by Brooklyn Ann
Cassandra finished long before he’d penned an opening salutation.
She rose from her chair and walked over to his side of the desk. “Perhaps the words will come better if I leave you in peace.” She kissed him on the cheek and left the study.
After what felt like an eternity, Rafe finally scratched out a few curt sentences. With a sigh, he folded the letter along with Cassandra’s. He had never been known for eloquence.
He sealed the envelope and brought it downstairs for Anthony to deliver.
“What did Blackpool have to say?” Anthony asked as soon as Rafe found him in the library.
He shook his head. “He won’t Change Cassandra, but he said he is on his way here to assist me with Clayton.”
Anthony blinked in surprise. “How did he know?”
“Someone told him, but I haven’t the faintest idea who.” Rafe handed him the envelope. “Could you see that this is delivered to the Lord of Cornwall immediately?”
“Certainly. Do you think he will fight for you? I hear his new bride is a crack shot with a pistol.”
“I do not know.”
Mrs. Smythe entered the room, giving Anthony a curious glance before curtsying to Rafe and presenting a tray holding another letter. “This just came for you, Don Villar.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Smythe.” After she left, he glanced at the seal with surprise. “It’s from the Lord of Rochester.”
Anthony stroked his chin. “Interesting.”
“Indeed.” Rafe read the letter and smiled. “Well, now I know how Blackpool heard of Clayton’s defection. Rochester must have told him. It doesn’t surprise me that he knew. That blood drinker has an uncanny way of getting wind of everything.”
Anthony chuckled. “Which is ironic given his immovable stance of neutrality any time a conflict erupts. So what does he want?”
“He says that he will stand with me but that he will demand a price, later to be named.” He sighed, unsurprised by such a condition.
His second bared his fangs. “Tricky bastard. What will you tell him?”
Rafe shrugged and lit a cigar. “As much as I’d love to tell him to go to hell, I have no choice but to accept. I have plenty of money, and other than my territory and Cassandra, there is little I would be unwilling to relinquish.”
Twenty-three
Castle Deveril, Cornwall
“Vincent?”
The Earl of Deveril and Lord Vampire of Cornwall looked up from his account ledgers at the sound of his wife’s beloved voice. “Yes, love?”
“I’ve received the most perplexing letter from the Dowager Countess of Rosslyn.” Lydia’s honeyed southern American drawl distracted him from the meaning of her words.
He tore his gaze from her succulent mouth. “Who?”
“Cassandra is a friend of Angelica’s. She assisted with her phantasmagoria and”—her golden eyes narrowed in reproach—“she was a witness at our wedding.”
Vincent gave her an apologetic smile and lifted his snifter of smuggled French brandy. “Ah yes, the eccentric one who aspired to be a doctor. What does she have to say?”
“She is staying at Burnrath House as a guest of Rafael Villar.” Lydia frowned. “The word ‘guest’ is underlined.”
He choked on his brandy. “What?”
“I said she is staying with Rafael Villar.” Confusion and worry tinged her voice.
Still coughing, he sputtered, “Good God!”
Lydia leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “That means she knows about what we are, doesn’t it? Why else would he have her there?”
Vincent nodded. “I can’t think of any other reason why Rafe would have a mortal under his roof. She’s most likely his prisoner. They must have had an encounter after which he wasn’t able to vanquish her memory.” His eyes narrowed as a horrifying thought came to him. “She isn’t asking you to free her, is she?”
“I don’t think so.” She pulled another envelope from the pocket of her painter’s apron. “Lady Rosslyn said she hopes we will accept Rafael’s invitation to come and stay with him at Burnrath House for the little season.”
Vincent took the missive and shook his head. “An invitation for the social season from someone who is less socially inclined than I am. This cannot bode well.”
He slit open the envelope with a fang and unfolded the letter. His eyes widened in incredulous wonder as he read.
