Which was, it seemed, how far the bonds of friendship extended.
Blackmont Hall—which was nearly as dreary and cold as its name and resident suggested—was surrounded by high, smooth, brick walls that were topped with sharp metal and wooden pikes and studded with gas lanterns. The two dozen lamps were lit every night and extinguished every dawn whether the earl was in residence or not. Aside from that structural barrier, Dimitri had an entire retinue of guards—both mortal and make—at his disposal, watching the sisters and the grounds.
If there was a place in London safe from Belial or unwanted guests, it was the Corvindale residence.
Giordan was well-known to the gatekeeper, and he was waved in after he removed the hat and cloak he’d donned against the ever-present drizzle. Crewston, the Blackmont butler, opened the front door and said, “His lordship is in his office with several persons. Including his young wards.” His tone indicated his disdain for the inclusion of the two Woodmore sisters in a meeting clearly meant for men only. “Apparently there was some sort ofeventthis evening.”
Handing his hat and cloak to the butler, Giordan stepped into the foyer and stilled.
Narcise.
It was with great effort that he didn’t pause in his strides, although he did slow and his movements turned jerky as he walked past Crewston down the corridor. His heart pounded, his blasted hands wanted to become damp, but by the Fates, he wouldn’t allow that. He swiped his palms on his trousers and kept walking.
Pausing outside the study door, which had been left slightly ajar in—he suspected—a show of empathy and warning for him by Dimitri, Giordan listened, waiting for an opportune moment to make his entrance. The earl had given him the advantage of surprise, and he was going to take full advantage of it.
Someone was speaking in tones threaded with distaste. “You must be Narcise Moldavi. The vampire.” He recognized the voice wafting through as that of Angelica Woodmore.
“I am.” Narcise’s voice was low and dusky as it always was, yet it carried a hint of annoyance. Giordan’s heart thumped uncomfortably and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, nearly missing the Woodmore sister’s response.
“Are you here so that we can welcome you to the family?” came Angelica’s reply.
Clearly, she wasn’t any more fond of the idea of Narcise and Woodmore being together than Giordan was.
Or, no, perhaps it wasn’t that the two of them were intimate that disturbed Giordan, when one came down to it. It was more the fact that she was here. He’d have to see her. He might even have to speak to her.
All the while pretending he didn’t want to kill her.
“In fact, mademoiselle, I’m here, endangering my person only because ofyou.” He heard the faint clink of a glass over Narcise’s voice. She sounded hard and unemotional. “When your brother learned that Voss had abducted you, he insisted on coming to London, despite the danger to me.”
Suddenly furious that Narcise would blame the young mortal for her own failings, Giordan opened the door. He stepped inside with smooth, controlled movements, his face expressionless. “You know very well you didn’t have to come to London with him. Don’t blame your own cowardice on the girl, Narcise.”
He couldn’t have planned for a better entrance. All eyes swung to him, but he was only looking toward one pair. They flashed with bald shock and a ripple of fear…and then into cold, emotionless sapphires.
Fear, oh,oui, it was there. And well it should be. If she had any concept how deeply he hated her…how much, even now, after his change, that he’d risk it to have revenge….
Oh, yes. A woman could indeed drive a man to do what was unimaginable. To do something he could hardly conceive. For love or, just as readily, for hate.
A little shudder of nausea rippled deep in his belly.
Narcise was standing near the liquor cabinet, dressed in masculine clothing. He could see that she’d been disguised as a man—and an elderly gent, if one accounted for the faint lines that had been drawn on her face to emphasize wrinkles and aging. Ironically, it was Giordan who’d taught her that trick during his clandestine visits to her. Smudges added to the gauntness of her face…a face that was still as beautiful and perfect as it had always been. A mask covering perfidy and fickleness.
She held a hat that, presumably, had just been removed in an exposure of her gender and identity.
Narcise didn’t respond to Giordan’s entrance other than to add a flash of fangs to her sneer as she tossed the hat onto a table. Sipping from a glass of whisky, she walked over to stand deliberately next to Woodmore.
But Giordan was no longer paying attention to her. He’d turned his back—although he was aware, of course, precisely where she was standing and how she’d moved. He forced his curling fingers to loosen as he looked at the other occupants in the chamber.
“Miss Woodmore, Angelica, meet my friend Mr. Giordan Cale.” Dimitri spoke, rising from his seat in the corner.
“Chas, what in heaven’s name is going on here?” Maia Woodmore demanded.
“I’ve been attempting to tell you,” Woodmore replied mildly. “And I will…if we aren’t going to have any further interruptions?” He glanced at Narcise, but it wasn’t a look of reproach as much as it was one of affection.
Ah, the damned fool loved her.
“You’re taking us home, Chas,” Maia said firmly, and at that moment, Giordan felt a bit of sympathy for Dimitri. This elder of the sisters was clearly as headstrong and stubborn as her brother—and not nearly as tactful. “Tomorrow.” It was more of a command than a question, or even a request.
Narcise shifted, and so did her lover. “I’m afraid that’s impossible right now,” Woodmore said.
