When Twilight Burns (10 page)

Victoria had a sudden suspicion she spoke of her father, the Conte Regalado. But before she could divert the subject, Lady Nilly interrupted. “Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. Who was it?”

“My father,” Sara replied, her face still obscured except for the hard, deadly look she lifted to Victoria. “He recently met his end because of a horrid woman who destroyed his heart. She is a murderess!”

Namely, Victoria. The one who had driven the stake into Regalado's undead chest.

Well, at least she no longer had to wonder how Sara perceived her.

“Oh!” Lady Melly squeaked as if she'd just seen a mouse. “Regalado. Conte Regalado? Alberto Regalado?” Her face had drained pale except for the spots of red in her cheeks. “I feel rather…faint…could I…could it…he was…” Another handkerchief fluttered, appearing, surprisingly, from the tanned hand of James Lacy.

Victoria's lips firmed. “Nonsense, Mother. I'm quite certain you had nothing to do with his…er…broken heart. Any man's heart as fragile as dust is not worthy of your esteem. Now, shall I pour you some tea, Gwen?”

“Lady Rockley,” said George in his easy voice. “Understand you had an unsettling experience in the park yesterday.”

“It was horrid,” Lady Nilly announced, her spoon clanking against the sides of her teacup. “Why, there was blood everywhere.”

“And markings on her chest!” Lady Winnie added. “Three Xs, and her clothes were torn everywhere…as if some animal had mauled her.”

George's eyebrows rose in unadulterated surprise. “You were there as well? You saw this horrible sight? Daresay, a sight like that would send m'mother to bed for a week.”

“No, we weren't there, but I—”

“It was a terrible sight,” Victoria interrupted firmly. She didn't know what George and Sara were up to, but she suspected they were quite aware of the details of what she'd seen. It was too much of a coincidence for them to arrive unannounced at her residence the day after she'd seen the results of a vampire attack—in the sunlight, no less. They were both members of the Tutela, and the only conclusions she could draw were they were well aware of the attack and wanted to see what Victoria had figured out, or they suspected there was vampire activity, and were trying to confirm it. Either way, she was understandably disinclined to assist them.

But before she could respond by changing the subject, the parlor door opened again. “Monsieur Sebastian Vioget,” announced the butler, his nose lifted as though he smelled something a bit unpleasant. Lettender had not been fond of the French since his brother was killed at Waterloo.

Sebastian, a rakish grin on his face, and not one whit of surprise that the parlor was becoming overcrowded with members of two elite groups—the
ton
and the Tutela—strode easily into the room and went directly to Victoria's side.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, bending over to place a kiss that screamed intimacy on her cheek. “You look lovely today.”

She was tempted to pull away, just to showcase the effrontery of it, but the look on her mother's face was too much a work of art to destroy it. Lady Melly looked as though she'd swallowed a biscuit whole, and Lady Winnie, who was swallowing gamely and trying not to cough, probably had.

“Sebastian,” she said, giving him a sincerely melting smile. His was a friendly face, and at least she had no illusions about what he wanted from her.

She patted his properly gloved hand and gestured to a chair next to her. “Would you care to join us for tea before we take our ride?” Her voice was full of charm and invitation, but the look she sent him was pointed. They'd made no plans for a ride, or any other activity, but he was sharp enough to follow her lead. “I do realize it is a bit early for tea…”

If he sat down instead of taking her subtle cue to leave, she'd never kiss him again.

“Of course I should. We can ride later,” he said, sending her a disarming smile that, nevertheless, sent a little pang through her. Perhaps she should have let him coax her into bed last night. “I can always enjoy tea. And with such esteemed company.” He gave a little bow, then he turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised innocently. “You haven't announced our wonderful news yet, have you, dearest?”

She was going to stake him again—and this time in the heart, mortal or not. Lady Melly's breath was coming in short, wheezing pants, and her fingers had somehow curled around Victoria's wrist in a death grip.

Before Victoria could extricate herself from that conundrum, there was a knock at the parlor door. All heads turned. The door opened, and Lettender's long face appeared. “My lady, we have another visitor. He…er…wishes to speak with you.”

