Dimitri didn’t respond. There were days when forever was interminable. And days when he found it convenient to know he’d live forever.

Or, at least, for a very long time.

To his great irritation, at that moment, Voss made eye contact with him. Dimitri allowed a warning to flare in his own eyes then banked it. The man wasn’t worth the effort.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen the man for years m’self,” commented the third at their game of hazard.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Dimitri murmured to Lord Eddersley as the newcomer made his way toward them.

Voss moved with what could only be described as flair and confidence. Despite his long absence, he had the right to be there, in the private, subterranean apartments at the famous White’s men’s club. The place Dimitri and his ilk considered their own, the place where it didn’t matter what they drank or how they found their pleasure. A place where they didn’t have to pretend.

Voss lifted an insouciant finger toward the footman in the corner and gestured for his drink to be brought to their table.

His arrogance made Dimitri’s grip tighten around the heavy glass, but he kept his expression passive as Voss pulled a chair over to join them. “Corvindale,” Voss greeted Dimitri by his title with a nod, then turned to his companion. “Eddersley.”

“Cale, recall Voss. Dewhurst’s heir.” Dimitri kept his tone bored. “Voss, Giordan Cale.”

“Of course Cale and I have met,” said Voss as he nodded toward the third man at the table. A curl tumbled artfully over one brow and Dimitri’s lip curled. “And, incidentally, I’m now Lord Dewhurst. Father passed on a year ago. Or so the story goes.” He gave an arch laugh and even Dimitri couldn’t resist a wry smile then.

Such was the sort of artifice to which the immortal of the Draculia were consigned. Constant lies, subterfuge and half-truths.