The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia #2)(33)
Author: Colleen Gleason

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.

His world was unaffected, for the most part, by the government or legal systems of his mortal counterparts. And, as one who’d lived through the Cromwell years and the return of Charles II to the throne before he even became Dracule, Dimitri had no qualms about his apathetic attitude. Government machinations meant nothing to him.

When Dimitri arrived, he found Chas and Giordan Cale in the private apartments at White’s. Other than the three of them and the two attending footmen, the chambers were empty. There weren’t many other Dracule in London at the time—not that there ever were, for Lucifer was selective in his choices for soul induction. Dimitri thought sourly that he wished the devil had been even more selective, and passed him by almost a hundred and forty years ago. He certainly wasn’t the sort of man Lucifer tended to gravitate toward.

At least, he hadn’t been before becoming Dracule. He’d been a quiet, studious young man who grew up in a Puritan household where books and God were revered and clothing was black, brown, gray or dun.

He’d been perfectly content with his studies, for, as the youngest son of five and thus unlikely to inherit the Corvindale title, he was attempting a professorship in physics at Cambridge. And even after Cromwell died and Charles II was restored to the throne, Dimitri continued in his simple life of studies. Until he met Meg.