The Vampire Voss (27 page)

Her handwriting was feminine, with extra curlicues and sweeping descenders. It fit her, as did the few drips of ink and a smudged fingerprint that bespoke of haste or furtiveness. He found it strangely intimate, seeing a woman's handwriting for the first time. It was rather like touching her bare hand after removing her gloves.

Did you not think I wouldn't know whose it was the moment I touched it?
she wrote.
If I weren't so eager to rid London of your presence, I would lie and say I saw nothing, for if this informatio—
Here, she had scratched out the following words, leaving them illegible, then continued:
But I dare not lie, for fear you would use that as an excuse to stay. And you must leave. I do not want to ever see you again, but nor do I wish for your demise. As for the owner of the enclosed item… His death will come, not on a battlefield, not
from a coup or other attempt, but in a deathbed, surrounded by only three persons. The chamber is not a great or well-furnished one, but nor is it poor and mean. It feels as if it is some years in the future. The fact that he is alone but for the three, and his body is wasted and his face some years older, suggests that whatever power he now has will at that time be gone or greatly diminished. That is all I can tell you. I bid you
adieu.

She hadn't signed it.

Definitely not the sort of correspondence he was used to receiving from a woman. Not a hint of
amour
anywhere.

Although…she didn't actually wish him dead. That was something.

But then again, he cared little for what she thought.

Voss folded the letter and considered lighting it on the candle sconce behind him, then setting it in one of the tankards to burn—but that was only a brief contemplation. Instead he tucked it into his breast pocket.

Right, then. Woodmore had come back to London, at least temporarily. Not that it was the first time the vampire hunter had been out for Voss's heart…but he thought it best not to tempt the Fates. Now that he'd received the chain back from Angelica, with her valuable knowledge, he was going to leave London and make his way to…St. Petersburg, he decided impulsively. He pursed his lips, suffered through another sip of the thin, pale-as-piss ale and decided he'd send Angelica a brief correspondence to thank her, and to let her know he was leaving. And assuage the bit of conscience that dared niggle at him in the process.

On his way to St. Petersburg, there'd be a quick stop in Paris to meet Moldavi. He'd sell a select portion of the information to the bastard, and then—flush with even more blunt—he'd be putting himself far away from Angelica Woodmore.

Surely, then, the pain would stop.

 

“Angelica, I neglected to tell you how much I adore your frock,” said Mirabella as they settled in the carriage. “That rose hue is too bold for me, I think, but on you, it looks perfect.”

Angelica had to force herself to smile at the younger woman. The compliment was sincere, and Lord Corvindale's sister was a delightful change from her own bossy sibling, but Angelica didn't feel terribly cheery this evening. Her unpleasant mood had begun this morning, when she awoke from the disturbing dream that, hours later, still clung to the remnants of her consciousness.

“Thank you,” she said to Mirabella as she arranged her skirts to make room for Maia on the bench next to her.

“I wasn't certain I approved of the fabric when you selected it, but I confess, you made the right choice. That pale pink I favored would have made you look too pale,” Maia said, settling neatly beside her.

Angelica smiled with more genuine feeling. Maia, admitting she was wrong? How refreshing. “Thank you, dear,” she said, wondering if her sister had received a new letter from Mr. Bradington. Perhaps he was to return to London in short order and that was why she seemed less rigid than usual.

Angelica pulled the hem of her whisper-thin wrap from where it had become caught between herself and Maia and reflected that, yes indeed, the gown was the perfect choice for tonight's birthday party. She had loved the rosy-pink sateen the first moment she laid eyes on it at Madame Clovis's, and with the pink, green and white sash and trims, it had turned out to be one of her favorite evening frocks.

The party, which wasn't a formal ball but a small, intimate fete, was being given for Lord Harrington. And, based on his insistence that she attend, Angelica suspected that he might not
be the only recipient of something pleasant that evening. He'd made a broad hint about their future only yesterday, when they went riding in the sunny park, leaving her to wonder if she might become engaged by the end of the evening. Or, at least, if he might ask.

