The Vampire Dimitri

3 In Which The Knave Of Diamonds Has An Exceedingly Unpleasant Experience

Dimitri couldn’t breathe.

The sudden surge of blood, pounding and insistent, filling his vision, stunned him.

The force of need, of a long-renounced instinct, suddenly burst free. His fingers trembled, his fangs threatened to shoot forth, bulging inside his swelling gums. He had to lower his eyelids to hide the hungry red glow lest Miss Woodmore see.

Foolish, damned, stupid, mad bastard.

What in Luce’s hell had he been thinking, taking a woman like her away into a dark corner? Especially a woman who riled up his ire as easily as his frustration?

But he had no more thoughts; they scattered like a shattered goblet as her gloved hand rested against the ruby-colored glass pin adorning his neckcloth. Taller somehow, she lifted her face the fraction that she needed to, putting herself there. Right there. A breath away.

Saliva pooled in his mouth. His skin flushed beneath his mask. It had been so long since he’d wanted to kiss a woman. He tried to fight it away, but the Mark on his back raged and burned hotter, reminding him of how he’d denied himself unnecessarily. Her lips beckoned, plump and pink, and he wanted to see if they tasted as sweet and lush as they looked. The searing heat blazed even stronger now that Lucifer felt him wavering, and it radiated down Dimitri’s back and through his limbs.

Embattled by pain, overwhelmed by desire and long-denied need, he couldn’t keep himself from bending to her, covering her lips.

She surrounded him: her spicy, sweet scent, her confident demeanor, her small hands, the pool of her sparkling gown. Her mouth…that entity that alternately exasperated and teased him, with its top lip that was just a bit fuller than the bottom…softened beneath his, fit to his lips, and gently brushed across his to one side. Her mouth was warm and lush, and she left a little wake of prickling, a dusting of pleasure on his sensitive mouth…and then she lifted away.

He went back for more, no longer fully master of himself. He found her lips again and took a longer, deeper drink from her taunting mouth. She made a soft, delicious moan that sent a new blaze of desire shuttling through his belly, her lips moving desperately against his. The world was red and hot, and the scent of her floral spice filled Dimitri’s consciousness.

Perhaps it was this—the recognition of the tantalizing scent, its familiarity and corresponding forbiddance—that enabled him to grasp the last wisp of control and drag himself away. God and the Fates, not her.

Not anyone, but most of all, not her.

Fingers tightening into each other, gouging through the gloves into his palms, he stepped back, his heart pounding in his ears, his breathing much too loud. His fangs were out of control and fighting to be free, and he had to turn away, closing his eyes to hide the proof of the demon he was.

His ruthless control regained—albeit tenuously—he cleared his senses of the heat and sweetness he’d tasted, swallowed hard. Tried not to breathe too deeply, for fear that scenting her would make it begin all over.

And the crack that had begun to form in his ordered world he snapped viciously together.

Terrified by what she might see in his eyes when he opened them, Dimitri was weak with relief when he saw that she had turned slightly away. Looking down, he noticed her hand still somehow settled on his chest. She seemed to be wavering through her own battle for control.

Or, more likely, stability.

Dimitri wasn’t certain whether he ought to curse the champagne punch that she’d indulged in, or to be grateful for its intoxicating properties.

“And so that makes five,” he said, relieved that his voice was cool and steady. Emotionless. He barely remembered to keep it low, to a mere murmur, to further obscure his identity. Fate protect me from that at least. “I wonder if, at the next masque, you might attempt to make it an even half dozen pairs of lips to taste?”

At that, she looked up at him and he nearly went for her again. Her lips were swollen and glistening, half-parted with surprise beneath the curve of her mask. He blinked, drew in a breath and focused on the roaring pain blazing over the back of his shoulder. A satisfying reminder that he was, despite it all, still in control.

And still in defiance of the devil’s will.

Then in an instant her lips allowed a smile to flicker over them and she surprised him yet again when she replied, “No, my lord knave. I think it might be prudent to stop at five.”

“Indeed?” He had to offer her his arm in order to get her back to the dance, away from the temptation of this secluded alcove, and the mere thought of what had just transpired.

He had some blood whiskey in the coach. That would help steady him, dull the awakened need. Later, he could stir up some trouble in the depths of Vauxhall. He’d had a very satisfactory brawl in St. Giles the night after the Lundhames’ ball, where he’d tossed five blackhearts into the River after they’d tried to stick him with a knife and relieve him of his purse. Never say he wasn’t doing his part to clean up the thieves of London.

“Yes, I do believe I shall stop at five,” she replied as they walked along. She wasn’t weaving like she had been earlier.

“’Tis a shame that my fi—my husband’s kisses were never quite so…potent. Perhaps it’s best if I keep this memory as my last random tasting.”

