The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia 3)

But those days of quick, efficient violence had gone, and when Giordan learned that his would-be attacker was none other than Chas Woodmore, associate and friend of Dimitri, he'd allowed it to end as a misunderstanding. He'd even helped prepare the bastard for his mission to assassinate Cezar Moldavi.

But his easy assistance was before he'd responded to Woodmore's request to meet him in Reither's Closewell...and smelled Narcise. Everywhere. Everywhere on Chas Woodmore.

Even the information Woodmore had wished to share-that Cezar Moldavi had not, in the past decade, forgotten his obsession with Giordan-didn't concern him.

After all, it had been a decade for Giordan as well. The ten years had been both interminable and all too brief, too close. Too raw.

Now, he stood and made himself walk casually over to the chair where he'd removed his shoes, sit and pull them on.

He'd known they were together, of course; that Wood-more had helped her to escape from Paris-or had abducted her. No one was clear on the details. But to smell her thus...so lush and rich and feminine. Narcise.

The moment was as if he'd slammed into a stone wall: he lost his breath, he felt the shock of pain reverberating through him, he turned numb.

After, Giordan wasn't certain how he'd managed to make it through that meeting at the inn, once he'd caught her scent. It was the way it rolled off Woodmore, the way it seemed to permeate him and mix with his own essence...mocking and familiar and horribly insidious.

His vision turned dark and red even now. He couldn't ignore the memory of the disgust in her face, the horror in her eyes.

As if anything she could think about him was as horrible as what he'd done. For her.

He'd tried to explain, to make her understand...but she didn't want to listen. She wasn't ready to listen.

Either she'd never loved and trusted him at all, or she hadn't loved and trusted him enough.

At it was, he didn't know whom to thank that Narcise had decided to go with Woodmore to London instead of having Giordan take her to Wales. He doubted he would have survived that trip with his sanity intact.

"Is everything all right?" Rubey asked.

Giordan wasn't certain how long he'd been silent-he'd finished dressing and was starting toward the chamber door before she spoke. "A summons from Dimitri," he said with an ironic tone. "When the earl beckons, one must answer."

She was watching him with those shrewd eyes. "When will I see you again?" she asked. Not with petulance, not even with invitation, but as a businesswoman, scheduling an engagement. Rubey was no man's woman through her own volition, and not for lack of being wooed.

"When next I need to feed," he told her smoothly, then moved quickly back to her side. Pressing a farewell kiss to her temple, he said, "With your permission, madame."

"Of course," she replied haughtily. But he felt the weight of her curious gaze following him out the door.

The trip to Blackmont Hall, the residence of the Earl of Corvindale, was hampered by a carriage accident on Bond. Giordan didn't begrudge the delay, for it gave him more time to mull, to consider, to settle. To decide if he even meant to go.

The streets were relatively quiet, for the shops were closed this late at night, but the thoroughfares were by no means deserted. Carriages and hacks trundled by, many pedestrians skirted the shadows-some of them up to no good, some of them simply walking from one pub, club, theater, or party to another.

Giordan sat quietly in his richly appointed carriage and considered how far the bounds of friendship reached. If it were anyone other than Dimitri, he would ignore the summons. When Woodmore sent him the secret message to meet in Reither's Close, Giordan had gone, not realizing what awaited him.

But he did now. And he wasn't certain he'd be able to handle being in the same chamber as Woodmore and not think of peeling the man's flesh from his body. Despite who he'd become.

He hadn't laid a violent finger, hand, or fang on anyone since the After Hell.

Instead of dwelling on thoughts of Chas Woodmore, Giordan forced himself to review what he knew, wondering why Dimitri felt it necessary to have him present tonight.

Voss had run off with Angelica Woodmore. He claimed it was to keep her safe from Moldavi's men, who'd, predictably, followed Woodmore and Narcise from Paris.

Giordan had been in London-although with Rubey and not in attendance-the night of the abduction, when Belial and three others had entered a masquerade ball and murdered three people. That night and the next day, he and Dimitri had had to work together to enthrall witnesses and change stories. Otherwise, the news might cause a mad panic in London such as there had been in Brussels some years back after a similar occurrence. Shortly after, Giordan left to meet Woodmore in Reither's Close and break the news of Angelica's kidnapping.

But by the time Giordan had returned to London, with, presumably, Woodmore on his heels, Angelica had been safely retrieved by Dimitri.

Still, the earl was furious with Voss for taking one of the Woodmore sisters while he was responsible for them during their brother's disappearance, and by the tone of his message tonight, he intended to find Voss and square things with him. Which, in Dimitri's mind, likely meant to kill the bastard.

Ever since the incident in Vienna a century ago, when Dimitri's house had gone up in flames, there'd been bad blood between the earl and Voss. This current situation involving Angelica-which the earl would interpret as impertinent and insolent, at the very least, and a grave insult at worst-made the situation even more untenable.

And therefore, Giordan would answer the summons if for no other purpose than to reason Dimitri out of cold-blooded murder, and to help him find Voss if necessary.

Which was, it seemed, how far the bonds of friendship extended.

Blackmont Hall-which was nearly as dreary and cold as its name and resident suggested-was surrounded by high, smooth, brick walls that were topped with sharp metal and wooden pikes and studded with gas lanterns. The two dozen lamps were lit every night and extinguished every dawn whether the earl was in residence or not. Aside of that structural barrier, Dimitri had an entire retinue of guards-both mortal and make-at his disposal, watching the sisters and the grounds.

If there was a place in London safe from Belial or unwanted guests, it was the Corvindale residence.

Giordan was well-known to the gatekeeper, and he was waved in after he removed the hat and cloak he'd donned against the ever-present drizzle. Crewston, the Blackmont butler, opened the front door and said, "His lordship is in his office with several persons. Including his young wards." His tone indicated his disdain for the inclusion of the two Woodmore sisters in a meeting clearly meant for men only. "Apparently there was some sort of event this evening."