The Vampire Voss

3 Wherein Our Hero Is Assigned A Most Inconvenient Task

Voss stared at himself in the mirror.

His eyes, rarely fully wide even on a happy night, were past half-mast. And bloodshot. Bleary.

Filled with disbelief and shock.

Impossible.

“How could I have been so bloody foolish?” he demanded of his reflection.

It was the same question he’d pummeled himself with for hours. But it was too late for questions and recriminations. Now he had to decide how to proceed.

After leaving the enticing Miss Woodmore—who’d teased him with her alternately dancing then earnest eyes, tantalized him with her long, graceful neck and beckoning scent—he, Eddersley and Brickbank had gone to Rubey’s.

It was either that or descend into a brawl with that bastard Corvindale. Tempting as it might have been, Voss was in no mood to have his shirt crinkled or his clothing torn.

Nor, suddenly, had he felt the urge to tease and coax the pink-frocked matron with whom he’d exchanged glances earlier. No. His need and fury had burrowed deep and fierce.

So he’d allowed his two companions to draw him away and they went to Rubey’s.

The original Rubey was long-dead, but her discreet establishment near Charing Cross remained. The current “Rubey”—certainly that wasn’t her real name—ran it with the same discriminating business sense as her predecessors. In all, Voss believed there had been more than a dozen Rubeys over the centuries, providing the members of the Draculia with a variety of pleasures of the flesh.

Dracule had discriminating tastes when it came to food, drink and pleasure, and Rubey’s catered to all of them. The current proprietress provided an establishment that offered women and men who found it titillating and arousing to be fed upon by vampires, along with other physical pleasures. The best drink, the best food—for even though the Dracule required lifeblood for sustenance, many of them had never lost their taste for the same food mortals consumed. Just as they drank brandy often laced with blood, or wine or ale, they could find pleasure in the texture, scent and taste of food, despite the fact that it provided no real nourishment. As with opium and drink, cooked food was a sensual pleasure but not a necessity.

Some of the most popular of Rubey’s women—or men— were ones who shared the taste for blood with a Dracule customer, sipping from a sliced vein and giving that unique pleasure in return as they copulated or did whatever the customer fancied.

Last night, Voss had partaken of a bottle of blood-red Bordeaux and then the very sleek, very accommodating limbs of three young women in a room thick with scented smoke designed to heighten the pleasure of all. They certainly seemed well pleased, indeed, when he was finished.

But he found himself unable to slake his lust; nor, surprisingly, was he all that interested in pursuing that conclusion. He considered engaging the only female Dracule that Rubey had on staff and having a rough, bloody time of it…but even that didn’t appeal to him.

Too messy, and then there would be unsightly marks all over his skin.

Things became slow and foggy when he had a goblet of Rubey’s special drink. Laced with opium and brandy, it had turned the rest of his night into a long, red, sensual blur.

Yet, despite that blur, he recalled mulling over the fact that Angelica Woodmore was not as young as she’d appeared—at least if one looked in her eyes. There, one most definitely saw not only bright intelligence, but also an innate…comprehension—he supposed was the best word—that was missing from most other women. And, to be honest, men.

And Voss had indeed been looking in her cocoa-brown eyes. He’d even tested out his thrall on her, allowing his irises to take on the faintest bit of a glow, an edge of his coaxing tug, in an attempt to draw her away from the party instead of to the dance floor. Just to see what her face would look like, caught up in that sensual moment. Perhaps to see if he could identify any part of her unforgettable scent.

She was young and inexperienced, and he wouldn’t need more than a little hint of his power to enthrall her.

But…it hadn’t worked. She’d seemed immune to the lure in his eyes.

To be sure, he hadn’t intended anything other than to ease her away for a moment. A mere moment, where they might have a chance to speak privately, without being—as they’d been—interrupted by Dimitri. Damn him.

Of course, Dimitri hadn’t believed Voss when he’d asserted he had merely been asking for a dance, and, now compelled to honesty by the reflection of his drawn, stubbled face, Voss could admit that, in the same position, he wouldn’t have believed himself, either.