Dimitri kept his mind blank, refusing to allow himself to absorb her words and the variety of implications therein. He didn’t even need the reminder that she was betrothed. That fact simply didn’t enter into the equation of his base stupidity; his actions had nothing to do with Miss Maia Woodmore in particular.

It could be any woman who tempted him thus, for he rarely indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. And even then, it was brief and impersonal. No kissing was ever involved.

“Very well, then,” he replied, “Hatshepsut. And here we are, back to the party. I release you to your dances and your subjects, knowing that there is no longer a chance that you might be coerced into sampling the kiss of a highwayman or Romeo or some other character.”

And then, suddenly eager to be far away from the shimmery golden gown and its well-kissed occupant, Dimitri released her arm and slipped into the edge of the crowd, already tasting the blood and alcohol to come, the energy bounding beneath his skin.

Maia watched the knave ease into the crowded ballroom, both relieved and disappointed by his flight. Her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand, and her lips felt as though they were twice their size.

They still tingled when she slipped the tip of her tongue over them, and she felt a shaft of tingling heat when she re-imagined the kiss.

How could I have been so foolish? What is wrong with me?

But she already knew the answer, and once again, Maia was blessedly grateful for the mask that obliterated most of her features, and the other aspects of her disguise. The drink, along with the heady knowledge that no one could know who she was, had turned her into the same sort of capricious young woman who’d nearly gotten herself ruined three years ago.

Thank God that He, or Fate, or something, had intervened and brought Corvindale onto the scene before she’d made a foolish mistake with Mr. William Virgil. Only, she wished even more fervently now that it had been anyone but her new guardian who’d saved her. The details of that night were so very vague and foggy, but one thing she did recall with absolute clarity was the earl’s furious, dark eyes.

But that was three years ago…what was wrong with her tonight?

Hadn’t she learned her lesson?

Yet, while she knew part of the reason for her capriciousness was due to perhaps too much champagne punch, there was the fact that she’d been so rigid, so perfectly proper and in control for these past years that it was no wonder it had fizzled behind her cloak of anonymity tonight. If Angelica had any idea what really went on in her thoughts… She hoped that Angelica had had enough sense not to sample the fizzy punch, as well.

Wishing she could take off her mask to relieve the warmth, Maia strolled along the edge of the room in the opposite direction of the knave. She didn’t want to dance again—she wasn’t certain she trusted herself—and did her best to stay out of sight of anyone who might accost her for his partner.

The only person she should want to dance with right now was Alexander—and he was far away. And he’d been gone for so long. She ought to focus on his kisses, and where his warm hands had gone, slipping along the bodice of her gown during one of their late-afternoon rides.

And so that was what she did. Centered her thoughts on that. She would not worry about whether he’d forgotten her—and their interludes in the closed carriage. Or whether he’d changed his mind.

And she certainly would not remember the way the knave’s simple kiss had made her whole body hot and alive. Weak and trembly.

The sight of Angelica with a man wearing a curious square-shaped hat was a welcome distraction, for her sisterly annoyance sprang back to the forefront. Unlike most every one else, the lower half of his face was masked and he looked like some sort of Far Eastern brigand, like one that might have attacked the Crusaders.

Angelica was waltzing, Maia noted, pressing her lips together and resisting the urge to stalk out there and drag her off the floor. That would just draw attention and recognition to both of them. Which, if Angelica was paying any attention to her elder sister’s eagle eye, she would know—and would use to her advantage.

Maia would have a word with her later. Just because Chas wasn’t around to ride herd on them didn’t mean her sister could be so careless. Wondering where Aunt Iliana was, Maia scanned the room and noticed an angel across the way.

The angel looked as if she was having difficulty with her celestial wings, and a quick glance showed still no sign of their chaperone, so Maia tsked and started over to help Mirabella.

“Oh, thank goodness,” the young girl said when she saw Maia. “I’ve lost one of my wings, and the back of my gown caught upon the staff of a shepherd I was dancing with, and I believe it’s been torn.”

Maia only needed a quick glance to see that repair was definitely needed. Delighted with an excuse to leave the ball, as well as yet another distraction from all of her other worries, she took Mirabella’s arm and led her toward the sweeping staircase that led to the third floor of the Sterlinghouse residence. Up there, they would find a tiring room, or at least a private place to set Mirabella to rights.

As they reached the first landing of the stairs, Maia noticed a group of four men, dressed all in black, properly masked, entering through the front door. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” announced the butler as the quartet moved into the foyer.

She paused for a moment, that uncomfortable prickle of intuition lifting the hair on her arms, and looked down at them. There was something about the four she didn’t like. Something off.

