The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia #2)

The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia #2) Page 22

“What?” Miss Woodmore’s voice rose incredulously, matching Dimitri’s own surprise that Mirabella should know so much about his affliction. He’d taken great care to hide it from her, along with the fact that she wasn’t truly his sister but a mere foundling he’d brought into his home years ago. “Get rid of my rubies?”

Naturally the staff knew, but they were also exceedingly well-paid to keep their master’s secrets from everyone. Aside of that, none of them wished to risk the wrath of a Dracule, and, unlike Cezar Moldavi, Dimitri didn’t make it a point of turning every one of his servants Dracule anyway. Iliana didn’t have a loose tongue, either. She had her own reasons for keeping the secret.

“I’ll do no such thing,” his ward was saying, fingering her earbobs. She cast a sidelong glance at Dimitri, then leaned closer to Mirabella. “Why should mere jewels make him so angry? Was that why he seemed so odd in the carriage?”

By that time, Dimitri had turned away, annoyance and fury prickling over his shoulders. He refocused his attention on the scene of the kidnapping instead of wondering just exactly how much Mirabella knew about him, and where she had learned it. And the fact that Miss Woodmore seemed to have latched onto the concept of his dislike for rubies with her characteristic tenacity.

Just then, praise the Fates, Tren arrived with a hackney.

Dimitri wanted nothing more than to send the women back to Blackmont Hall and to get on his way, but he dared not relieve himself of their presence until he knew they were safe. So while they climbed into the hack, rubies and all, he settled onto the back of the conveyance, where the footman might perch, and allowed Tren to ride with the driver.

The ride to Blackmont Hall was without incident, and Dimitri went inside to ascertain whether he’d received any responding messages from Chas or Giordan Cale in regards to Voss’s warning—which had, in fact, been pertinent. He found word that they were waiting at White’s for news from him, causing renewed annoyance that the message had arrived too late to prevent Angelica’s abduction, not to mention the fact that the presence of the rubies in his household—let alone in the confines of a carriage—had endangered the safety of both Woodmore sisters. Voss’s irresponsibility was inexcusable. Dimitri armed himself with an ash stake and his thick walking stick. The bottom half of said cane was actually a saber that could come in handy if he encountered Belial.

Or Voss.

And then he shoved a pistol into his pocket and slipped out of the house before Miss Woodmore could accost him again. The intense relief that he’d managed to do so was beyond annoying.

Moments later, he arrived at White’s, the well-known gentleman’s club where the Dracule had private, subterranean apartments hidden in the back. Ironically the club, which catered to the most powerful and rich members of the ton, had been influenced by Dimitri’s own establishment in Vienna; however, the Dracule who frequented it rarely visited the main chambers—except to enter a bet in the books.

Famously there’d been an incident when Beau Brummel and Lord Eddersley—a mortal and a Dracule, respectively—had sat in the front, bowed window of the club and bet three thousand pounds on which of two raindrops would reach the bottom of the glass first.

Since Dimitri’s similar property in Vienna had gone up (or down, depending upon how one looked at it) in flames, he had lost his taste for such investments, although he had helped fund moving White’s from Chesterfield to St. James. Dimitri found it morbidly amusing that the de facto headquarters for the Whig Party was being financed by a Dracule, who had absolutely no regard for political parties, politics, or even patriotism.

His world was unaffected, for the most part, by the government or legal systems of his mortal counterparts. And, as one who’d lived through the Cromwell years and the return of Charles II to the throne before he even became Dracule, Dimitri had no qualms about his apathetic attitude. Government machinations meant nothing to him.

When Dimitri arrived, he found Chas and Giordan Cale in the private apartments at White’s. Other than the three of them and the two attending footmen, the chambers were empty. There weren’t many other Dracule in London at the time—not that there ever were, for Lucifer was selective in his choices for soul induction. Dimitri thought sourly that he wished the devil had been even more selective, and passed him by almost a hundred and forty years ago. He certainly wasn’t the sort of man Lucifer tended to gravitate toward.

At least, he hadn’t been before becoming Dracule. He’d been a quiet, studious young man who grew up in a Puritan household where books and God were revered and clothing was black, brown, gray or dun.

He’d been perfectly content with his studies, for, as the youngest son of five and thus unlikely to inherit the Corvindale title, he was attempting a professorship in physics at Cambridge. And even after Cromwell died and Charles II was restored to the throne, Dimitri continued in his simple life of studies. Until he met Meg.

“At last,” Chas said, looking up from the table. Tension had settled in his face.