Regardless of Voss’s intentions last evening, the fact remained that Angelica Woodmore hadn’t seemed affected by his compelling gaze. And that, perhaps more than anything else, was what had jammed such a burr up his arse at Rubey’s.

In the face of his—albeit gentle—onslaught of charm and glamouring, Miss Angelica Woodmore had simply turned and started off toward the dance floor, fairly towing him in her wake.

Now, Voss shifted away from the mirror and stripped off the mangled neckcloth he’d been wearing since leaving for the Lundhames’ ball last night. It was well past noon today, and he hadn’t arrived back to his house until the sun was well above the horizon—yet another thing that had gone wrong in a night that had started out so promising and that had turned so hellish. He was normally safely in bed before dawn, sleeping until noon like most other gentlemen.

Fortunately the sun was weak today, shrouded in London fog and fighting through the accompanying mist, so at least Voss hadn’t had to content with being sizzled by its rays. An enveloping cloak and a bit of care had kept him from being exposed when the beams did peek out as he climbed into a closed carriage.

His shirt had bloodstains on it and he tossed it onto a chair, knowing that Kimton wouldn’t even flicker an eyelash.

Christ-blood. How could it have happened?

They’d left Rubey’s an hour or so before dawn and somehow had decided to go to Vauxhall—for them, an easy walk down Whitehall and across the river a bit. Three Dracule on a tear, with nothing to fear from any mortal armed with any weapon who might lurk in the shadows. They were fast, strong and could see throughout the green-tinged night.

There was nothing to fear. Always nothing to fear.

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 was Westminster Bridge, 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, how could 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 looked less 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 that 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 that 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 in determining whether to call on Angelica (when had he begun to think of her in that way?) openly, so that the earl would know he had defied his command, or to do it clandestinely so that 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, 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 that the sisters might already have been removed to the safety of the earl’s home, so it was to his surprise and delight that 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, that 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.

And perhaps there was the faintest tinge of rose on her cheeks. He certainly expected there should be.

“I hope you will take some tea?” she added.

Bloody tea wasn’t exactly what he’d come for, particularly since a mixture of brandy and wine still sloshed within his belly today. And he didn’t particularly care for the lascivious expression on the face of the good-looking dandy who stood behind Angelica. Likely staring down her bosom, the uncouth fop. Harringford or Harringmede or something like that. He’d seen him at White’s.

Voss would never do such a gauche thing openly. In fact, he never had to resort to stealing glances or ogles. His lips twitched in a self-satisfied smirk.

“Lord Dewhurst,” said Maia, the older one, drawing his attention. She was a pretty one, too, with lighter coloring and a more petite frame than her sister, and Voss wondered briefly whether, if he’d seen her first last night, he’d be as compelled to speak with her as he was to Angelica. His first instinct was no.

Was Angelica the only one with the Sight? Or did the others have it, too?

He nodded to the sisters and ignored the rest of the occupants. Non-Dracule members of Society meant little to him for a variety of reasons, and he’d long become impatient with the strictures of their domain: the farce of rigid politeness on the outer crust, while beneath it, a reality nearly as immoral and corrupt as his own world. He’d long ago come to the conclusion that he had no reason to follow mortal rules and live by mortal standards.

It had been a freeing discovery. And it had given him carte blanche to take and do whatever he desired.

And, he realized as he stood at the edge of the room, he desired Angelica Woodmore. Deeply.

It wasn’t lost on Voss that Maia Woodmore hadn’t made any statement of welcome. He could only assume that Corvindale had already begun to impress upon her all of the reasons Voss should be avoided. Hopefully the earl was still abed like any other sane Dracule would be.

Nevertheless, Voss decided that he had no time to waste.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” he said, actually putting sincerity in his tones, “but I must have a word with you, Miss Woodmore.”

He was looking at Angelica, so it was clear to which sister he was speaking, but Maia was the first to respond. “Pray have a seat, then, my lord. We have just been discussing the newest play at Drury Lane.”