Victoria tensed, then felt suddenly jittery. Max, of course. He was the only person missing from this odd arrangement. “Please, show him in,” she said.

The butler stepped in and opened the door. The visitor followed him. “Mr. Bemis Goodwin. Of the Magistrate's Bow Street Runners.”

Mr. Goodwin was tall and dark-haired. He had a face as sharp and angular as Max, but the arrangement of his features, though just as haughty, wasn't nearly as attractive. His chin and nose were matching jutting points, his cheekbones like slanted plateaus, and his lips thin and red. But his eyes: they were sharp and dark and darted about as if determined to miss nothing. They flitted around, skittering over the little gathering, and finally settled onto Victoria.

“Lady Rockley, I require a word with you.”

 

+ + +

“Thus, Lady Rockley, you were the one to find the remains of Miss Forrest,” said Mr. Goodwin. For the third time.

“As I have explained now twice, sir, yes, I came upon her unfortunate remains.”

“But there were others who had begun the search before you. They were, so to speak, ahead of you.” His eyes were narrow and black. She fancied they gleamed like those of a snake, ready to strike. Yet, they were intelligent. “So how could you know just where to look if they had not found her?”

Leaving the others in the parlor, Victoria had taken Mr. Goodwin to the marquess's study, thinking she was making an escape. But the demeanor which pervaded the whippetlike man and his questions annoyed and unsettled her. “Are you suggesting I somehow knew where Miss Forrest was before I discovered her?”

“You seemed to locate her quite easily.”

“She was beneath a tree, half hidden by a rock, near the creek. Anyone could have found her.” Victoria settled back in her chair and forced her fingers to uncurl. Ridiculous that he should rouse her as he had. The man was just doing his job.

The Bow Street Runners were the only sort of police-detectives in London, for Victoria's countrymen had long been leery of giving up their freedoms by formalizing a police force. In fact, London was the only city in Europe without a formal police force. Certainly, there were the few members of the Night Watch, and a constable for every parish, but their responsibilities were only to report criminal activity if they witnessed it. The Runners were responsible for investigating any grievous crimes—such as murder or rape—and bringing the felons to the magistrate. They were also able to help victims of other crimes, such as fraud or robbery, to recover their losses—at their discretion. Regardless, it was unfortunate the Runner would be unable to help in this particular instance.

Vampire crimes weren't recognized by the magistrate.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Goodwin?” Victoria asked, ready to end the conversation.

As if recognizing her change of demeanor, he stretched his lips in a smile. “You came upon the mauled and destroyed body, and you had the presence of mind to call for assistance, Lady Rockley. Immediately. Apparently the sight of her torn flesh and spilled blood had little effect on you.”

“It wasn't a pleasant sight, but I am not one to be overcome by feminine vapors.”

“What do you think happened to Miss Forrest?”

“I'm certain someone of your expertise would have come to the same conclusion as I: it appears that she was attacked by something bent on killing her.”

Mr. Goodwin's eyes narrowed. “A vampire, perhaps?”

Victoria caught herself in mid-breath, then exhaled slowly and evenly. “A vampire?”

“Do you believe in vampires, Lady Rockley?”

“I fail to see how my belief—or nonbelief—in the supernatural is relevant to the investigation into Miss Forrest's death, Mr. Goodwin. I'm certain you must investigate every aspect of the situation, which is why it doesn't follow that you're wasting my time and yours asking me such questions.” The edge of her vision began to waver and she drew in an even breath through her nose.

Mr. Goodwin stood. He took up his black hat with long fingers and placed it precisely on his scalp. “Thank you, Lady Rockley. I wish you a good day.” He started to turn, and then slowly swiveled back to face Victoria, who had stood. “What happened to your husband, Lady Rockley?”

She felt her heart give an unpleasant little lurch. “He died at sea,” she replied automatically.

“That is the story that's been given out.” He nodded. “What ship was he sailing on?”

