shoot no one." Suddenly behind her, Henry closed one hand around her wrist and the other around the barrel of the gun. He had moved between one heartbeat and the next; impossible to see, impossible to stop.


    "What are you?" Carmilla whispered, her eyes painfully wide in a face blanched of color.


    His smile showed teeth. "A patriot." He''d been within a moment of killing Sir William, ripping out his throat and feasting on his life. His anger had been kicked sideways by Miss Amworth''s entrance and he supposed he should thank her for preventing an unredeemable faux pas. "Sir William, if you could have your footman go to the house of Captain Charles Evans on Clarges Street, I think he''ll be pleased to know we''ve caught his traitor."


    "... so they come and took the lady away but that still doesn''t explain where you''ve been ''til nearly sunup."


    "I was with Sir William. We had unfinished business."


    Varney snorted, his disapproval plain. "Oh. It was like that, was it?"


    Henry smiled as he remembered the feel of Sir William''s hair in his hand and the heat rising off his kneeling body.


    Well aware of what the smile meant, Varney snorted again. "And did Sir William ask what you were?"


    "Sir William would never be so impolite. He thinks we fought over Carmilla, discovered she was a traitor, drank ourselves nearly senseless, and parted the best of friends." Feeling the sun poised on the horizon, Henry stepped into his bedchamber and turned to close the door on the day. "Besides, Sir William doesn''t want to know what I am."


    "Got some news for you." Varney worked up a lather on the shaving soap. "Something happened today."


    Resplendent in a brocade dressing gown, Henry leaned back in his chair and reached for the razor. "I imagine that something happens every day."


    "Well today, that Carmilla Amworth slipped her chain and runoff."


    "She escaped from custody?"


    "That''s what I said. Seems they underestimated her, her being a lady and all. Still, she''s missed her boat so even if she gets to France she''ll be too late. You figure that''s where she''s heading?"


    "I wouldn''t dare to hazard a guess." Henry frowned and wiped the remaining lather off his face. "Is everyone talking about it?"


    "That she was a French spy? Not likely, they''re all too busy talking about how she snuck out of Lady Glebe''s party and into Sir William''s carriage." He clucked his tongue. "The upper classes have got dirty minds, that''s what I say."


    "Are you including me in that analysis?"


    Varney snorted. "Ask your poet. All I say about you is that you''ve got to take more care. So you saved Wellington''s Army. Good for you. Now..." He held out a pair of biscuit colored pantaloons. "...do you think you could act a little more suitable to your condition?"


    "I don''t recall ever behaving unsuitably."


    "Oh, aye, dressing up so fine and dancing and going to the theater and sitting about playing cards at clubs for gentlemen." His emphasis sounded remarkably like that of Carmilla Amworth.


    "Perhaps you''d rather I wore grave clothes and we lived in a mausoleum?"


    "No, but..."


    "A drafty castle somewhere in the mountains of eastern Europe?"


    Varney sputtered incoherently.


    Henry sighed and deftly tied his cravat. "Then let''s hear no more about me forgetting who and what I am. I''m very sorry if you wanted someone a little more darkly tragic. A brooding, mythic personae who only emerges to slake his thirst on the fair throats of helpless virgins..."


    "Here now! None of that!"


    "But I''m afraid you''re stuck with me." Holding out his arms, he let Varney help him into his jacket. "And I am almost late for an appointment at White''s. I promised Sir William a chance to win back his eleven hundred pounds."


    His sensibilities obviously crushed, Varney ground his teeth.


    "Now, what''s the matter?"


    The little man shook his head. "It just doesn''t seem right that you, with all you could be, should be worried about being late for a card game."


    His expression stern, Henry took hold of Varney''s chin, and held the servant''s gaze with his. "I think you forget who I am." His fingertips dimpled stubbled flesh. "I am a Lord of Darkness, a Creature of the Night, an Undead Fiend with Unnatural Appetites, indeed a Vampyre; but all of that..." His voice grew deeper and Varney began to tremble. "...is no excuse for bad manners."