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.