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“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.