They walked into the foyer as if they knew where they were going—with purpose and speed, and without pausing to greet anyone. Suddenly nervous and not certain why—but she never ignored her instincts—she gripped Mirabella’s arm, silently directing her to climb the stairs more quickly. They were already mostly out of sight from below due to a curve in the staircase, but for some reason, Maia felt compelled to get away before one of them chanced to look up.

Once at the third floor, she felt marginally less unsettled and wondered at her odd reaction to the men. Perhaps it had simply been the fact that their costumes had seemed so men acing. Mirabella hadn’t noticed her haste, and Maia wasn’t about to mention it. Instead she peeked inside one of the rooms, knowing from her previous visits that the Sterlinghouses had several parlors and a library on this stretch of the corridor, and that the ladies’ tiring room was near the end.

The room was empty and a full moon shone through French doors, casting silvery light over several chairs and a table with a decidedly masculine feel. Not one of the ladies’ parlors, but it would do for a moment for her to see to Mirabella’s gown.

Maia didn’t expend much energy trying to find a lamp, for there was one on the desk, turned to a bare glow. She turned it up and was just kneeling behind the angel to see to the back of her gown when the door behind them burst open.

Muffling a shriek of surprise, she bolted to her feet, tangled in the frothy fabric of her gown, and went down in a heap.

When she opened her eyes, a dark figure in a white shirt loomed over her and for a moment she thought it was one of the eerie men who’d caught her attention. But at the same time as she recognized her new guardian’s features, Mirabella exclaimed, “Corvindale!”

“You,” Maia muttered as the earl literally yanked her to her feet, disregarding the fragility of her gown. “What do you mean by—”

But she never finished, for the next thing she knew, strong arms swooped around her and he lifted her bodily from the ground.

Maia was so shocked and horrified that at first she couldn’t speak. She struggled, trying to pull free, and heard Corvindale snap a command at his sister, “Outside. Now, Bella.”

“Put me—” she started, but her own direction was cut off along with her breath when he did just that, fairly tossing her onto one of the chairs. She drew in a furious gasp to lash into him, but suddenly a heavy, dark cloth wafted down over her.

Confused, incensed and more than a little frightened at this sudden, un-earlish wildness, Maia kicked and struggled as he wrapped the covering closely around her. It had the effect of muffling her shouts and dulling her kicking and hitting, and when he tucked it tightly around her, tying it with something she could only imagine was a curtain cord, she began to lose her breath under the thick cloth.

He’s mad! The Earl of Corvindale is mad!

He lifted her again and carried her somewhere…outside. She felt the subtle change in the air through the fabric, and remembered him ordering his sister outside. Through the French doors, onto the balcony, she guessed, based on the short distance. He deposited her none too gently onto some hard surface, and she heard more short, sharp commands to Mirabella.

“Keep her quiet. Stay here behind this planter until Iliana or I come for you. Both of you.” This last was loud enough for her to hear clearly, and she understood that it was intended that way.

She strained her ears, and although she couldn’t hear footsteps, she did distinguish the soft click of what had to be the French doors, closing behind him.

“Are you all right, Maia?”

The soft voice was close, and she felt a little nudge as Mirabella knelt next to her. “Get me out of here,” she snarled, and then inhaled a bit of lint and began to cough inside what must be curtains. Providence knew when the fabric had last been beaten.

“Corvindale said to stay here,” Mirabella said. “I think something’s wrong in there, Maia.”

Gritting her teeth to keep from coughing and launching into an obviously vain tirade, Maia closed her eyes. The chit was so cowed by her brother that not only did she not even call him by his Christian name, but she also blindly followed his every order. “I can’t breathe,” she managed to say, although it wasn’t strictly true. Now that she wasn’t struggling so much, she found that air did make its way through the fabric.

“I’ll try to loosen it,” Mirabella said, and Maia felt her beginning to tug at the fabric. But then she stopped abruptly. “Oh!” Her voice was a shocked whisper. “Someone—no, two men—just came into the— Oh!”

“What is it?”

“They’re fighting. In the room. There are two of them attacking—”

“Who is?” Maia demanded, stilling for a moment, straining to hear.

“My heavens.” Mirabella made an odd sound. “They have burning eyes. Red eyes. And they’re attacking the earl!”

Red eyes?

A chill rushed over her. Red eyes? She’d heard about people with red eyes. Demons, and the vampirs of legend. But of course such creatures didn’t exist, despite how real the stories might seem. “It must be part of the masquerade,” she whispered back, trying not to think about the four men in black. “Somehow they have reflective pieces that make their eyes glow.”

But even as she spoke, she remembered Granny Grapes spinning her tales of horror and suspense. She’d made it sound as if vampirs actually existed, and even that she’d encountered them. They were dark, powerful men who’d sold their soul to the devil in exchange for immortality and other superhuman abilities.