“Your questions are not only becoming tiresome, but an outright waste of my time. These matters are of the public record. And, as they can have no relevance to your investigation regarding Miss Forrest, I believe we are done.” Victoria looked pointedly at the study door, gesturing the man toward it. “Good day, Mr. Goodwin.”

“The ship
The Plentifulle,
it was, or so has been reported. And your husband left his new wife less than a month after the return of your wedding holiday? Suddenly? Without notifying even the servants?”

Victoria drew herself up in all haughtiness. “Mr. Goodwin, I'm not certain how your household is run, but here at St. Heath's Row, the servants do not grant permission for the master's comings and goings.”

“I see.” He pulled his hat brim even straighter, and gave a little bow. “Thank you very much for your assistance, Lady Rockley.”

With loathing, Victoria watched the man go. Such a prig, and he had pulled on her strings enough to make her feel unsettled. She, a Venator of two years, who had faced demons and vampires and multiple undead, had been set off balance by a mere Bow Street Runner.

But why on earth had he been asking her about vampires?

+ Seven +

Of Stone-filled WickerBaskets, Meeting at the Altar, and Confessions

After Mr. Bemis Goodwin, Bow Street Runner, made his exit, Victoria did not return to the parlor. She decided that it was more than fitting to leave Sebastian to face the ferocious Lady Melly and mop up the pieces of his little charade.

Of course, there was always the risk he might complicate matters further…or that Lady Melly might be won over—Sebastian, after all, was as charming as they came—and leap heartily into planning the second wedding to which he had alluded.

But for now…Victoria had so many things to think about, to worry on, that she absolutely couldn't sit in that crowded parlor and pretend to be civil any longer.

She'd already given Verbena, her maid, the direction to pack some of her belongings and to have the footmen take them over to Aunt Eustacia's town house. She wouldn't sleep another night under James Lacy's roof, where Sebastian felt as though he could invade her chambers at will, with disregard for whoever might see him.

Taking care to stay away from any window that might reveal her location to those visiting in the parlor, Victoria took a pea-gravel path along the side of the mansion. She suspected Kritanu was still in the chapel where she'd left him yesterday before joining James for dinner. She'd meant to visit again last night, but the sherry, along with Sebastian's visit to her chamber, had sent her to bed earlier than she planned.

“Victoria.” Kritanu greeted her as her shadow spilled into the chapel. She closed the door behind her and moved down the aisle toward her trainer.

He was on the altar arranged in one of his more complicated yoga positions: balanced on shoulders and chest with his arms extended along the floor and legs bent up around. His feet rested gently on the top of his head and his arms splayed strongly beneath his raised torso, extended on the ground in a stabilizing vee. As she watched, he moved slowly and smoothly out of what she recognized as the
shalabha-asana.

Although Kritanu had taught her some of the positions, or
asanas
, of
yoga
in order to help her learn to concentrate and breathe more efficiently, Victoria had never been able to arrange her body thus. Neither had Aunt Eustacia.

“I meant to come again last night,” she began, but he was already shaking his head.

“You've much to attend to, child. I know well how difficult it can be.”

Indeed he would, for he had been Aunt Eustacia's trainer, companion, and—as Victoria had recently learned—her lover for more than fifty years.

Victoria closed her fingers over his smooth, tea-colored hand and squeezed. “When will you bury him?”

Kritanu shook his head. “We do not bury our dead. His body, worn out like that of an old chariot, will be burned. I will take his ashes back to the Consilium, where he would want them to be.” He straightened, and she saw that although grief still lived within his gaze, it had softened. “But I have wanted to talk with you about continuing your training. We've done little in the last months, and I fear that you'll become weak and slow…and fall back into using predictable moves.”

Victoria smiled, though for some reason she wanted to cry. “I have made arrangements to move to Aunt Eustacia's house—which I should have done immediately upon returning to London. It was foolish of me to stay here.”

Kritanu nodded. “I will take my nephew today, then, so you needn't worry on that. And I'm glad that you'll be back with me. We'll hone your
ankathari
skills, for you must become more adept with a blade. It's a worthwhile skill for fighting Imperials.”