by Колин Глисон
She lifted her shoulders delicately and he noticed her pale, elegant hands and the circlet of keys that hung from her woven leather belt. A medieval chatelaine.
“It matters not,” she replied. “You aren’t yet ready.” The peace and serenity that had shone in her eyes wavered into something like sadness. “I’ll be here when you are. I pray that it happens before she’s gone.”
“Who? What are you talking about? Who are you?” He’d found his voice, even through the rage of pain and the whirl of thoughts that he couldn’t seem to control.
“I’d hoped—but you don’t remember me. We’ve met before, on several occasions.” Her smile was sad. “Mayhap you’ll remember me after this time. But I can tell you naught more. Not until you’re ready.”
“What are you talking about?” he said again.
“Your friend Rubey is very wise. You were right to go to her. Now, if you’d only listen to her.”
Voss closed his eyes against the pain of Luce’s fury and his own confusion, and when he opened them a moment later, she was gone. Even though it had been a mere breath that he’d done so—or so he thought—when he scanned the pub, he didn’t see a hint of long, flowing sleeves or a shapeless pale tunic. Anywhere.
He took a long drink of the abysmal ale and ordered another one from the wench with the long neck. Had he met the blonde woman before? When? Where?
Why didn’t he remember her?
I pray that it happens before she’s gone.
What did she mean by that? The little wrench stuttered his heart. Could she be speaking of Angelica?
Likely not. He was leaving here, as soon as he heard from her—and even if he didn’t, he had to leave London. Things were simply too…uncomfortable and difficult here.
You aren’t yet ready. Ready for what? For what?
Ready to change.
He shook his head. It was as if her voice found its way into his mind.
Change? He couldn’t change. He didn’t want to change.
When Belial walked into the Gray Stag some time after midnight, Voss wasn’t overly surprised. Annoyed…yes. Surprised. No. Not in his world.
Especially not tonight.
Despite the fact that there were numerous pubs in London, it was simply his misfortune that the cock-biter would also choose this one in which to imbibe. Voss eased further back into the shadows and half turned his face away as the other vampire and his two companions settled at a table across the room. A structural beam partially blocked what would be their view of Voss, and he settled back into his corner. Checked his pocket watch again.
The meeting time had been set at half past eleven; it was nearly half after twelve. He’d been here since before eleven.
Apparently he was waiting in vain. Angelica had not kept her promise; the hope that perhaps the strange blonde woman might have been her messenger had disappeared, for the woman had slipped out a few moments ago. But he hadn’t truly expected Angelica would contact him with news about the watch chain. She didn’t seem to realize how valuable her Sight could be to someone…someone with nefarious purposes. Had she never thought of how powerful it could make her?
Voss eyed the drink in front of him. No. She didn’t think that way. A wise young woman, she was, but also very innocent in many ways.
Had she never realized what a pawn she could be for someone with unsavory intentions?
Not that his own intentions were unsavory. He merely wished to have as much information as he could have. And to fund his travels.
And who knew when such information might come in handy, especially when dealing with Moldavi?
Voss eyed Belial, keeping his lids half lowered to hide the burning there. He didn’t often feel the urge for violence—it was too messy, too much effort—but at this moment, something nagged at him. Some dark urge to fling his table away and to tear off its leg and slam its jagged point into the torso of that freckled, snakelike vampire. Watch him die.
Even the thought sent a rage of fire through his shoulder’s Mark, although Voss barely shifted. He was becoming used to the incessant pain.
How much worse could it get? Last night, when he’d sent Angelica from her own bedchamber… Even now, the thought of that searing, white pain took his breath away. How he’d even formed the words to warn her to leave, Voss didn’t know. He didn’t remember anything but that white, hot world until his feet landed in the cool, damp grass.
Lucifer didn’t approve of his immortalized men killing other Dracule members—mercenaries, as he called them, in his earthly army—and he expressed his anger the way he always did: through the mark of their agreement.
