The driver had made no comment upon his arrival at Kensington Palace. He'd stood outside the vehicle, holding the door open. Jacqueline had explained how this would work -- so few know of the prince's private and personal haunts -- and had arranged for the Silver Star to ferry the visiting Prince William to where the Prince would be for the evening.
     The driver, certainly some trusted ghoul, only offered a slip with Thierry Tattinger's seal: the petals of a white rose, broken apart, laced in ropes of gold and silver and twined with almost unintelligible script. Those of older inklings could see an old, cisalpine chancery hand about the mark, but for most of those walking these nights, it's a scrawl indicating something wise and unfamiliar. Thus, it must be truly cool.
     Such is the way of interpretation.
     The door was closed and the Silver Star was on its way, wending from the parklands of the Palace proper and onto Park. Perhaps the biggest surprise comes when, ten minutes later (yet only four blocks from the south entrance of the Palace), the Silver Star had turned into the covered drive of the square, blue and grey short tower of windows that is Claridge's, replete with snapping flags. It's a chilly night this winter.
     The car door was opened again, and the driver stood quietly as he let his passenger depart. Footmen opened the doors of the hotel, unsure of the guest, but certain that his regality told them all they needed to know.

     The woolen overcoat settles around him like a Prince's mantle. This Prince a prince in figure as much in station. It would do so were the coat made of corduroy. Which it most assuredly is not. The White Rose message is tucked into his coat's inner pocket as he disembarks from the Silver Star -- as only one may do from such a thing as named the Silver Star -- and gloved hands complete the settling of the coat and reach in for the promise of cigarettes.
     William's face is not recognizable in Claridge's in the general sense, for how often is he in London, let alone this establishment? But he has been here twice in as many nights. His is not a face easily forgotten. There was recognition of one footman, a nod for both and a quiet 'Merci' as he passed through the doors and to his destination...
     Claridge's. Resort of the rich and famous. And apparently the great powers of the undead. Is there anyone actually Alive in this building? He has to wonder. Thoughts on cigarettes are paused for now. He will let it wait for the private quarters. Gloves are off in the meantime, gold ring glowing faintly ruddy in the light.

     Standing within the doorway are two who bear the obvious trappings of being in The Madame's entourage. One male, one female, both absolutely stunning and in leather and chrome. They are tastefully dressed, but there are subtle hints that they belong to her -- the silver rose stud in one ear of each is the more obvious of these hints. Both have 'differently' coloured hair... as in, they are hues that people are not born with... one with a deep purple-black and the other with a slight orange-ish hue. They stand tall and erect, on the look-out for the face of the one who visited not that long ago. Annabelle's instructions and descriptions were sharp enough, it seems.
     Both step out toward William, the male speaking, "Sir, we were sent to escort you to your destination." He is tall and lithe with high cheekbones and full lips. His plum-stained dark locks fall about his face to his jawline, the style obviously done with a razor instead of scissors. As he moves, his jacket gaps at the neckline briefly... a leather collar wraps snugly around his flesh there.
     The woman smiles charmingly at William, murmuring, "We must not keep Her waiting." There is a nearly sing-song quality about her voice. She, too, is as lovely as her companion, shorter but slender, with pouty lips and big, blue eyes. Her orange-hued hair scatters about her down her back, like a short cloak.

     Outside, the car door was closed. The driver moved around to his seat and disappeared within the Bentley, rolling off slowly to find a place to park.

     You miss out on all the fun, Dunross. An honor guard, no less, of firm-fleshed quasi-humans in leather and chrome. And you do not want to stay in London when we return to the island...
     "It is good to be loved," William says to the escort, smile spreading as he gestures with the outstretch of a hand for them to lead the way. Hands slip into the pockets of his overcoat, his eyes more on the plum-haired male than the orange-haired female. Those rumors are being nightly confirmed, are they not.
     William moves with them, slightly behind them, his stride seemingly in no hurry, languid, as if he were strolling in a garden. It is. Of a type.

     William is lead by the two escorts, amused smiles on their faces. They lead him through the lobby, glancing back now and then ... perhaps to make sure he's still there? They exchange knowing glances and grin even wider. Finally, they arrive at the elevator, call it, then step in. The door is held open by the male, letting their new companion step in behind them.

     William is right behind them, eyebrows lifting as they look back to check on him. Where else would I be? The mouth slants a grin in return and as they pause, he moves into the elevator ahead of them. With all that is unspoken, the air is thick with amusement, keen interest, cinnamon and other pocketful of energies.
     He looks at the young man. You should find me later. Really.

