The levity evaporated from his expression, and for the first time since he’d approached her after she’d left Miss Yarmouth, Angelica saw that he was grave. “Your warning was quite startling, indeed.”
“A warning that I am certain he intends to disregard.”
She was pleased when he gave an acknowledging incline of his head. At least he didn’t intend to pretend. “I’m certain you can understand his skepticism. Do you often make such warnings to gentlemen you’ve never met?”
“No, in fact I do not. That is why I am certain that the warning must be heeded. I—” She clamped her lips together. Not necessarily prudent to divulge her secret at this point. But how else to explain it, to make him understand that she wasn’t a novice at this sort of thing?
Except that she was a bit of a novice when it came to interpreting dreams. She’d never had one with such shocking clarity…such graphic images.
Angelica shook her head to clear it, to try to pare through the frustration. “I have had dreams before,” she said. “But I’ve never met the person afterward.”
“So you truly have no way of knowing whether your dream is a true portent?”
She uncrossed her arms, unable to keep her hands stationary when trying to explain. “My great-grandmother had some of what they call the Sight. After hearing stories about her, I’ve learned to never disregard anything unusual, despite whether it’s unprovable or not.”
Her hands gesticulated more wildly than was proper, but she was bent on impressing upon him the seriousness of the situation. “Please, my lord. I feel very strongly that you must ensure that he take my warning seriously. And, as absurd as it might seem, I must beg of you to keep him away from Blackfriars Bridge. Especially tonight. It was that bridge, and his exact attire, that I saw in my dream.”
Lord Dewhurst seemed to relax a bit. “Miss Woodmore, if only every person were so intent on protecting one’s fellow man.” His words seemed not the least bit condescending. “What if I were to tell you that it would be impossible—as improbable as that might sound—for Lord Brickbank to die by falling off a bridge? Would that make you feel any better? And would you then agree to hasten out to the dance floor with me before our waltz is finished?”
“Miss Woodmore will not be hastening anywhere with you, Voss. Most especially not to a waltz.”
Angelica swallowed a gasp at the sudden appearance of Lord Corvindale, who looked absolutely thunderous. He was taller than Dewhurst—Voss?—and with his dark hair and clothing, and olive skin, he seemed more imposing and arrogant.
“Angelica,” came that familiar sharp whisper.
Relieved to have somewhere to focus her attention other than the furious earl, Angelica found her sister storming up to them as quickly as she would allow herself to storm, clearly following in Corvindale’s wake. It was obvious the earl had rudely left her behind in his haste to get to them.
And she truly wished Maia would not say her name with that particular inflection. It was highly annoying, and even more so that, since her sister’s name had only two syllables, Angelica couldn’t repay her in kind.
“Maia,” she replied in a matching tone as her sister continued her reprimand in a low voice.
“Were you truly going to waltz with Viscount Dewhurst? That dance is simply scandalous! Chas would never allow it if he were here, and you know it.” Her fingers had curved around Angelica’s arm and were digging into its soft underside as she tugged her away from the two men, who were speaking sharply and in short bursts, but too low to be discernable. “The matrons would buzz about it for weeks, Angelica. You simply cannot—”
“Perhaps if Alexander ever returned from the Continent and you actually married him, Chas would allow me to,” Angelica said, lifting her nose.
To her surprise, Maia’s eyes dampened and the tip of her nose turned pink. “That’s just like you, Angelica. We don’t even know if Chas is all right and you’re making horrible jokes.”
Immediately, Angelica felt guilty and bumped gently against her sister, nudging her in a sort of armless embrace. She wasn’t certain if the mistiness was over worry for Chas or Alexander’s absence, but it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry. You’re right. But…I’m just so sure that Chas is fine. He’ll be back.”
“Really? Do you know that?” Maia had stopped just into the ballroom, and they were back near that same lemon tree from earlier in the evening. She looked sharply into Angelica’s eyes, her dark blue ones penetrating and hopeful. Then she sagged, hope fading. “But I know you can’t. Not for us, not for people you’re close to. I only wish you could…just this once.”
Angelica squirmed—literally and figuratively. She did not want to open that box. But Maia didn’t understand why she wasn’t worried about Chas, and perhaps she could give her something that would alleviate her stress…without opening the whole mess. “I just don’t feel like he’s in danger, Maia. Maybe it’s wrong of me not to worry, but I just have a feeling I’d sense it if he were gone.”
To her surprise, Maia gave a little sniffle and nodded, as if receiving confirmation of something she’d already known. “I think I’m foolish to feel that way, too, especially since I don’t have your…gift. But I do. And I confess I’m glad to hear you say it, as well. I just hope it isn’t wishful thinking on both our parts. But…we’ve been so close for so long, the four of us, since Mama and Papa died.… I feel as though we have some sort of spiritual connection. Perhaps it’s absurd, but it’s the only hope I have.”
These last words came out as little more than a murmur and Angelica was forced to watch her sister’s lips and try to interpret. A pang of guilt pricked at her—there was a way to put Maia out of her misery. But no. This was enough.
It would all work out in the end and Maia need never know that Angelica had indeed opened visions to the lives—and deaths—of all of her siblings.
That was her burden to carry alone.
3
Wherein Our Hero Is Assigned A Most Inconvenient Task
Voss stared at himself in the mirror.
His eyes, rarely fully wide even on a happy night, were past half-mast. And bloodshot. Bleary.
Filled with disbelief and shock.
Impossible.
“How could I have been so bloody foolish?” he demanded of his reflection.
It was the same question he’d pummeled himself with for hours. But it was too late for questions and recriminations. Now he had to decide how to proceed.
After leaving the enticing Miss Woodmore—who’d teased him with her alternately dancing then earnest eyes, tantalized him with her long, graceful neck and beckoning scent—he, Eddersley and Brickbank had gone to Rubey’s.
It was either that or descend into a brawl with that bastard Corvindale. Tempting as it might have been, Voss was in no mood to have his shirt crinkled or his clothing torn.
Nor, suddenly, had he felt the urge to tease and coax the pink-frocked matron with whom he’d exchanged glances earlier. No. His need and fury had burrowed deep and fierce.
So he’d allowed his two companions to draw him away and they went to Rubey’s.
The original Rubey was long-dead, but her discreet establishment near Charing Cross remained. The current “Rubey”—certainly that wasn’t her real name—ran it with the same discriminating business sense as her predecessors. In all, Voss believed there had been more than a dozen Rubeys over the centuries, providing the members of the Draculia with a variety of pleasures of the flesh.
Dracule had discriminating tastes when it came to food, drink and pleasure, and Rubey’s catered to all of them. The current proprietress provided an establishment that offered women and men who found it titillating and arousing to be fed upon by vampires, along with other physical pleasures. The best drink, the best food—for even though the Dracule required lifeblood for sustenance, many of them had never lost their taste for the same food mortals consumed. Just as they drank brandy often laced with blood, or wine or ale, they could find pleasure in the texture, scent and taste of food, despite the fact that it provided no real nourishment. As with opium and drink, cooked food was a sensual pleasure but not a necessity.