Then the message actually made it through the city’s patina to the equine brain.
Better, he thought and strode untouched through the resulting chaos. Ignoring the screams of injured men and horses both, he put the key into the lock and stepped inside.
He’d purchased the house furnished from the estate of Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. From the dead, as it were. That amused him.
His belongings were in the dining room at the back of the house.
“The dining room?” He sighed. His orders to the shipping company had only instructed that the precious cases be placed in the house. Apparently, here in this new country, he needed to be more specific. They would have to be moved to a place less conspicuous, but not now, not with London calling to him. He set his leather case upon the table and turned to go.
Stepping around a chair displaced by the boxes of earth, he brushed against the sideboard, smearing dust across his sleeve. Snarling, he brushed at it with his gloved hand but only succeeded in smearing it further. The coat was new. He’d sent his measurements to Peter Hawkins before he’d started his journey and had found clothing suitable for an English gentleman at journey’s end. It was one of the last commissions Mr. Hawkins had fulfilled for him. One of the last he would fulfill for anyone, as it happened. The old man had been useful, but the necessity of frequent correspondence had left him knowing too much.
Opening the case, he pulled out a bundle of deeds—this was not the only house that English dead had provided—and another bundle of note paper, envelopes, and pens. As he set them down, he reminded himself to procure ink as soon as possible. He disliked being without it. Written communications allowed a certain degree of distance from those who did his bidding.
Finally, after some further rummaging, he found his clothing brush and removed the dust from his sleeve. Presentable at last, he tossed the brush down on the table and hurried for the street, suddenly impatient to begin savoring this new existence.
“… to share its life, its change, its death, all that makes it what it is.”
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.”