Already, the symbol of Voss’s covenant with Lucifer had become slender, brownish-red ropes of agony. For self-preservation purposes, he hadn’t been to his London home for more than a week, although he had sent for Kimton (who could travel easily during the daylight) and new clothing. The valet had tried everything including a foul-smelling salve to ease his master…to no avail. Its rage was a constant reminder of Luce’s control.
Voss’s fangs pressed into the inside of his lower lip and his fingers curled around the edge of the table.… No, there was no point in angering Lucifer any further. He had a better idea, and crooked his finger to the slender-necked serving girl. Obviously remembering the pile of shillings earlier, she hurried to his side. Another slip of coin, a few whispered words into her ear and she was off to do his bidding.
Even as he watched her from his shadowy position, Voss toyed with the idea of attacking Belial anyway, and putting the made vampire out of his misery instead of relying on the serving girl to eavesdrop. The only person who would miss Belial would be Cezar Moldavi, and the bastard could always sire another arse-licker who’d serve him unquestionably.
That gave Voss food for thought. How did Lucifer feel about Moldavi having makes—minions that answered to him and not Luce? Why did the devil even allow it? His mind circled around that for a moment—better to meditate upon that, he supposed, than to contemplate the fact that Angelica hadn’t done what she said she would. Far better to mull about Moldavi and his habits than to think about Angelica in that warm, sleepy state…and the alluring scent that clung to her hair and around her shoulders when he’d come into her chamber last night.
That was, he thought, a good enough reason to rid the earth of Belial. Angelica would be safe. His mind fairly made up, Voss felt his lips stretch in a nasty smile. His pulse pounded beneath his skin, his muscles tensed as he prepared to rise… then eased. Moldavi would simply replace Belial and Angelica would be in jeopardy once again. It was best to let the serving girl find out what she could so that Voss could prevent any further attacks.
There was one good thing about Belial appearing at the Gray Stag tonight with his companions: that meant he wasn’t attempting to abduct Angelica or her sisters.
Voss’s attention had continued its constant sweep of the irregularly shaped room, and now it focused on the figure that had just entered. Standing just inside the door of the pub, tall and slender with dark eyes and wearing the cloak Voss had purposely left at Rubey’s, the young man was unfamiliar to him. But he was wearing the red cloak trimmed in gold…and Voss trusted Rubey.
Voss shifted in his seat and waited, smothering his impatience. The tankards were in position. The young man would find him.
He extracted a guinea from his pouch and set it on the table next to the tankards and lifted his own to drink.
Or, rather, to pretend to drink. And to hide his face should anyone look in his direction.
The young man didn’t waste any time. In fact, he was more obvious than Voss would have preferred, but Belial didn’t seem to notice how the red-cloaked figure made its way around the pub to the corner where Voss sat. He dropped a packet on the table and swiped up the guinea, then slipped out the rear entrance.
The packet of paper was heavy, and Voss unfolded it with hands that shook more than he’d care to admit. On the creamy paper, the scent of ink was laced with the smell of Angelic
a’s fingerprints, rising over stale ale and sweat. He breathed. A pang, unfamiliar and surprising in its intensity, sizzled through him—a pang different from the constant agony that had become part of his person, radiating from the Mark on his back.
As Bonaparte’s watch chain slipped from the packet, cool and snakelike into his palm, Voss reflected that he knew how to make the searing stop—if he chose to.
It would be easy. And very, very pleasurable. And, after all, pleasure was what he lived for…was it not?
It was all he had.
Yet…as he fingered the chain and unfolded the letter with it, he told himself he didn’t wish to endanger his own person by going after Angelica—after all, Dimitri and Giordan Cale would be watching even more closely for him now. And he’d heard from Rubey that even Woodmore had chanced a secret appearance in London, looking for Voss. The letter crinkled in his hands.
Her handwriting was feminine, with extra curlicues and sweeping descenders. It fit her, as did the few drips of ink and a smudged fingerprint that bespoke of haste or furtiveness. He found it strangely intimate, seeing a woman’s handwriting for the first time. It was rather like touching her bare hand after removing her gloves.