They could be killed by a wooden stake to the heart. She remembered that part of the legend because Chas had been unaccountably fascinated, as boys tended to be, by the possibility of blood and violence. He had pressed Granny Grapes over and over for stories about the hunting of the humanlike immortals, counting among his heroes a vampir slayer named Andreas.

The vampirs were sensitive to sunlight, too, and drank blood to live. Human blood.

Maia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was because she remembered the last vestiges of a dream she’d had the night before. A dream that she’d tried to submerge, because it had been dark and hot and red. And there’d been a vampir in it, with his gleaming eyes that scored into her like fire…and his sleek fangs.

The dream had left her breathless and sweaty, her heart racing, and with a sort of expectant throbbing through her body. Even now, remembering the essence of it made her skin flush with heat.

“They’re attacking him!” Mirabella said again, her voice still low. “Two of them. They’re so…fast. Corvindale’s thrown one across the room, but the other is on top of him—”

“Two of them? Do they have guns or weapons?”

“They’re fighting with their hands and—kicking, and throwing things. It’s…amazing,” she whispered. “My brother…he’s so fast, they’re all so fast…but he’s… I can hardly see him move. And…he just lifted that big desk and threw it at one of them,” she said. Her voice was half shocked, half terrified. “Oh! He punched one, and oh! Oh, dear! Oh. There. He’s back up and slammed the other one into the wall, and then he flipped over a sofa and landed on his feet—”

“Who?” Maia demanded again.

“The earl. He’s fighting them off. Both of them. He’s—but he’s bleeding…and there goes a chair on the head and oh!”

The next thing Maia knew, the girl was dragging, or pushing and pulling, her somewhere. “We’ve got to hide. Behind this…potted tree,” she managed, breathless with effort. “They might see us!”

But by then, Mirabella had ceased to pull and tug at her bound body, and Maia got the impression she was no longer near her. Where did she go? Surely she hadn’t left her here alone, bound up like a loaf of bread?

And then…Angelica! Fear seized her, and with a flood of panic she remembered the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the malevolent aura about them. Now she began to struggle anew, but Corvindale had been much too efficient with the curtain cord. She couldn’t loosen it, and Mirabella didn’t seem to be inclined to do much to assist.

“Mirabella?” she said, a bit more loudly now.

A shifting in the air, and then the presence of someone next to her indicated the younger woman’s return. Maia felt her bump against her in haste. “It’s Corvindale! A third man came in, and then something happened—he just stopped. Corvindale just…stopped. He’s down on the ground, or dead, or something!”

“Did they shoot him?” Maia demanded. “Do you see a lot of blood?”

“I didn’t see anything, and surely I would have heard a gunshot.”

“Let me out of here,” Maia said, struggling harder. She had to see. She had to find a way to take care of this. The earl couldn’t be dead. “Do you see any blood?”

“He’s looking around the room—there’s only one man now,” Mirabella hissed, her mouth close to the spot she must assume was Maia’s head, but was really her shoulder. “Another one came in. He just kicked my brother…and he didn’t move. Oh, dear God, I hope he isn’t dead!”

“Unwrap me!” Maia said. Torn between disbelief that the implacable earl could actually be prone—not to mention that he’d allowed himself to be kicked—and the terror of what could be happening to Angelica, she found herself flopping about like a netted fish. Were there really vampirs here?

“No, I’d better not. Not until—oh, the man left. He’s gone. I’m going to wait a minute to make sure he’s gone for good. Then I’ll sneak in and see to the earl.”

Mirabella moved and Maia heard her shifting away, and then, after a long moment, the soft rattle of the French doors. And then a marginally louder rattle, and the gentle bump as Mirabella came back.

“Someone else came in! He nearly saw me. I don’t know who he is, but I thought I should—”

“What about Corvindale? Did you see blood? Did you get in there?”

“He’s not moving, but his eyes seem to be open. And his shirt is all torn, and there is a necklace of rubies across his neck that he wasn’t wearing earlier. It’s very peculiar. But I didn’t get close enough because the door opened and I ran back outside.”

Maia could hear the distress in her friend’s voice, and she supposed she couldn’t blame the girl for running after the door opened again. But how could she have left her brother there? Maia would never have—

Mirabella gasped. “The man is taking the necklace of rubies! Is he a thief—oh! Corvindale!”

And then the sound of the French doors crashing open and heavy footsteps had Maia tensing.

“Are you hurt?” Mirabella was asking, and then suddenly Maia was being scooped up and untangled from her bindings. Unfortunately she recognized the strong, efficient handling of Corvindale as he toted her away once more.

By the time the fabric fell away from her face, and she saw that the earl was, apparently, no worse for wear, he’d deposited her on the floor in the very same room she’d been in some time earlier. It was in shambles.

“Angelica!” was the first thing that came out of her mouth, just as she noticed Lord Dewhurst leaving the chamber. He was carrying a necklace of rubies.

