Yet somehow, through the red fog of his frenetic pleasure, Voss remembered Angelica’s warning about Brickbank.
I must beg of you to keep him away from Blackfriars Bridge. Especially tonight. It was that bridge, and his exact attire, that I saw in my dream.
But they were going to cross Westminster Bridge, loudly and exuberantly, hopeful of finding some gang of thieves or other group of no-gooders in the Gardens that could be terrorized by a trio of drunk vampires. If not, there were always any number of young dandies and their companions who could be frightened.
It wasWestminsterBridge, far from Blackfriars, and Voss barely hesitated as they stepped on it.
How could Brickbank die from a fall off a bridge, anyway? There was simply no manner in which he could.
Voss laughed at the absurdity. Laughed, loud and long, exuberant, his mouth still wide with mirth as it happened.
Whether it was Brickbank’s Asthenia (copper, the poor brute) that made him fall or merely that he was clumsy from all the drink, they would never know. None of the details were clear: how had he been so close to the edge, what had happened,howcould it have happened? But something made the man stumble suddenly, and as he attempted to catch his balance, he fell from the bridge.
Voss stopped laughing and ran to the side, expecting to see his friend bobbing in the water and chuckling about the fact that half of the premonition had come true…but that was not the case.
He was not bobbing in the water. Nor was he chuckling.
A freak accident was the only explanation. Brickbank had somehow landed on an old, rotting piece of dock jutting from the water not far from the shoreline, impaling himself through the chest.
Dead. Instantly. One of the only ways a Dracule could die.
The very thought made Voss’s blood run cold.Brickbank was dead.
Impossible.
Now, hours later, after the body had been retrieved and he and Eddersley had gone to the secret rooms at White’s and shared yet another bottle of something to take the sting away, Voss was home.
Pounding headed, thin-blooded, filled with guilt and self-loathing. He could have prevented it.
And on top of that, his Mark was throbbing.
With a snarl, he rang for Kimton and ordered a bath.
Thirty minutes later, despite no sleep, Voss felt marginally better—and that was only because Kimton had scrubbed his back (avoiding the Mark) and given him a shave. At least on the outside, he didn’t look like a man who’d allowed his friend to die. Dressing in neat, pressed clothing helped further, and when he was fully attired, he agreed with himself he looked just as magnetic and attractive as he always did.
For, although it was only late in the afternoon and the sun was still up, Voss needed to go out. He’d flirted with the idea all morning, knowing all along he would end up deciding to go; that it was merely the details left to be decided.
He must speak with Miss Angelica Woodmore.
Corvindale would be apoplectic, and Voss’s only real hesitation was deciding whether to call on Angelica (when had he begun to think of her in that way?) openly, so the earl would know he had defied his command, or to do it clandestinely so they wouldn’t be interrupted.
In the end, he decided to do it openly. Corvindale would learn about it regardless and think the worst of him no matter what, and, frankly, Voss wasn’t terribly opposed to dusting a bit of the floor with Dimitri, the bloody Earl of Corvindale. Especially in his current mood.
He wouldn’t even care if he got blood on his shirt, because he needed something else to think about. Something other than what had happened to Brickbank.
When he arrived at the relatively small, but very elegant, well-kept Woodmore home in Mayfair, Voss alighted from his closed carriage (a very undashing necessity for daytime transportation) gloved and cloaked. He also held a wide umbrella low over his hat—ostensibly to protect his perfectly combed and lightly pomaded hair from the faint drizzle.
It occurred to him the sisters might already have been removed to the safety of the earl’s home, but to his surprise and delight, the door was answered immediately by a well-mannered butler. He accepted his card, hat, and cloak, then admitted him promptly with a gesture toward the parlor. Voss had suspected that after last night, Corvindale would have left strict orders that Voss not be received, and he’d anticipated having to bluff or barrel his way in.
Mildly disappointed, he stepped through the parlor door and realized immediately why Corvindale had apparently not seen fit to do so.
“Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst,” announced the butler.
No fewer than a dozen faces turned and looked over at him, shock blazoning on all of them. Two were the lovely countenances of the sisters Woodmore—but the vast majority of the others were male.
Of course. Voss was so infrequently out during the daylight, and certainly not familiar with current London Society, he’d forgotten about the rigid practice of afternoon calls.
“My lord, what an honor for you to join us,” said Angelica, who seemed to be wedged between two pansy-faced, juvenile-countenanced gentlemen on the settee. She appeared both surprised and delighted by his presence.
