"Tanya Huff - To Each His Own Kind" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

new shoes. And for the intrusion into his solitude.
The portly man turned at the sound, ruddy cheeks pale as he scanned the ground.
By the time he looked up, the Count had composed himself. It would not do to give himself away
over so minor a thing.
"You aren't going to believe this," the man said without preamble, his accent most definitely not
English, "but I could've sworn I heard a rattler." Then he smiled and extended his hand. "I do beg your
pardon, sir, for treading on you as I did. Shall we consider my clumsiness an introduction? Charlie
March, at your service."
The novelty of the situation prodded him to take the offered hand. "I am…" He paused for an instant
and considered. Should he maintain the identity that went with the house? But no. The Count de Ville
was a name that meant nothing; he would not surrender his lineage so easily. Straightening to his full
height, he began again. "I am Dracula. Count Dracula."
The smile broadened. "A Count? Bless me. You're not from around these parts, are you?"
"No. I am only recently arrived."
"From the continent? I could tell. Your accent, you know. Very old world, very refined. Romania?"
The Count blinked and actually took a step back before he gained control of his reaction.
Charlie laughed. "I did some business with a chap from Romania last year. Bought some breeding
stock off me. Lovely manners you lot have, lovely."
"Thank you." It was really the only thing he could think of to say.
"I'm not from around these parts myself." He continued before there was even a chance of a reply.
"Me, I'm American. Got a big spread out west, the Double C—the missus's name is Charlotte, you see.
She's the reason we came to England. She got tired of spending money in New York and wanted to
spend some in London." His gaze flicked up, then down, then paused. "That's one hell of a diamond
you've got stuck in your tie, if you don't mind my saying so."
"It has been in my family for a long time." He'd taken it from the finger of a Turk after he'd taken the
finger from the Turk.
"Well, there's nothing like old money, that's what I always say." Again the smile, which had never
entirely disappeared, broadened. "Unless it's new money. Have you plans for this evening, Count?"
"Plans?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so nonplused. In fact, he couldn't remember if
he'd ever been so nonplused. "No."
"Then if you're willing I'd like to make up for treading so impolitely on your foot. I'm heading to a sort
of a soiree at a friend's." His eyelids dropped to a conspiratorial level. "You know, the sort of soiree you
don't take your missus to. Oh, you needn't worry about the company," he added hurriedly. "They're your
kind of people." He leaned a little closer and dropped his voice. "His Royal Highness will be there. You
know, the Prince of Wales."
 About to decline the most peculiar invitation he'd ever received, the Count paused. The Prince of
Wales would be in attendance. The Prince of Wales. His kind of people. "I would be pleased to attend
this soiree as your guest," he said. And smiled.
"Damn, but you've got some teeth on you."
"Thank you. They are a… family trait."


The party was being held in a house on St. James Square. Although only a short walk from his own
London sanctuary, the buildings were significantly larger and the occupants of the buildings either very
well born or very rich. Seldom both, as it happened. It was an area where by birth and power he
deserved to live but where it would be impossible for him to remain hidden. Years of experience had
taught him that the very rich and the very poor were equals in their thirst for gossip, but the strange and
growing English phenomenon of middle class—well researched before he'd left his homeland—seemed
willing to keep their attention on business rather than their neighbors.
He followed Charlie March up the stairs and paused at the door, wondering if so general an invitation