The Vampire Voss (8 page)

“I wish I could join you, for I hear the lead actress is devastating,” Voss replied, his voice now dripping with innocence. “But I fear that I have only a short time to enjoy your company, and it's imperative that I speak with your sister.”

During this exchange, Angelica had risen from the sofa and, with a tempered glare at her sister, managed to navigate between the shod feet and pantalooned legs of the myriad of male callers. She was wearing a pale yellow frock today, trimmed with gold ribbon around the neckline (which was, of course, much higher than last night's), and her hair was pulled into a smooth, neat gather at the back of her head. Only a few wisps of hair fanned her cheeks, giving her the look of an exotic pixie. A slender golden chain rested around the base of her throat, with a tiny, matching cross settling into the hollow there.

Voss swallowed hard and deflected his wayward thoughts as
he trained his gaze
up
. To her eyes. Cocoa-brown eyes, wide and dark as night.

“I'm certain we don't wish to keep Dewhurst,” Angelica was saying to her sister and the room at large. “If you'll excuse me?”

“Angelica,” Maia said, beginning to rise. “I don't—”

“Never fear, Miss Woodmore.” This time he clearly spoke to the elder sister. “Despite whatever warnings Corvindale might have given you, I have no plans to corrupt your sister in the few moments I will speak with her in the foyer.”

With that, he gave a little bow to Angelica, and gestured her to cross in front of him toward the parlor door. Before he turned to follow her out of the room, inhaling subtly as she swept past, Voss turned and took a moment to memorize the faces of the men in the room.

He locked eyes with each of them in turn until he saw the familiar leap of fear and terror in their eyes. Then, quite pleased with himself, he followed Angelica from the room.

“The library is here,” she said. “We'll be able to speak privately there.”

Indeed.
Voss contained a rush of pleasure. The door would remain open, of course. But—blast! His belly felt prickly and odd as he followed her into the room. And his damned shoulder ached.

He mentally patted himself on the back when he not only left the door open, but much wider than was strictly necessary.
Merely a first step,
he told himself and his Mark.
There will be other opportunities to close it later.

Then he turned to face her, and for a moment, his thoughts and words scattered. Angelica stood near a tall window across the room from him, and in a sort of irony, the embattled sun had managed to emerge from its blanket of clouds beyond her. It shone through the window, bathing her in its soft glow of
warm beams…warmth and light that Voss hadn't felt or been touched by since he was twenty-eight.

A hundred and twenty years without feeling the sun.

For a moment, the ridiculous thought that Angelica Woodmore would be just as elusive as those golden rays worried at him. But that was absurd on so many levels. Nothing could keep him from what he wanted.

Still. How was it she had positioned herself so perfectly: embalmed in a nimbus of light, which made her dusky skin glow and the edges of her hair seem to light—and yet, she was out of reach. Literally. The pool of light served as more of a deterrent than Corvindale ever could.

“My lord?” she asked, smiling at him. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

Was it possible she
knew?
Had Corvindale told her how to protect herself from the likes of Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst and Dracule?

He eyed her closely, not yet employing his thrall, but trying to read anything in her gaze that might indicate whether she knew exactly what she was doing…but there was nothing in her expression other than curious pleasure. That was a fact which warmed him considerably.

“My lord?” she asked again. “Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit…weary.” Her voice trailed off.

Voss straightened in annoyance. He was perfectly groomed and attired. He looked bloody tantalizing.

“How is your friend Lord Brickbank?” she continued, before he could respond.

And suddenly everything came rushing back to him: the images, the guilt and anger, the reason he was here. A heavy, dark ball settled in his belly.

“In fact,” Voss said, realizing to his shock that he needed
to steady his voice, “he is not well at all. That's the reason I wished to speak with you.”

Angelica's face drained of color and her eyes widened. “My lord, no.” Her fingers curved around the back of a nearby chair as if to provide support, and he wondered briefly if she might faint.

