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 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 leapt backwards, 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'd 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 ¨C 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 unremarked from dark to dawn, had effortlessly 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, who he considered to be rude and overbearing, he crossed the room and made his bow to the Countess Lieven.
"I hear you were quite busy last night, Mr. Fitzroy."
A little astonished by how quickly the information had made its way to such august ears, he murmured he had only done what any man would have.
"Indeed. Any man. Still, I should have thought the less of you had you expected a fuss to be made." Tapping her closed fan against her other hand, she favored him with a long, level look. "I have always believed there was more to you than you showed the world."
Fully aware that the Countess deserved her reputation as the cleverest woman in London, Henry allowed a little of his mask to slip.
She smiled, satisfied for the moment with being right and not overly concerned with what she had been right about. "Appearances, my dear Mr. Fitzroy, are everything. And now, I believe they are beginning a country-dance. Let me introduce you to a young lady in need of a partner."
Unable to think of a reason why she shouldn't, Henry bowed again. A few moments later, as he moved gracefully through the pattern of the dance, he wondered if he should pay the Countess a visit some night, had not made a decision by the time the dance ended, and put it off indefinitely as he escorted the young woman in his care back to her waiting mama.
Well aware that he looked, at best, in his early twenties, Henry could only be thankful that a well-crafted reputation as a man who trusted to the cards for the finer things in life took him off the Marriage Mart. No matchmaking mama would allow her daughter to become shackled to someone with such narrow prospects.
As he had no interest in giggling young damsels just out of the schoolroom, he could only be thankful. The older women he spent time with were much more...appetizing.
Trying not to stare, one of the young damsels so summarily dismissed in Henry's thoughts leaned toward a second and whispered, "I wonder what Mr. Fitzroy is smiling about."
The second glanced up, blushed rosily, and ducked her head. "He looks hungry."
The first, a little wiser in the ways of the world than her friend, sighed and laid silent odds that the curve of Mr. Henry Fitzroy's full lips had nothing to do with bread and butter.
Hearing a familiar voice, Henry searched through the moving couples and spotted Sir William Wyndham dancing with Carmilla Am worth. Hardly surprising if he'd lost as much money lately as Varney suggested. While Henry wouldn't have believed the fragile, country-bred heiress to his taste ¨C it was a well known secret that he kept a yacht off Dover for the express purpose of entertaining the women of easy virtue he preferred ¨C upon reflection he supposed Sir William would consider her inheritance sufficiently alluring. And a much safer way of recovering his fortune than selling state secrets to France.
With one of Captain Evans' suspects accounted for, Henry began to search for the other two, moving quietly and unobtrusively from room to room. As dancing was the object of the club and no high stakes were allowed, the card rooms contained only dowagers and those gentlemen willing to play whist for pennies. Although he found neither of the men he looked for, he did find Carmilla Amworth's uncle, Lord Beardsley. One of the Prince Regent's cronies, he was a stout and somewhat foolish middle-aged gentleman who smelled strongly of scent and creaked alarmingly when he moved. Considering the bulwark of his stays, Henry was hardly surprised that he'd been less than able to get out of the carriage to ask after Captain Evans.
"...cupped and felt much better," Lord Beardsley was saying as Henry entered the room. "His Royal Highness swears by cupping, you know. Must've had gallons taken out over the years."
Henry winced, glanced around, and left. As much as he deplored the waste involved in frequent cupping, he had no desire to avail himself of the Prince Regent's blood ¨C which he strongly suspected would be better than ninety percent Madeira.
When he returned to the main assembly room, he found Aubrey on the dance floor and Lord Ruthven brooding in a corner. Sir William had disappeared but he supposed a two for one trade couldn't be considered bad odds and wondered just how he was expected to watch all three men at once. Obviously, he'd have to be more than a mere passive observer. The situation seemed to make it necessary he tackle Ruthven first.
Dressed in funereal black, the peer swept the room with a somber gaze. He gave no indication that he'd noticed Henry's approach and replied to his greeting with a curt nod.
"I'm surprised to see you here, Lord Ruthven." Henry locked eyes with the lord and allowed enough power to ensure a reply. "It is well known you do not dance."
"I am here to meet someone."
"Who, if I may be so bold as to ask. I've recently come from the card rooms and may have seen him."
A muscle jumped under the sallow skin of Ruthven's cheek. To Henry's surprise, he looked away, sighed deeply, and said, "It is of no account as he is not yet here."
Impressed by the man's willpower ¨C if unimpressed by his theatrical melancholy ¨C Henry bowed and moved away. The man's sullen disposition and cold, corpse-grey eyes isolated him from the society his wealth and title gave him access to. Could he be taking revenge against those who shunned him by selling secrets to the French? Perhaps. This was not the time, nor the place, for forcing an answer.
Treading a careful path around a cluster of turbaned dowagers ¨C more dangerous amass than a crowd of angry peasants with torches and pitchforks ¨C Henry made his way to the side of a young man he knew from White's and asked for an introduction to Mr. Maxwell Aubrey.
"Good lord, Henry, whatever for?"
Henry smiled disarmingly. "I hear he's a damnably bad card player."
"He is, but if you think to pluck him, you're a year too late or two years too early. He doesn't come into his capital until he's twenty-five and after the chicken incident, his trustees keep a tight hold of the purse strings."
"Chicken incident?"
"That's right, it happened before you came to London. You see, Aubrey fell in with this fellow named Bouchard."
"Yves Bouchard?"
"That's right. Anyway, Bouchard had Aubrey wrapped around his little finger. Dared him to cluck like a chicken in the middle of the dance floor. I thought Mrs. Drummond-Burrell was going to have spasms. Neither Bouchard nor Aubrey were given vouchers for the rest of the Season."
"And this Season?"
He nodded at Aubrey who was leading his partner off the dance floor. "This Season, all is forgiven."
"And Bouchard?" Henry asked.