Dracula in London

be found circling around the prince? Ah yes, as “a flotilla of white swans, their long necks supporting delicate jeweled heads.” He had thought it excessively fanciful when he read it but now, now he saw that it was only beautifully accurate.

“We’ll introduce you to the ladies later,” March murmured, leading the way across the center of the room. “That’s His Highness by the window.”

Although he would have much preferred to take the less obvious route around the edges, the Count followed. As they passed the ladies, he glanced down. Most were so obviously looking away they could only have been staring at him the moment before, but one met his gaze. Her eyes widened and her lips parted but she did not look away. He could see the pulse beating in the soft column of her throat. Later, he promised, and moved on.

“Your Royal Highness, may I present a recent acquaintance of mine, Count Dracula.”

Even before March spoke, he had identified which of the stout, whiskered men smoking cigars by the open window was Edward, the Prince of Wales. Not from the newspaper photographs, for he found it difficult to see the living in such flat black and gray representations, but from the nearly visible aura of power that surrounded him. Like recognized like. Power recognized power. If the reports accompanying the photographs were true, the prince was not allowed much in the way of political power but he was clearly conscious of himself as a member of the royal caste.

He bowed, in the old way, body rigid, heels coming together. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

The prince’s heavy lids dropped slightly. “Count Dracula? This sounds familiar, yah? You are from where?”

“From the Carpathian Mountains, Highness,” he replied in German. His concerns about sounding foreign had obviously been unnecessary. Edward sounded more like a German prince than an English one. “My family has been boyers, princes there since before we turned back the Turk many centuries ago. Princes still when we threw off the Hungarian yoke. Leaders in every war. But…” He sighed and spread his hands. “… the warlike days are over and the glories of my great race are as a tale that is told.”

“Well said, sir!” the prince exclaimed in the same language. “Although I am certain I have heard your name, I am afraid I do not know that area well—as familiar as I am with most of Europe.” He smiled and added, “As related as I am to most of Europe. If you are not married, Dracula, I regret I have no sisters remaining.”

The gathered men laughed with the prince, although the Count could see not all of them—and Mr. March was of that group—spoke German. “I am not married now, Your Highness, although I was in the past.”

“Death takes so many,” Edward agreed solemnly.

The Count bowed again. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your eldest son, Highness.” The report of how the Duke of Clarence had unexpectedly died of pneumonia in early 1892 had been in one of the last newspaper bundles he’d received. As far as the Count was concerned, death should be unexpected, but he was perfectly capable of saying what others considered to be the right thing. If it suited his purposes.

“It was a most difficult time,” Edward admitted. “And the wound still bleeds. I would have given my life for him.” He stared intently at his cigar.

With predator patience, the Count absorbed the silence that followed as everyone but he and the prince shifted uncomfortably in place.

“Shall I tell you how I met the Count, your Highness?” March asked suddenly. “There was a bully smash up on Piccadilly.”

“A bully smash up?” the prince repeated lifting his head and switching back to English. “Were you in it?”

“No, sir, I wasn’t.”

“Was the Count?”

“No sir, he wasn’t either. But we both saw it, didn’t we, Count?”

The Count saw that the prince was amused by the American so, although he dearly wanted to put the man in his place, he said only, “Yes.”

“And you consider this accident to be a gutt introduction to a Carpathian prince?” Edward asked, smiling.

If March had possessed a tail, the Count realized, he’d have been wagging it; he was so obviously pleased that he’d lifted the Prince of Wales’s spirits. “Yes, sir, I did. Few things bring men together like disasters. Isn’t that true, Count?”

That, he could wholeheartedly agree with. He was introduced in turn to Lord Nathan Rothschild, Sir Ernest Cassel, and Sir Thomas Lipton—current favorites of Prince Edward—and he silently thanked the English newspapers and magazines that had provided enough facts about these men for him to converse intelligently.

He was listening with interest to a discussion of the Greek-Turkish War when he became aware of Mr. March’s scrutiny. Turning toward the American, he caught the pudgy man’s gaze and held it. “Yes?”

March blinked, and the Count couldn’t help thinking that even the horse on Piccadilly hadn’t taken so long to recognize its danger. It wasn’t that March was stupid—it seemed that old terrors had been forgotten in his new land.

“I was just wondering about your glasses, Count. Why do you keep those smoked lenses on inside?”

Because the prince was also listening, he explained. “My eyes are very sensitive to light and I am not used to so much interior illumination.” He gestured at the gas lamps. “This is quite a marvel to me.”

Prince Edward beamed. “You will find England at the very front of science and technology. This…” he echoed the Count’s gesture, trailing smoke from his cigar, “is nothing. Before not much longer we will see electricity take the place of gas, motor cars take the place of horses, and actors and actresses…” his smile was answered by the most beautiful of the women seated across the room, “replaced by images on a screen. I, myself have seen these images—have seen them move— right here in London. The British Empire shall lead the way into the new century!”

Those close enough to hear applauded, and March shouted an enthusiastic “Hurrah!”

The Count bowed a third time. “It is why I have come to London, Highness; to be led into the new century.”

“Gutt man.” A footman carrying a tray of full wine glasses appeared at the prince’s elbow. “Please try the burgundy, it is a very gutt wine.”

About to admit that he did not drink wine, the Count reconsidered. In order to remain un-noted, he must be seen to do as others did. “Thank you, Highness.” It helped that the burgundy was a rich, dark red. While he didn’t actually drink it, he appreciated the color.

When the clock on the mantle struck nine, Edward led the way to the card room, motioning that the Count should fall in beside him. “Have you seen much of my London?” he asked.

“Not yet, Highness. Although I was at the zoo only a few days past.”

“The zoo? I have never been there, myself. Animals I am most fond of, I see through my sights.” He mimed shooting a rifle and again his immediate circle, now walking two by two down the hall behind him, laughed.

“And he’d rather see a good race than govern, wouldn’t you, Highness?” Directly behind Edward’s shoulder, March leaned forward enough to come between the two princes. “Twenty-eight race meetings last year. I heard that’s three more visits than he made to his House of Lords.”

The Count felt the Prince of Wales stiffen beside him. Before the prince could speak, the Count turned and dipped his head just far enough to spear March over the edge of his glasses. “It is not wise,” he said slowly, “to repeat everything one hears.”

To his astonishment, March smiled. “I wouldn’t repeat it outside this company.”

“Don’t,” Edward advised.

“You betcha,” March agreed. “Say, Count, your eyes are kind of red. My missus has some drops she puts in hers. I could find out what they are if you like.”

Too taken aback to be angry, the Count shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

Murmuring, “Lovely manners,” in an approving tone, March stepped forward so that he could open the card room door for the prince.

“He is rough, like many Americans,” Edward confided in low German as they entered. “But his heart is gutt and, more importantly, his wallet is deep.”