Lord Deveril,
I hope you and your new countess are well. I am not so fortunate. My business has become fractured since Clayton and I have renounced our friendship. In spite of that unfortunate situation, it is my fondest wish that you and Lady Deveril come to London for the little season and visit me at Burnrath House.
There is to be an interesting celebration of Guy Fawkes Night. I’d be eternally grateful for your attendance.
Sincerely,
Rafael Villar
As if the news that the Lord of London was facing an insurrection were not shocking enough, a hastily scrawled postscript was added.
As you’ve by now heard from your wife, Lady Rosslyn is my guest and I would greatly appreciate any advice or assistance in providing company suitable for a lady of her rank.
Vincent set down the letter with a laugh and took a large swallow of brandy. Rafael was facing certain betrayal and possible war—and was asking for his help.
After all of his objections, scorn, and general lack of helpfulness during Vincent’s ordeal with Lydia, the surly Spaniard not only needed his help to maintain control over his territory, but also was asking for assistance with a situation involving a mortal woman. The irony was too rich.
“Oh, hell.” His laughter increased into full-blown hilarity.
* * *
Clayton threw down the letter from the Lord of Farnborough with a curse. “Lily-livered jackanapes,” he growled.
“Hmm?” Hamish blinked at him over the rim of his glass of whisky.
Clayton answered, though he was mostly talking to himself. “Farnborough agrees to stand with us, but just like Grimsby and Liverpool, he refuses to enter London until the day of the battle.” He shifted on the sofa, hissing in pain as his bullet wound protested. Burn wounds took so much longer to heal. “Cowardly sods.”
To add further salt to the wound, the Lord of Blackpool, one of Villar’s allies, had entered London and was now settled in a town house far more luxurious than Clayton’s.
One consolation, however, was that thus far Blackpool seemed to be the only ally that Villar was able to muster. Clayton smiled, not surprised that he wasn’t the only vampire who despised the pernicious, disfigured Spaniard.
“I still cannot believe he appointed Elizabeth as his new third-in-command. She’s an uppity wench.” Clayton shook his head. “The real farce is Villar promoting Anthony to be his second. I’ve never met a more foolish vampire. That buffoon cannot take anything seriously.” Despite the pain of his wound, a slow smile spread across Clayton’s lips. “However, his greatest folly is in allowing his little countess to live.”
It was time to notify the Elders of what Villar had been up to behind their backs. “Hamish, fetch me parchment and quill.”
The vampire heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Can’t Paul or Francis do it? I only now became comfortable.”
In a flash, Clayton launched from his seat and seized Hamish by the throat. Lifting him off the settee, Clayton leaned in and growled. “Never refute my orders in such an insolent manner!”
Hamish’s skin went chalk white. “Y-yes, my lord,” he choked out.
“The next time you do so will be your last.” Clayton threw Hamish to the floor. “Now do as I bid and then fetch me a harlot. You’ve aggravated my wound.”
The vampire scurried away and Clayton sighed, rubbing his temples. He must take a firmer hand with his people. He could not be as lax in his
reign as Rafael had been. All would obey him without question or suffer the consequences.
When Hamish returned with the writing implements and departed with a much more subservient demeanor, Clayton managed a smile. The smile broadened as he dipped his quill and composed a scathing report, cataloging all of Rafael Villar’s transgressions.
Folding the letter, he absently rubbed his healing bullet wound. He still couldn’t believe the bastard had shot him. Trust a cripple to use such cowardly methods. Villar would pay for that insult as well as all the others.
After sealing the envelope, Clayton ordered Hamish to place it in the hands of a trusted messenger. He congratulated himself on his ingenious timing. The Elders should arrive in London just when he would need them.
Twenty-four
30 October 1823
Cassandra watched Rafe staring out the library window with concern. The night was so foggy that it was doubtful he could see anything, even with superior sight.
“Are you all right, Rafe?” she dared to ask.
He sighed and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. “I don’t think he’s coming.”
“Who? Rochester or Deveril?” She tried to keep her voice casual, though inside she was aching for him. She had a fairly good guess of whom he was referring to. How could they abandon him in his time of need?