“I'm afraid…yes.” His voice was curiously choked and Voss resorted to swallowing twice, hard, in order to continue. “He fell from a bridge last night and would have survived, I'm certain, if he had not impaled himself upon a piece of rotted dock.”

She'd lifted her free hand to her mouth, her eyes no longer almond shaped but nearly circular. “I am so sorry, my lord. Apparently even my warning couldn't have prevented such an event.”

Voss shifted and tried to decide whether her comment was meant to stab him in the chest with reproach, or if she believed that her warning truly had been in vain. Unable to come to a conclusion, he opted to explain further. “The interesting thing, Miss Woodmore, is that my friend fell not from Blackfriars, but from Westminster. I confess, I didn't fully disregard your warning. We avoided Blackfriars. You did name it as the bridge to be avoided, did you not?”

She moved, a little jolt of surprise, and nearly stepped out of her safe circle of sunlight. Not that it would have made a difference if she had, for Voss was feeling uncomfortably cold at the moment. “Indeed, you are correct. I saw Blackfriars in my dream. It's impossible to mistake it, don't you agree?”

He nodded.

“But what does that mean?” Her voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, and a range of expressions passed over her face: thoughtfulness, confusion, deep concern. “What can it mean?”

“It means, I believe,” came a deep voice from behind them, “that regardless of the irresponsibility of his companions, Brickbank was destined to die last night. And no precautions could have changed it.”

Luce's dark soul.
Was he never to be able to finish a conversation with the chit without being interrupted?

Voss didn't bother with a dry, bored comment this time. He merely turned and lifted an eyebrow at Corvindale, who'd stepped into the doorway. The butler stood behind him, holding a hat and cane, obviously having just given the earl entry to the Woodmore home.

“Ah, Voss. What a surprise to see you again. So soon.” Corvindale bared his teeth in a definite nonsmile. “I presume Miss Woodmore explained to you that today would be the last day she and her sisters were to receive callers here at Turnbull? I advised them of that earlier today, and they're already in the process of moving to Blackmont Hall until Chas Woodmore returns.”

Bloody blasted
hell. “I cannot imagine that they would find it very comfortable there,” Voss said. “Without a woman to see to things, I can only imagine the drafts, dust and ill illumination they might find. Not to mention skeletons in the closet and—”

“Mirabella,” Corvindale interrupted just as blandly, “arrived yesterday morning—along with my dowager Aunt Iliana—and has been preparing for the Woodmore sisters' arrival. I sent for her immediately after you spoke with me at White's.” He looked at Angelica. “My sister is in raptures at the thought of having companions her own age living under the roof.”

“And so you will be ushering not one, but three young women throughout Society this Season?” Voss made no attempt to hide his amusement. “Balls, fetes, the theater and of course Almack's. Rides in St. James. Picnics in the country.
Presentations at court. And, of course, shopping on Bond. Why, Dimitri, that will be such a departure from your normal, hermitish life. I do look forward to watching the entertainment.”

“I don't believe you'll be close enough to observe any of the details, Voss. I've just come from the apartments at White's.” This time, Dimitri's smile was genuine. “You've been chosen to see Brickbank's body back to his home. In Romania.”

 

Maia knocked a second time on the door to the earl's study. While she waited for his response, she looked around the corridor, noticing the fine paintings and elegant statues in her temporary (she prayed) home.

They'd been ushered here more quickly than she could have thought possible, arriving early this morning after the visit by Lord Dewhurst yesterday afternoon. Corvindale hadn't even allowed them to pack; their clothing and maids would be arriving later today. Apparently once he'd set his mind to things, they moved very quickly.

Blackmont Hall lived up to its name in some ways, for instead of being bathed in open-windowed light and filled with pintuck and lace pillows and frothy curtains like Turnbull was, the earl's residence had more sober furnishings. The upholstery and wall coverings were of dark colors: midnight-blue, charcoal, wine, forest. The decor was heavy and masculine and gave a sense that its owner preferred to keep his residence without a hint of a woman's touch.

“Yes. Come in,” came a very annoyed voice.

