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.”
“Then for your sake, Highness…”
The game in the card room was bridge and Prince Edward had a passion for it. After two hours of watching the prince move bits of painted card about, the Count understood the attraction no better than he had in the beginning.
Just after midnight, the prince gave his place to Sir Thomas.
“It was gutt to meet you, Count Dracula. I hope to see you again.”
“You will, Highness.”
Caught and held in the red gaze, the prince wet full lips and swallowed heavily.
One last time, the Count bowed and stepped back, breaking his hold.
Breathing heavily, Edward hurried from the room. A woman’s laughter met him in the hall.
The Count turned to the table. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, now that His Highness has taken his leave, I will follow. I am certain that I will see you all again.”
In the foyer, only for the pleasure of watching terror blanch the boy’s cheek, he brushed the footman’s hand with his as he took back his gloves.
He very nearly made it out the door.
“Say, Count! Hold up and I’ll walk with you.” March fell into step beside him as he crossed the threshold back into the night. “It’s close in those rooms, ain’t it? September’s a lot warmer here than it is back home. Where are you heading?”
“To the Thames.”
“Going across to the fleshpots in Southwark?” the American asked archly.
“Fleshpots?” It took him a moment to understand. “No. I will not be crossing the river.”
“Just taking a walk on the shore then? Count me in.”
They walked in blessed silence for a few moments, along Pall Mall and down Cockspur Street.
“His Highness likes you, Count. I could tell. You have a real presence in a room, you know.”
“The weight of history, Mr. March.”
“Say what?”
He saw a rat watching him from the shadow, rat and shadow both in the midst of wealth and plenty, and he smiled. “It is not necessary you understand.”
Silence reigned again until they reached the riverbank.
“You seemed to be having a good time tonight, Count.” March leaned on the metal railings at the top of the embankment. “Didn’t I tell you they were your kind of people?”
“Yes.”
“So.” A bit of loose stone went over the edge and into the water. “Did you want to go somewhere for a bite?”
“That won’t be necessary.” He removed his glasses and slid them carefully into an inside pocket. “Here is fine.”
The body slid down the embankment and was swallowed almost silently by the dark water. Replete, the Count drew the back of one hand over his mouth then stared in annoyance at the dark smear across the back of his glove. These were his favorite gloves; they’d have to be washed.
He turned toward home, then he paused.
Why hurry?
The night was not exactly young, but morning would be hours still.
As he walked along the riverbank toward the distant sound of voices, he smiled. The late Charlie March had not been entirely correct. The prince and his company were not exactly his kind of people…
… yet.
Box Number Fifty
Fred Saberhagen
Carrie had been living on the London streets for a night and a day, plenty of time to learn that being taken in charge by the police was not the worst thing that could happen. But it would be bad enough. What she had heard of the conditions in which homeless children were confined made her ready to risk a lot in trying to stay free.
A huge dray drawn by two whipped and lathered horses rushed past, almost knocking her down, as she began to cross another street. Tightening her grip on the hand of nine-year-old Christopher as he stumbled in exhaustion, she struggled on through the London fog, wet air greasy with burning coal and wood. Around the children were a million strangers, all in a hurry amid an endless roar of traffic.
“Where we going to sleep tonight?” Her little brother sounded desperate, and no doubt he was. Last night they had had almost no sleep at all, huddled against the abutment of a railway bridge; hut fortunately it had not been raining then as it was now. There had been only one episode of real adventure during the night, when Chris, on going a little way apart to answer a call of nature, had been set on and robbed of his shoes by several playful fellows not much bigger than he.
Their wanderings had brought them into Soho, where they attracted some unwelcome attention. Carrie thought that a pair of rough-looking youths had now begun to follow them.
She had to seek help somewhere, and none of the faces in her immediate vicinity looked promising. On impulse she turned from the pavement up a flight of stone steps to the front door of a house. It was a narrow building of gray stone, not particularly old or new, one of a row, wedged tightly against its neighbors on either side. Had Carrie been given time to think about it, she might have said that she chose this house because it bore a certain air of quiet and decency, in contrast to its neighbors, which at this early stage of evening were given to lights and raucous noise.