“I wish I could join you, for I hear the lead actress is devastating,” Voss replied, his voice now dripping with innocence. “But I fear that I have only a short time to enjoy your company, and it’s imperative that I speak with your sister.”

During this exchange, Angelica had risen from the sofa and, with a tempered glare at her sister, managed to navigate between the shod feet and pantalooned legs of the myriad of male callers. She was wearing a pale yellow frock today, trimmed with gold ribbon around the neckline (which was, of course, much higher than last night’s), and her hair was pulled into a smooth, neat gather at the back of her head. Only a few wisps of hair fanned her cheeks, giving her the look of an exotic pixie. A slender golden chain rested around the base of her throat, with a tiny, matching cross settling into the hollow there.

Voss swallowed hard and deflected his wayward thoughts as he trained his gaze up. To her eyes. Cocoa-brown eyes, wide and dark as night.

“I’m certain we don’t wish to keep Dewhurst,” Angelica was saying to her sister and the room at large. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Angelica,” Maia said, beginning to rise. “I don’t—”

“Never fear, Miss Woodmore.” This time he clearly spoke to the elder sister. “Despite whatever warnings Corvindale might have given you, I have no plans to corrupt your sister in the few moments I will speak with her in the foyer.”

With that, he gave a little bow to Angelica, and gestured her to cross in front of him toward the parlor door. Before he turned to follow her out of the room, inhaling subtly as she swept past, Voss turned and took a moment to memorize the faces of the men in the room.

He locked eyes with each of them in turn until he saw the familiar leap of fear and terror in their eyes. Then, quite pleased with himself, he followed Angelica from the room.

“The library is here,” she said. “We’ll be able to speak privately there.”

Indeed. Voss contained a rush of pleasure. The door would remain open, of course. But—blast! His belly felt prickly and odd as he followed her into the room. And his damned shoulder ached.

He mentally patted himself on the back when he not only left the door open, but much wider than was strictly necessary. Merely a first step, he told himself and his Mark. There will be other opportunities to close it later.

Then he turned to face her, and for a moment, his thoughts and words scattered. Angelica stood near a tall window across the room from him, and in a sort of irony, the embattled sun had managed to emerge from its blanket of clouds beyond her. It shone through the window, bathing her in its soft glow of warm beams…warmth and light that Voss hadn’t felt or been touched by since he was twenty-eight.

A hundred and twenty years without feeling the sun.

For a moment, the ridiculous thought that Angelica Woodmore would be just as elusive as those golden rays worried at him. But that was absurd on so many levels. Nothing could keep him from what he wanted.

Still. How was it she had positioned herself so perfectly: embalmed in a nimbus of light, which made her dusky skin glow and the edges of her hair seem to light—and yet, she was out of reach. Literally. The pool of light served as more of a deterrent than Corvindale ever could.

“My lord?” she asked, smiling at him. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

Was it possible she knew? Had Corvindale told her how to protect herself from the likes of Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst and Dracule?

He eyed her closely, not yet employing his thrall, but trying to read anything in her gaze that might indicate whether she knew exactly 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 in annoyance. 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 chair as 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 he 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 nonsmile. “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 Chas Woodmore returns.”

Bloody blasted hell. “I cannot imagine that they would find it very comfortable there,” Voss said. “Without a woman to see to things, I can only imagine the drafts, dust and ill 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 knocked a second time on the door to the earl’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.

“Yes. Come in,” 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 as several 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.

“Obviously.” She stepped farther into the room, leaving the door wide behind her. She itched to pick up the pens and arrange them in their place and pull the ink-bedabbled cloth for washing. And, heaven above, someone needed to organize the books. “At least, I presume you wouldn’t have spoken to me or any of my sisters in that way if you knew.”

The windows that flanked his desk were obstructed by long curtains that allowed little light to emerge, but the other windows at the far end of the study were partly uncovered. This gave the chamber an unbalanced look.

“How can you work when it’s so dark in here?” she asked, beginning to cross toward the nearest window.

