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 halfpast 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 meanactually 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 tohim,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.
