Chapter 1
WHEREIN MISS WOODMORE’S SERVICES ARE ENGAGED
As he admired his figure in the mirror, Voss wondered which of the Woodmore sisters would fall prey to his charm first.
It didn’t really matter which one of them did, as long as one of them succumbed and he could get the information he needed—namely, which of them had the gift of the Sight.
He adjusted the shoulders of his coat, aligning the seams, then smoothed the lapels and hem. Having been alive for more than a hundred forty years, he’d seen his share of fashions come and go—and some of them had been horrific.
Thank the Fates the wigs and long, swinging coats that had been in fashion during all of the upheaval around Charles II had given way to shirts and neckcloths and pantaloons. The tailoring was much more attractive, and showing one’s own hair was much preferred after decades of wigs and powder.
After he determined which of the Woodmore sisters had the Sight, it would be a simple matter to coax the information he needed from her, for the thrall of a Dracule was powerful and infallible.
Once he got what he needed, Voss would be on his way before Corvindale was any wiser about what his rival had gained from the Woodmore girl.
He was greatly looking forward to the game of it, for, if nothing else, Voss appreciated pleasure and amusement in his life.
After all, when one lived forever, and one was rich as sin, one had to find—or create—entertainment and pleasure in order to keep things from becoming mundane.
“Bastard’s as cold and frigid as a dead mortal,” he muttered to himself, thinking of Dimitri and his decades of self-denial of the most basic of needs.
“Beg pardon, my lord?” said his valet, Kimton, turning from the wardrobe. A variety of rejected neckcloths hung from his fingers and over his arms.
“Nothing,” Voss replied, picking up his hat and gloves.
He paused one last time to admire the cut of his steel-blue coat and gray, gold and midnight patterned waistcoat.
His shirt was crisp and white, and the chosen neckcloth a rich sapphire.
He’d chosen to stud it with a black jet pin in the shape of an X.
He ignored a strange, internal rumble of discontent and reached for the handkerchief that Kimton had neatly folded, tucking it into a pocket, giving himself a last critical once-over in the mirror.
At the bottom of the stairs of his James Park residence, Voss found his butler, Moross (whom he privately called Morose for obvious reasons), waiting at the door.
“Your carriage, my lord,” the man intoned. It wasn’t time for his once-a-year smile, so he merely looked down his long bloodhound face.
“Where’s Eddersley? And Brickbank?” Voss glanced at the clock in the foyer. Nearly eleven. They’d been expected by half past ten, and he thought he’d heard voices below as he finished dressing.
“Here!” trilled a voice. A very happy voice—rather a bit high in pitch to be comfortably masculine—which belonged to Brickbank. From the sound of it, he’d been into Voss’s private vintage in the study.
Blast. Voss had only been back in London for three days and already Brickbank was becoming an annoyance.
Well, he’d not stay long in London.
Once he did what he’d come to do, Voss would soon in an enviable position, for, with Cezar Moldavi allying himself with Napoleon Bonaparte in Paris, those of the London Draculia—led by Dimitri, of course—would be grateful with the information he could provide them.
For a hefty fee, of course.
The door to the study opened and out tottered Brickbank, his eyes bright and his nose tinged red. Behind him strode Eddersley, his mop of thick, dark hair a mess as usual and a bemused expression on his face. Voss met his eyes and Eddersley shrugged.
“Shall we?” Voss asked coolly, resisting the urge to look at the condition of his study. Morose would see to any disruption with pleasure. “The ball should be in full crush by now.”
“You’re certain the Woodmore chits will be there?” asked Brickbank, bumping against him as they both moved toward the front door. “Abhor stuffy crushes.”
“By all accounts they will. At least, the two elder ones. Unless Corvindale has locked them away already,” Voss replied, stepping back so his clumsy friend could precede him through the front door.
Eddersley gave a short laugh. “Corvindale likely hasn’t even met them yet. He’d be in no hurry to accept his responsibility as their guardian, temporary or otherwise. That would mean actually speaking to a mortal—and a female one at that—and venturing forth from his study or club.”
Voss nodded, smiling to himself. He’d given the earl the news in White’s private rooms only two nights ago; even Dimitri wouldn’t have moved that quickly to bring the girls under his roof, safe from Moldavi.