“Leave it,” he snapped as she reached for the drapes. He sat up straighter in his chair as her hand fell back to her side. “I have already told Mirabella and Crewston to see to your needs. If you have a complaint about your accommodations, I suggest you speak to my sister.” He looked back down, but she noticed that he didn’t pick up the pen.

“My lord,” Maia said, eyeing the window with a frown. How could he even see the writing on those pages? It was dark and cramped and looked centuries old. “I wanted a moment to speak with you. Things have happened very quickly since the Lundhames’ ball and—”

“So at first, I did not respond quickly enough to your peremptory message, and now I have responded too quickly? Devil take it, Miss Woodmore, do make up your mind.”

Maia, who had long ceased to be offended by bad language thanks to Chas’s undisciplined tongue, merely tightened her jaw and pursed her lips. Her sisters would have recognized that as a clear warning, but of course, the Earl of Corvindale hadn’t been thus educated. Yet.

“My lord. I would sincerely appreciate it if you would look at me while I am speaking to you.” She was proud that she kept any bit of quaver from her voice.

Corvindale didn’t frighten her so much as annoy her. He was certainly imposing, and his brusque manner made him unpleasant to approach. He wasn’t boldly handsome in the way Lord Dewhurst was, or her own Alexander, but he was…striking, she supposed. In a hawkish, austere sort of way, with the slender blade of his nose and high, prominent cheekbones.

But a man like him, so overtly angry, didn’t frighten her.

It was the people who concealed their darkness and indecency with smiles and charm. They were much more frightening than the brashly annoying ones.

Her brother had always spoken of him with respect and perhaps a bit of reverence. Anyone who could inspire reverence in Chas Woodmore must be very trustworthy indeed. But she’d be lying if she didn’t admit her own annoyance with her brother for leaving them in this state.

Now, as she waited in his shadowy study, the earl paused for a moment and then, reluctance in his very being, looked up. Right at her.

For an instant, Maia felt…wobbly. A bit light in the head. And then he shifted, his dark gaze changed, and she was able to draw in air again.

Pie-faced worm. No reason to glare at me like that. “Thank you,” she said instead, and folded her hands properly in front of her, tamping down her own annoyance. How many times had Chas gone off to Paris or Vienna or Barcelona for weeks or months without word, and left his sisters and Mrs. Fernfeather to themselves? Why had he been so insistent that Corvindale get involved this time?

Maia was used to taking care of herself and her sisters. She was to be wed soon. She didn’t need this stone-faced earl ordering them about, uprooting them from their own home and demanding that they come here to this dark and gloomy one. In one day.

“What. Do. You. Want. Miss Woodmore.”

“Our chambers are very comfortable,” she said in a rush, feeling her cheeks warm. Really. “Mirabella has been exceedingly helpful, and so have Crewston and Mrs. Hunburgh. My sister and I are very appreciative that you’ve agreed to our brother’s request to take on our guardianship.” She actually managed to sound sincere. “As I mentioned in my letter, I didn’t realize he’d made such arrangements with you until he went missing. We’ve always had Mrs. Fernfeather and her husband when Chas has been gone. Regardless…I do not wish to impose upon you—your household any longer than is strictly necessary.”

“That is one thing on which we are in agreement, Miss Woodmore.”

She straightened and her lips pursed again. “And so I wanted to make you aware of our plans to repair to Shropshire as soon as arrangements can be made for the house there to be opened. My fiancé will be arriving from the Continent in short order and once we’re wed, you’ll no longer be responsible for me, of course. My sisters, including the youngest, will come to live with me and—”

“An odd time to be planning a wedding, with your brother missing, Miss Woodmore. Or are you in such a hurry to marry that you intend to get the deed done before you even learn what has happened to him?”

Maia drew in her breath slowly and with great deliberation. How even to respond to such rudeness? She chose an oblique path. “My fiancé, Mr. Alexander Brad—”

“I am fully aware of the identity of your fiancé, Miss Woodmore.” His voice cut in coldly. Corvindale pursed his lips, then continued. “Over the years, your brother has been remarkably conscientious in providing me with whatever information I might need should this occasion—that I am needed to step in as your guardian—arise. I am only sorry that it has done so.”

