“If you’re sure, sir. There’s some bad’uns around after dark.”

  “I’m sure.” Henry’s smile broadened. “I doubt I’ll be bothered.”

  *

  The porter watched as the young man made his way down the stairs and along St. Jame’s Street. He’d watched a lot of gentlemen during the years he’d worked the clubs—first at Boodles, then at Brooks, and finally here at White’s—and Mr. Henry Fitzroy had the unmistakable mark of Quality. For all he was so polite and soft-spoken, something about him spoke strongly of power. It would, the porter decided, take a desperate man, or a stupid one, to put Mr. Fitzroy in any danger. Of course, London had no shortage of either desperate or stupid men.

  “Take care, sir,” he murmured as he turned to go inside.

  *

  Henry quelled the urge to lift a hand in acknowledgement of the porter’s concern, judging that he’d moved beyond the range of mortal hearing. As the night air held a decided chill, he shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his many-caped greatcoat, even though it would have to get a great deal colder before he’d feel it. A successful masquerade demanded attention to small details.

  Humming under his breath, he strode down Brook Street to Grosvenor Square, marvelling at the new technological wonder of the gaslights. The long lines of little brightish dots created almost as many shadows as they banished, but they were still a big improvement over a servant carrying a lantern on a stick. That he had no actual need of the light Henry considered unimportant in view of the achievement.

  Turning toward his chambers on Albany Street, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a fight. He paused, head cocked, sifting through the lives involved. Three men beating a fourth.

  “Not at all sporting,” he murmured, moving forward so quickly that, had anyone been watching, it would have seemed he simply disappeared.

  *

  “Be sure that he’s dead.” The man who spoke held a narrow sword in one hand and the cane it had come out of in the other. The man on the ground groaned and the steel point moved around. “Never mind, I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Wearing an expression of extreme disapproval, Henry stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the swordsman by the back of his coat, and threw him down the alley. When the other two whirled to face him, he drew his lips back off his teeth and said, in a tone of polite but inarguable menace, “Run.”

  Prey recognized predator. They ran.

  He knelt by the wounded man, noted how the heartbeat faltered, looked down, and saw a face he knew. Captain Charles Evans of the Horse Guards, the nephew of the current Earl of Whitby. Not one of his few friends—friends were chosen with a care honed by centuries of survival—but Henry couldn’t allow him to die alone in some dark alley like a stray dog.

  A sudden noise drew his attention around to the man with the sword-cane. Up on his knees, his eyes unfocused, he groped around for his weapon. Henry snarled. The man froze, whimpered once, then, face twisted with fear, scrambled to his feet and joined his companions in flight.

  The sword had punched a hole high in the captain’s left shoulder; not immediately fatal but bleeding to death was a distinct possibility.

  “Fitz… roy?”

  “So you’re awake, are you?” Taking the other man’s chin in a gentle grip, Henry stared down into pain-filled eyes. “I think it might be best if you trusted me and slept,” he said quietly.

  The captain’s lashes fluttered, then settled down to rest against his cheeks like fringed shadows.

  Satisfied that he was unobserved, Henry pulled aside the bloodstained jacket—like most military men, Captain Evans favoured Scott—and bent his head over the wound.

  *

  “You cut it close. Sun’s almost up.”

  Henry pushed past the small, irritated form of his servant. “Don’t fuss, Varney. I’ve plenty of time.”

  “Plenty of time, is it?” Closing and bolting the door, the little man hurried down the short hall in Henry’s shadow. “I was worried sick, I was, and all you can say is don’t fuss?”

  Sighing, Henry shrugged out of his greatcoat—a muttering Varney caught it before it hit the floor—and stepped into his sitting room. There was a fire lit in the grate, heavy curtains over the window that opened onto a tiny balcony, and a thick oak slab of a door replacing the folding doors that had originally led to the bedchamber. The furniture was heavy and dark, as close as Henry could come to the furniture of his youth. It had been purchased in a fit of nostalgia and was now mostly ignored.

  “You’ve blood on your cravat!”

  “It’s not mine,” Henry told him mildly.

  Varney snorted. “Didn’t expect it was, but you’re usually neater than that. Probably won’t come out. Blood stains, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Mayhap if I soak it…” The little man quivered with barely concealed impatience.

  Henry laughed and unwound the offending cloth, dropping it over the offered hand. After thirty years of unique service, certain liberties were unavoidable. “I won eleven hundred pounds from Sir Wyndham tonight.”

  “You and everyone else. He’s bad dipped. Barely a feather to fly with so I hear. Rumour has it, he’s getting a bit desperate.”

  “And I returned a wounded Charlie Evans to the bosom of his family.”

  “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 on 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 Fitzroy, vampire, bastard son of Henry 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 humourless 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, interested 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 émigré 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 the information 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 highway men 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 Evans’ 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 the 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, waif-like beauty, brought no shortage of admirers. Unfortunately, she also had a 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 stumbled back, 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 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 from dark to dawn, had effortless 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, whom he considered to be rude and overbearing, he crossed the room and made his bow to the Countess Lieven.