Jack had a reckless disregard for drawing rooms that Gavin envied and never failed to remark upon. They’d settled into a firm friendship based on mutual abuse, in the manner of most gentlemen.
Jack said, “I shall never frighten small children.”
“Oh, aye, whereas they scatter before me.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Which is why I need the captain to help smooth away fear. I dinna have your skill at genial idleness.”
“You do like to be productive. A most ungentlemanly quality.”
“Ruthven, a word, if you are so inclined?”
Gavin snapped to attention at the voice. “Major Channing?”
Major Channing was too pretty for war, except that his skin was also too clear and his ice blue eyes too bright. Pretty or not, werewolves were made for battle.
“Jack, do you know Major Channing? Major, my friend, Mr Jackson.”
The major inclined his blond head, cool but not unfriendly. “Your pardon, Mr Jackson, but if I could steal Ruthven a moment? A delicate matter of state.”
Jack nodded, a little put out.
Gavin gave him a raised-eyebrow look of I’ve no idea either and followed his former commander out of the card room and into one of the private libraries.
The immortal shut the door firmly behind them.
“Sir?” Gavin was soldier enough to be suspicious of any summons from Major Channing, especially as the werewolf was currently assigned to the War Office. However, Gavin was also soldier enough to wait for orders.
“Sit down, Captain – this not an official matter.”
“Dinna tell me it’s pack? Or personal?” If the major did not wish to stand on ceremony, Gavin preferred they get to the point. He settled his big body gingerly onto a spindly chair.
“Neither.” The major’s voice was shaped by too many teeth and too much aristocratic English blood. Gavin, being Scottish, ought to dislike him on principle. And, on principle, he did. Even for a werewolf, Major Channing’s proclivities were questionable, his manners grating, and his personality trying. But he’d died fighting Napoleon, and his soldiers respected him for that, if nothing else. Not many werewolves were forged in battle; most started out as some species of theatrical.
“Weel, then, what do you wish of me?”
“It has come to the War Office’s attention that you are to attend a house party thrown by the Duke of Snodgrove.”
“The War Office been eavesdropping on my private gab?”
Major Channing wouldn’t have had to try too hard, supernatural hearing and all. “It’s fortunate that I’m home at the moment to vouch for you. It saves us the bother of having to infiltrate.”
“Infiltrate a house party?” Gavin could not keep the sarcasm from his voice. “In truth, I did hear invading forces were attacking endless games of backgammon.”
“Enough levity.” Major Channing had many things, but a sense of humor wasn’t one of them.
“Sir.”
“We believe the Duke of Snodgrove’s life is in danger. We wish you to protect him. And don’t go blathering on about how you’re nothing more than a retired soldier. I’ve seen you in action, remember?”
Gavin twisted his mouth. He had been about to object. Still, it would alleviate the monotony of the party, if he had purpose. “Verra weel. I’ll play at guard duty. But what am I against – amateur or professional?”
“Fenians. So, frankly, anything is possible. They could’ve hired someone. They could be working for themselves. We know nothing but that they’ve threatened.”
“Why?”
“It’s this blasted bill. Why workers want to vote is beyond me. Waste of everyone’s time. Snodgrove has come out against.”
Gavin, wisely, kept his political opinions to himself. “What else must I know?”
Major Channing settled in to the disclosure with no further waffling.
Meanwhile, back in the nicer part of London…
At long last, Preshea was alone with the vampire.
She did not bandy words. Immortals might have nothing but time to waste on niceties; she was not so fortunate. “What else is occurring here, Lord Akeldama?”
He smiled at her, showing fang. “My opal, what makes you think—?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, old one. This is hardly worth my time. What do you want from this house party?”
Lord Akeldama inclined his head. “I believe there may be an assassination attempt on the duke.”
“Why should you concern yourself? He is merely a mortal, past his prime. If he dies, he dies – another will take his place.”
The vampire sighed. “It isn’t always about prey for us, although it may be for you.”
The monocle came up, although he seemed to be looking through it at the future rather than at her. “As one of the few progressive Tories with oratory skills and political sway, Snodgrove’s death would complicate matters.”
Preshea allowed disgust to enter her tone. “You wish me to play nursemaid? Is poison likely?” It was, after all, her forte.
“I imagine something more forthright. He speaks against the Second Reform Act. Its supporters are enthusiastic.”
“What care vampires for voting rights?”
“You are not a supporter yourself?”
Preshea arched a brow. “For workers’ suffrage? Why should I meddle in politics? We women are out of it regardless.”