The Vampire Voss

Page 8

Her eyes met his and he felt a sizzle of warmth at the candid interest in them. Ah. Very good.
“I would very much appreciate it if you would recommend to your friend that he heed my warning,” she told him.
“And what warning might that be?” Voss returned.
For the first time, she seemed to hesitate. Drawing herself up as if girding for battle, the hollows of her delicate shoulders catching the light and shadow just so, Miss Woodmore moistened her lips and spoke. “I had a dream in which you died,” she blurted out, looking at Brickbank.
Voss blinked. A range of emotions blasted through him, the least of which had to do with the fact that he was on the verge of learning what he’d come to learn. If she dreamed of people she didn’t know, she might have the Sight. Which would mean he would have a legitimate reason—or at least a justifiable one—to converse with her. He resisted the urge to smile and instead shifted automatically so that his body blocked them from view of the rest of the room. “Go on.”
She was still looking at Brickbank, and Voss watched the steady pumping of the pulse in her throat. “I dreamed that you fell off a bridge. That you died.”
Brickbank blinked and glanced at Voss, who lifted his gaze and shrugged. “A dream, you say?” the other man replied, suddenly no longer red-nosed and tipsy. “I was in your dream, and fell off a bridge and died?”
A flash of what might have been irritation crossed Miss Woodmore’s face—perhaps she felt her explanation had been clear enough that it didn’t bear repeating. “Yes. That is what I said.”
Voss shrugged again. Odd enough that she’d had a dream about Brickbank and had recognized him—which could or could not mean she had metaphysical powers. But the fact was, a Dracule wouldn’t die from a fall off a bridge. They couldn’t drown, nor would the impact of the water damage them beyond a bit of a headache.
They were never going to die. That was part of the arrangement with Lucifer. It was something that Voss was assured of, as long as he was careful with his weakness to hyssop. Not that either of them would be inclined to explain this to the very earnest, lovely—yes, indeed, quite lovely—young woman bristling with intent. Those of the Draculia, of necessity, hid their immortal afflictions from all but other members and their households. And even then, those household members were carefully selected, well-paid, and well-trained to keep their secrets.
That was, Voss paused for a moment to smirk, certainly one of the reasons Corvindale had been reluctant to take on his responsibility as guardian to the Woodmore girls. He could only imagine the sort of disruption the mortal debutantes would have in the household of a Dracule.
“You have my gratitude, then, Miss Woodmore,” Brickbank was saying gravely. “Shall keep myself far from any bridges, and thus if there is any danger, it shan’t find me.”
The young woman appeared only slightly mollified, and Voss could read the suspicion in her expression. She wasn’t certain if she was being condescended to or not. “At least,” she said, lifting her chin, “you would do well to stay away from bridges whilst dressed as you are. For, you see, you were wearing that exact attire in my dream. When you fell off the bridge.”
Voss stilled, a renewed prickle of interest settling over him. Fascinating, yet he could not find it terribly disturbing due to its impossibility. Brickbank seemed just as stunned.
Before either of them could speak, Miss Woodmore gave a nod and said, “Very well, then. I’ve done my duty. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lords. I have a previous engagement.”
And she swept away with much more aplomb than a young woman should have.
“What do you see, Miss Woodmore?”
Angelica opened her eyes and attempted to keep her expression bland. “It takes a moment,” she explained to Miss Yarmouth. For the third time. “And great concentration. Even… silence.”
Hoping that her inquisitive client would get the hint, Angelica closed her eyes again and fingered Baron Framingham’s glove. She didn’t know how Miss Yarmouth had extracted the item from her possible fiancé, but that wasn’t of any concern.
At last, the familiar prickling sort of buzz descended upon her and Angelica focused on the images evolving. It was rather like that moment between sleep and wakefulness…where one was fully aware of what images scanned over the insides of one’s eyelids but had no control over their content.
When she was able to summon it, the vision was always a picture, a static image that, while it didn’t change, allowed her the chance to examine all its details. A moment in time, captured, as the last bit of life evaporated.
“He’s much older. Perhaps fifty. Bald atop his head, many wrinkles. Lying in bed. Eyes closed.” She listed off her impressions as she got them. “The window nearby…there’s bright sun and leaves on the tree. Full leaves. Summer perhaps. Alas, I cannot tell if there is anyone with him.” That was a bit of a lie, for she did see a woman who looked nothing like Miss Yarmouth.