The very thought made her stomach alternately squirm and flutter. Harrington would be an excellent match.

“The rubies are a nice touch,” Maia was saying, and touched her own matching earbobs. “I declare, if I hadn't found those little pouches on your dressing table, Angelica, they might have been forgotten for weeks, or, more likely, knocked down behind the mirror.”

If you hadn't been so nosy, poking about my dressing table, I wouldn't have been forced to open them.
Angelica's smile had frozen and she adjusted the seam on her left glove. The weight of the robin's egg-size rubies hanging from her ears was only part of the reason for her deteriorating mood. Another part was the horrifying dream she had had the night before, and yet another part was the letter she'd received earlier that day.

“Where did you say you got them from, Angelica?” Maia asked. “I don't recall ever seeing two pairs of ruby earbobs before.”

“They're part of Granny Grapes's collection. Surely you remember when we used to try them on when we played lady dress-up,” Angelica said in a blatant lie for which she felt no remorse. “I declare, Maia, you seem more fuzzy-brained than usual.”

Her elder sister sniffed and frowned, obviously trying to recall an event that had never happened. Angelica hid a smile. Eventually she'd figure out it was a fabrication, but for now, it felt good to have fooled her. Perhaps one day, she'd feel right about telling Maia the truth.

Years from now, after they were both wed.

And as for the letters they'd received earlier… Maia might have had a correspondence that improved her cheer, but Angelica had not. The seal on the snowy paper clearly indicated that the message was from Voss, and the fact that he'd been so bold as to simply write
Angelica
on it in heavy, masculine ink instead of addressing it properly was just another indication of his lack of propriety.

As with the little black velvet pouches, Angelica intended to leave the letter unopened. She had no desire to read anything he'd written to her; she'd done her part, given him all the information she gleaned from the watch chain, and she didn't want to read any further excuses or requests.

She hadn't had the chance to burn the missive because Maia had come in to snoop around, but that would be rectified as soon as she returned tonight. Instead she'd stuffed it into the drawer with her other stationery before her sister could see it and demand to know all of the pertinent details.

But for some reason, the sight of her name, written so confidently and boldly—such a simple image—on the heavy paper, was burned into her memory and would not be dislodged. No man had ever sent her a letter before, and she couldn't ever recall seeing her name written in a man's hand.

And then there was the dream, still niggling at her. Stark and clear as a garden in the afternoon sun, but far from pleasant. But surely since he'd sent the letter, the dream hadn't come true.… He wasn't yet dead.

Perhaps she ought to open the letter before she burned it.

Perhaps she ought to warn him.

But no. Angelica didn't warn people when she saw their demise. It did no good—and Lord Brickbank was proof of that.

It was a burden she bore on her own. Knowledge that she must carry in secret.

But in a dream. Another dream. Why could she not read his future by holding his glove? But that it was foisted upon her in a dream…just as his friend's had done. It made no sense.

I wish Granny Grapes was here to help me understand.

She bit her lip and moved the curtain to glance out the carriage window. The moon wasn't quite full, but it cast a strong-willed light that filtered through heavy gray clouds.

“Shall we close the door?” Maia said, leaning forward to latch the half-open thing. “Or is Aunt Iliana feeling well enough to join us after all? We shall be late if we don't leave soon.”

“She isn't coming,” Mirabella said, “but Corvindale is going to join us in her stead.”

“Here? In the carriage?” Maia froze and Angelica felt rather than saw the tension rise as if someone were filling her sister with something unpleasant. “Why does he not meet us there as he usually does?”

“A shocking concept for the earl to ride with us, I agree, but he insisted,” Mirabella replied. She seemed delighted about the possibility of riding to the fete with her brother. “I believe he's concerned that we might be waylaid by those horrible men again. Although in another breath, he urges me to have no worries about being in danger.”

“I don't see why he has to ride—” Maia snapped her lips closed as the carriage door opened.

