Presentable at last, he tossed the brush down on the table and hurried for the street, suddenly impatient to begin savoring this new existence.
“…
The crowd outside on Piccadilly surprised him and he stopped at the top of the stairs. The crowds he knew in turn knew better than to gather outside his home. When he realized that the people were taking no notice of him and had, in fact, gathered to watch the dead horse pulled up onto a wagon, he descended to the street.
He thrilled to his anonymity as he made his way among them. To walk through a great mass of Londoners unremarked—it was all he had dreamed it would be. To feel their lives surrounding him, unaware of their danger. To walk as a wolf among the unsuspecting lambs. To know that even should he declare himself, they would not believe. It was a freedom he had never thought to experience again.
Then a boy, no more than eight or ten, broke free of his minder and surged forward to get a clearer look. Crying, “Hey now!” a portly man stepped out of the child’s way.
The pressure of the man’s foot on his meant less than nothing but he hissed for the mark it made on his new shoes. And for the intrusion into his solitude.
The portly man turned at the sound, ruddy cheeks pale as he scanned the ground.
By the time he looked up, the Count had composed himself. It would not do to give himself away over so minor a thing.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” the man said without preamble, his accent most definitely not English, “but I could’ve sworn I heard a rattler.” Then he smiled and extended his hand. “I do beg your pardon, sir, for treading on you as I did. Shall we consider my clumsiness an introduction? Charlie March, at your service.”
The novelty of the situation prodded him to take the offered hand. “I am…” He paused for an instant and considered. Should he maintain the identity that went with the house? But no. The Count de Ville was a name that meant nothing; he would not surrender his lineage so easily. Straightening to his full height, he began again. “I am Dracula. Count Dracula.”
The smile broadened. “A Count? Bless me. You’re not from around these parts, are you?”
“No. I am only recently arrived.”
“From the continent? I could tell. Your accent, you know. Very old world, very refined. Romania?”
The Count blinked and actually took a step back before he gained control of his reaction.
Charlie laughed. “I did some business with a chap from Romania last year. Bought some breeding stock off me. Lovely manners you lot have, lovely.”
“Thank you.” It was really the only thing he could think of to say.
“I’m not from around these parts myself.” He continued before there was even a chance of a reply. “Me, I’m American. Got a big spread out west, the Double C—the missus’s name is Charlotte, you see. She’s the reason we came to England. She got tired of spending money in New York and wanted to spend some in London.” His gaze flicked up, then down, then paused. “That’s one hell of a diamond you’ve got stuck in your tie, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“It has been in my family for a long time.” He’d taken it from the finger of a Turk after he’d taken the finger from the Turk.
“Well, there’s nothing like old money, that’s what I always say.” Again the smile, which had never entirely disappeared, broadened. “Unless it’s new money. Have you plans for this evening, Count?”
“Plans?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nonplused. In fact, he couldn’t remember if he’d ever been so nonplused. “No.”
“Then if you’re willing I’d like to make up for treading so impolitely on your foot. I’m heading to a sort of a soiree at a friend’s.” His eyelids dropped to a conspiratorial level. “You know, the sort of soiree you don’t take your missus to. Oh, you needn’t worry about the company,” he added hurriedly. “They’re your kind of people.” He leaned a little closer and dropped his voice. “His Royal Highness will be there. You know, the Prince of Wales.”
About to decline the most peculiar invitation he’d ever received, the Count paused. The Prince of Wales would be in attendance. The Prince of Wales. His kind of people. “I would be pleased to attend this soiree as your guest,” he said. And smiled.
“Damn, but you’ve got some teeth on you.”
“Thank you. They are a… family trait.”
The party was being held in a house on St. James Square. Although only a short walk from his own London sanctuary, the buildings were significantly larger and the occupants of the buildings either very well born or very rich. Seldom both, as it happened. It was an area where by birth and power he deserved to live but where it would be impossible for him to remain hidden. Years of experience had taught him that the very rich and the very poor were equals in their thirst for gossip, but the strange and growing English phenomenon of middle class—well researched before he’d left his homeland—seemed willing to keep their attention on business rather than their neighbors.
He followed Charlie March up the stairs and paused at the door, wondering if so general an invitation would allow him to cross the threshold.
Two steps into the foyer, March turned with his perpetual smile. “Well, come in, Count. No need to wait for an engraved invitation.”
“No, of course not.” He joined the American in removing his hat, coat, and gloves, handing them into the care of a liveried footman.
“I expect you’ll want to meet His Highness first?”
“It would be proper to pay my immediate respects to the prince.”
“Proper to pay your immediate respects,” March repeated shaking his head. “Didn’t I say you lot have lovely manners. Where would His Highness be then?” he asked the footman.
“The green salon, sir.”
“Of course he is, the evening’s young. I should have known. This way then.” He took hold of the Count’s arm to turn him toward the stairs. “Say, there’s not a lot of meat on your bones is there? Now me, I think a little stoutness shows a man’s place in the world.”
“Indeed.” He stared down at the fleshy fingers wrapped just above his elbow, too astonished at being so held to be enraged.
Fortunately, he was released before the astonishment faded, for it would have been the height of rudeness to kill the man while they were both guests in another’s home.
At the top of the stairs they crossed a broad landing toward an open doorway through which spilled the sounds of men… and women? He paused. He would not be anonymous in this crowd. He would be introduced and be expected to take part in social discourse. While he looked forward to the opportunity of testing his ability to walk unknown and unseen amongst the living, he also found himself strangely afraid. It had been a very, very long time since he had been a member of such a party and it would have been so much easier had the women not been there.
He had always had a weakness—no, say rather a fondness, for he did not admit weakness—for a pretty face.
“Problem, Count?” March paused in the doorway and beamed back at him.
There had been little imagination involved in the naming of the green salon, for the walls were covered in a brocaded green wallpaper that would have been overwhelming had it not been covered in turn by dozens of paintings. A few were surprisingly good, most were indifferent, and all had been placed within remarkably ugly frames. The furniture had been upholstered in a variety of green and gold and cream patterns and underfoot was a carpet predominantly consisting of green cabbage roses. Everything that could be gilded, had been. Suppressing a shudder, he was almost overcome by a sudden wave of longing for the bare stone and dark, heavy oak of home.
Small groups of people were clustered about the room, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the pair of facing settees where half a dozen beautiful women sat talking together, creamy shoulders and bare arms rising from silks and satins heavily corseted around impossibly tiny waists. How was it his newspapers had described the women to
