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The earl slid his companion a dark look, but Woodmore wasn't certain whether it was because he took offense, which was bloody unlikely, or because he didn't want to be here in the private apartment at White's gentlemen's club in the first place. His employer-which was a loose term, for they were more like associates working toward the same goals than master and minion, and, aside of that, a gentleman never actually worked for anyone anyway-rarely left his study unless it was to seek out more ancient books or parchments to add to his collection.
Brickbank, a baronet from Derbyshire who was also a member of the Dracule, gestured to a hovering footman for a refill on his whiskey, complaining, "Wish those Brits would run that damned frog Boney out of Paris. Damned tired of drinking this rot from Scotland. Miss a good Armagnac."
"Those Brits? Do you not consider yourself one of them?" Cale asked, sipping his own "rot."
"I'm too old to be a damned soldier," Brickbank replied, and all of the vampirs laughed. Even Corvindale managed the sharp bark of a chuckle. Of course they would: each of them was well over a century old, and they looked no more than in the prime of their lives. "And I don't give a bloody damn about their Prinnys or their Parliaments or anyone's cock-licking emperors."
Woodmore wouldn't trade places with any of the Dracule, even to live and be forever young and virile...for when they died, they belonged to Lucifer. Even vampirs, like their mortal counterparts, had the illusion of free will and some choice to be good or evil; still, a life of taking sustenance from other living creatures, of the uncontrollable bloodlust that came with it...of being cloistered from the sun, and knowing that one would spend eternity in the bowels of hell-whenever eternity struck-such a life was repulsive to Woodmore.
That was, perhaps, the only reason he and Corvindale had become friends-because he knew that more than anything, the earl wanted to sever his relationship with Lucifer. As proof, for over a hundred years, the earl had refused to feed as the Devil intended, and instead resorted to butchers' bags of blood for sustenance.
Among the Dracule, this long-term abstinence was routinely blamed for the earl's irritable disposition and dark personality.
"But of course Corvindale can get anything through the lines," Cale said with a sidewise glance at the man in question. "He's hardly noticed any inconvenience from the war between our nations, despite the problems crossing the Channel, have you, Dimitri? He's kept me in supply of my favorite Bordeaux as well."
"You have a stash of Armagnac?" Brickbank said, looking at the earl in surprise. "And haven't brought it here to White's? Should move the game to Blackmont then."
Corvindale shot another dark look, this time aimed at Giordan Cale, who smiled as he lifted his own glass to drink. "Naturally I've charged you a substantial fee to keep you in such supply," the earl replied to Cale.
Woodmore hid his own amusement. The last thing his employer wanted was people at his home, bothering him while he was trying to immerse himself in old scrolls and ancient languages. Searching for a way to break the covenant with Lucifer.
Which was why Woodmore felt particularly grateful that, some years back, Corvindale had agreed to play guardian and guard for his sisters should anything happen to him. He had three younger sisters-Maia, Angelica and Sonia, the latter of whom happened to be ensconced far north of London in a Scottish convent-and a dangerous occupation of which none of them were aware.
"I'm of a mind to take the game to Rubey's," said Cale, "if we're talking of moving it. I suspect Dimitri has supplied her with some excellent vintages as well-and she won't make us leave so she can hole herself up in her study."
Corvindale glanced at him, lifting one eyebrow with skepticism. "Spying on your potential competition?"
"Not any longer. She's convinced me that it would be futile for any establishment of mine to try to compete with hers here in London. Now I'm attempting to persuade her to take on an investor-namely me-to make some improvements to the place. Aside of that...ah, well, she meets another criteria of mine and she's been rather accommodating." Cale smiled with exaggerated modesty.
Woodmore, along with every Dracule in London, was well-acquainted with Rubey's-the luxurious brothel that catered to vampirs and, occasionally, a select few mortals who were aware of the Draculean underground. Rubey, a mortal herself, was a formidable character who reminded Chas of his half-part-Gypsy great-grandmother in personality, if not looks. She was sharp in business acumen, quick of wit and overly generous with lectures and advice-wanted or otherwise. Nearing forty, she was also very attractive, if not a bit long in the tooth for him.
Because he needed to be so ingrained in his employer's world of the Dracule, he'd visited her establishment on more than one occasion. But the most recent incident had been when he was too far into his cups and he ended up in one of the bedchambers with a female vampir make. That night of heat and pain and passion had been his first-and last-intimacy with a vampir, and one he did not intend to repeat...despite the fact that the very memory haunted him.
He tried to feel only revulsion for the night of debauchery, but even two weeks later, the marks from bites he'd begged for in the blur of drunkenness and lust hadn't quite healed. And remnants of the night's pleasures still weaved within his dreams.
As he picked up his drink, Woodmore noticed a little spider making its way along the edge of the table between him and Cale. He lifted his hand to smash it, but the other man raised his palm and said, "Allow me." And as he watched, Cale scooped the spider onto one of the playing cards and dropped the creature in a corner, where, presumably, it scuttled away to safety.
Woodmore couldn't help but eye the man curiously-a Dracule, sparing the life of a spider? Perhaps he felt some sort of bloodsucking kinship with the critter-and noticed that Corvindale had been watching as well with a bemused look on his face.
The earl looked as if he were about to comment, but he was interrupted by Brickbank.
"Woodmore, heard you tried to hang Cale on a stake, few weeks back," said the man, peering into his glass as if hoping it would change to something French. "Something about smoke explosives?"
"It would have been unfortunate if Woodmore succeeded," Corvindale said dryly. "For Cale still owes me for the last shipment."
"But since the casks are nearly empty, that would have been to my benefit," Cale retorted, giving rise to another round of laughter.
"It wasn't my best effort, that attempt," Woodmore admitted ruefully, thinking about how the little packets had fizzled and not puffed into a thick cloud of smoke when he'd thrown them into the fireplace. That had made it difficult for him to distract his victim. He looked at Cale, acknowledging at least privately that the man could easily have killed him that night. But for some reason, like the spider, Woodmore had been spared. "But as it turns out, it was for the best. Corvindale tells me you're intimately familiar with Cezar Moldavi and his place in Paris."