“A drink, Corvindale?” Giordan asked as Dimitri strolled across the chamber. His neckcloth had been loosened and he was in his shirtsleeves. It appeared that he and Chas had been in the midst of a chess game.

Interesting, and hardly comprehensible, particularly since surely by now Chas was aware of the history between Giordan and Narcise. But then, if nothing else, Giordan was a gentleman, and well in control of himself.

Dimitri glanced at the board to see who seemed to be winning. It took him only a glance to confirm what he would have suspected: Chas was for the bold, brazen moves and Giordan more subtle and covert. Well-matched, but two different styles.

Interestingly enough, the queens had both been captured already.

Even more interesting than that was the absence of Narcise herself. The presumption was that Chas had settled her safely somewhere while he saw to the situation at hand. Perhaps with Rubey.

“Angelica has been abducted,” Dimitri said without preamble. Accepting the drink, he sat at the table with them.

“Voss?” Chas spat, rising to his feet. If he were a Dracule, his eyes would be blazing red and orange. “If he caused it—”

“No,” Dimitri said, taking a healthy swallow of whiskey, and then tersely explained what had happened. “We’re going to have to search the city and then to Dover if we don’t catch them.”

Chas settled back into his chair and nodded. His eyes were fierce and his jaw moved slightly as if being clenched. “We’ll have to split up.”

They’d just finished determining the most likely places Belial would have taken Angelica, and the best routes, dividing up the locations, when the door opened.

Voss stood there on the threshold, gripping the arm of a cloaked and hooded figure.

Dimitri started up, reaching for the stake in his inside pocket just as Chas whirled in his seat to look.

“Don’t be a fool,” Voss said sharply, flipping open his coat to expose a large ruby in the center of his neckcloth. “Did you think I would be so foolish as to come unprepared?”

Dimitri remained standing, settling his hand onto the table in a pool of spilled whiskey as he fixed Voss with a dark glare. The ruby was far enough away that its potency was weak, but certainly he couldn’t get much closer. Bastard. A smart, sneaky bastard.

Reluctantly he glanced at the figure next to Voss. It was obviously a woman, and Dimitri had a sudden, ugly feeling he knew who it was.

Impossible. Even she wouldn’t be so foolish.

But he couldn’t talk himself out of the certainty, and when she yanked off her hood and he saw Miss Woodmore’s accusing eyes and mussed golden-chestnut hair, he couldn’t hold back his exclamation of annoyance. “You.” He turned his glare onto her.

“Of course I wouldn’t come unprotected, knowing just how you feel about me,” Voss was saying to Chas, who had withdrawn his stake and had it ready in his hand. “Keep your distance, and no one will get hurt.”

“Maia,” Chas said, “are you all right?”

“Other than worried to illness for the safety of my sister, while the rest of you sit about and play games at your club?

Yes, I am fine. If it weren’t for Lord Dewhurst, I would still be standing at the door, arguing with the butler. It was he who helped me gain entrance.”

“How convenient,” Dimitri replied from between his teeth. He sank back into his seat, but he couldn’t control the blaze in his eyes as he returned his gaze to Voss. Meddling arse.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Wood more stiffen. She was looking right at him and he saw sudden shock and recognition in her eyes when she noticed the glow in his gaze.

She’d figured it out. At least he wouldn’t have to hide his fangs from her any longer, but that was small comfort. Naturally she’d rush off to tell Mirabella at the first opportunity.

He snarled under his breath. Damnation. He’d have to enthrall her and clear her mind of the knowledge if he was to have any peace.

“I cannot believe your incompetence, Dimitri. I sent you the warning,” Voss said flatly, drawing Dimitri’s attention from his misery. “And you, Woodmore. Another disappearing and then reappearing act? Are you here to take care of your sisters or not?”

Fury propelled Dimitri to his feet again, his eyes fairly burning with the heat of anger. “Oh, aye, I got your message—along with the pair of bloody ruby earbobs, you sneaky bastard.” He would have lunged across the room if Chas hadn’t thrust an arm out in front of him.

“Easy,” Woodmore said under his breath, holding his stake at a lethal angle. “He’s mine.”

Voss flashed his fangs, holding Dimitri’s glare. “It was a jest, nothing more. I warned her not to wear them in your presence.”

Like hell you did, you bastard.

“Damn your soul to Lucifer, it’s your bloody fault Angelica’s been taken,” Chas interrupted. Dimitri could feel the man gathering up next to him like a spring, even though his expression didn’t change and nary a muscle moved. “You and your cursed jests and games, Voss.”