     The elevator door closes and the two look back at you, seeming to have some kind of inside-joke going. Finally, the woman speaks up. "Forgive us, Sir, if we seem rude... we do not mean to. When the Madame told us... we did not realize to what degree.."
     Her words might seem cryptic, until the young man speaks up, "We didn't realize you were so beautiful..." The words trail off with another grin as the elevator arrives on the assigned floor and the door opens. He then steps out into the hall, the woman waiting for you to exit, following behind.
     The party can be heard as soon as the door opens. Thumping music, voices, peals of laughter, of playful screams... the floor is alive and the party seems to have spilled out into the hallway and other rooms. The main activity, however, is in room 201...

     Quiet laughter sounds only so far as the expression warms, as blue-violet eyes shine keenly, first ahead -- a glance to the woman -- and then landing on the young, plum-haired man with the full fastening of his attention. And then William smiles.
     "Merci..."
     On his way out of the elevator, he halts his passage, ungloved hand holding the doors open, his mouth at the young man's ear. Something murmured.
     Indigo eyes settle on the woman as she comes alongside him. Room 201. If the halls of hell have a chamber set aside simply for the partying pleasures of the flesh, he is certain it will bear the number 201. William grins slightly at the assaulting sound of a Party Forever in Progress...

     A flush of crimson passes onto the young man's cheeks and the look of sheer delight stamps itself nearly permanently on his face. The woman steps out of the elevator and without further delay, William is lead to the Heart of the Party...

     If the Prince is there, he's not immediately visible. But that should not come as a surprise. More than likely, he has chosen a more private setting for himself, leaving the more rambunctious sort in public. Indeed, Valentine Rossini's about, sitting in a corner with a set of young men and women. The dignitaries of Seville and Rome, visiting London, are both present.
     Other than those, vampiric guests seem to few. In truth, no others.
     And why should a Prince need to share his space with any other?

     The bodies are plentiful and moving, ever moving. They are lovely and stunning, and not a single one doesn't get touched or groped tonight to some degree or another.
     It only takes a moment for her to come into the line of sight. A vision of green-tipped blonde and black leather flits out of a room carrying a couple of bottles of something...red. A House red, perhaps. Her laughter lilts through the cacophony of voices as someone says something amusing to her in passing.
     She blows some kisses to a few of the Beautiful People in the side-lines, then continues on her way, toward the back of the apartments.

     Such a triumvirate: the Florentine girded by dignitaries of Seville and Rome. And William has a love of all things Florentine -- as Valentine himself surely knows. Very well. Florence's one-time guardian looks to its one-time son. Tire of London, Valentine, and surely you and I could conquer the world.
     William turns out of his overcoat, bequeathing it to a servant-pet, a touch upon her nose: I will need that back, cher. Cigarettes and lighter the only things continuing on with him. These are transferred to his suit's coat pockets.
     He cannot head out of this chamber without giving a greeting to Valentine. There is, with his approach, an archaic smile -- which in Italy may be easily translated as an offer -- for almost anything. Such looks passed through the halls of the Palazzo di Medici regularly. Among those stabbing others, among those fucking others behind others' backs. And so on.
     "Valentine," William says, "...e buono da vederli, amico," the Italian becomes him, and it moves with natural, and native, ease. Indigo eyes lift to take a quick survey of the party, and the dignitaries in your keeping. "Dove il principe sta mantenendosi stasera?"

     "E giu il corridoio -- penso..." Valentine responds. He's not really certain, which is immediately apparent when the Grand Harpy narrows his gaze and looks down the hall. For his part, Valentine's rather well-dressed, more than likely the true squire of the two dignitaries this night. The trio may never leave this area, entertained by conversation and dancing. That will be the pleasantry offered by the Prince this night. "E buono da vederli..." Valentine adds, expecting it will be all he'll get to say this night, or in this happenstance crossing. He smiles and nods, expecting William to continue on his way.

     In the back, Annabelle disappears into the very last room, calling out something to the room's occupants, apparently to announce the bottles she was looking for were found...

     Tonight, his appointment is with the Prince and there is no distraction prior to that meeting, not even to speak with Valentine Rossini, that may be entertained. "Grazie," he says, words edged by a smile. "E stato dato che il mio lavoro sul Palazzo Medici... forse dopo i miei pubblici... Potro trovarli..."
      Or if not, some other time...
     William turns with a nod to those others whose conversations were briefly interrupted, a pardone. His steps lead him toward a slightly quieter portion of the proceedings, a hall leading to additional rooms. It is a labyrinth worthy of Theseus, these suites...

