The Vampire Voss (22 page)

Even though he didn't particularly wish to revisit the dream he'd recently grappled with, that would be better than the alternative.

But then the door opened and there in the doorway stood Miss Woodmore. Defiance blazed from her very properly dressed and coiffed person. Her chin was raised and her full lips tight. She glanced at him once, then swiftly looked away, and even from his position half across the chamber, he could see the flush that darkened her cheeks.

“This is exceedingly untoward,” she announced.

“What is it, Miss Woodmore?” he couldn't help but taunt. “Surely the sight of a man's torso isn't all that upsetting to a woman who is due to be married in short order.” It was, he acknowledged privately and a bit maliciously, a rather fine specimen of a torso—notwithstanding the amount of dark hair covering it.

“You could cover yourself,” she said from between unmoving jaws.

Dimitri was nearly enjoying himself. Nearly. But despite her discomfort, this entire situation was the outside of unpleasant, and he wished to end it as soon as he could. Nevertheless, he replied, “I see no reason to do so. Now what is it you must speak with me about?”

Her jaw moved but she steadfastly refused to look at him. “It's Angelica. She has been bitten by a…by one of those creatures that came to the masquerade ball.
Vampirs.
And she had horrible nightmares last night, my lord. I held her all night long, and she cried and thrashed.”

Luce's filthy stick.

“She won't tell me what happened, but I fear that the worst has been done. Not to mention…”

Was it possible that Miss Woodmore's voice had broken? Had cracked with emotion? Dimitri looked closely at her, wishing she would turn in his direction again. He was certain she'd been peeking from the corner of her eye.

“I'm aware of all that you've told me. And if you find it reassuring, your sister has assured me that…er…there is no reason to demand satisfaction or that Dewhurst come up to snuff. She is intact.”

“Up to snuff? I should hope not!” Miss Woodmore exclaimed, forgetting herself and glancing at him. “Even if he did—well…I would
never
… Chas would
never
…allow him to come near her again.” The choked-up emotion had left her voice and was now replaced by outrage.

“You seem to have forgotten that
I
am Angelica's guardian at this time,” Dimitri said, just because it was strictly true.

His reminder seemed to have the desired effect, for her cheeks flushed even more and her dark eyes flashed. “As I said, my lord,
I
would not allow it.”

He shifted purposely, and she looked away again. Her lips
were so tight they were probably sheet-white, though he was too far away and it was too dim to see that sort of detail.

“What is my brother doing? How long has he been involved with these creatures? And what is
your
involvement, my lord? Do you associate with them, as well? Did you know that Dewhurst was one of them?”

“Do not concern yourself with me or the other details, Miss Woodmore. All you need know is that you and your sisters are safe under my care, here at Blackmont Hall and at St. Bridies, too. As for your brother… When he returns, I'm certain that he will answer at least some of your questions. And I am hopeful he will do so in short order. Now, is there anything else, Miss Woodmore? This conversation hardly seems worth interrupting my sleep and threatening your reputation. Or is that not a concern for you, now that you are off the marriage mart?”

She snapped upright and once again turned to look at him. This time, she seemed to have somehow girded herself, for she didn't waver as she met his eyes head-on. “You are beyond vile, Lord Corvindale.”

It was painful, but he managed a smirk. She had no idea how accurate that statement was.

“I insisted on speaking with you because I felt you should know all of the information. I had hoped you'd do the courtesy of telling me what is happening and why. But apparently you cannot be bothered to do even that.” She drew her shoulders back, which had the effect of thrusting out her rather noticeable bosom, but that lovely picture was ruined by the glare in her eyes and the hand on her hip. “I also wanted to speak with you because it will be of the utmost importance that Angelica is seen out and in Society as soon as possible so as to combat any rumors or
on dits
that might have begun since the masquerade. That is the only way to preserve her reputation.”

“And this concerns me, how?”

She didn't move except for an unpleasant twitch of her lips. “Because you must be seen out and about with us. Quite a lot. In the next few days. In order to ensure that Angelica's reputation isn't besmirched, we will need the presence of an earl.”

