Angelica had no doubt of that. If nothing else, her sister was exceedingly capable of expressing herself and her intentions clearly.
And despite the fact that she knew he wasn’t dead, Angelica had to push away the pang of worry for her brother. He traveled to the Continent quite often, for purposes that remained unclear to his sisters, but he always made certain to be in touch with them regularly by post or other message. The aunt of a distant cousin, Mrs. Fernfeather, and her husband, as necessary, acted as chaperone in those instances. But Chas’s last letter had given an unusually terse command that if they didn’t hear from him in two weeks that they were to contact the Earl of Corvindale immediately.
“I’m not certain why the earl needs to be brought into the situation,” Maia continued. “Chas knows we can take care of ourselves. Don’t we always? Mrs. Ferny lacks much in the way of her chaperone skills. And from what I’ve heard, Corvindale’s a… Well, he’s not particularly kind or generous. But Chas trusted him and has always spoken well of the man.” She’d finished attending to Angelica’s hair and was now standing next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder, back to the wall, clearly scanning the large room and out into the grand foyer. “I recall him being very tall, and so it should be easy to spot him if he were here. But I don’t see anything of him at all.”
The skirts of their frocks, made of the lightest, frothiest silk imaginable, pooled around each other’s slippers in delicate swirling crinkles. While the bodices were tight, tied or gathered just beneath the bosom, the remainder of the fabric fell loosely to the floor, which gave them relative ease of movement. Angelica’s gown was spring yellow, in deference to the Gypsyish undertones of her skin and her dark hair and eyes. Maia, who had more of a classic, Roman goddess look to her beauty, had a fairer, peaches-and-cream complexion that looked lovely when she wore pale blue.
“But Corvindale needn’t be rude about it all,” Maia said. She redonned the glove she’d taken off a moment earlier to fix Angelica’s hair and patted the sapphire and pearl earbobs she wore, as if ensuring they were still hanging there.
“If you do see him, you can’t simply walk up and start lecturing him, Maia.”
Her sister frowned, her pretty heart-shaped face sharpening with determination. “I certainly can. It could be a matter of life and death. And aside of that, I’m betrothed. It’s not as if I’m a young debutante in my first Season, looking for a husband.”
Angelica opened her mouth to argue, but Maia continued, “I can, but I’ll be discreet or subtle about it. But I will if I— Oh. Is that him?”
Angelica looked over toward the threshold of the ballroom, where it met the foyer, and saw three gentlemen standing there. “Isn’t Corvindale dark? They aren’t…”
Her voice trailed off as coldness curled around her heart. She recognized one of them.
The man from her dream.
2
IN WHICH MISS YARMOUTH AND VISCOUNT DEWHURST ARE DISAPPOINTED
“Corvindale isn’t here,” Voss observed, stepping into the ballroom ahead of his companions.
He’d taken the opportunity to scan the room whilst standing at the top of the convenient three steps from the grand foyer. The space beyond was a kaleidoscope, filled with swirling gowns of every pastel color imaginable, an aromatic soup of lily and rosewater, lavender pomade, powder and the scent of too much physical exertion, along with the enthusiastic strains from a brass quintet in the corner.
“Damned violin is out of tune,” he added over his shoulder to Eddersley and tried to mentally block the discordant strains from his ears.
Brickbank stumbled a bit on the trio of steps and Voss resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently the fifteen-minute drive in the carriage, along with the cool night air, had done nothing to sober the fellow up. Thank Luce they hadn’t been drinking blood-whiskey, or he’d be utterly useless.
“Next time I’ll have Morose lock the damned cabinet,” he muttered to himself, and settled against the wall where he could observe the activity a moment longer.
The crush of people moved about like busy ants: on and off the dance floor, around its perimeter, in and out of the entryway to the foyer and to the rooms beyond. It was a constant buzz of activity, noise, color and, of course, scents.
“Luce’s breath, I’ve been away from London for too damned long, Eddersley,” he muttered.
This was where he was originally from, after all. He loved the heavy fog that could descend on a moment’s notice, making it easier for one of his nature to move about the dirty, busy streets during the day. Despite the war with France, he presumed it hadn’t completely depleted the variety of goods and the city’s cultural milieu. And he certainly appreciated the vast array of services here—particularly Rubey’s.
And, most of all, rich women who wore gloves. In America the ladies weren’t so strict about wearing gloves all the time. But here in London…a peeress without her gloves on might as well be lifting her skirts in the alley. And those slender, silken hand coverings made it so much easier to slip a little fang into a slim, ivory wrist, provide a bit of pleasure to both parties…and then hide the evidence. Wealthy women, too, had purer, sweeter and richer blood than their lower-class counterparts—although Voss had been exposed to peers with thin, foul blood and milkmaids or doxies with sweetness running through their veins.
Voss smiled at a particularly fetching matron in vibrant pink as she approached, allowing his features to soften with charm as their eyes caught…and held. Later, m’dear, Voss promised her with his eyes, and then cast his gaze down over her figure.
He appreciated the changes in male garb over the years, but it was the current fashion for females which he truly relished. Gone were the layers of heavy skirts and panniers, the restrictive corsets and the ridiculously high hair and wigs that shed powder all over his own clothing. Now, the gowns were simple and light of weight and flowed loosely from beneath the bustline to the floor. And even the corsets and shifts beneath them (for Voss was well acquainted with such underpinnings) were shorter and simpler.
The woman tilted her head, then slid her gaze over his shoulders and down…farther, as deliberate as a hand closing over his cock…as she walked past, her arm tucked in the crook of another man’s elbow. The cloudlike flutter of her rosy skirt trailed over Voss’s shoe, along with her personal fragrance, and he couldn’t hold back a smile despite the bad violin threatening to ruin the night. Couldn’t the Lundhames have afforded musicians who knew what they were doing?