     Down the corridor, his voice is clear. A French, more aged than the wine that's arrived. In a room, where three men and one woman stand guard -- two outside, two within -- sit a small crowd, gathered around an exquisite gaming table. There are cards upon the mahogany and gold-inlaid top, and four sit around the table in the midst of a hand. At the left, sits the dark blonde known as Thierry Tattinger, and at twelve, three, and six o'clock, sit three well-dressed men, likely mortal and outside of the 201 crowd, staring at the current round. Glasses of drinks sit around the space. At the prince's side, sitting on his outwardly extended knee, is a man, in his twenties, of remarkable beauty.
     "You seem worried, my friend," Tattinger says to someone at the table, breaking the relative quiet of this room. There's a smile from the prince to the arriving Annabelle and her success.

     "I will call," the man at three o'clock says, tossing in a clutch of gold coinage. The other two, whose cards are already face-down, ignore the arriving hostess and instead look to the Vampire Prince.

     There's silence as Thierry nods and lays down three cards, completing a straight flush.

     Annabelle -- The Madame to most here -- approaches the table with a slight swagger to her hips, carrying two bottles in each hand... fingers threaded expertly around the necks of the bottles, as a waitress might carry wine glasses. Two are set on the table for the gentlemen at three, six and twelve.
     A third is set near Thierry. His bottle and his alone. The fourth appears to be hers as she lifts it and takes a swig directly from it. Glasses are already on the table, the bottles appearing to merely be refills.
     Purring, she asks, "Who's winning?"

     "I am," Thierry smiles, raising brows to the man across the table from him. It's an almost smug look, and Thierry curls his arm further around the man at his lap.

     "Aye," the caller agrees, shaking his head. He'll not even show his cards, turning the entire set downfaced onto the table. The mound of gold coins -- an estimate of about 40 -- is left abandoned as Thierry exhales and looks up to his hostess, even as he places his nose at the side of his companion's cheek.

     Beware the cardplayer who may be able to read beyond the curtains of a bluffing mind. Ah, can you hear even this? Mon Dieu, if so, good luck to you, sir...
     Upon the heels of Annabelle's arrival and her announcement of her good fortune in finding the wine, comes another. For some, there was an energy that crested just before his arrival, entering before him as he passes by the exterior guards.
     Just in time to see the coins toss, the call made (and lost), William's mouth holds a smile. "Nice grouping," a note for the flush? Or for the group gathered around it. "Annabelle, belles escortes, comme jamais, cheri," he chuckles quietly. And then his attention is on the one he has come to see -- or rather, the one who has made time for him. That is as it should be. "Au cas ou j'economiser mon argent?" he grins to Thierry.

     A small chuckle escapes the hostess' lips as she murmurs, "Thought so..." She rounds the table now that the cards are played -- she would never do this while a hand was in-play, lest someone accuse her of sending signals to other players -- and murmurs, "Can I get anything else for anyone?" Wine.. women... men... all of the above? It doesn't matter to her. Pleasure is pleasure.
     Glancing over at the door as she hears a familiar voice and the smile that lights up her face would charm the pants off of just about anyone, if she tried. But for now, she is not trying. "Gui... ah.. I'm glad you liked them," she purrs. She steps back, seating herself on a nearby chair... as though realizing she is not the one He seeks.

     And he's not blind. The companion gets a second glance of indigo. Brief. But William does not need to stare in order to see.

     There's a lift of both brows as Thierry looks past his companion to see the door. "Save it," he suggests, "I am still the best card this side of the Alps," he claims, shaking his head at his own arrogance. There is no move to stand, though. He's quite comfortable as he is.
     "We...should take a pause, gentlemen." Something I must do. "Your companions will show you about, with the Lady's allowance." That meaning Annabelle. The 3 mortals will not be allowed to wander alone. Three of the guards at the door stand forth, offering to escort the guests out. "They will take theirs outside, cherie, if you don't mind," the prince says. His words are soft, though for anyone present, his words are commands.

     Annabelle glances around, realizing a meeting is to happen, then stands, "Shall I go, too?" It is a simple question with no sound of disappointment or regret. If it is Thierry's wish for privacy, she shall vacate, also. Meanwhile, she motions to the guards to escort the three gentlemen out of the room. "All you wish to drink will be served to you... there will be those who will see to your needs and desires, gentlemen..."

     "Only if William needs," Thierry says, fingers and eyes on the table. He's idly arranging the cards with one hand as he taps the side of his companion's hip with his other. He'll need to leave as well.

     William takes that moment to light a cigarette, and with Annabelle to be busied with arranging such pleasures for the guests -- and perhaps they are fortunate to have pleasures of the house, even with the House winning, yes? -- William looks to the bottle. He will pour or it will be poured, whichever, in time.
     A brown-grey billow of smoke reveals his exhalation. He will let the prince determine who he wants to have around his person. "You do not need to stay, Annabelle," he says only after the Prince has made his own statement. As the others rise to go, he takes a seat at the table. Indigo looks to the Prince's hand. Perhaps one hand would not break the bank. "Your guests will likely be more entertaining," William offers. "I will find you outside, hmm?"
     Just for a few moments, his expression would seem to convey. "Come back, hmm? With something Italian..." William pauses to grin, "...and I do not mean Rossini. I will find him on my own, ne c'est pas?"

