Since Angelica’s escape from Cezar Moldavi and her return from Paris, both Chas and Corvindale had agreed that the danger from Moldavi had eased. The villain was now aware of Corvindale’s far-reaching protection of the Woodmore sisters, and in light of his recent failure to use Angelica to bring her brother to heel, it was deemed unlikely that Moldavi would make another attempt so soon after.
Thus, the earl had eased his restrictions on the Woodmore sisters, although Chas assured Maia that they were still being protected, even if they weren’t aware of it. Maia had, of course, noticed the extra footmen that always accompanied or followed their carriage, and the unusual number of shadows hulking about on the street from sundown to sunrise. She assumed that most of them were what Corvindale would term “good vampires,” since they were obviously in his employ.
Meanwhile, Chas, to Maia’s immense frustration and concern, had disappeared shortly after Angelica’s return, leaving them once again in Corvindale’s care.
Yet…since she’d fled Corvindale’s study the morning after the incident in the carriage, his mocking words ringing in her ears—
Or at least, she’d avoided him. Whether he was doing the same, Maia wasn’t certain. And since Angelica had returned with nary a scratch, and had announced her intention to wed Viscount Dewhurst, Corvindale hadn’t been seen at all.
She’d heard the deep rumble of his voice, and noticed the closed door to his study. And, fortunately, she’d had no reason to disturb the earl.
But Alexander had been to Blackmont Hall often.
And he always seemed to want to walk in the garden, and to stop in that shady pergola.
But kissing him had become as interesting as kissing her own hand. Maia knew—for she’d tried it.
And what had once been a tingling anticipation for his arrival was now a heavy leaden ball in her middle.
She didn’t love him.
She’d often given such a lecture to Angelica, who, for a time, had thought herself in love with the very untenable Mr. Ferring-Dulles.
Maia knew better, for there was a time when she thought she’d loved Mr. Virgil. She’d thought they were eloping to marry on that night when she dressed in men’s breeches and sneaked out of the house.
But instead, the night had turned out to be a horror, the details of which she’d long forgotten. Or otherwise suppressed. She shivered now, as a wisp of memory flitted through her mind. Corvindale. In the carriage. She in her breeches, hair tucked beneath a sagging cap.
Why could she not remember?
She sighed. No, love definitely could not and should not factor into one’s choice of husband.
And that was why, in three days, Maia would be marrying Alexander Bradington. In the very lovely dress she was now wearing.
Dimitri looked down at the note, glad for the distraction.
The house was filled with energy and activity. Miss Woodmore was to wed Bradington in three days, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, everyone related to the nuptials seemed to be coming and going from Blackmont Hall today. It was as if the walls were swollen to bursting.
Angelica Woodmore’s wedding plans were also progressing, if one were to judge by the number of appointments with flower-keepers and seamstresses and other entities, not to mention the swatches of material, scraps of notes and drawings, that had littered the parlor table yesterday. Couldn’t the blasted chits wait until their brother was back to attend to these things?
Naturally that could take weeks. Or months. Or longer. He knew that Woodmore meant to find a way to kill Cezar Moldavi, for until he did so, Narcise would never be safe. But his continued absence was making things even more inconvenient for Dimitri. And the sisters seemed to have confidence that their brother would be in attendance for their weddings, regardless of whatever else he was attending to.
Dimitri hadn’t had a good day’s sleep in weeks, so there was no sense in attempting it today. Perhaps he would respond to the message.
Lord Corvindale,
I should like to invite you to examine a new collection of works that I have recently procured. I am hopeful that one of them might contain the information you seek. Please advise soonest, for I have other interested clients.
G. Reginald.
Gellis Reginald was another antiquarian bookseller that Dimitri had patronized, although not for months since he’d found Wayren’s shop. Perhaps the man had heard that his most influential customer had gone elsewhere and wished to lure him back, or perhaps he truly did have something of interest.
Regardless, it was an opportunity to leave the house.
Dimitri put aside his other papers—contracts and balance sheets, bank drafts and bills that he’d taken a moment to peruse and sign merely in order to get Beckett, his man of business, to stop nagging him—and rang for the carriage.
The day was a normal gloomy one, with thick rolling fog and gray everywhere. Nevertheless, Dimitri needed his cloak. An abnormal wave of bitterness flooded him as he scooped it up and stalked out, leaving a house filled with squeals and giggles behind him.
When they arrived at Reginald’s dingy shop front, Dimitri climbed out and bade Tren to return for him at the public house on the end of the block.
“I don’t expect to be long,” he said. “Two hours at the outside.”
“Miss Woodmore asked that I—”
Dimitri flapped an impatient hand and walked into the shop, letting the door slam behind him. Immediately he was accosted by the smells of age and mold, as well as dust and even mouse dung.
He didn’t want to hear a thing about Miss Woodmore.
Likely she’d asked Mrs. Hunburgh to have one of the servants pick up some package or other for her, and Tren had been given the task. He didn’t care. Soon she would be out of his house, and out of his thoughts.
And, pray God, out of his dreams.
“Reginald,” he called in his peremptory voice when he saw that the shop was empty. “It’s Corvindale.”
Blast it. Why wasn’t the man waiting for him? He’d sent the message, after all.
Dimitri had no interest in examining the old watches and ratty-cornered Bibles and poetry books that the shopkeeper attempted to foist off as valuable antiquities. That was part of the reason he had ceased patronizing the man after a while—his offerings were nigh worthless when one sought words from the ancients, and in their own languages. Too many things were lost in the translation of others, so Dimitri had learned to do his own.
“Reginald!” he called again in a voice that made the glass cases shudder. He sniffed the air, suddenly realizing the faint strain of blood that he’d just noticed was too strong to be something as innocent as a nosebleed.
Dimitri was behind the counter in a moment, pushing through the sagging door that led to the back room of the shop. Once through there, the smell of blood was stronger and richer, causing him to hesitate for a moment to determine the direction of its origin. The room was cluttered in what could have been its normal state, or the scene of an altercation. A single door in the back wall presumably led to the alley behind, and the one window was, thankfully, covered in grime, making the chamber dim and shadowy. On the floor was a half-dried pool of blood.
As he turned, another smell reached his nose. A familiar one that made him frown in shock and confusion.
And then all at once, the back door burst open and three figures vaulted through, into the room.