She turned to go, presenting him with her slender back and long, ivory neck and then paused to look over her shoulder. “I shall determine which invitations we will accept and then give them to your valet so that he can see you are properly dressed for the occasions.”

With that, she walked out of his chamber and closed the door with finality.

 

Voss rolled over and opened his eyes. He found himself lying in a massive bed of twisted sheets next to a great, yellow pool of sunshine. He froze and eased back, wondering who'd left the blasted shutters open. At the same time, he realized that his head pounded and the room was altogether unsteady. His mouth felt as if he'd been sucking on a piece of rag all night.

But by now he'd seen that he wasn't in his own chamber, nor was he at Rubey's, or even anywhere he recognized. The window was wide-open and not only did the sun pour in, but so did fresh summer air. Blasted
birds
chirping outside. A table next to the bed held three bottles—empty, or nearly so, based on the smell of whiskey that permeated the chamber as well as the pain in his temples and the vague wisp of memory.

A pool of dark liquid had dried on the table, and the residue of red-brown lined the bottom of one of the glasses. His stomach shifted alarmingly when he recognized it.

Gingerly Voss settled back down and rolled in the other direction. When he saw the white shoulder rising from amid
the blankets, and the pool of dark hair…and the red marks on her neck, he remembered.

For a moment, panic seized him. Was she dead?

He tried to focus, tried to slice through the fog and remember.… Oh, Luce, it had been a whirlwind of heat and pleasure and feeding laced with horrible wildness. He remembered finding her at Bartholomew Fair, and because she had exotic eyes and wavy dark hair, he'd enticed her away with a pouch of coin.

But the frenzy of feeding…the blood whiskey…the animal that had taken hold of him… It was all dark and hellish. Voss chose to reach for her shoulder instead of the chamber pot when his stomach heaved, and when he touched, not icy flesh but warm skin, he exhaled.

Thank you.

He wasn't certain whom he was thanking. Or why.

She shifted and stirred and he saw more marks on her shoulder, her arm, her throat. By Luce, it was a miracle she wasn't dead.

Nauseated, Voss stumbled from the bed, relegated to climbing over the foot so as to avoid both the deadly sunshine and also the woman next to him.

That was when he realized, with distaste, that he still wore his clothing. A night of debauchery and still fully dressed. His white shirt was bloodstained, his neckcloth crooked and forlorn, but hanging from his throat, his pantaloon flap undone but the waist settled at his hips.

Even his damned boots were still on his feet.

At least he didn't remember any of his dreams.

He looked at the door and around the chamber and realized he was trapped by the sunshine. There was no way to reach the shutters and close them, nor to make his way to the door without walking through a pool of light.

For a moment he thought about doing it anyway, walking into the warmth and allowing it to touch his skin. Could the pain be any worse than what he'd felt yesterday, when he'd been with Angelica?

He'd wanted her so badly. And Lucifer knew it, and had made it impossible for him to resist.

At the memory of her stricken, accusing face, the nausea rushed through him again. The loathing that had been there. The devastation in those bright, wise eyes.

What else could he have done? He'd been in agony. The pain had been so unbearable, he would have gone mad if he'd had to live another moment with it.

Hell, he
had
gone mad. Mad with need and desire.

A glance at his sleeping bed partner reminded him of how easy it had been to entice her. If his thrall had worked with Angelica, she would be the one in his bed right now.

He would have pleasured her, too.

Instead he'd frightened and disgusted her. And she certainly wouldn't be of any willing assistance to him now.

Much as he hated the thought, he'd best leave England straight away. After this, Woodmore and Corvindale would be on his trail, after his heart. Voss preferred to keep his life as free of violence as possible, and if they found him, there was more than a chance he might actually get hurt.

Especially if the two were together.

So he would have to depart London and go somewhere else for civilization and culture. Rome. Lisbon. Perhaps Barcelona, where he could make a deal with Regeris. Definitely not back to the Colonies.

