He drew in a deep breath, fighting to keep his eyes from burning red and from his fangs being exposed. And, staying his distance from the lethal rubies, as he met her gaze, he felt something inside him soften. She looked terrified and rumpled and, impossibly, as if she were about to cry.
“Surely you aren’t about to cry, are you, Miss Woodmore?”
His words had the desired effect, for she straightened her shoulders, which had begun to bow inside her silvery-blue gown, causing it to gap at the bodice. Her gaze flashed almost as hotly as Belial’s, except that it glistened with tears.
“Of course I am,” she said in affronted tones. One of the tears spilled over and ran down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily.
Dimitri clamped his mouth shut on the automatic response he’d intended to make after her denial and looked at her again. And then realized he really shouldn’t have done so.
That softening inside him started to twist and unfurl more quickly, like a sail gaining wind, and he couldn’t help but notice how lovely she was in her dishevelment…particularly now that her mouth wasn’t moving in demands and recriminations. The curve of her cheeks, soft and high, the point of her chin with its subtle dimple, and even in the faulty light, he could see dark lashes and brows enhancing the shape of her eyes.
And that mouth…his blood surged and he stopped himself cold from remembering the soft heat of it against his. And the cardamom-vanilla and sweet lily that wafted from her skin. Her hair looked silver-black in the moon, all of the nuances of color washed out and reduced to a simple chiaroscuro. Her coiffure was a bloody mess, but he found it much more interesting all tumbled about her temples and jaw and sagging along her neck around those earbobs than the way it had been forced into submission moments earlier.
“I should think that I’m entitled to a few tears,” she said in a voice that seemed…less hard. More bumpy, unsteady in its cadence. Firm, still, but with feeling. “I am a bit frightened and confused. After all, we’ve just been in a carriage accident, attacked by horrible, bloodthirsty vampir, and my sister has been abducted by them.” Now her voice began to rise. “And our very fierce guardian could do nothing to stop them. What was Chas thinking?”
The sail inside him lost its wind and Dimitri scowled. Damn her, she was bloody well right. Not that it was his fault that Voss had done something so foolish, presumably unaware of the potential consequences (which was always his excuse), but in all fairness, it had been Dimitri who allowed Angelica to be abducted.
And Dimitri wasn’t used to being at fault.
He opened his mouth to say something—likely something snarly and rude that would send her huffing off into the closed carriage, which was exactly what he wanted: her away from him—but he realized he had a mouthful of fangs, thrusting long and sharp and in no mood to be sheathed. It just didn’t seem to be the right moment for her to learn that he was one of those—what had she called them? Horrible, bloodthirsty vampirs.
At least she hadn’t said “murderous.” Although in the case of Belial and Moldavi, that would be more accurate.
Just then, Mirabella, who also looked as if she’d been tumbled down a hill and then dragged herself to her feet at the bottom, spoke. “Maia, where did you get those rubies?” She didn’t spare Dimitri a glance, but hurried over to Miss Woodmore. Tension oozed from her. “Corvindale despises rubies,” she said to her companion, under her breath presumably so that Dimitri couldn’t hear—but of course he could hear everything, including Miss Woodmore’s response.
“Rubies? The earl despises rubies? Why in the world should I care? He doesn’t have to wear them.” Her furious whisper broke at the end. “I want to find Angelica. We have to find my brother—at least he’ll be able to save her. He can kill those vampirs—”
“But you don’t understand,” Mirabella was saying, still in a low hiss, glancing covertly at Dimitri from over her shoulder. “The very sight of them make him furious. You must get rid of the earbobs, for he hates them.”
“What?” Miss Woodmore’s voice rose incredulously, matching Dimitri’s own surprise that Mirabella should know so much about his affliction. He’d taken great care to hide it from her, along with the fact that she wasn’t truly his sister but a mere foundling he’d brought into his home years ago. “Get rid of my rubies?”
Naturally the staff knew, but they were also exceedingly well-paid to keep their master’s secrets from everyone. Aside of that, none of them wished to risk the wrath of a Dracule, and, unlike Cezar Moldavi, Dimitri didn’t make it a point of turning every one of his servants Dracule anyway. Iliana didn’t have a loose tongue, either. She had her own reasons for keeping the secret.
“I’ll do no such thing,” his ward was saying, fingering her earbobs. She cast a sidelong glance at Dimitri, then leaned closer to Mirabella. “Why should mere jewels make him so angry? Was that why he seemed so odd in the carriage?”
By that time, Dimitri had turned away, annoyance and fury prickling over his shoulders. He refocused his attention on the scene of the kidnapping instead of wondering just exactly how much Mirabella knew about him, and where she had learned it. And the fact that Miss Woodmore seemed to have latched onto the concept of his dislike for rubies with her characteristic tenacity.
Just then, praise the Fates, Tren arrived with a hackney.
Dimitri wanted nothing more than to send the women back to Blackmont Hall and to get on his way, but he dared not relieve himself of their presence until he knew they were safe. So while they climbed into the hack, rubies and all, he settled onto the back of the conveyance, where the footman might perch, and allowed Tren to ride with the driver.
The ride to Blackmont Hall was without incident, and Dimitri went inside to ascertain whether he’d received any responding messages from Chas or Giordan Cale in regards to Voss’s warning—which had, in fact, been pertinent. He found word that they were waiting at White’s for news from him, causing renewed annoyance that the message had arrived too late to prevent Angelica’s abduction, not to mention the fact that the presence of the rubies in his household—let alone in the confines of a carriage—had endangered the safety of both Woodmore sisters. Voss’s irresponsibility was inexcusable. Dimitri armed himself with an ash stake and his thick walking stick. The bottom half of said cane was actually a saber that could come in handy if he encountered Belial.
Or Voss.
And then he shoved a pistol into his pocket and slipped out of the house before Miss Woodmore could accost him again. The intense relief that he’d managed to do so was beyond annoying.
Moments later, he arrived at White’s, the well-known gentleman’s club where the Dracule had private, subterranean apartments hidden in the back. Ironically the club, which catered to the most powerful and rich members of the ton, had been influenced by Dimitri’s own establishment in Vienna; however, the Dracule who frequented it rarely visited the main chambers—except to enter a bet in the books.
Famously there’d been an incident when Beau Brummel and Lord Eddersley—a mortal and a Dracule, respectively—had sat in the front, bowed window of the club and bet three thousand pounds on which of two raindrops would reach the bottom of the glass first.
Since Dimitri’s similar property in Vienna had gone up (or down, depending upon how one looked at it) in flames, he had lost his taste for such investments, although he had helped fund moving White’s from Chesterfield to St. James. Dimitri found it morbidly amusing that the de facto headquarters for the Whig Party was being financed by a Dracule, who had absolutely no regard for political parties, politics, or even patriotism.