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

One last time, the Count bowed and stepped back, breaking his hold.
Breathing heavily, Edward hurried from the room. A woman's laughter met him in the hall.
The Count turned to the table. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, now that His Highness has taken his
leave, I will follow. I am certain that I will see you all again."
In the foyer, only for the pleasure of watching terror blanch the boy's cheek, he brushed the footman's
hand with his as he took back his gloves.
He very nearly made it out the door.
 "Say, Count! Hold up and I'll walk with you." March fell into step beside him as he crossed the
threshold back into the night. "It's close in those rooms, ain't it? September's a lot warmer here than it is
back home. Where are you heading?"
"To the Thames."
"Going across to the fleshpots in Southwark?" the American asked archly.
"Fleshpots?" It took him a moment to understand. "No. I will not be crossing the river."
"Just taking a walk on the shore then? Count me in."
They walked in blessed silence for a few moments, along Pall Mall and down Cockspur Street.
"His Highness likes you, Count. I could tell. You have a real presence in a room, you know."
"The weight of history, Mr. March."
"Say what?"
He saw a rat watching him from the shadow, rat and shadow both in the midst of wealth and plenty,
and he smiled. "It is not necessary you understand."
Silence reigned again until they reached the riverbank.
"You seemed to be having a good time tonight, Count." March leaned on the metal railings at the top
of the embankment. "Didn't I tell you they were your kind of people?"
"Yes."
"So." A bit of loose stone went over the edge and into the water. "Did you want to go somewhere for
a bite?"
"That won't be necessary." He removed his glasses and slid them carefully into an inside pocket.
"Here is fine."
The body slid down the embankment and was swallowed almost silently by the dark water. Replete,
the Count drew the back of one hand over his mouth then stared in annoyance at the dark smear across
the back of his glove. These were his favorite gloves; they'd have to be washed.
He turned toward home, then he paused.
Why hurry?
The night was not exactly young, but morning would be hours still.
As he walked along the riverbank toward the distant sound of voices, he smiled. The late Charlie
March had not been entirely correct. The prince and his company were not exactly his kind of people…
… yet.