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 favored 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 Lord Wyndham tonight."
"You and everyone else. He's badly dipped. Barely a feather to fly with so I hear. Rumor 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 in 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 Fitz- roy, vampire, bastard son of Henry the VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of
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 favored 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 Lord Wyndham tonight."
"You and everyone else. He's badly dipped. Barely a feather to fly with so I hear. Rumor 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 in 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 Fitz- roy, vampire, bastard son of Henry the VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of
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