Did you not think I wouldn’t know whose it was the moment I touched it? she wrote. If I weren’t so eager to rid London of your presence, I would lie and say I saw nothing, for if this informatio— Here, she had scratched out the following words, leaving them illegible, then continued: But I dare not lie, for fear you would use that as an excuse to stay. And you must leave. I do not want to ever see you again, but nor do I wish for your demise. As for the owner of the enclosed item… His death will come, not on a battlefield, not from a coup or other attempt, but in a deathbed, surrounded by only three persons. The chamber is not a great or well-furnished one, but nor is it poor and mean. It feels as if it is some years in the future. The fact that he is alone but for the three, and his body is wasted and his face some years older, suggests that whatever power he now has will at that time be gone or greatly diminished. That is all I can tell you. I bid you adieu.
She hadn’t signed it.
Definitely not the sort of correspondence he was used to receiving from a woman. Not a hint of amour anywhere.
Although…she didn’t actually wish him dead. That was something.
But then again, he cared little for what she thought.
Voss folded the letter and considered lighting it on the candle sconce behind him, then setting it in one of the tankards to burn—but that was only a brief contemplation. Instead he tucked it into his breast pocket.
Right, then. Woodmore had come back to London, at least temporarily. Not that it was the first time the vampire hunter had been out for Voss’s heart…but he thought it best not to tempt the Fates. Now that he’d received the chain back from Angelica, with her valuable knowledge, he was going to leave London and make his way to…St. Petersburg, he decided impulsively. He pursed his lips, suffered through another sip of the thin, pale-as-piss ale and decided he’d send Angelica a brief correspondence to thank her, and to let her know he was leaving. And assuage the bit of conscience that dared niggle at him in the process.
On his way to St. Petersburg, there’d be a quick stop in Paris to meet Moldavi. He’d sell a select portion of the information to the bastard, and then—flush with even more blunt—he’d be putting himself far away from Angelica Woodmore.
Surely, then, the pain would stop.
“Angelica, I neglected to tell you how much I adore your frock,” said Mirabella as they settled in the carriage. “That rose hue is too bold for me, I think, but on you, it looks perfect.”
Angelica had to force herself to smile at the younger woman. The compliment was sincere, and Lord Corvindale’s sister was a delightful change from her own bossy sibling, but Angelica didn’t feel terribly cheery this evening. Her unpleasant mood had begun this morning, when she awoke from the disturbing dream that, hours later, still clung to the remnants of her consciousness.
“Thank you,” she said to Mirabella as she arranged her skirts to make room for Maia on the bench next to her.
“I wasn’t certain I approved of the fabric when you selected it, but I confess, you made the right choice. That pale pink I favored would have made you look too pale,” Maia said, settling neatly beside her.
Angelica smiled with more genuine feeling. Maia, admitting she was wrong? How refreshing. “Thank you, dear,” she said, wondering if her sister had received a new letter from Mr. Bradington. Perhaps he was to return to London in short order and that was why she seemed less rigid than usual.
Angelica pulled the hem of her whisper-thin wrap from where it had become caught between herself and Maia and reflected that, yes indeed, the gown was the perfect choice for tonight’s birthday party. She had loved the rosy-pink sateen the first moment she laid eyes on it at Madame Clovis’s, and with the pink, green and white sash and trims, it had turned out to be one of her favorite evening frocks.
The party, which wasn’t a formal ball but a small, intimate fete, was being given for Lord Harrington. And, based on his insistence that she attend, Angelica suspected that he might not be the only recipient of something pleasant that evening. He’d made a broad hint about their future only yesterday, when they went riding in the sunny park, leaving her to wonder if she might become engaged by the end of the evening. Or, at least, if he might ask.
The very thought made her stomach alternately squirm and flutter. Harrington would be an excellent match.
“The rubies are a nice touch,” Maia was saying, and touched her own matching earbobs. “I declare, if I hadn’t found those little pouches on your dressing table, Angelica, they might have been forgotten for weeks, or, more likely, knocked down behind the mirror.”
If you hadn’t been so nosy, poking about my dressing table, I wouldn’t have been forced to open them. Angelica’s smile had frozen and she adjusted the seam on her left glove. The weight of the robin’s egg-size rubies hanging from her ears was only part of the reason for her deteriorating mood. Another part was the horrifying dream she had had the night before, and yet another part was the letter she’d received earlier that day.