The curtains had fallen in a thick heap around her feet, tangling with her high shoes and the multitude of folds from her gown. She tried to kick it away, frantic to get to her sister, but Corvindale stopped her with a strong grip around her arm. “Take your hands off me,” she snapped. “I have to find Angelica.”

Ignoring her, Corvindale lifted her from the pile of fabric as the door closed behind Dewhurst, and she noticed that his shirt was indeed torn, sagging over his uncovered shoulder, leaving his muscular arms bare. “Dewhurst will see to her,” the earl said.

“Dewhurst?” Maia said, staring at the door. And wasn’t the viscount supposed to be in Romania? “With my sister?”

“I’ll deal with him later,” Corvindale said grimly, grasping her by the arm and towing her toward the door. “Iliana’s waiting in the carriage. You’ve got to get out of here,” he said, and gestured sharply for Mirabella to follow.

“I’m not leaving without my sister,” Maia said, digging in her heels.

The earl’s response was simple, and it infuriated her further: he picked her up bodily and carried her out of the room and down the hall to the servants’ stairs.

The next thing she knew, Maia was shoved into a carriage along with Mirabella and their chaperone. No fewer than three footmen were to accompany them, which gave her a modicum of security. The door closed and clicked locked before she could speak, and the coach started off with a violent lurch.

She could barely catch her breath, she was so incensed. But before she could gather her thoughts to speak, she looked over at her two companions. Mirabella’s eyes were wide in her fair face, her fiery-red hair hanging in straggles around her cheekbones, her red lips parted.

But Aunt Iliana had a more composed, but intense, expression on her face. And for the first time, Maia noticed that the woman was holding a sharp wooden stake.

Maia had just finished opening the parlor drapes at Blackmont Hall again—for someone kept closing them and keeping the rooms so dark and dreary—when she heard the front entrance open. Her heart leaped, and she rushed to the parlor door to see if it was Angelica returning at last. But the low, sharp tones as the new arrival spoke to his butler indicated that it was the earl who had come home.

Determined to at least have some answers from him, she flew from the parlor and met him in the hall.

“Lord Corvindale,” she said, positioning herself in the center of the passageway so that he couldn’t walk to his study—where it appeared he was headed—without brushing past her.

“What is it, Miss Woodmore?” he demanded. His voice was flat and hard, and belied the disheveled, weary man in front of her. He’d either come home and changed into a new shirt (although she was certain he hadn’t been in the house since she returned from the masquerade last night; for she’d been waiting to accost him), or had somehow acquired a different one, for this shirt, though wrinkled and loose, seemed relatively pristine as compared to the one in shreds last night.

But his features were etched even more sharply than usual. His heavy dark brows lowered in a scowl, his mouth in a flat line, his thick, dark hair springing in erratic waves from his head and around his neck. He was well overdue for a shave, as well, she noted with a sniff. His coat was smudged with dirt and his hands were ungloved and one had a line of dried blood on the back of it.

Although Maia had filled her sleepless night by attempting to rest, then read, and then later when neither served to ease her mind, to bathe away the lingering bit of lint and dust from the curtains in which she’d been wrapped, she felt very little sympathy for the man in front of her…despite the fact that he seemed exhausted. Tension emanated from him like heat radiating from a fire, but Maia didn’t care. She needed answers, she needed to prepare, to take care of things and to address this situation—and she’d waited much too long for him. Aunt Iliana, who seemed to know much more than she let on, had merely assured her that they’d received word that Angelica was safe and that Dewhurst would be returning her shortly.

But the big question was: safe from what?

From the vampirs?

“It’s nearly four o’clock, Corvindale. I would like you to tell me precisely where Angelica is,” she demanded of him in return. “And when she is going to arrive here. But most of all, I require assurance that she is safe.”

His eyes flashed darkly. “Your sister will arrive here at Blackmont Hall when I am convinced it is safe for her to do so.” He made a clear gesture of dismissal. “Is that all?”

She drew in her breath and gave him an icy glare. “No, it is not. In fact, I wished to speak with you in regard to your conduct last evening.”

“My conduct?” Ice fairly formed in the air around his words.

Perhaps he assumed that the very tone of his livid, affronted voice would make her turn tail and run, but he was very wrong. “Not only was it abhorrent and crude, but you didn’t even take the moment to explain or apologize before shoving Mirabella and myself into a carriage and sending us off.”

“Indeed.”

“There was simply no reason for you to put your hands on me—” to her mortification, her voice dipped a bit with fury “—and toss me out onto the balcony like some sort of—”

Corvindale fixed her with icy black eyes. “In fact, I had sufficient reason for doing so. The least of which was the fact that you would not have obeyed me.”

