The Vampire Voss

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?

As he followed his future tête-à-tête out of sight with his eyes, Voss’s attention moved onto a different figure pushing through the crowd toward them. In spite of himself, in spite of the insistent flow of people around and with him, he stilled, his attention caught by the woman.

Young, was his first thought. Too young for his taste. Not experienced enough. Barely out in Society, perhaps seventeen or eighteen at the outside. But…she moved with grace and flair and determination even through the mad crush.

As she drew closer, Voss realized she seemed to be fixated on something behind him, for she was moving at a steady clip through the same buffet of people that surrounded him. Most women strolled leisurely about a party, often arm-in-arm, intending to see and to be seen. But this girl, with her shining dark hair and eyes, moved with deliberation and speed.

The bright yellow gown made her dusky-rose skin look rich and exotic, and as she drew closer, he could make out the almond shape of her dark, dark eyes. Her breasts caught his attention, of course, as they rose from the square line of her bodice, but it was the curve of her throat and the delicate hollow of her collarbone, the slide of her neck, that made his mouth go dry.

Voss clamped his mouth closed, lest the tips of his upper fangs, which had distended without warning, be revealed. They slid neatly back into place, but he found himself a bit shaken. He loosened his fingers and reminded himself to breathe.

Someone jostled him, forcing his attention from the vision in lemon, and as he turned to snap at Brickbank (for who else would it be?), he found himself face-to-face with Dimitri.

“Corvindale,” Voss said coolly, despite the fact that he’d been taken totally unaware—normally an impossibility. “Won’t you go over there and put that damned violinist out of his misery? His bloody D-string is flat as a hag’s tits.”

“What are you doing here?” Dimitri said. His countenance, always forbidding and dark, had settled into one of stone. His admirable attire, in tones of charcoal, steel, ink and a white shirtwaist, was nevertheless just as dour as his expression. Aloof, annoyed and arrogant, the earl nevertheless attracted interested, half-lidded glances from women everywhere he went. Yet, it was that cold demeanor that kept all but the most bold of them away. And even the boldest ones couldn’t coax even the faintest bit of warmth from those steel-gray eyes.

Voss shrugged languidly. “Certainly not the same thing you’re doing. Come to think of it, I can’t imagine what would compel the Earl of Corvindale to make an appearance at a ball. So crowded, so filled with people and, Luce forbid, revelry. Surely you’re not in the market for a wife, and you certainly can’t be looking for anything else from the array of blue-blooded beauties here tonight.” He made certain his feral smile indicated to Dimitri just what he was missing.

The earl’s expression didn’t change. Instead, hardly moving his lips, he said, “Stay away from the Woodmore girls. Or I’ll kill you.”

A dart of fury suffused him, leaving Voss momentarily struggling to maintain his insouciance. But he refused to let his easy smile slip, knowing that to keep it in place would only annoy Corvindale further. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

He would have sauntered off, presenting him with his back, but at that moment Voss caught a flash of yellow from the corner of his eye. He’d turned during the exchange with Corvindale, and now, as he caught the sunny frock at the edge of his vision, he pivoted just in time to see that the lovely young woman was approaching him.

No, not him.

Brickbank.

The dark-haired beauty swept past him, Eddersley and even Corvindale and came to a sudden, almost startled, halt in front of Voss’s tipsy, ginger-haired friend.

As she breezed past, the air stirred, her curls bounced and her gown flowed and Voss caught her scent.

All of the Draculia members, along with their other eccentricities, had a heightened sense of smell. That was a trial as much as a benefit, for the miasma of aromas, especially in an unfamiliar environment, could often be overpowering. Voss had learned to allow the good, the odd and the putrid to meld together into something palatable. But there were times when something separated from the rest and rose to his notice. It might be a smell that was nauseating or strange, or simply rank.

In this case it was…indescribable. Titillating and… intriguing.

Voss realized with a start that he’d been standing there with his nostrils quite literally, ridiculously, flaring, trying to draw in the unusual aura. Fortunately no one else seemed to notice, for the young woman had done something completely and utterly out of etiquette.

Even though he’d been in the Colonies—gad, now they were called the United States, weren’t they?—for much of the past three decades, Voss knew that a proper young woman never approached a man whom she didn’t know and began to speak to him. Particularly without a chaperone.

But that was precisely what was occurring to the dumfounded Brickbank, whose nose was still tinged red at its pointed tip.

“—must have a moment to speak with you, my lord,” she was saying. He had to give her credit, for despite what she must perceive as urgency, her voice was low and calm.

“I…er…” One could only attribute Brickbank’s unusual befuddlement to the breach of etiquette in addition to Voss’s best brandy. “But of course, miss…er, mada—my lady?”

“Perhaps we could step aside?” she asked.