Rafe lit his cigar and turned to face her. “I was referring to Deveril…though I suppose it very well could be both, since one never knows with Rochester.”
“Well, at least the Lord of Blackpool is here,” she ventured with a cautious note of optimism, though her stomach churned with worry. What if Rafe lost the battle with Clayton?
He saw right through her feigned hope. “Things are not as bleak as they seem, Querida. Half of London’s vampires still remain loyal to me, and my meeting this evening went well. Blackpool and I—”
A knock sounded at the door before Anthony poked his head in. “The Lord of Cornwall is here, my lord, and—”
“Send him in,” Rafe said with barely disguised urgency.
Anthony obeyed with a quick bow and Cassandra breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
Moments later, Vincent Tremayne, Earl of Deveril and Lord Vampire of Cornwall, entered the library, towering over Anthony and, well, everyone. His disheveled silver-gold hair hung in his face. Lydia, his former ward turned vampire bride, walked in at his side. The top of her head only reached just below his chest.
Cassandra blinked in surprise, not recalling that the earl was so tall. How did they…? Her cheeks flamed and she cut short the thought.
As if reading her mind, Lady Deveril flashed a mischievous smile, her golden eyes glowing like a blacksmith’s forge. Her wavy black hair gleamed like spun obsidian, and her pale skin resembled alabaster. How had she ever thought them to be human?
Lord Deveril strode over to Rafe, brushing aside a lock of moonlit hair. “I apologize for the delay. Lydia had to pack her guns. They should arrive along with the rest of our trunks the night after tomorrow.”
Rafe closed his eyes a moment and mouthed something indecipherable before meeting the earl’s gaze. “So you will both stand with me? I cannot begin to—”
“Save your thanks for later,” the earl said levelly and sank to one knee, his tone suddenly turning formal. “Lord of London, I humbly beg your indulgence to allow my bride and me to hunt in your territory.” His stormy eyes glittered as he glanced at Cassandra. “We are quite depleted from our long run, and I’m afraid Lydia’s restraint will not last long around your, ah…Lady Rosslyn.”
Lydia glared at him and put her hands on her hips. “I am perfectly all right!”
Despite her vehement declaration, Cassandra couldn’t help stepping closer to Rafe. The fresh-faced Lady Deveril was eyeing her as if she were a side of roast beef.
Rafe pulled her closer against him and inclined his head respectfully. “As Lord of London, I grant you and Lydia permission to seek sustenance in my lands for the duration of your stay so long as you adhere to the Elders’ laws.”
Lord Deveril began to bow, then jerked back abruptly. “Your arm! It’s… But how?”
“Healed?” Rafe supplied with a wry grin. At Deveril’s nod, he continued, “As for the how, I thought you knew Lady Rosslyn was a physician.”
Deveril rounded on Cassandra, mouth agape. “You repaired his arm?”
She nodded slowly, overwhelmed by his intent scrutiny. “I performed a long series of operations.”
“Yes, she filleted me like a trout several times.” Rafe took Cassandra’s arm and turned toward the door. “But we can speak more on that later. For now, let us hunt.”
Deveril held up a hand. “You’re not bringing her along, are you?”
“I am.”
Lydia frowned and looked at her feet. “Are you certain that is the wisest idea, my lord?”
Rafe gripped her tighter. “I am not letting her out of my sight. Besides, she has witnessed me feeding before.”
Deveril nodded in agreement. “Even if she hadn’t, it would still be expedient to educate her in our way of life.”
“I suppose…” Lydia trailed off, still looking embarrassed.
Cassandra felt a pang of sympathy. “Don’t worry, Lady Deveril. I won’t watch you.”
Lydia flashed Cassandra a grateful smile, which was slightly unnerving with the glimpse of sharp fangs.
Once they were out of the house and away from the view of passersby, Rafe pulled Cassandra into his arms. “Wrap your legs around me, Querida,” he whispered in his rich, decadent voice.
