Was it possible sheknew? That she was standing there purposely in the sunshine?Had Corvindale—or perhaps her brother—told her how to protect herself from the likes of Voss?
Voss eyed her closely, not yet employing his thrall, but trying to read anything in her gaze that might indicate whether she knew precisely what she was doing. But there was nothing in her expression other than curious pleasure. That was a fact which warmed him considerably.
“My lord?” she asked again. “Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit…weary.” Her voice trailed off.
Voss straightened, annoyed. He was perfectly groomed and attired. He looked bloody tantalizing.
“How is your friend Lord Brickbank?” she continued, before he could respond.
And suddenly everything came rushing back to him: the images, the guilt and anger, the reason he was here. A heavy, dark ball settled in his belly.
“In fact,” Voss said, realizing to his shock that he needed to steady his voice, “he is not well at all. That’s the reason I wished to speak with you.”
Angelica’s face drained of color and her eyes widened. “My lord, no.” Her fingers curved around the back of a nearby chairas if to provide support, and he wondered briefly if she might faint.
“I’m afraid…yes.” His voice was curiously choked and Voss resorted to swallowing twice, hard, in order to continue. “He fell from a bridge last night and would have survived, I’m certain, if he had not impaled himself upon a piece of rotted dock.”
She’d lifted her free hand to her mouth, her eyes no longer almond shaped but nearly circular. “I am so sorry, my lord. Apparently even my warning couldn’t have prevented such an event.”
Voss shifted and tried to decide whether her comment was meant to stab him in the chest with reproach, or if she believed that her warning truly had been in vain. Unable to come to a conclusion, he opted to explain further. “The interesting thing, Miss Woodmore, is that my friend fell not from Blackfriars, but from Westminster. I confess, I didn’t fully disregard your warning. We avoided Blackfriars. You did name it as the bridge to be avoided, did you not?”
She moved, a little jolt of surprise, and nearly stepped out of her safe circle of sunlight. Not that it would have made a difference if she had, for Voss was feeling uncomfortably cold at the moment. “Indeed, you are correct. I saw Blackfriars in my dream. It’s impossible to mistake it, don’t you agree?”
He nodded.
“But what does that mean?” Her voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, and a range of expressions passed over her face: thoughtfulness, confusion, deep concern. “What can it mean?”
“It means, I believe,” came a deep voice from behind them, “that regardless of the irresponsibility of his companions, Brickbank was destined to die last night. And no precautions could have changed it.”
Luce’s dark soul.Was Voss never to be able to finish a conversation with the chit without being interrupted?
Voss didn’t bother with a dry, bored comment this time. He merely turned and lifted an eyebrow at Corvindale, who’d stepped into the doorway. The butler stood behind him, holding a hat and cane, obviously having just given the earl entry to the Woodmore home.
“Ah, Voss. What a surprise to see you again. So soon.” Corvindale bared his teeth in a definite non-smile. “I presume Miss Woodmore explained to you that today would be the last day she and her sisters were to receive callers here at Turnbull? I advised them of that earlier today, and they’re already in the process of moving to Blackmont Hall until such time as their brother returns.”
Bloody blasted hell.
“I cannot imagine they would find it very comfortable there,” Voss said. “Without a woman to see to things, I can only imagine the drafts, dust, and poor illumination they might find. Not to mention skeletons in the closet and?—”
“Mirabella,” Corvindale interrupted just as blandly, “arrived yesterday morning—along with my dowager Aunt Iliana—and has been preparing for the Woodmore sisters’ arrival. I sent for her immediately after you spoke with me at White’s.” He looked at Angelica. “My sister is in raptures at the thought of having companions her own age living under the roof.”
“And so you will be ushering not one, but three young women throughout Society this Season?” Voss made no attempt to hide his amusement. “Balls, fetes, the theater and, of course, Almack’s. Rides in St. James. Picnics in the country. Presentations at court. And, of course, shopping on Bond. Why, Dimitri, that will be such a departure from your normal, hermitish life. I do look forward to watching the entertainment.”
“I don’t believe you’ll be close enough to observe any of the details, Voss. I’ve just come from the apartments at White’s.”This time, Dimitri’s smile was genuine. “You’ve been chosen to see Brickbank’s body back to his home. In Romania.”
Maia knockeda second time on the door to the Earl of Corvindale’s study. While she waited for his response, she looked around the corridor, noticing the fine paintings and elegant statues in her temporary (she prayed) home.
They’d been ushered here more quickly than she could have thought possible, arriving early this morning after the visit by Lord Dewhurst yesterday afternoon. Corvindale hadn’t even allowed them to pack; their clothing and maids would be arriving later today. Apparently once he’d set his mind to things, they moved very quickly.
Blackmont Hall lived up to its name in some ways, for instead of being bathed in open-windowed light and filled with pintuck and lace pillows and frothy curtains like Turnbull was, the earl’s residence had more sober furnishings. The upholstery and wall coverings were of dark colors: midnight blue, charcoal, wine, forest. The decor was heavy and masculine and gave a sense that its owner preferred to keep his residence without a hint of a woman’s touch.
“Come,” came a very annoyed voice.
Maia pushed the door open and, drawing in a deep breath, stepped in.
Corvindale hadn’t bothered to look up. He was reading or studying some sort of massive ledger on his desk, and a pile of pens lay haphazardly next to him instead of in their cup. The ink blots dotting the cloth protecting the desk indicated that he habitually eschewed putting the pens in their holder. The inkwell next to him had a ring of dripped ink around it, as well asseveral other circles. A sheaf of papers sat neatly at the opposite corner of the desk, held in place by a smooth black stone. And there were books everywhere, on every surface, piled opened, unopened, faceup, facedown…even held to an open spot with another tome acting as a bookmark.
“No bloody need to knock twice,” he said in the same welcoming tone as he absently scratched his temple. “I heard you the first time. How—” He looked up at that moment and closed his mouth. “Miss Woodmore. I didn’t realize it was you.” He rested his pen down on the pile.