Voss had sidled closer. Not, he told himself, so that he could sniff delicately at the fragrance that clung to her—he felt ridiculous even acknowledging the fact that he considered doing so—but so that he could determine the exact color of her hair. And eyes. And discern whether that was indeed a delicate little mole at the back of her neck, just where the base curved into a creamy-rose shoulder, or some sort of smudge.

Corvindale said something and shifted so that he cut into Voss’s view, bringing the latter back into the moment as if he’d been shaken awake from a dream.

A very compelling dream.

Now that he’d focused back in on the conversation, he realized that she wasn’t merely too inexperienced…but she was also the Earl of Corvindale’s new ward.

But, Luce’s nails, that just made her all the more enticing. He smiled.

“My name is Angelica Woodmore,” she was saying. Her hair was dark, nearly black, but with brown lights that made it rich and interesting. Impatience colored her voice, and de spite the fact that she’d fairly barreled into a strange group of gentlemen—and rather fierce, austere-looking ones at that—she seemed more intent on having some sort of communication with Brickbank than anything else.

“Miss Woodmore, I am the Earl of Corvindale,” said Dimitri in a pronouncement that Voss was certain was meant to stop the chit in her tracks.

It did, in fact. Miss Woodmore paused and looked at him in surprise. Then her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “My sister has been looking everywhere for you, my lord. We understood you would be here tonight. You have not responded to her letter.”

Voss didn’t try very hard to smother his amusement at the girl’s set-down. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as young as he’d thought, taking the earl to task. He shook his head mentally, wondering what it was about the earl that attracted women. Certainly Miss Woodmore wasn’t one of them. He was ridiculously glad that was the case.

Corvindale, of course, rose to the occasion by looking down his long, prominent nose at her. “An earl does not generally respond on command, Miss Woodmore. Particularly to imperious orders from young women.”

“Angelica!”

A new voice—a feminine one, laced with shock and annoyance, and barely hissing from between clenched teeth but pitched so as to reach above the dull stew of noise—drew the attention of the entire group. Voss recognized immediately that this was another Woodmore sister and he couldn’t help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth.

Corvindale looked as if he’d been stung. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. The man stiffened and couldn’t quite suppress a flare of something that rose in his austere face, but was quickly submerged. Fascinating. Voss could still sense the man’s discomfort as he turned to the sister and gave a sharp, smart bow.

“Miss Woodmore,” he said.

“Maia, I’ve found the earl,” said Miss Angelica Woodmore unnecessarily.

“So I see,” replied her sister. Still with clenched teeth, but at this point Voss wasn’t certain if that was for the benefit of Corvindale or Angelica.

The next portion of the conversation between the earl and the sister was lost on Voss, for the lovely Angelica had turned back to Brickbank. Every time she moved, a new, fresh waft of her filtered toward him. Voss sidled nearer, sliding past Eddersley to get closer.

“It’s of a personal nature,” Miss Woodmore was saying. Her expression and demeanor were of matching earnestness, and for a moment, Voss was overwhelmed by annoyance.

Why wasn’t she approaching him to speak of something of a personal nature? He was quite certain he could find something personal and natural to interest her.

Why on God’s green earth did she have to find Brickbank fascinating?

Then Voss realized it was simply because she hadn’t seen him yet, and he edged his way even closer. Women always noticed him. And that was one of the delights of his immortal life. He enjoyed as many of them as he wanted, without the hassle of having to woo or court or be the recipient of their many moods. Let alone spend any significant amount of time with them outside of the bedchamber. Why bother? There was always another one waiting.

None too gently, he elbowed up to Brickbank and turned to bestow his most charming smile on the yellow-gowned chit with the alarmingly enticing neck.

It was swanlike, long and curved just so. Elegant…and Voss realized he was having a hard time swallowing. His incisors teased him, slipping out just enough that his tongue brushed against them in a parody of where they really wanted to be: sliding into that ivory flesh, to feel the flood of hot, heavy blood surging into his mouth, over his tongue…into him.

Sweet. It would be sweet and heady and rich, and she would sigh against him, the pleasure trammeling through her veins, matching his. Their breaths would mingle, their bodies sear against the other.…

He blinked, focused and nearly turned away, calling himself every ridiculous name he knew. It had been less than thirty minutes since the girl in the alley…and only yesterday since he’d partaken even more fully of the erotic flesh. He certainly didn’t need to pant after a virginal young miss who was about to be taken under the wing of that dead-blooded Corvindale, enticing as she might be. Another trip to Rubey’s might be in order. Or a tête-à-tête with that saucy matron in pink. She looked as if she’d be a rough, wild ride.

She might be convinced to allow him to sink into her neck instead of her arm. Or thigh. Plump, sensitive thighs were a lovely treat, but not so much as a sleek, bare neck. He felt the stab of interest shimmer through him, and he found himself eyeing that one belonging to Miss Woodmore.