Giving the earl and countess a blushing glance, she complied, melting into his warmth as he lifted her up.
“To Cheapside?” Rafe asked Deveril.
The earl took his wife’s hand and nodded. “Prepare to choke on my dust, Villar.”
The two vampires vanished from the spot. Rafe grumbled a Spanish curse and tightened his grip on Cassandra before taking off with such a burst of speed that she had to close her eyes or lose her breakfast.
In seconds, they were in the poor section of town. Cassandra glimpsed the earl and countess following a pair of street drabs into an alley. Rafael set her down and sighted his own prey, a drunkard stumbling out of a ramshackle pub.
Grasping her hand, he strode over to the human and mesmerized him. Like a placid lamb, the mortal allowed himself to be led behind the building. As Rafe released her and plunged his fangs into his victim’s throat, Cassandra felt a wayward pulse between her legs, remembering the pleasure of his bite.
Afterward, they rejoined the earl and countess.
“I feel so much better,” Lydia said, dabbing her mouth prettily with a handkerchief. “Thank you, Lord Villar.”
As the four made their way out of the poor district, Rafe explained the situation with Clayton to Lord Deveril. He didn’t yet elaborate on the reasons for Cassandra’s presence under his roof. She pushed down a nervous tremor.
The earl shook his head. “I am not shocked in the least. I knew that foppish idiot would make mischief eventually. I’m only surprised that Ian never guessed his duplicity.”
Rafe sighed. “Ian had other business distracting him over the last few years… The folly was truly mine. I should have kept a sharper eye on him.”
“Hindsight is ever a demon,” Deveril said dryly. “Where is the confrontation to take place?”
“The Wilderness region in Vauxhall Gardens. That area is shut down this time of year, and the humans will be occupied in the main section with the fireworks display.”
Deveril nodded in satisfaction. “That seems to be the most reasonable choice, though it is a shame that it will be a setting for such a dismal event. Lydia and I quite enjoyed our last tour of Vauxhall.” He gave his wife a salacious smile. “Didn’t we, my love?”
Cassandra blinked in surprise at the realization t
hat they were already approaching Burnrath House. She had been so engrossed in the vampires’ conversation that she hadn’t noticed how far they’d walked.
Anthony greeted them at the door to take their coats and shawls. “Thomas Wakley is waiting in the drawing room for Cassandra.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew two embossed envelopes. “And these arrived for you and Lord Deveril from the Duke of Wentworth.”
“Wentworth?” Rafe frowned as he took his envelope. “What the hell does he want?”
Vincent shrugged. “Let us see what Lady Rosslyn’s visitor wants first.”
Cassandra needed no further urging as she rushed to the drawing room.
Wakley rose from his seat and held out the newest issue of The Lancet with a smile. “I thought you’d want it fresh and warm from the press.”
Cassandra took the paper, mouth moving in wordless astonishment.
“It’s on the third page, under Anonymous.” He gave her a rueful look. “I wish I could have put your name down as the author, but you know what would have happened.”
She nodded, her disappointment diminished by the fact that she was now published in a medical journal. Her only regret was that she couldn’t shove the paper in the faces of those who’d mocked her.
Rafe placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight against him. “I’m so proud of you, Querida.”
Wakley gasped as he observed Rafe embracing her with his left arm. “You did it! By God, your operation worked!”
He strode over to the vampire, reaching out. “May I?”
Rafe raised his eyes heavenward but extended his arm slowly and with a pronounced tremor that only Cassandra and the other vampires knew was fabricated. There was no way Wakley could be allowed to know the supernatural extent of Rafe’s healing process.
The surgeon ran his hands up and down Rafe’s arm, murmuring in astonishment. “How far can you raise it? Can you make a fist?”
“I can lift it nearly to my shoulder.” Feigning weakness, he fumbled in his pocket for the leather ball Cassandra gave him. “And my hands are starting to work.”