     She paused only to await William's response. Smiling gently to both of you, she murmurs, "You'll not be disturbed." With that, she shoos the companion out the door, along with the card players and their escorts, saying lightly, "Come, come! There is an entire party of experiences awaiting you!" With that, she closes the door behind the two of you.

     The companion does not appear too surprised, gliding gently up and out of the door. There's a look to the man sitting down with his superior, but the look does not last too long. At Annabelle's reminding, he picks up his pace and heads out of the room.

     "I will not interrupt your game long, my prince," there is always a timbre of formality in such meetings, even with friends who are princes, when meeting in official capacities. Or semi-official capacities. And you and he were never so close as to be informal. "I thank you for giving me a few moments of your time..."

     The blondish brows arch and Thierry's lips pull outwards in the best smile he can offer. There is an air of weightiness around him, suggesting he does not smile so often, and what is considered a smile is at best, for others, a simple acknowledgment that something amusing has transpired. "Time is all I have," Thierry observes, "...and thus, it's rather cheap." An exhale is accompanied by more expression in his face. A man of the coasts, he was once, of a well-to-do house. St. Tropez. Nice. Monaco. All new names.
     "You," he looks up beneath an awning of brows, not lifting his face fully, "...I did not expect to see you at court. Valentine will like that," Thierry says softly. Much to discuss. "What can I do for you, William? Say it is nothing, for I expect that may be the result. You do well in your own reach," he smiles. He sees Kensington nightly.

     "Making Valentine happy has always been something I have treasured. When a Florentine is happy, the world may find itself painted thus," the smile comes easily, ash finds its way to a tray. Indigo marks the smile by returning it eye-borne. Perhaps that is the reason he showed up to court, beyond what he chalked up to morbid curiosity, pardon the turn of phrase.
     "Actually, it was merely to exchange pleasantries, to lose a hand of cards to you and to answer a promise that I would see you." He did promise he would see you -- after your soft chastisement, much deserved. "Yet, last night, I saw something that I think might be of interest to you. Had I not been surprised by your most recent Tremere, I would not have had much to say."
     Quite the leading statement...
     "I do not know how London fares with the Romani," gypsies, Ravnos, "...these days. Perhaps it is nothing. But a man carrying on complete conversations with... illusions... illusions strong enough to cause a physical brush against an unsuspecting mortal... I could not leave the City without making such known to you."

     In the last moment, Thierry has given himself to the cards altogether. His long fingers pick up the deck he's gathered, and he begins to shuffle the cards as his gaze lights upon his visitor. "Romani?" he repeats rhetorically. He exhales. "There are a few and they tend to make themselves known to me -- they swear to Us," the Camarilla, "...and I am content in that. This means they know the laws and what will happen to them otherwise. As they looked for Sanctuary," extenuating circumstances of some sort, "I was inclined to give to them. Just them."
     Which means he does not know of this one.
     The deck bends and folds with some ease in Tattinger's hand. An arch, a flipbook. A cut with three fingers. Then, a card spins to land on the table, and then a second drops in front of him.
     "Something American, in your honor," Thierry says softly. As quick, a card flips up on top of one, and then on his.
     Blackjack.
     His card showing: a king of diamonds. The other showing: the nine of clubs.
     A smirk. "Not to your benefit, but you may make something out of it," Thierry says, in that slightly distracted, unfocused way he seems to have.

     "His name is Ephraim," William murmurs. "That is what the woman...who was not a woman...or rather, not really Here..." indigo eyes widen a touch, eyebrows arching upward. "King showing, this does not look good for William," he murmurs, interrupting his own report, to look at his cards. There is no expression really. "...that is what she called him. She seemed real enough to me. Lovely creature, really, for a figment..."
     Smirking, he looks to you. "I stay on this hand, but only under duress." 17. A 15 I could work with. "I have a thing for faces, so many portraits. His facial hair was unique: half black...half white. And his accent was American. At the time..."
     He exhales scented smoke, pausing to flick away dead ash and wait for the dealer to get the upperhand. "All of that time in America, and I never once visited Las Vegas. Monte Carlo called me," he grins to that. Well, and Las Vegas is an anarch pit.

     Thierry points at the other card already there, face down. "Take a look," he recommends with a smile. He does the same with his own, verifying his first card, the one face-down.
     "I will remember what you have said," Thierry murmurs, "...and I appreciate your visit. But, I fear, you should have visited Las Vegas," Thierry teases, elbow coming to rest on the table, his chin in his upturned hand.

Posted by rowan at February 14, 2004 11:48 PM