“If you had simply explained—”

“There was no time for explanations, even if I had believed you might have heeded them, Miss Woodmore. You would have ignored them just as you have everything else since arriving here, including keeping the windows in this house shrouded, my library in order and my preference not to be bothered.”

Maia held her ground, despite the fact that his voice had risen enough that a nearby vase rattled on its glass tray. So he had noticed she’d been looking through his library…and doing a bit of organizing. Had he seen that she’d arranged his many copies of the Faustian legend by language and date?

“If you had simply explained that we were in danger and there was no time for discussion, I would have heeded your warning.” She drew in a breath and managed to count to three before continuing. “In addition to an apology, I believe it isn’t asking overly much to request an explanation for what happened last evening. I understand now that Angelica and I were in danger, but I would like to know why and from whom or what. And how it happened that you arrived in time to prevent whatever the outcome might have been…regardless of the clumsy manner in which you executed it.”

“Clumsy manner?” he repeated.

She pinned him with her eyes and made an impatient gesture. Why would he not give her a straight answer? “You pushed me out onto the balcony, wrapped up in curtains. Can you not give me the courtesy of telling me why?”

“Because there were some very bad men who want to take you away and I needed to ensure that you didn’t reveal yourself to them. That is why your blasted brother snared me into being your guardian. Because he knew there was no one else who could keep you safe.”

Very bad men? It was all she could do not to roll her eyes in frustration. “Please, my lord, you sound like a character in one of those Gothic novels by Mrs. Radcliffe, making all sorts of Byzantine comments and cryptic warnings. If you would cease these ambiguous statements and simply tell me what is happening—”

“What then? You would accept my explanations and my orders without question?”

Was the man mad? “Certainly not. But at least you wouldn’t feel the necessity to wrap me up and throw me onto the balcony.”

Corvindale crossed his arms over his sagging, stained waistcoat and glared down at her. “The truth is, Miss Woodmore, your brother has gotten himself into serious danger with a society of ruthless men. By disappearing with the sister of one of them, he has not only put himself in a most injurious position, but also you and your sisters—for they would like nothing better than to use one or any of you to get to Chas.”

Oh, Chas! Maia swallowed, trying to keep the panic away. “Then they are after us as hostages? Ransom?” So the men weren’t vampirs. Or were they? She shook her head. She was mad to even consider the possibility that vampirs could actually exist.

She spoke aloud, working through her thoughts as if he weren’t even there. “But then that must mean Chas is still alive and hidden somewhere if they are trying to abduct us. He must still be alive. And safe.” Relief bounded through her.

“Your brother is very cunning and able, and you are likely correct. I’m confident he can take care of himself. But you and your sister must not leave this house or see anyone with out my permission. You are completely safe whilst in my custody, but Cezar Moldavi is not only ruthless but also reasonably intelligent. And your brother has betrayed him in a most egregious manner. He will not give up easily.”

“Cezar Moldavi?” Maia froze. She’d heard that name. She was certain of it. But where? Perhaps Chas…

“You recognize that name, then?”

“I’m familiar with it but I have never met the man, like yourself. I mean to say, now that I’ve met you—”

Dimitri shifted, his impatience clear. “Yes, yes, Miss Wood more. Please refrain from stating the obvious. Now, I am expecting Mr. Cale any moment now. What other items must you drag forth and force me to ponder?”

“You still have not tendered an apology,” she said clearly, not about to be brushed off. Really. The man had some sort of nerve. “I have never been handled so—”

“Miss Woodmore,” the blasted man interrupted again, “do you mean to say that should a man push you from the path of an oncoming carriage he should bow and scrape at your feet in apology for mussing your skirts? Or should he ask permission first, before doing so?”

It was all she could do to keep from stamping her foot. Was the man that obtuse? “Well, I do believe—” She stopped herself this time. He was not worth the effort of getting riled up. One attracts more bees with honey than vinegar. Although she didn’t think either would appease the dratted individual in front of her. He simply disliked everyone.

Nevertheless, taking a deep breath, she spoke again, keeping her tones dulcet with effort, speaking to him as if he were a young child. “I did not realize we were in some sort of danger. You made no effort to impress that fact upon me—a fact which you obviously well knew. Perhaps in the future, Lord Corvindale, you might be a bit more forthcoming. Particularly about things that apply to me and my sisters.”

“Perhaps.”

Incensed by his insouciant remark, clearly meant only to shut her up, she stepped forward and was rewarded when he actually seemed to rear back a bit. Good. The wrath of a woman is not to be underestimated. “There is one more thing, my lord. I require your assurances that my sister’s reputation will be intact when she is returned here to your custody—or that you will take the appropriate steps to correct any problems thereof.” The last thing any of them needed was a scandal attached to Angelica. That would ruin any chance she had of making a match with Harrington—or any other well-respected gentleman.