“I feel the need to warn you,” she was saying. Obviously Brickbank wasn’t listening any more closely than Voss had been, for his expression seemed quite unfocused, as well.

“Warn me?” he repeated.

“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” Voss said, at last, at last, drawing the girl’s attention to him. He gave a genteel bow and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. Her scent surrounded him and he felt something tug in his belly, followed by a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder. His mouth brushed the cotton of her glove and he had an instant fantasy of slipping that glove down to bare a narrow wrist. “I am Dewhurst.”

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.

But her mouth moved before she realized what she meant to say, and instead this came out: “Dance card? I do believe mine has gone missing, my lord.” She shrugged delicately, her little reticule with its two gold crowns and crumpled dance card dangling from her wrist. “And I cannot recall to whom I’ve promised this next selection.”

“As I said,” he replied, his green-gold eyes narrowing with humor, “how serendipitous that I should have come upon you. It would be a shame, to say the least, if you were resigned to standing against the wall because you had lost your card. Instead I shall rescue you from such a fate.”

He offered his arm, and Angelica, who was no stranger to curling her fingers around a man’s coat sleeve, stepped closer as she did so. At once, she became fully aware of not only his height and breadth, but also how terribly handsome he was. All bronze and honey-colored in hair and skin, but with bright emerald glints sharpening his golden eyes. He had thick brows and lashes, and full lips that made her mouth go dry when she looked at it. As he looked down at her, with a bit of a smile on those mobile lips and his eyes warmly considering her, Angelica’s breath became unsteady and her cheeks even a bit warmer.

Shaking off the momentary paralysis, she started toward the revelry. After the merest of hesitations, he came along with her…almost as if he’d been expecting her to go in a different direction. Away from the party.

As if Angelica Woodmore was foolish enough to slip away with a strange gentleman. If she were Maia, she’d sniff in annoyance at the insult—whether it was real or imagined. She wasn’t about to make the foolish mistake that Eliza Billingsly had made last Season, getting caught in a compromising position with that stoop-shouldered Mr. Deetson-Waring. They were now wed, and Eliza had never looked unhappier.

“I do hope Corvindale will allow you to waltz,” Dewhurst said as they approached the ballroom.

Angelica had a little stumble. “A waltz?” The forbidden dance had recently become popular in Paris after being common for more than a decade in Vienna, but its music was rarely played in London. And even rarer were the young debutantes who were allowed to partake in the scandalous moves.

Then she realized what else he’d said. “Corvindale? He’s given little attention to us thus far, my lord. I hardly fear he’ll impose his sanctions on me for a simple dance.” It occurred to Angelica that, with Chas gone and the earl reluctant to take on the responsibility of her guardianship, she might attain a certain, albeit temporary, latitude in her actions. Not that she would do anything foolish…but a young woman could do with a bit of adventure now and again.

Unless she were Maia Woodmore, then she would sit primly and properly and wonder when her fiancé was going to return from the Continent.

Dewhurst was looking down at Angelica with a smile. “My dear Miss Woodmore, I greatly fear you are wrong about that.”

“About the earl?”

“No,” he said, the slow smile sending a bolt of warmth into her belly, “about the waltz being a simple dance.” His eyes narrowed again as humor lit them. “The waltz is sensual and graceful and smooth…and the steps might be considered simple by one who’s never executed them before. But the dance itself…it is quite an experience.”

Angelica felt, again, that sort of breathlessness. Yet, she managed to keep her voice even and bright. Mildly flirtatious. “Indeed?”

“And if one is partnered by a good dancer, then, my dear Miss Woodmore, the experience is even more enjoyable. And I must confess…I am an excellent dancer.”

“Then I shall count myself fortunate that you have deigned to partner me for my first waltz.”

“Your good fortune, but my infinite pleasure.”

All at once, Angelica remembered their initial conversation, the one which they’d shared with Brickbank. And at the same moment, something flashed into her memory—a detail from the dream. The bridge. She recognized it, and had just remembered.

Compelled by a flood of guilt and determination, she paused just at the juncture of their corridor with another hallway and the foyer leading to the ballroom. Voices and laughter, along with the music, had become loud enough that she needed to turn to fully face Dewhurst in order to ensure he’d hear her.

“My lord,” she said, releasing his arm and looking up at him. He’d halted, of course, and now looked down at her with a bemused expression. That wide, squared-off jaw with its cleft and smooth, golden skin, complemented by full lips and unruly hair, combined to create a most attractive image. And it was clear he knew just what sort of effect he had on women.

“Feeling a bit apprehensive about dancing the waltz now, my dear miss?” he asked. “We could always take a stroll on the patio until the next quadrille.” Those eyes glinted wickedly.

She drew herself up, even crossing her arms in front of her. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s about your friend, Lord Brickbank.”

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.