“Where did you say you got them from, Angelica?” Maia asked. “I don’t recall ever seeing two pairs of ruby earbobs before.”
“They’re part of Granny Grapes’s collection. Surely you remember when we used to try them on when we played lady dress-up,” Angelica said in a blatant lie for which she felt no remorse. “I declare, Maia, you seem more fuzzy-brained than usual.”
Her elder sister sniffed and frowned, obviously trying to recall an event that had never happened. Angelica hid a smile. Eventually she’d figure out it was a fabrication, but for now, it felt good to have fooled her. Perhaps one day, she’d feel right about telling Maia the truth.
Years from now, after they were both wed.
And as for the letters they’d received earlier… Maia might have had a correspondence that improved her cheer, but Angelica had not. The seal on the snowy paper clearly indicated that the message was from Voss, and the fact that he’d been so bold as to simply write Angelica on it in heavy, masculine ink instead of addressing it properly was just another indication of his lack of propriety.
As with the little black velvet pouches, Angelica intended to leave the letter unopened. She had no desire to read anything he’d written to her; she’d done her part, given him all the information she gleaned from the watch chain, and she didn’t want to read any further excuses or requests.
She hadn’t had the chance to burn the missive because Maia had come in to snoop around, but that would be rectified as soon as she returned tonight. Instead she’d stuffed it into the drawer with her other stationery before her sister could see it and demand to know all of the pertinent details.
But for some reason, the sight of her name, written so confidently and boldly—such a simple image—on the heavy paper, was burned into her memory and would not be disl
odged. No man had ever sent her a letter before, and she couldn’t ever recall seeing her name written in a man’s hand.
And then there was the dream, still niggling at her. Stark and clear as a garden in the afternoon sun, but far from pleasant. But surely since he’d sent the letter, the dream hadn’t come true.… He wasn’t yet dead.
Perhaps she ought to open the letter before she burned it.
Perhaps she ought to warn him.
But no. Angelica didn’t warn people when she saw their demise. It did no good—and Lord Brickbank was proof of that.
It was a burden she bore on her own. Knowledge that she must carry in secret.
But in a dream. Another dream. Why could she not read his future by holding his glove? But that it was foisted upon her in a dream…just as his friend’s had done. It made no sense.
I wish Granny Grapes was here to help me understand.
She bit her lip and moved the curtain to glance out the carriage window. The moon wasn’t quite full, but it cast a strong-willed light that filtered through heavy gray clouds.
“Shall we close the door?” Maia said, leaning forward to latch the half-open thing. “Or is Aunt Iliana feeling well enough to join us after all? We shall be late if we don’t leave soon.”
“She isn’t coming,” Mirabella said, “but Corvindale is going to join us in her stead.”
“Here? In the carriage?” Maia froze and Angelica felt rather than saw the tension rise as if someone were filling her sister with something unpleasant. “Why does he not meet us there as he usually does?”
“A shocking concept for the earl to ride with us, I agree, but he insisted,” Mirabella replied. She seemed delighted about the possibility of riding to the fete with her brother. “I believe he’s concerned that we might be waylaid by those horrible men again. Although in another breath, he urges me to have no worries about being in danger.”
“I don’t see why he has to ride—” Maia snapped her lips closed as the carriage door opened.
Corvindale loomed in the doorway, then climbed in swiftly, and so gracefully that he brushed nary a hem nor bumped a slipper as he settled next to his sister. Nevertheless, the generous space shrunk to a much smaller one with addition of his large, gruff presence. The closeness made the mixture of rose water aroma and Angelica’s lily of the valley scent mesh with something sharp and masculine, along with wool and smoke. Dressed in a dark coat, topped with a matching hat and giving the glimpse of a brilliant white shirt and a neckcloth of muted colors, the earl was more formally attired than Angelica could recall ever having seen him, except the first night they’d all met. Apparently he took his chaperonage duties seriously—if not reluctantly.