“You have my assurances that I will do my utmost to protect your sister’s reputation, Miss Woodmore,” he replied stiffly. “No one—other than perhaps yourself and Chas—is more concerned about it than I am. But you haven’t any reason to worry. She is safe from Moldavi and in unblemished company.”

Maia’s eyes narrowed. He’s not telling me something. She was certain of it. He was obfuscating, drat the man. But before she could press him further, there were footsteps and voices in the foyer.

“My lord,” said the butler as he appeared. “Mr. Giordan Cale has arrived.”

Maia hardly glanced at Mr. Cale as he strode down the hall toward the earl. She had the impression of a well-dressed, handsome man with a haggard, taut expression.

“Dimitri,” he said to the earl. And then he turned to Maia. “Miss Woodmore.” He gave a quick bow as she curtsied, getting a better look at him. He was very handsome, with strong features like a Roman god and tight, curling chestnut hair. He looked just like Michelangelo’s statue of David, except, of course, that she couldn’t accurately compare the statue to this man’s physique.

Corvindale frowned. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said dismissively to Maia. Then he looked at Cale and gestured down the corridor. “My study.”

“There was no time to give the lengthy explanation she would have required—let alone convince Miss Woodmore of its veracity. It was necessary to take matters into my own hands,” Dimitri said moments later in his study.

He found himself more than a bit annoyed that he felt compelled to explain, even to the man he considered his closest friend. Not to mention the fact that he was beyond furious that Belial’s men had caught him by surprise with the rubies. The other two had been no match for him, and Dimitri had been about to use the stake he had beneath his waistcoat when Belial himself burst into the chamber carrying that ruby necklace.

He didn’t know how they’d known of his Asthenia for rubies. No one had known except Cale—though he’d die before revealing it. Meg had known, but she was long dead by a stake to the heart. Although Voss had tried valiantly to find out that night in Vienna, he hadn’t succeeded until last night when he’d discovered Dimitri with the necklace draped across his skin.

Dimitri’s neck still burned where the gems had blazed into his skin, and although he was satisfied that he’d moved quickly enough to hide Mirabella and his ward, things had very nearly gone wrong. A fact which the latter seemed unwilling or unable to comprehend. “Miss Woodmore has been rather vocal in expressing her annoyance with my choice of tactics,” he continued.

Cale wasn’t completely successful in hiding the amusement in eyes that were nevertheless laced with tension. “She didn’t sound terribly pleased with the event,” he agreed. “I heard quite a bit of your exchange.”

Damnable vampire hearing. “Miss Woodmore would argue with the devil if he claimed he were from hell,” he said, pouring them each a healthy shot of his best brandy—this time, without blood.

His head was a bit soft from last night’s overindulgence of blood whiskey between the interlude with Hatshepsut and the attack by Cezar Moldavi’s men. Naturally he’d only interfered to keep Miss Woodmore from waltzing with that court jester because it had been his duty as her guardian, but it had led to an unnecessary detour in that shadowy alcove—not to mention a distraction that had put him off guard. And just as naturally, Dimitri hadn’t given their brief kiss more than a passing thought, but, still, that delay had caused him to be a bit too slow in realizing the vampires had arrived.

Which was another reason he was in no mood to placate Miss Woodmore.

He’d rushed through the house, looking for his wards and his sister so as to get them to safety, and had barely done so when Belial’s associates had attacked him. Fortunately their absence made it appear that Dimitri was searching for the girls as well, thereby misleading the vampires before Belial flung the ruby necklace at him.

“They gained admittance to the party?” Cale asked.

“There were five of them, all makes, including Belial,” Dimitri replied.

Makes were vampires who’d been “made” or sired by another Dracule. While enjoying the same characteristics as the original Draculia members—ones like Dimitri, Cale and Voss, who were invited into the brotherhood by Lucifer himself—these made vampires were less powerful and more susceptible to weakness.

Sired vampires could also make their own minions, but the further down the chain of evolution, so to speak, the less powerful and slower they were. Each of them acquired not only their own Asthenia upon awakening after being made, but they also inherited any weakness of their sire, and his or her sire, and so on.

“Moldavi acted more quickly in sending his men here than I’d anticipated, but it could have been worse if Iliana and I hadn’t been at the masquerade. She managed to alert me to their arrival, and staked one who apparently attempted to attack Angelica in the garden. And Dewhurst—er, Voss.

He’s taken to using his title again.”

“And now Voss has absconded with the younger one? Angelica?”

Dimitri submerged the bubble of rage at the thought of Voss seducing his way beneath the skirts of Chas Woodmore’s sister while she was on Dimitri’s watch. Certainly Voss would have his own reasons for choosing her in particular, but knowing that it would infuriate Dimitri was justicing on the bastard’s cake.

