The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(5)
Author: Colleen Gleason

There were dinner parties, theater and balls, the women shopped for fashionable gowns, and men visited their clubs-though now, they did it with worried glances over the shoulder and a definite strain in one’s smile. The whispers and low-voiced conversations in corners were no longer confined to gossip about who was doing what to whom, but were filled with warnings and worries. Who would be next?

Little of this, however, affected those of the Dracule. In fact, not only did government and authority mean nothing to the vampires, but such upheaval only made their lives easier. The more chaotic, the better.

Which was why Giordan suspected that Moldavi was more than a little involved in the ongoing rivalry between Robes pierre and his so-called "terror as a virtue" campaign, and that of Hebert and the proposition of his atheist cult-both factions which promoted reason over religion, government over church. While the two factions argued, fought and executed, the turbulent fallout was beneficial to Moldavi who sought to exercise as much control as possible over his mortal counterparts.

Giordan had extended a particular invitation to the cloistered Moldavi to join him at the club this evening. He wasn’t at all certain that the man would accept, for he rarely left his subterranean residence, but he was hopeful that the possibility of continuing discussion on their potential business arrangement would draw him out. Aside of that, people rarely declined an invitation from him, simply because Giordan’s parties and fetes were known for being lavish and exciting and, quite often, with unique entertainment. He didn’t specifically ask that Moldavi bring his sister, but he knew it was likely that Narcise would accompany him.

Through the time Giordan had been absent from Paris, Moldavi had become entrenched in the underworld of the French Dracule. And on the rare occasion that he participated in social activities, he was usually accompanied by his sister. The better, Giordan had come to learn, to tempt friend and enemy alike into engaging with Narcise in battle.

There would be few men-mortal or otherwise-who could resist an opportunity to win a night with a woman such as she. The most troubling aspect of that particular arrangement was, in Giordan’s mind, whether Narcise’s brother forced her to engage in those gambles, or whether she did it of her own free will. If it were the former-and he was fairly certain it was, a suspicion supported by the empty expression on her face-there was yet another reason for him to disdain Moldavi, for exercising such influence over a woman was just as abhorrent as bleeding children to death.

And so when Giordan, who’d been sipping a very fine French brandy with two companions in his favorite private parlor, was advised that both Cezar and Narcise Moldavi had arrived, he merely nodded to himself. The bait had been taken, and he hoped to have his curiosity assuaged.

He was more than a bit curious to see what Narcise would be like in a less combative, restrictive environment, whether that dull glaze would be gone from her eyes, and whether a woman who looked like her, and fought with the ferocity of a man, had any social skills at all. Or whether she was merely a well-trained puppet.

Giordan was master enough of himself to admit that his interest and attraction had been piqued, and sharply. And honest enough to note that he would suffer even the presence of the repugnant Moldavi to pursue it.

It didn’t take long before the invited guests found their way to Giordan’s presence, and his host duly welcomed the siblings, introducing them to Eddersley, Voss, and indicating the latter’s latest mistress, Yvonna. She was a mortal, and her eyes had sunk half-closed due to the earlier employment of an opium pipe. Now, she sagged quietly in a corner chaise while the men conversed.

Clearly Cezar Moldavi had been in his early twenties when he’d been turned Dracule. His facial features and the swarthiness of his skin betrayed a strong Romanian heritage despite an underlying pastiness; in fact, Giordan knew that Moldavi had only permanently left Romania within the last decade, although he’d made extensive trips throughout Europe prior to settling in Paris. His voivodina in Moldavia had been very remote, yet the army within was the most fearsome and powerful in its nation.

He was many pounds lighter than Giordan, and slighter as well, but he had a square jaw that made his face seem oddly proportioned, verging upon awkward. His dark brows hung thick and straight over small blue-gray eyes, and his hair grew unfashionably like a thin walnut cap over his forehead and ears. He had surprisingly elegant hands that were covered in rings, and he was fashionably attired in a long-tailed, cut-away coat of dark red brocade and dun-colored knee breeches. His waistcoat did not stint on color, of course, for dull hues were only for the lower class. Moldavi moved with a barely perceptible limp that had to be from an injury prior to becoming immortal.

"We’ve met, albeit briefly," Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst said, nodding to the new arrival. His attention strayed, as of course it would, to Narcise.

"Ah, yes," Moldavi replied, his face flattening in annoyance. His French wasn’t perfect, but certainly serviceable. "In Vienna. On that most unfortunate evening some years ago. If I recall, you left before the fire that destroyed the house, did you not?"

But of course Giordan knew about the incident that had burned Dimitri’s house in Vienna. "Some years ago" had actually been more than a century, but such was the life of an immortal when decades became mere flashes in time.

Voss and Moldavi had both been there in Vienna that night, and had both contributed to the tragedy in their own ways-although literally passing by each other as Voss departed and Moldavi arrived.

"Perhaps you might recall I was there as well," Eddersley said in his deep, cultured voice. He had large, knobby hands and wrists, and lots of dark, curling hair. His attention, as it was wont to do, barely touched on Narcise and instead glanced more contemplatively over her brother. But the short, slender Moldavi was no more Lord Eddersley’s preference than Narcise was. He veered toward elegant, fair-haired men with broad shoulders and significant height when it came to feeding, and other pleasures. "But we haven’t formally met."

"It was a rather…eventful night." Moldavi sketched the briefest of bows to the lanky, strong-featured man without comment, and Giordan fancied he saw him even sniff in disdain, for Eddersley made no effort to hide his preference for men. The latter gave no response aside of a similarly brief nod and then glanced at Voss, a little annoyed smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he greeted Narcise politely.

Next to her dark, awkward brother, Narcise appeared a swan. Giordan had to work to keep his attention from fastening on her and remaining there. But in the short moment his eyes swept her figure, he noted the detailed arrangement of her dark hair, tonight soft and loose around her porcelain face, and the sharp, sharp notice of her eyes.