"Ah, yes." Sebastien cocked his head to one side, listening. "His Highness Prince Henry of Britain, brother and heir to King Phillip and favored emissary, on his tour of the Americas. At least once a decade whether they need to or not. The dirigible arrived from Tenochtitlán yesterday."
"I'm surprised you didn't come to view the landing. It was spectacular." The colonies didn't see as much airship travel as the cities of Europe, even in the dawning years of the 20th century. Peter Eliot, the Lord Mayor of New Amsterdam, had been there with his wife in her French gown and her diamonds, every artifact of dress a political statement in these days of near-open warfare between the Empire and the French. Mohawk sorcerers might have been blamed for the massacre at St. Johnsbury in the Green Mountains, but Garrett knew that the Native warriors must be supplied with modern weapons out of Quebec. The Mayor, she suspected, would cheerfully turn to the French if it meant home rule for the colonies.
"In the balmy afternoon sun? Abby Irene, I believed you thought more highly of me." He took the empty glass from her hand and replaced it with his own. Lightly, so quickly she didn't think anyone in the room would have noticed, he brushed a fingertip across the scarlet sorcerer's tattoo over her breastbone, just visible in the décolletage of her gown. Daring for an older woman, but Garrett believed in getting away with whatever she could. "There. A much more becoming flush, I think. You're upset for your Duke, señora?"
The light laughter sounded forced even to her. "It's not the Duke, Sebastien. And you know I never married."
"Señorita." He awarded her the point with a smile. "Or the Duchess either?"
She sighed. "It's the Prince."
"Abigail Irene. You do impress."
"Long over," she replied. "I came to America."
"I wondered why. Does Richard know?"
She finished Sebastien's champagne. "Duke Richard?" The lightest possible emphasis. "I rather imagine he wouldn't have let his wife invite me, if he did. He has an eye for propriety, our Duke. Shall we dance?"
"Unless you care for another glass of champagne." A kiss of irony as he lifted the glass from her fingers and set it aside.
She felt eyes upon her as she straightened a hothouse rose in his buttonhole. The damasked petals felt like silk. She imagined they matched the flush marking her cheeks. "I'm giddy enough," she said, and glanced up, expecting Richard's gaze pale under bark-brown curls or a fish-eyed glare from Peter Eliot.
Instead, dark eyes glittered in a sailor's deep lined squint as Henry, Prince of England, looked back at her and offered up a slow, deep, self-possessed smile. He wore a goatee now, she observed—even as her breath jammed in her throat and tore—though his curls were still black as Japanese lacquer. He stared at her over the shoulder of her lover, Duke Richard, who bent close to whisper in his ear. The Prince laid tapered fingers on the Duke's shoulder, shook his head once gently to end the conversation, and came down the steps. A cool breeze from some open window brushed Garrett's cheek.
"Excuse me," Garrett turned to whisper to Sebastien, but the wampyr had already slipped away. She smelled citrus and ambergris and bit the inside of her cheek until her eyes stopped stinging. It was only a moment, but by the time she looked forward again, Henry of England was bowing over her hand. She would have thought herself numb enough to feel nothing, but his fingers tickled her skin through kid; she almost closed her eyes. "Your—Highness."
"Abby Irene," he answered, and now she felt the Mayor's eyes searing the nape of her neck, felt Richard's and Jacqueline's gazes on her face like hands raised to her cheek in question. "The New World has been kind to you."
"Intermittently. Champagne, your Highness?"
"I think I had better not." The smile carved deeper furrows beside his eyes. A green jewel dripped rakishly from his left earlobe. "I recognize your escort, by the way. Do you know—"
"It's a well-kept secret, but yes."
"Ah."
He stared at her throat. She was glad she'd worn the low-cut gown and suffered her hair to be piled up tall. The small white scars weren't on her neck: Sebastien was considerate. She smiled through the numbness. "He's a friend. How's your wife?"
"Pregnant again. May I call on you in private tomorrow, Crown
Investigator?"
The title drew her back. Henry never said anything he didn't mean to carry several meanings.