But that could be anyone—a servant, a nurse, a sister—and she never gave any information that could imply or suggest what the woman’s decision could or should be.
“Facial hair?” asked the young woman, her voice hushed. “Is he clean-shaven?”
“No facial hair, nor sideburns. There seems to be no sign of injury, but his face is drawn and gray.” Angelica opened her eyes. “I believe he dies of old age, or some malady. And from his aged appearance and the loss of his hair, I should expect it will be a decade or more from now.” She looked at Miss Yarmouth. “So you must decide if you can bear to be wed to the man for some time.”
The inquisitive, impatient Miss Yarmouth didn’t seem to appreciate Angelica’s advice. “But you have told me very little. How shall I make a decision about that?”
Angelica tucked the second gold crown a bit deeper into her reticule. “You have more information now with which to make a decision than you did earlier this evening. And more information than anyone else would be able to give you.”
With the exception, possibly, of Sonia. But that was unlikely, for Angelica knew that her younger sister had a completely different view of their gift of Sight than she did. While Angelica had not only learned to live with it, but to embrace it, Sonia considered her version of the Sight a curse, and that was why she’d entered a convent school. She felt she needed protection for—or perhaps from—her gift.
Angelica rose from the little stool in the corner of the ladies’ retiring room—which she had unceremoniously cleared of both maids and ladies upon her arrival—and looked down at the other woman. “The image I receive is only the moment of death. Unlike today, there are times when it’s simple to determine the cause or even the age and time: for instance if someone is hit by a carriage or is shot or tumbles down a flight of stairs.”
Or falls off a bridge.
Angelica bit her lip. That dream had been so odd, so unexpected. She’d never experienced anything like it before…for it wasn’t like her normal visions. Not only had she dreamed actual events, but the information had come to her unbidden. And the most sobering thing about it was that the man had actually appeared tonight. He was a real person. And he’d been dressed exactly as he had in the dream, down to the tie of his neckcloth.
Which meant that he would likely die tonight.
Her lip throbbed from where she’d bit down, but Angelica ignored it. What else could she do? She’d warned Lord Brickbank, and suffered through the condescending looks from him and the skeptical one from his handsome companion. Who was he?
Oh, yes. Dewhurst.
He hadn’t seemed any more interested in her pronouncement and warning than Lord Brickbank had, but Angelica had felt a prickling over her skin when he looked at her. As if he was searching for…something.
“I must go,” she told Miss Yarmouth. “I wish you the best regards, and I pray you will make a decision that will make you happy, as well as your father and Baron Framingham.”
She gave a little bow and left the young woman, who now looked utterly miserable and a bit lost, sitting on her stool alone in the room.
Beyond the warm, tea rose and lily–infused walls of the ladies tiring room, Angelica was able to draw in a relatively clean breath. The rooms where the ladies might need to disrobe—to correct frock malfunctions or dragging hems— were kept well-heated for obvious reasons and, along with the powder dusting the air, it made for a cloying environment.
“Ah, Miss Woodmore. How serendipitous.”
Angelica turned at the sound of the low, smooth voice and felt her heart give a little lurch. For some absurd reason, her cheeks suddenly felt warm as she met the eyes of none other than Viscount Dewhurst. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” she asked.
He seemed to have appeared from nowhere, for the corridor down which she’d been walking had been empty when she came out of the chamber. She hadn’t heard the sound of a door opening, nor of footsteps. Unless he had been waiting for her…
A little prickle of unease, combined with—yes, she must be honest—intrigue, filtered over her shoulders as she glanced past him to gauge how far out of earshot she was from the party. Yet, though her heart was pounding and her palms dampened beneath their gloves, she didn’t feel nervous or threatened.
Just…aware.
Very aware.
He stepped from the narrow shadow given off by a statue on a wide pedestal, which had likely contributed to her not noticing him, moving into the corridor near her. “I had hoped to claim you for a dance, if your card isn’t filled,” he said, still in that warm voice. “And then you disappeared, and I thought I had lost my chance. But now I have been so fortunate as to find you just when I had given up hope.” Any sense of the melodramatic in his words was balanced by the twinkle in his eyes.
As it was, Angelica had forgotten about her dance card, which she’d stuffed into her reticule before meeting Miss Yarmouth. It was filled, of course, and she’d missed at least two dances. She thus expected that the gentlemen in question would be looking for her to claim a different song. Which meant that she was overbooked.