If he didn’t get to Voss first, Woodmore would do it—and shove a stake into his heart without hesitation. Good riddance, but Dimitri would rather have the honor himself if Angelica was ruined while he was responsible for her. Even though he didn’t hold Voss directly liable for Lerina’s death in Vienna, the tangled web of the other man’s games and manipulations had certainly set that path in motion. Since that night, Dimitri had been more than receptive to a reason for ridding the earth of the man’s presence.

“Voss has sent word that he’ll return her when he’s certain I can assure him of her safety, but of course he has some other reason for abducting her.”

“Of course he does. It’s Voss we’re speaking of. The man can’t keep his cock or his fangs put away,” Cale replied. “But he isn’t about to let Moldavi get to her any more than we are. So she’s safe—after a fashion.”

Unfortunately Cale was correct. Voss would keep Angelica for his own purposes, and then drop her as if she were a hot coal when he was finished. Dimitri doubted even the threat of Chas Woodmore and his ash stake would cow Voss. “Which is precisely the reason I’ve told Miss Woodmore that all is under control.”

“Three deaths last night at the hands—or should I say fangs—of Belial and his men?” Cale asked. “Or were there more?”

“Three in total. Iliana got one in the garden, and Voss witnessed two in the ballroom while I was attending to Miss Woodmore and Mirabella. He claims there would have been further carnage if he hadn’t intervened.” Dimitri was inclined to believe him, much as he hated to give the man credit for anything productive. “Although, of course, he didn’t lift a stake to any of them.”

“No, he wouldn’t. They were after the Woodmore girls without a doubt?”

“Of course. Now that Chas has run off with Narcise.” As he spoke, Dimitri watched Cale without appearing to do so. He wasn’t surprised when his friend’s face tightened almost imperceptibly, confirming his suspicion that Giordan Cale still had that unhealthy attachment to Narcise Moldavi.

The question that Cale was likely asking, just as Dimitri was, was whether Chas had abducted Narcise against her will, or whether they had eloped. Either was possible, although the irony of a vampire hunter eloping with a vampire made the latter choice rather fascinating.

“Naturally I spent the rest of the night doing the usual to hide the evidence of their visit,” Dimitri explained.

“I’ll give you some assistance today if you still need to close some holes,” Giordan offered. Dimitri nodded in acceptance, for despite his initiatives since the tragedy, there was still more to do.

Last night’s strategy had included a few stories told about masquerade skits gone awry, a selection of his own rumor mongering, and a bit of memory altering at White’s, Bridge & Stokes, and other mens’ clubs afterward—all so that no one would know exactly what had happened to leave three people dead.

Their deaths were tragic enough—not to mention unnecessary—that the actual cause would only make the event even more horrific. That would only lead to the same sort of public outcry and uprising against the Dracule that had occurred in Cologne in 1755. Even more people would die if that happened—fools who thought they could actually hunt and kill the strong, fast immortals. There were few who could hope to take a vampire by surprise and best them in battle, and they had to be well-trained, thus Dimitri ensured that most members of his household staff were as well-equipped as mortals could be for an encounter with Dracule.

And in addition, Dimitri had long made it a practice to hire made vampires whose sires were dead for a variety of tasks, including acting as guardians and protectors of the Woodmore sisters. There were, despite the link to Lucifer, quite a number of Dracule who weren’t blindly driven by the need for violence and power and sought only pleasure and immortal life.

Dimitri’s scowl deepened and the familiar burn of disgust billowed in him. Vampires like Moldavi and Belial who routinely left a trail of violence and dead mortals in their paths repulsed him. Voss might be a creature concerned only with himself, but he didn’t have the lack of respect for mortals that Moldavi and his ilk did—leaving children bled dry and to die in the fields.

Moldavi particularly enjoyed the blood of young, virginal boys.

“Woodmore is here in England,” Cale said, surprising Dimitri. “He contacted me. The assumption is that he knows where Narcise is, but he didn’t say that in the correspondence I received. He was careful. No one else would even know it was from him.”

“Moldavi wants his sister back and he’ll do whatever he must to retrieve her—including coming out of his position licking the bollocks of Napoleon Bonaparte. Woodmore isn’t about to take the chance of being found. He’s too damn smart.”

“We’re meeting at the inn in Reither’s Closewell.”

Dimitri looked at his friend sharply, but Cale’s face was carefully blank. Too blank.

Chas Woodmore couldn’t know the history between Narcise and Cale if he was turning to the latter for assistance. Satan’s bloody bones. If Woodmore would have been a bit more patient and waited for Dimitri’s assistance on the mission to kill Moldavi, none of this mess would have happened.

“When you see him, tell Woodmore to get his arse back to London and see to his sisters. You can attend to Narcise,” he suggested.

“Over my damned dead soul,” Cale replied. “She’s Woodmore’s problem now.”