The smile that told her just what sort of relationship he wanted.
“No, we do not,” she replied primly. Oh, so primly. “But if I don’t get back to Blackmont Hall or at least to a chaperone soon, my reputation will be ruined on the grounds of mere suspicion and assumption. ’Tis nothing to take lightly, my lord.”
So it was “my lord” now. “And then…?”
“And then I’ll never make a good marriage. No respectable gentleman will want to wed me.” She sipped again. “Chas has made it very clear that I need to make a match this Season. He has little patience for chaperoning us about.”
Yes, there was the concern of Chas being more than annoyed that Voss had ruined his sister. And of course, marriage to a Dracule was out of the question—for a variety of reasons in Chas Woodmore’s eyes, the least of which was the immortality issue. Not to mention the pact with the devil. Thus, Chas would be incensed if his sister was ruined by Voss, or any other Dracule.
But Voss was fully confident in his ability to evade the vampir hunter. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Angelica continued talking, the whiskey having done a nice job of loosening her tongue. “But perhaps after Maia and Mr. Bradington wed, she can be my chaperone and Chas can go about his business. Sonia won’t be out for another two years.”
“Is there a respectable gentleman whom you wish to wed? Is there one who might have his hopes dashed if you do not return? Or if you return…in a questionable state?” Voss wasn’t altogether certain why he pursued this topic, but he didn’t seem able to control his tongue. Perhaps he ought to try a sip of the whiskey himself.
No. He had no reason to subject himself to that horror.
“Perhaps. Lord Harrington is quite agreeable.” Her expression wasn’t one of sly flirtation, but rather as if she’d just realized some simple fact such as that the sky was blue.
Voss thought he recalled the man in question—the slender dandy who’d waltzed with her at the masquerade. The one whom he’d put the fear of the devil into with a mere glance while visiting in Angelica’s parlor. He smothered a snort. Harrington was probably the sort who’d been thrown in the privy and had had his clothes tossed into the coal pit.
“Agreeable is such a flavorless word. I don’t believe I should appreciate being described as merely agreeable by a woman such as yourself,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
“That is no surprise,” she replied. “I suspect you would aspire to descriptors like ‘charming’ and ‘handsome’ and ‘witty.’ And ‘wealthy.’”
Voss was enjoying this exchange and, from the glint in her eye that he thought was only partly from the whiskey, she seemed to be, as well. The slender ivory column of her neck shifted in and out of shadow as she moved and drank and teased. “Mmm,” he said, his voice rumbly. “Perhaps. Or maybe I should simply like to be considered interesting. Or exciting.”
She snorted. Definitely, it was a snort. A ladylike one, but nevertheless. “Why would you need to be any of those things when you are a man, and a rich one at that? And not terribly difficult to look upon, either,” she added with a sudden saucy look that took him by surprise. “The choice is yours, and your wealth assures you a vast selection to choose from.”
If only it were that simple. Despair—such a foreign emotion that he wasn’t even certain he recognized it properly—rushed in. Marriage was something in which Dracule members had no reason or desire to indulge.
But it was something that Angelica and those of her class aspired to. It was the focal point of her life, in fact. Marriage, an heir and one to spare, perhaps a daughter…a household that didn’t need to be uprooted every few decades because nothing bloody changed.
And yet…everything one knew or cared about was eventually left behind. Aged. Died. Turned to dust.
Voss succumbed and took a drink of the wine, which turned out to be thinner than rainwater. Was it too bloody much to expect that Maude have something palatable, considering the fees she charged?
And couldn’t the woman in the next room find a high C without going flat?
“Or perhaps you have no intention of marrying,” Angelica said, drawing him back to the moment at hand. Her voice had gone as flat as the singer’s.
Voss opened his mouth but found he had no response to that. Instead he replied, “You were going to tell me something you’ve never told anyone before, Angelica. Have you changed your mind, then?”
She sipped again. Her cheeks were flushed and her almond-shaped eyes bright. “I’ve told no one of this, Dewhurst.”
“You’ve said that,” he replied, unaccountably irked by the fact that she continued to call him by his title.
“If I tell you, you must tell me one of your secrets. Will you?”
He smiled, gave a low, rolling laugh and gestured to himself from head to scuffed-up toe. “But I have no secrets. Whatever it is you see here is all there is to know of Lord Dewhurst.” He gave the little flourish of a bow.
