The Vampire Voss (9 page)

“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.

“D
o try to behave with
some
decorum tonight, Angelica,” Maia said in a low voice as they prepared to disembark from the coach at Sterlinghouse. “Put on a good example for Mirabella.”

Angelica ignored her, moving farther away on the seat they shared so that her sister couldn't squeeze her arm to emphasize her command.

They sat across from Mirabella and her Aunt Iliana, a nice enough woman who seemed to be forty or fifty years old. Angelica wasn't certain if she was relieved or disappointed that their chaperone wasn't one of those vacant-eyed, gossip-mongering old maids or widows often relegated to seeing to the safety and virtue of their charges. Like their own Mrs. Fernfeather.

In fact, she suspected Aunt Iliana might prove to be entertaining and interesting, if the intelligent glint in her bright blue eyes was any indication.

“I don't believe you have cause for worry tonight,” Angelica whispered back to her sister. “No one will recognize me until we remove our masks, and so until then, all of my behaviors
will be anonymous.” She smiled and held up the black velvet mask trimmed with a gold and silver lace fall that would offer only teasing glimpses of her cheeks and mouth. The rest of the mask completely covered her from nose to brow. “You shall have no scandal by association. Even you could do something scandalous, Cleopatra,” she added saucily.

“I certainly would not,” Maia hissed back. “And how many times do I have to tell you, I'm Hatshepsut, not Cleopatra.”

Angelica rolled her eyes. Her sister was such a pedant. “Who cares about Hatshep-whoever? No one could tell the difference anyway.”

But Maia wouldn't leave it alone. “There's no asp on my staff,” she replied—as if that explained everything.

Angelica was delighted that Mirabella managed to interrupt. “We're to don our masks before entering?” There was excitement in her voice, for this was to be her first London event, even though she hadn't yet been presented at court and her wardrobe needed to be brought up-to-date. Her mask was of ivory silk, completely covered in lace that fell beyond the section around her eyes to her jaw, and rose up to be a stiff fringe higher than her normal hairline. In this case, it didn't matter, for she wore a wig of white that towered above her crown.

“Yes. We'll be announced, but not with our real identities,” Maia explained before Aunt Iliana could open her mouth. She held her gold mask in hand, and the royal staff that went with her costume rested across her lap. “Only by our character or costumes.”

Angelica saw the older woman pause, then close her lips and settle back in her seat as if to give free reign to the elder Woodmore girl. She seemed, if not grateful, at least accepting of Maia's bossy tendencies. Angelica appreciated that, for despite her sister's overbearing attitude, she loved and admired
her and would have felt badly if there was friction between her and the older woman.

“Everyone is to be unmasked at midnight,” Maia continued. “Although last year, the unmasking was much later. No one was ready until nearly one o'clock.”

“We're here,” Angelica said as she heard the voices of the driver and footman. She moved her flowing skirts out of the way of the other passengers' feet.

At that moment, the door swung open and the three young women and one older one were helped down.

There was an angel in white lace and an elaborate white wig.

Behind her came a petite bejeweled and bangled Egyptian queen in gold, balancing her staff in hand. She was followed by a ruff-necked Elizabeth in a wide, ungainly gown that took some effort to make it fit through the carriage door.

Last came Atropos, carrying her fateful shears and a skein of sparkling gold thread. Her gold-shot black gown draped in a modified Greek fashion in two swaths, from shoulder to waist, then wrapped around and draped again from waist to foot. The effect was a combination of elegance and sensuality, with the light, glinting cloth molding to the shape of her bosom and hips, yet falling freely to obscure her figure at any given moment.

Her arms were bare but for long black gloves, and she carried a dainty golden reticule for her skein and shears. The gown had camellias fashioned of gold fabric marching along the tops of the gathered shoulders, at the waist where the fabric was caught up, and along the generous hem where it trailed along the ground like a ripple of water. A row of gold flowers also lined the gloves from elbow to knuckle. And, her dark hair had been separated into a multitude of sections, twisted with thick gold cord and pinned high at the crown of her
head so that gold and walnut brown curls cascaded down to her neck.