Maia pushed the door open and, drawing in a deep breath, stepped in.

Corvindale hadn't bothered to look up. He was reading or studying some sort of massive ledger on his desk, and a pile of pens lay haphazardly next to him instead of in their cup. The
ink blots dotting the cloth protecting the desk indicated that he habitually eschewed putting the pens in their holder. The inkwell next to him had a ring of dripped ink around it, as well as several other circles. A sheaf of papers sat neatly at the opposite corner of the desk, held in place by a smooth black stone. And there were books everywhere, on every surface, piled opened, unopened, faceup, facedown…even held to an open spot with another tome acting as a bookmark.

“No bloody need to knock twice,” he said in the same welcoming tone as he absently scratched his temple. “I heard you the first time. How—” He looked up at that moment and closed his mouth. “Miss Woodmore. I didn't realize it was you.” He rested his pen down on the pile.

“Obviously.” She stepped farther into the room, leaving the door wide behind her. She itched to pick up the pens and arrange them in their place and pull the ink-bedabbled cloth for washing. And, heaven above, someone needed to organize the books. “At least, I presume you wouldn't have spoken to me or any of my sisters in that way if you knew.”

The windows that flanked his desk were obstructed by long curtains that allowed little light to emerge, but the other windows at the far end of the study were partly uncovered. This gave the chamber an unbalanced look.

“How can you work when it's so dark in here?” she asked, beginning to cross toward the nearest window.

“Leave it,” he snapped as she reached for the drapes. He sat up straighter in his chair as her hand fell back to her side. “I have already told Mirabella and Crewston to see to your needs. If you have a complaint about your accommodations, I suggest you speak to my sister.” He looked back down, but she noticed that he didn't pick up the pen.

“My lord,” Maia said, eyeing the window with a frown. How could he even see the writing on those pages? It was dark
and cramped and looked centuries old. “I wanted a moment to speak with you. Things have happened very quickly since the Lundhames' ball and—”

“So at first, I did not respond quickly enough to your peremptory message, and now I have responded too quickly? Devil take it, Miss Woodmore, do make up your mind.”

Maia, who had long ceased to be offended by bad language thanks to Chas's undisciplined tongue, merely tightened her jaw and pursed her lips. Her sisters would have recognized that as a clear warning, but of course, the Earl of Corvindale hadn't been thus educated. Yet.

“My lord. I would sincerely appreciate it if you would look at me while I am speaking to you.” She was proud that she kept any bit of quaver from her voice.

Corvindale didn't frighten her so much as annoy her. He was certainly imposing, and his brusque manner made him unpleasant to approach. He wasn't boldly handsome in the way Lord Dewhurst was, or her own Alexander, but he was…striking, she supposed. In a hawkish, austere sort of way, with the slender blade of his nose and high, prominent cheekbones.

But a man like him, so overtly angry, didn't frighten her.

It was the people who concealed their darkness and indecency with smiles and charm. They were much more frightening than the brashly annoying ones.

Her brother had always spoken of him with respect and perhaps a bit of reverence. Anyone who could inspire reverence in Chas Woodmore must be very trustworthy indeed. But she'd be lying if she didn't admit her own annoyance with her brother for leaving them in this state.

Now, as she waited in his shadowy study, the earl paused for a moment and then, reluctance in his very being, looked up. Right at her.

For an instant, Maia felt…wobbly. A bit light in the head.
And then he shifted, his dark gaze changed, and she was able to draw in air again.

Pie-faced worm. No reason to glare at me like that.
“Thank you,” she said instead, and folded her hands properly in front of her, tamping down her own annoyance. How many times had Chas gone off to Paris or Vienna or Barcelona for weeks or months without word, and left his sisters and Mrs. Fernfeather to themselves? Why had he been so insistent that Corvindale get involved this time?

Maia was used to taking care of herself and her sisters. She was to be wed soon. She didn't need this stone-faced earl ordering them about, uprooting them from their own home and demanding that they come here to this dark and gloomy one. In one
day
.