The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia 2)

Dimitri shifted impatiently and glowered at the trio of Woodmores, who had overrun his life, his home and now even his private office.

Would they never stop talking? He just bloody damn wished everyone would get out of his study so that he could get back to his work. His research and studies had been disrupted so much that he was certain what little he’d managed in the last week was worthless.

The stack of books that Miss Woodmore had taken it upon herself to neaten as soon as she entered this little meeting reminded him that he hadn’t been to the antiquarian bookstore yet. He flattened his lips. He would go tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest. He was through having his work completely disrupted.

“Corvindale is your guardian for the foreseeable future,” Chas was saying flatly, looking at Maia with an implacable expression, “but I wasn’t going to stand aside and let Voss compromise my sister.”

“I’m not compromised,” Angelica said stubbornly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Woodmore replied, glancing around the room. “We know he was here tonight, Angelica. Whether you invited him or welcomed him or—”

“I certainly didn’t invite him,” Angelica shot back in outrage. “I wouldn’t invite a terrifying creature like him anywhere!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chas continued. “Corvindale and Cale are going to help me find him. And then I’m going to kill him.”

And then Dimitri would be able to get back to his studies, and forget about the upheaval brought by a houseful of mortal women.

And perhaps then he’d stop dreaming about one in particular.

7

WHEREIN A CHOICE OF ACCESSORIES PROVES DISASTROUS

The carriage rolled to a stop at the rear entrance of the establishment Dimitri sought. Tren, the footman, had aligned the vehicle near enough the back entrance that his master was able to step out from the open door—which had been fitted with a fanlike cover that expanded as the door drew wide, blocking any sunshine—directly into the little shop.

The smell of age and wisdom, littered with dust, worn leather and fabrics…and yet something fresh, curled into his sensitive nose. The door closed behind Dimitri and he found himself amid tall, close shelves lined with books. Walls of wide, shallow drawers like those found in the British Museum were interspersed with the bookshelves.

The soft glow of lamps came from strategic places on the walls, but Dimitri didn’t need their illumination. He was well at home in dim light, and felt the familiar wave of peacefulness that always hovered in these surroundings. Merely stepping into the place eased his tension. Even the constant, screaming pain from his Mark seemed to ebb.

“Ah, you’ve returned.”

He looked up to see the shop’s proprietress emerging from between two stacks. A woman of indeterminate age, she blinked owlishly from behind square spectacles as if she’d just been awakened—or, more likely, pulled from whatever she had been reading. Yet her gray-blue eyes turned bright and she seemed pleased to see him. She wore a long bliaut that, along with the points of her wide sleeves, skimmed the ground. Around her waist hung a loose leather cord, to which a collection of keys to the many chests, cases and drawers was attached.

In one long-fingered hand was an open book that she appeared to have been perusing before his presence interrupted her. Her long pale hair was separated into two thick tails that fell behind her shoulders. A pair of finger-thick braids began at her temples and curved around to the back of her head. The fact that she neither showed the deference due an earl nor made use of the proper address he hardly noticed.

“No other customers again, I see,” he commented, reaching idly for a dusty book. “I find it a wonder that you remain in business, this little shop tucked away in the back mews of Haymarket.”

She smiled, replying, “’Tis a happy thing, then, that I have the patronage of an earl to keep my interests afloat.”

“I gave your direction to an acquaintance of mine some weeks past,” Dimitri said, glancing down at the excellent French translation of The Iliad, “but he couldn’t seem to find you. I told him you were next door to the old tannery, but he didn’t see the shop.”

She didn’t seem concerned about the loss of a potential customer. “Perhaps that was a day the shop was closed. Have you given any more thought to breaking into the museum and examining the stele from Rosetta?”

Dimitri didn’t recall speaking such a fantasy aloud, let alone to this woman, but he was never able to summon his customary abrasiveness whilst here. Thus, he responded, “I’m certain I could arrange to see the stone privately if I thought it would be help in my quest. I am Corvindale, of course.”

“That is, I’m certain, quite true. Are you in search of anything in particular today?” she asked. “There are some new scrolls I’ve received—perhaps you might take a look at them.” She gestured toward one of the corners of the dingy little shop.

“Nothing in particular. However, it’s rare that I leave without finding something to add to my library.” Dimitri had never told her of his quest. How could one explain to an ageless, absentminded woman about his desire to break a covenant with the devil?

She’d think him mad and close up the shop to him, as well.

The proprietress merely nodded, then absently returned her attention to the book she held. “If there is aught I can do to help…” And she wandered off.

Dimitri normally would have done the same, but today things prickled at him. Uncomfortable things. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. “Have you,” he began, following her. “Have you any old, very old, perhaps original, chapbooks of the Faust legend?”

She turned from where she’d paused at a table and looked up from her book. Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “Faust. And why would you be looking for a story you know so well?”

Dimitri couldn’t keep the jolt of surprise from blasting through him at—not so much her exact words, but the sharp, suddenly knowing look in her fathomless eyes. “What precisely do you mean by that, madame?” he asked, placing all of the chill and inflection of an earl’s power behind it.

“I think, Dimitri of Corvindale, that you know all of what I mean.”

He glowered in all of his earlness, and thought even for a moment of allowing some of his vampire glow to burn in his eyes. Yet, he said nothing, simply waiting for her to explain.

The woman closed her book without marking the page. And it was a very thick tome. “You and Johann Faust have much in common, do you not? Your pacts with the devil are quite different, and yet the same. That is what I mean.”