It didn't take Angelica long to discover that the lace which made up the lower half of her mask tickled her cheeks and upper lip, and she considered tearing the fringe off. But after she entered the masquerade ball, she decided against it.

Tonight, she wished to remain as anonymous as possible. Something like expectancy prickled her, and she felt daring and unencumbered. She didn't want to be approached by any young brides-to-be, asking for her to prophesy about their future husbands.

Part of the reason was that Angelica still felt unsettled when she recalled the conversation with Dewhurst—no, she would think of him as Voss, as Corvindale called him. That name suited him more than something that bespoke of early morning meadows. Despite his toffee-colored hair, he was nothing like a sunny morning. More like an afternoon frosted with a soft summer rain: beautiful to look at, yet with a filter of shadow and gloom.

Smiling privately at her own whimsy, Angelica took the opportunity to slip away from Maia when her sister stopped to help Aunt Iliana adjust Mirabella's wings. Angelica had worn the angel costume to one masque last Season and learned that wings made for a difficult evening. They came askew when dancing, they bumped and caught against people whenever moving through the crush and the harness that kept them in place felt rather like an old-fashioned long corset. Last year, Angelica realized too late that her sister had suggested that costume for just such a reason and resolved to pick her own costumes without Maia's help in the future.

The free-flowing fabric and simplicity of her attire made it easy for Angelica to slip between a Romeo and a woodland
faerie, who happened to have her own set of ungainly wings, and lose herself in the crush.

Tonight, there were no dance cards. No introductions. No matrons (or sisters) glaring from the walls, taking note of any scandalous behavior.

It was no wonder the Sterlinghouse's annual masque was so popular.

The theme tonight was Ancient Babylon, and Lady Sterlinghouse had outdone herself. Plants hung from high on the walls, blossoming tendrils falling like Rapunzel's hair and releasing floral scents into the air. Fountains rumbled, adding to the low hum of noise from conversation and music, masking everything but nearby sounds. The servants were dressed as ancient Babylonians in long, geometrically patterned robes, and carried trays laden with food and drink.

Angelica was standing near a fountain, wondering where the water came from that spilled down several levels and lightly sprayed into the air, when a dashing knight approached. Fortunately he wasn't wearing real chain mail, just tooled leather over a jerkin and hose.

“I do hope you don't intend to use those on me,” he said, gesturing to the shears in her hand.

It was difficult to tell if she knew his voice, muted as it was by the fountain and other sounds, but he seemed familiar. So Angelica smiled and unraveled a hank of the golden thread. Holding it up, pretending to measure him, she tried to see through his mask. But it was shadowy and dark, and she couldn't get a good look. “No, I do not believe your time has yet come, sir knight. You'll live to joust for another day.”

He laughed, and she recognized him then. The young and eligible Viscount Harrington, with whom she'd danced at several parties and even once strolled out on a patio, arm in arm. Did he recognize her? Had he sought her out?

“Perhaps you might offer a boon to this lowly man at arms,” he suggested. “It would be my honor to wear your favor into battle next.”

Angelica smiled and snipped off a generous piece of her golden cord. “I vow this is nothing more than a maiden's favor, not the work of Atropos this night,” she told him, wrapping it around his forearm and tying it lightly.

“It is you,” he said then, smiling beneath his leather mask. “I was nearly certain, Miss Woodmore. It was your hair and the way you move. But now it is confirmed. Along with your favor, might I also request the next dance?”

“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” she replied, replacing her shears and skein in the bag, carefully so that the tips pointed down into a corner of the small satchel. Then she took his arm and allowed him to guide her through the people toward the dance floor.

“It's a waltz,” he commented as the musicians began the new song. “May I?” he asked again, turning to face her at the edge of the dance floor.

A thrill of the forbidden tripped through Angelica, and she gave a little curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”

Her first waltz.