Corvindale loomed in the doorway, then climbed in swiftly, and so gracefully that he brushed nary a hem nor bumped a slipper as he settled next to his sister. Nevertheless, the generous space shrunk to a much smaller one with addition of his large, gruff presence. The closeness made the mixture of rose water aroma and Angelica's lily of the valley scent mesh with something sharp and masculine, along with wool and smoke. Dressed in a dark coat, topped with a matching hat and giving
the glimpse of a brilliant white shirt and a neckcloth of muted colors, the earl was more formally attired than Angelica could recall ever having seen him, except the first night they'd all met. Apparently he took his chaperonage duties seriously—if not reluctantly.

“Good evening, my lord,” Angelica said. “How kind of you to join us. Maia was just commenting on that event and how gratified she is that you've taken our safety so seriously that you'd deign to ride with us.”

Maia wasn't very subtle as she knocked her pointed slipper into Angelica's ankle, but the latter had been expecting such a reaction and adjusted her foot appropriately. But any further commentary waned as she glanced over at Corvindale.

The coach had started off with a little jerk, but the man was sitting there with an oddly arrested expression on his face. He seemed frozen, his harsh features even more stony than usual. Dark hair gleamed in the low moonlight, brushed neatly away from his temples, but rough and shaggy around the edges of his collar.

Maia, who had turned up her slender, pretty nose and her face toward the small, curtained window, was pointedly not looking at him. And Mirabella, who seemed to have lost her chattiness the moment her elder brother entered the scene, had succumbed to picking at the embroidery on the back of her glove.

Angelica realized that Corvindale seemed to be staring at her—no, at her ears, and that he appeared to be having difficulty breathing. Had he somehow recognized that her earbobs were from Voss? Was he working to control his fury?

Rather than anger in his face, however, she thought the emotion there was more akin to shock. Or pain?

“My lord?” she asked, tipping slightly into Maia as the coach turned a sharp corner. He didn't respond.

The light in the carriage flickered as they passed by streetlamps, leaving her with the impression that Corvindale had blinked or given some other dismissive sort of gesture. His fingers curled over the front of his knees, one hand curved around a walking stick that she suspected wasn't used for ambulatory purposes as much as for weaponry. At least, she hoped it wasn't.

Apparently despite his intention to protect them from whatever dangers the vampires might have planned, the earl was in no mood to talk. Good. Nor was Angelica.

She turned to look out the window, shoving the curtain aside.

But something bothered her: the uncomfortable silence among them, the sound of harsh, rushed breathing rising just above the rumble of carriage wheels, the fact that she could see no other streetlamps amid the shadows of buildings…and that odd expression on his face.

Angelica turned back to the earl and had the impression in the odd light that his eyelids were fluttering. His lips had drawn back in something clearly like pain and he seemed unable to move.

“Lord Corvindale!” she exclaimed, standing abruptly. Her head brushed the top of the carriage, and she bumped against the wall. Her shrill voice penetrated Maia's self-imposed pout, and her sister turned back toward them. “Are you ill?”

“What is it?” Maia asked. Any trace of pique had left her voice and she, too, was leaning toward Corvindale.

But the earl seemed to shrink back in the seat, his eyes flashing darkly. “
A…way
.”

His lips moved; Angelica was certain that was what he'd said, although it had come out in more of a gasplike whisper.

“Corvindale, what is it?” Mirabella had come to life as well. Sitting next to her brother, she was the obvious one to pluck
at his arm, which did nothing but flop lifelessly. “My lord!” She grasped his shoulders with her small hands and tried to shake him, but the man was too large and solid for her to do more than jolt him a bit.

He made a noise that sounded like a groan, or a frustrated gasp, and although his eyes flashed angrily in the dark, he seemed unable to speak further.

Angelica lifted her hand to pound on the roof of the carriage, but just before she did, the vehicle stopped abruptly. She tumbled back into her rear-facing seat, landing in Maia's lap. Someone shouted outside and the vehicle gave a great jolt, as if something had slammed into the side of it.