For the first time, there was a lessening of the chill in his voice. Or perhaps she was imagining it, for nothing else about him showed any indication of softening. Of course, his regret was most likely due to the fact that his life had been inconvenienced and not that Chas had gone missing.

Well, that made two of them being inconvenienced. And she was about to put an end to it as expediently as possible.

Maia looked over at his ink-spotted fingers, the outside of his left palm smeared with black. Too impatient to let the ink dry fully before writing over it, of course. Something that she, as a left-handed scribe, had needed to learn. At that moment, it struck her that she couldn’t recall ever having seen a man’s bare hands before, other than Chas’s or her father’s. Without gloves, they seemed so much more powerful and elegant than when encased in white fabric.

She blinked and looked up, realizing a few moments of silence had passed. He was looking down at the ledger again, and Maia drew in a breath of relief that he wasn’t staring at her, waiting for her to speak.

“When Chas went off to Paris on this latest trip,” she said, walking toward the sunny end of the study, “he did something he’d never done before. He left us instructions of what to do if we didn’t hear from him in a fortnight. Almost as if he feared something might happen. He left a sealed envelope to be opened only if that occurred—which of course it has done. His letter directed us to contact you immediately after two weeks without contact from him, my lord.”

“So your letter stated, Miss Woodmore. And so you’ve already—”

“I was hoping that perhaps you might have had word from him. Or…knew something. He never told us anything about why he traveled so much, or what he was doing. I don’t even know… I don’t even know how you are associated.” Maia had to struggle to keep her voice steady. Was she the only one concerned about his disappearance? She brushed her curled fingers over a table as she walked past.

“While I have not heard word from him directly,” Corvindale said from the desk behind her, “I assure you that I have begun my own investigation into his disappearance.” His voice was smooth and low.

“You have?” She turned in surprise, a great gust of relief in her breath.

“Indeed.” He was yet again examining what must be the most fascinating ledger in the history of the world. “I fear that I have nothing to report as of yet, but, Miss Woodmore, I will find out what happened to him.” He looked up at that. “Your brother is a valued business associate of mine. I don’t wish anything to happen to him, either, Miss Woodmore.”

The certainty and underlying threat in his words gave Maia the first sense of relief since she’d realized Chas had disappeared. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, for once allowing emotion to color her voice. “And I vow to remove myself and my sisters from your care as soon as I am able.”

“Do not be too hasty, Miss Woodmore.” He glanced toward the open door, then briefly back at her. “Mirabella will be quite disappointed if you should leave so soon after arriving. She has been looking forward to what she thinks of as a proper Season this year.”

Maia nodded. That had become quite clear during her conversations with the pretty redheaded girl, who had just turned eighteen and looked nothing like her elder brother. She actually smiled and laughed. “She mentioned that she hadn’t seen you for years, my lord, and that she’d given up on ever getting a proper come-out. She hasn’t even been presented yet at court.”

In fact, while Mirabella seemed more than capable in the ways of organizing and maintaining a household—according to her, she’d had much to do since being summoned from the small estate in the north to prepare for the Woodmore sisters’ arrival at Blackmont—she seemed woefully hesitant in the ways of the ton. Since the girl hadn’t been to London in more than seven years, Maia wasn’t surprised at her lack of confidence.

“Indeed.” Corvindale’s response was noncommittal. “I understand you three are to attend some event tomorrow night?” He was back at the ledger again, but this time he’d picked up one of the pens. Apparently the audience—such as it was—was over.

“The Midsummer’s Masquerade Ball at Sterlinghouse’s,” Maia explained. “Though your sister hasn’t debuted yet, she can attend incognito. She is quite…” Her voice trailed off. She knew when she was being dismissed. “Thank you for setting my mind at ease, my lord. I pray you will have news of my brother soon.”

“I will,” he replied and stabbed the inkpen into its well, then commenced to writing.

The scratching of pen against paper filled the silence, pausing only as she passed by and fluttered the papers on his desk when she quit the room.