Angelica's heart beat a bit more rapidly as Harrington eased her into the unfamiliar position of the dance, nearly
embracing
her. She was hardly able to contain a nervous smile. They stepped into the rhythm of the music with a bit of hesitation and a slight scuff of her slipper as she learned the step.

They made their way around the room in the three-beat rhythm, making small circles with the triangular step. Angelica enjoyed the freedom of the dance—so different from the line dances and quadrilles where every movement was choreographed and a slight change could disrupt the flow.

But while she had always found Harrington to be very
charming and quite handsome, she realized now that she'd come face-to-face with him—quite intimately, in fact—that his shoulders weren't as broad as she might have thought. And while he moved with ease, an underlying grace and confidence was missing.

Conversation, she found, was much easier with a waltz than when dancing the traditional dances. Instead of constantly separating and then coming back together, she and her partner had the opportunity for uninterrupted repartee. Harrington suggested they ride in the park someday—an invitation which she accepted—and asked about her sisters. Then he said he'd heard about Corvindale taking them in as his wards.

“Yes, that's true,” Angelica told him. “It's only been since yesterday and I'm not certain how long we'll be at Blackmont.”

“You didn't mention anything about leaving when I came to call two days ago,” he commented, reminding her that, yes, indeed, he had been in her parlor on that day.

The day Dewhurst—Voss—had come and told her about Lord Brickbank.

Suddenly a bit of her pleasure waned.

Brickbank was dead, and, apparently, there was nothing she or anyone could have done to prevent it. The fact had poked at her incessantly, bothering her in a way she hadn't been bothered since the first time she realized her gift—if one could call it that. This incident had disturbed her, perhaps because it had been so unwelcome. The dream had come upon her with no warning, unlike the other times when she had to concentrate and summon the vision or image to make her prophecy.

Angelica prayed she'd have no more odd dreams like that, for it was one thing when she called on her Sight to help a woman make a decision about her future…but this had been so different. So unexpected.

She hadn't known Brickbank, but she'd come to know Voss enough in those brief moments that his loss had affected her more deeply than she'd anticipated. He was likely halfway to Romania by now, taking his friend with him back to be buried in his family plot. How long did it take to travel to Romania?

And back?

And why did it even
matter
to her?

Just as Harrington spun her in a less-than-smooth circle, Angelica saw the figure standing near the fountain she'd been examining only moments before. He seemed to be watching them, and a little frisson sizzled through her at the intensity of his stare.

The shadows embraced him, and the black mask he wore hid all but the lower third of his face. A wide-brimmed hat covered his head and a heavy dark cloak offered more concealment. But he was watching her.

Her heartbeat quickened, and as the dance ended and Harrington escorted her off the floor, Angelica glanced back quickly. He was still looking after her, and as their eyes connected across the space, he gave a bow of acknowledgment. Then, a person moved in the space between them, obstructing the view, and then another, and when Angelica looked again, he was gone.

It took her a moment for her heart to settle to normal, and her breathing to steady. Was it possible Voss was here? That he hadn't left for Romania? It had to be him, watching her so boldly.

Her belly tingled at the thought and she had to restrain herself from looking back again as her dance partner—whose name she had nearly forgotten—drew her through the clusters of people: a highwayman, a king, an archer, a Hamlet and Ophelia, a Diana and a butterfly.

“Miss Woodmore?”

She looked up at Harrington and realized he'd been trying to gain her attention for some time. “I'm terribly parched,” she said with a smile, utilizing the excuse Maia had taught her to free oneself—either permanently or temporarily—from a companion.

“May I fetch you something to drink?” he asked, leaning close. He smelled pleasant—a woodsy scent. “So you don't have to wait in line?”

“Yes, indeed. I understand there is some effervescent drink with lemon in it. It sounds lovely.” Because the mask obscured her face, she couldn't bat her eyelashes, but she did look up at him with a smile.

As Harrington rushed off, Angelica realized that, ironically, she'd used a similar excuse to extricate herself from a different dance partner so that she could speak with Harrington himself some time ago. Maia, who'd been very clever at managing her many beaux before settling on Alexander Bradington, would be proud of her sister's expertise.