And that was precisely the reason Voss was taking himself off to the Lundhames’ ball tonight.
Chas Woodmore had done his best to keep his sisters and their abilities under wraps while at the same time making himself indispensable to Dimitri and other members of the Draculia.
There was a sense of ridiculousness to the fact that even as Chas Woodmore considered himself a vampire hunter, he had also made a point of endearing himself to a cadre of vampires—but Voss understood the subtleties of the arrangement.
He only felt it was too bad Woodmore hadn’t trusted Voss enough to turn the guardianship of his sisters over to him, instead of the Earl of Corvindale. That would have made things much simpler.
The three men climbed into the carriage and Voss settled himself on the green velvet seat.
Eddersley and Brickbank found their places across from him, and he rapped on the ceiling.
The conveyance started off with nary a jolt, and he peered out the window as they drove through St. James.
As they rumbled along, the wheels quick and smooth over the cobbles below, Voss found himself less interested in the conversation of his companions and more entranced by the sights outside the window.
London had changed in his absence…and yet it had not.
A new moon gave no assistance to the faulty oil lamps illuminating the streets, exposing little but the shadows of random persons making their way along the walkways.
The houses and shops, cluttered and clustered together in a jumbled-together fashion, rose like unrelieved black walls on either side of the street.
The only break in that solid dark rise was the occasional alley or mews, just as dark and dangerous.
To mortals, anyway.
Voss felt oddly prickly tonight, as if something irregular were about to happen.
Perhaps it was simply that he’d not been out in London Society for years, although he would never ascribe his unsettled feeling to something as banal as nerves. A hundred forty-eight-year-old vampire didn’t have nervous energy, as a rule.
The only thing that made Voss nervous was coming into contact with the unassuming hyssop plant, of all bloody things.
The hyssop plant was his weakness, something he’d acquired—along with the Mark on the back of his shoulder—when he’d made his covenant with Lucifer.
Each Dracule had what they called an Asthenia—an Achilles’ heel or vulnerability, or whatever one wanted to call it. It was something different for each of them—unlike the vampires sired from the line of Judas, where silver caused weakness and holy objects prompted terror in all of them.
Thus, other than a wooden stake to the heart, a blade bent on severing head from body, or full sunlight, his or her Asthenia was the only real threat to a member of the Draculia.
For obvious reasons, a Dracule vampire ever discussed or even disclosed the object of his Asthenia. It was a personal thing, rather like having a flaccid cock at the most inopportune moments. Never spoken of, never acknowledged, never dissected.
There was, as Giordan Cale had once said, honor among thieves, pirates, and the Draculia.
Over the years, however, in an attempt to keep his mind occupied as well as for private amusement—as well as leverage in the event he needed it—Voss had made it a sort of personal game to try and puzzle out the Asthenias of his Draculian brothers.
Some men collected horses or women or wine.
Voss collected information.
He was rich, titled, handsome, powerful, could bed any woman he wanted whenever he wanted, and he was never going to die. What else was he to do with his infinite amount of time?
What else?
He felt that rumble of discontent again.
Voss ignored it, pursing his lips as the carriage trundled along. His companions were conversing about some twilight horse race in which he had no interest. His attention was on how to woo a Woodmore sister out from under the Earl of Corvindale’s nose.
Just another challenge. Just another puzzle. Just another way to gather information.
Information was power.
Voss’s eyes narrowed as a movement in the shadows caught his attention. The carriage rolled along, but he could see well into the dark recess of the alley and he straightened in his seat as they went by: the flutter of a skirt, a tall, bulky figure swooping.
His eyes narrowed and he rapped sharply on the vehicle’s roof to signal the driver to stop.
Pleasure and adrenaline rushed through him as he sprang from the conveyance before it came to a full stop.
At last—something to do.
Ignoring the exclamations of his companions, Voss was out the door and streaking back down the street toward the long, dark passage between two close-knit buildings.
It was a matter of a breath before he arrived in the engulfing shadows that, nevertheless, appeared to him only like green haze mottled with gray.
Although the details were obscured, he could still clearly see shapes and some texture in the dark.
His fangs he kept retracted and he knew his eyes glowed faintly, but he didn’t allow them to burn very hot.
Not yet.