by Tanya Huff
"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."
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 in 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 Fitz- roy, 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—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—just since the start of the Season, in fact—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—in spite of everything we'd still rather it wasn't common knowledge—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, intrigued 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 emigré family. They left France during the revolution— 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 highwaymen 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 E
vans' 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?"
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, waiflike beauty, brought no shortage of admirers. Unfortunately, she also had 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 leaped backward, 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—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 forward 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 Amworth. 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—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—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 w
as 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—which he strongly suspected would be better than 90 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—if unimpressed by his theatrical melancholy—Henry bowed and moved away. The man's sullen disposition and cold, corpse-gray 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—more dangerous amass than a crowd of angry peasants with torches and pitchforks—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."