But when he rose back to full height, her eyes speared him. “Pardon me, my lord, but I can see that isn’t true. It’s in your eyes. There’s something there—some fear, a horror, some grief or perhaps a memory—that you hide.”
He froze and they stared at one another for a moment. Even the insistent burning in his shoulder faded because there was nothing at the moment but Angelica. “There is nothing,” he said at last.
She tilted her head as she rested the glass on the scarred table, then took a deep breath. “I don’t believe you, my lord. But—”
“Call me Voss.” Blast it.
She shrugged, still watching him, and the shadows in the dip of her collarbones shifted temptingly. His gums swelled, ready to push the incisors free and he swore he smelled her blood again. Somehow.
Was it she who was becoming foxed, or he?
She shifted then, pulled her gaze away and spoke suddenly and in a rush. “I know when my sisters and brother will die,” she said. “I’ve read their futures and I know how it will happen…and when.”
“You know how your brother will die?”
How could he be so very fortunate? This was a most valuable, serendipitous bit of information. He hadn’t even thought to ask for it directly, and now it would be handed to him just as the puzzle of Dimitri’s Asthenia had. Voss smiled complacently.
Moldavi would pay handsomely to find out when the feared vampire hunter Chas Woodmore was to die, as would Regeris, who rarely ventured from his beloved Barcelona since Woodmore had staked him in the belly as he tumbled from a tower into the ocean. Two inches higher, and the man would be living with Luce in hell instead of having to swim for miles to safety.
The question would be which of them would pay more— and what a delightful problem to have. And the information would cost Voss nothing to obtain; she was offering it up to him freely. The last bit of hazy sweetness evaporated from him, and he focused on the realization of his goal. “You know how he will die, and when, as well?”
“Yes. I’ve known for years. I’ve lied to them and—”
“But he is not dead now. You are certain of it?”
“No, Chas is not meant to die until he’s very old,” Angelica told him. “That’s why I have not been so very worried about his disappearance. But Maia has been pacing the chambers and I found her teary-eyed in the garden two days ago.”
“Not until he’s very old?” Voss considered the implication. Regeris wouldn’t be pleased to hear that the vampire hunter would be searching for him for decades longer, and that anything he might do to destroy Woodmore would be in vain. But Voss couldn’t be held accountable for fate. Just for supplying the information, and who would have believed he could have come by that tidbit?
And from such an impeccable source.
He could likely sell the information several times over, in fact. There were more than a few Draculia members who would like to see Woodmore dead—or at least to know how much longer they needed to look over their shoulders and sleep with proper protections. Other than Dimitri, with whom Woodmore had long allied himself for some inconceivable reason, and some of his comrades, their brethren across the Channel weren’t quite as friendly with their enemy.
Not that Voss needed the money, of course—he had plenty to spare from his other ventures—but it would be quitefascinating to see how and what sort of remuneration he could cull from the parties interested in his news.
Always the game. It was the game that kept things exciting and challenging.
“And Maia.”
He realized she’d been talking as he counted his compensation, and he looked over. Now her eyes were bleary, and one of them glistened with a tear.
“You see?” she said, looking at him, waiting for an answer, her voice high and tight. “You knew he was going to die, and yet you could do nothing.”
A chill rushed over Voss as he realized she was speaking of Brickbank. He couldn’t reply so he took a drink instead. Brickbank was dead and now he faced whatever judgment awaited.
Judgment.
“How would you feel if you lived with that knowledge, waiting for the day to happen? Knowing that one day, she or he would be wearing the clothes, and look the same, and the season would be right…and you would know it was the day. The day of death.”
The day of death.
“I’ve known for years. And I can’t tell them. I won’t tell them. Do you see? Do you understand why?” Her tongue was loose and the words spilled forth and Voss could only listen.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she stopped. Her chest heaved from suppressed sobs and she simply looked at him. He sensed that she needed something. From him.
Somehow, through the never-ending pain that numbed his body, he managed to speak. “You’re a very strong woman,” he said. “To have that knowledge and to keep it to yourself. To live with it.”
He thought of the knowledge he had, that he’d tricked and lied and deceived to gain over decades. Longer, even.
