“Cezar Moldavi can’t keep control of his own sister. Why is that such great news?” Dimitri’s tone was flat and bored. Yet, his attention sharpened. He had a bad feeling about this.

Voss sipped then returned his drink to the table. “You’re not a fool. You know Moldavi will eagerly blame no one other than yourself for her disappearance. Regardless of any evidence—or the lack thereof.”

“Again, you bring me no information that I don’t already possess,” Dimitri replied, annoyed at the reminder that Cezar Moldavi continued to disfigure the face of the earth after two centuries. He forced his fingers to release the glass, slowly and deliberately. “You’ve interrupted my game for naught.”

“From the looks of it, Cale is the one with the largest pot. Perhaps you ought to thank me.” Voss settled back in his chair, once again looking like the rake he was well-known for being: heavy-eyed, half smiling, relaxed. “But here is the information you likely don’t possess.”

Dimitri didn’t care for the smile twitching the corners of the man’s mouth. What the hell had brought Voss back to London anyway? Surely not this sort of dancing, parleying conversation. Probably the women. It had always been the women, the pleasure, the hedonism for Voss and others of the Dracule. And for a time, Dimitri had tried to enjoy it as well, and had even promoted it through his establishment in Vienna. A renewal of annoyance flushed through him, and he pushed it away. It wasn’t worth the effort.

Standing, he swiped up the handful of notes and coins he’d won in the game and folded them neatly. “I find myself bored with the company and conversation. Carry on.”

As he turned, shoving the winnings into his coat pocket, Voss’s parting words came to settle on the back of his neck, as if burned there. “Chas Woodmore was last seen in Paris, with Narcise. He’s gone missing, as well.”