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Cezar certainly hadn’t changed since Vienna. If anything, he’d become even more obsessed with power and control.
Dimitri returned to the letter, trying not to acknowledge the exotic perfume that permeated the paper. One of the many curses of being Dracule was his extraordinary sense of smell. Not terribly pleasant, when out and about on the streets of London, and even less so when trying to avoid scenting something he wished to ignore. Reluctantly he read on.
My brother impressed upon me the seriousness of this manner, and it is only because of his specific and unrelenting urgency that I dare send this letter.
I wish to assure you, Lord Corvindale, that the only reason I am contacting you is because of my brother’s express wishes. There is truly no need for you to concern yourself with the guardianship of myself and my sisters, for Chas has often been away on business trips and we have fared just as well during his previous absences with the chaperonage of our cousin and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Fernfeather.
He recalled that, based upon his single previous interaction with her, Miss Maia Woodmore was also this long-winded in person.
In addition, my upcoming wedding to Mr. Alexander Bradington will shortly put me in the position to act as chaperone for my younger sisters.
Dimitri realized he was crinkling the paper and he reminded himself that the written word, regardless of from whom it came, what language it was in, and what message it bore, was precious. Yes, he’d seen the engagement announcement in the Times some months ago. The news had been welcome to those who followed that sort of on dit—which certainly didn’t include the reclusive Earl of Corvindale.
At that time (Miss Woodmore’s perfect hand continued in its no-nonsense manner) your services as guardian to my sisters and myself will no longer be necessary.
In fact, (here her penmanship became the slightest bit thicker and perhaps even more precise) I see no reason for you to bestir yourself in regards to my sisters and myself at all, Lord Corvindale. Despite my brother’s concern, which I can’t help but believe is overly cautious and more than a bit exaggerated, Angelica and I shall fare perfectly well in London on our own until Chas returns.
I look forward to receiving a response at your earliest convenience.
Which meant, Dimitri knew, immediately upon receipt of the letter. Miss Woodmore was thus doomed to disappointment, for the message had arrived early this morning, when he was still asleep at his desk. Not that he would have jumped to respond to her anyway.
She signed her name simply, Maia Woodmore.
And there, for the first time, was a bit of feminine embellishment, just on the lower curve of the M and on the upper swoop of the W.
Unfortunately for Miss Maia Woodmore, Dimitri had already been…what was the word? Bestirred.
Indeed, he’d been more than merely bestirred relative to their guardianship. And, he snarled to himself, it was only going to get worse. He was going to have to bring the chits into this very household if he meant to keep them safe from Moldavi and his private army of vampire goons. Damn Chas Woodmore’s mortal arse.
Dimitri happened to know that Moldavi was in Paris with his nose permanently inserted in the crack of Napoleon Bonaparte’s arse—or perhaps this fortnight he was licking the new emperor’s bollocks—and it would take him some time to send his men after Woodmore and his sisters. But not very much time, despite the war between their two countries.
Which meant that Dimitri must move quickly.
He looked around his study, swathed in heavy curtains to keep out the sun. Books and papers were piled everywhere and shelves lined the walls, crammed full with even more tomes and manuscripts. An utter mess, Mrs. Hunburgh claimed, but she wasn’t allowed into the chamber at all except for a weekly dust and sweep. No one else was allowed in but for the occasional visit by Dimitri’s butler or valet.
And blast it, he’d intended to visit the antiquarian bookstore next to Lenning’s Tannery again today. He meant to ask the blonde woman, who dressed as if she were a thirteenth century chatelaine instead of a shopkeeper, about references—scrolls, papyruses, whatever—from Egypt in particular. He cursed under his breath. Now he wouldn’t have the chance.
Napoleon Bonaparte had brought chests and crates of antiquities back from his travels through and conquest of Egypt, and the objects were being sold and distributed throughout Europe. Surely there was something in the ancient world of pharaohs and sun gods that would help Dimitri banish the demon of darkness who’d lured him into an unholy contract decades ago. Even though Vlad Tepes, the Count Dracula, had made his agreement with Lucifer in the fifteenth century, Dimitri suspected that his ancestor hadn’t been the first mortal to sell his soul—and that of his progeny—to the devil. The legend of Johann Faust had become popular after Vlad’s agreement, but there had to have been others since the beginning of time. He’d studied manuscripts and writings of the Greeks and Romans, even some from Aramea and other parts of the Holy Land.
Perhaps there would be something he could glean from the Egyptian antiquities and hieroglyphs that would give him direction. Not that anyone had been able to break the code of the Egyptian alphabet yet, but Dimitri was determined to try his hand at it.
After all, he had forever to do it.
And now the stele that had been found in Rosetta several years ago by the French, and was currently in the possession of the Antiquarian Society here in London, looked promising for translating the hieroglyphs. Thus, Dimitri was hopeful. He would love to get his hands on the stone himself, but that would mean having to be around people and playing politics and listening to gossip and jests and having to avoid the sun in public company…and all sorts of things he’d much rather avoid.
He’d considered stealing—rather, borrowing the so-called Rosetta Stone for a time in order to work on it himself, but in the end decided against it. Perhaps he might break into the British Museum, where it was kept, and make a rubbing of it one night—if he didn’t have to spend his bloody time accompanying debutantes to masques and balls. His jaw hurt where his teeth ground together.
There was no way around it.
The two elder Woodmore sisters would soon be overrunning his solitude, upsetting his household and interrupting his studies. And, blast it all, so would Dimitri’s own so-called sibling, Mirabella—for naturally, he’d have to bring her into Town, as well. He’d adopted the foundling as his sister some years ago—and he supposed he’d put off her debut as long as he could. The very thought of three debutantes in his house made him grind his teeth sourly.
