“As a gesture of goodwill and friendship between our two great houses,” Duchanes announced, “for this evening, House Duchanes offers the services of our bonded witch to the brothers of House Redthorne.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Very generous of you, Renault, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, but it’s no trouble. Jacinda would be honored to assist you in any way.”
Turning to the witch, Dorian put on his most dazzling smile, trying to recall what he knew of the Duchanes witch. “You’re an earth witch, Ms. Colburn, are you not?”
She lit up at the question, her own smile broadening. “I am.”
“It’s not my area of expertise,” he continued, “but I’m told the gardens at Ravenswood are home to over four dozen species of medicinal herbs and flowers. You’re welcome to take clippings of anything you’d like for your practice.”
“Really?” Her blue eyes sparkled, making her appear much younger than she probably was. “Thank you, Mr. Redthorne.”
“Please. Call me Dorian.”
“Dorian,” she said with a smile. “Thank you.”
Beside her, Duchanes seethed. Dorian’s refusal of his offer was an insult, but everyone standing there knew Duchanes’ kindness was artificial at best.
What are you after tonight, bloodsucker?
“Very well,” Duchanes said. “We shall share a drink instead.” He snapped his fingers, and two women stepped forward from his group.
Human women—a blonde and a redhead, both wearing short cocktail dresses entirely inappropriate for the autumn night. They couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age, with pale skin, glossy eyes, and deep hollows beneath their cheek and collarbones.
Dorian’s gut churned, his vision swimming with red. They were obviously unhealthy and not well cared for. But unless he had clear evidence of coercion or compulsion, there was nothing he could do; the women were of consenting age.
“Gentleman’s choice.” Duchanes gestured for Dorian to take his pick.
He took a swig of his scotch, letting it linger in his mouth a moment before smiling at the women. “I’ve no need to partake this evening, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Your house is amazing, Mr. Redthorne,” the redhead said. “Like something out of a magazine!”
“Thank you.”
“That painting in the foyer, is that a Chantuille?” the blonde asked.
“Chanteaux,” he said. “Blackbirds in Flight.”
The blonde woman placed her hand on Dorian’s forearm, slinking further away from Duchanes to give Dorian what she probably thought was a furtive look, but he couldn’t help but notice the tremor in her hand. “Maybe you could show me around? I’d love to see the other pieces in your collection.”
“Ah, another time, perhaps,” Dorian said, grateful to see Aiden approaching. “Lovely to meet you all. The garden paths are extensive—feel free to explore.”
“You’re not coming with us?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me, it seems another matter requires my attention.”
Pulling away from her touch as well as her disappointed gaze, Dorian walked past the whole group, making a beeline for his friend.
Without waiting for Aiden to speak, Dorian grabbed his arm and dragged him through a side door that led into the massive garage.
The scent of car wax, motor oil, and tires calmed his nerves, the stately presence of his cars a familiar comfort. Thankfully, he and Aiden were alone.
“How soon before these dreadful beasts leave my home?” he asked.
“Don’t be daft. We haven’t even served the second course of appetizers.”
Dorian sighed into his drink, then tipped the glass, finishing it with a gulp.
“I see Duchanes took your invitation to heart,” Aiden said. “Brought the whole bloody house.”
“And his… donors.” Dorian’s fingers tightened on his glass, wishing he could slam it into Duchanes’ smug face. The sight of those emaciated women made him want to do something violent. “And Malcolm wanted to ally with this reprobate. What the hell was he thinking?”
“I’m not sure he was.”
Dorian shook his head, attempting to free himself of his thoughts, but it was an exercise in futility. The party and Duchanes both weighed on him, but so did last night’s conversation with Chernikov. He and Aiden had spent the afternoon paging through his father’s journals and walking the twisting, dark pathways of the crypts all afternoon, but if there were ever any clues to where his father had hidden the Mother of Lost Souls sculpture—or to the details of his agreement with the demons—time had long ago destroyed them.
“No one’s getting in there tonight, mate,” Aiden said, as if he could read Dorian’s thoughts. It certainly felt that way; even when they were children, Aiden had always seemed to know just what to say, just how to put Dorian’s rattled mind at ease.
“If anything can ruin us, Aiden, I’m certain it’s contained in those crypts.”
“Where it shall remain until you and your brothers discover and eradicate it.”
“Don’t let anyone else in the garage tonight, either,” Dorian said, bolting the door they’d come through. “I don’t want them breathing on my cars. I already caught the old man trying to take the Rolls Royce for a joyride.”
“Armitage still has a driver’s license?”
“No, the old codger. Thankfully I got to him before he found the keys.”
Aiden clapped him on the shoulder, his smile unwavering. “Sounds like you’re having a splendid evening, just as I predicted. Have you had enough to drink?”
“Just so you know, I’m holding you responsible if any of these prats steal the family jewels.”
“Didn’t your father sell off the family jewels to book our passage to America?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Aiden. Don’t test my patience.”
“You don’t have any patience. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t think your guests are thieves. After all, they’ve paid handsomely for the privilege of your company.”
“That’s fine, as long as you understand it’s coming out of your pay if they are.”
“You need another drink. Here, have mine.” Aiden handed over his scotch. “I insist.”
Dorian downed it quickly, then set the glass on a shelf behind them, taking a deep breath. “All the bloody yakking. The smiling. And now House Duchanes is here, bringing down the value of my property with their very presence. I don’t like it.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“We should’ve just made a donation.”
“I’m not talking about the children’s museum. I’m talking about Isabelle and the company we’re about to acquire. Despite your best efforts, and the fact that you wouldn’t let the geezer drive your car, it seems Armitage and his board members are quite enamored of you.”
“Is that so?” Dorian asked. He’d never admit it to Aiden, but the news filled him with more than a modicum of relief.
“Word is, Mr. Redthorne, you’re the dog’s bollocks.” Aiden pressed a hand to his heart, shooting Dorian a wistful smile. “If only they could figure out why you’re still single.”