Frowning, his knees weak and his world spinning—not to mention the foul taste in his mouth—Voss snatched up a pillow and, sliding his hands into the case, held it up as a shield and rushed through the sunbeam. It burned where it caught
a slice of his wrist and wavered over a segment of his temple, but he made it into the shadows on the other side of the lethal light.

He no longer had his double-lined cloak that worked so well to keep every bit of the sun from him, and now when he left this chamber in the boardinghouse, he'd be vulnerable to the light.

But he had to leave. He wanted to get away from this room, the smell of stale blood and spilled whiskey and sex, and be somewhere else. And the problems between France and England wouldn't keep a Dracule from making his way across the Channel and going where he wished. That was the least of his concerns.

Voss glanced at the woman, who'd begun to snore delicately. Definitely not dead, and for some reason, he was relieved yet again. She had given him a good ride last evening, and been very generous with all of her bodily fluids. Perhaps he hadn't compensated her enough. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his coat and found another guinea.

As he pulled out the coin, his glove came with it and Voss paused, suddenly paralyzed by a thought. A glove.

His glove.

Angelica had been holding his glove when he opened the carriage door for her.

Did she know that he was going to die?

 

“What are you doing here, Voss?” Rubey's blue eyes peered through the small door panel. They weren't kind nor welcoming in the least. In fact, he'd never seen them so cold.

“Won't you let me in?” Voss wheedled, and allowed a bit of that enticing glow into his eyes. “I just want to talk with you, Rubey, darling.” The weight of the sunshine beat down
on the hooded cloak he'd stolen from the front closet of the boardinghouse, and although it didn't touch him directly, he could feel it like a heavy hand. “Perhaps a bit of tête-à-tête, too. I know how you like—”

“No,” she said, and made to slide the door panel closed.

“Wait, Rubey. Please,” he said, panic in his voice, jamming his hand into the slot. “I haven't anywhere else to go, and I need to talk with someone. And the sun—”

“Dimitri was here. He and Giordan. Looking for you. Sure as the sun, they're going to kill you when they find you.”

A little prickle skittered down his spine. “Angelica? Is she… Did they say anything about her?”

“So it is about Angelica.” The blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and the small panel remained half open. Then she shook her head. “No, Voss. The last time I let you sugar-talk me into something I shouldn't have, you know what happened.”

“I am sorry about the maid,” Voss said, removing his hand so he could adjust the slipping cloak.

“You're only saying that because you want me to change my mind.”

Voss paused, then smiled in chagrin. It was true. He hadn't given the maid much thought. “I am sorry,” he said again, and this time, he did mean it—especially when he thought that it could have been Angelica there in bloody ribbons. “Please, Rubey. You know how it pains me to beg.”

That brought a laugh and a bit of reluctant sparkle to her eyes. “That's not strictly true, Voss, darling. I seem to remember that time you took me to Paris and there was more than a bit of begging going on…on your end.”

But even that memory—as pleasant as it was—failed to bring a smile to his lips. “Rubey. As a friend, I ask you to let me in. You're one of the wisest people I know. And I need to talk to a wise person.” And it wasn't as if Dimitri was going
to have a conversation with him that didn't involve a stake or a sword.

The little slot slammed shut and for a moment Voss thought he'd overdone it, but then the door opened and Rubey was there, gesturing angrily. He stepped into the foyer of her private home, the same place that had been violated by the vampires only yesterday.

Or was it the day before? Lucifer's burning soul, he'd lost track of the time since he and Angelica had been at Black Maude's.

“If they come back, I'm not going to lie,” Rubey was saying as she slammed the door shut and locked it. Three locks and a heavy slab of wood across it. “I'll tell them you were here, and gladly, Voss.”

He noticed fresh marks on her shoulder. “I see that you've been entertaining Cale.”

Rubey tossed him a sidewise look. “Giordan and I have an understanding, and don't try to pretend that it's of any concern to you. If it ever was—of which I have immeasurable doubt—that was ten years ago when we first met.”