When Twilight Burns (12 page)

Victoria avoided dry sticks and rustling leaves, peering around trees and hedges before turning a corner. One arm of the path took her through the herb garden, where she passed clumps of silver-leafed sage, yellow hyssop, and miniature myrtle. She paused often to look through a filter of climbing rose vines and decorative wrought iron, or clusters of tall grasses and equally tall blooms.

Everything was still but the spray of water from the cupid's mouth, rumbling in the distance. A bird chirped a warning, then fluttered to its nest, sending a few dried leaves drifting down. The sun lowered, its orange ball blazing through the treetops in the distance, still clearly lighting the garden.

Victoria increased her pace, and found herself retracing her steps through the four large circular pathways of the garden, all of which intersected at the cupid fountain. There was no one about.

Frowning, she pivoted at last to return to the house, admitting defeat. Either she hadn't seen what she thought she had, or Sara had made her way back inside. Or she was hiding somewhere that Victoria couldn't find—but there was really no place for her to do so.

Other than the small gardener's shed.

Victoria's heart-rate kicked up as her attention landed on the small, well-kept building—hardly larger than an old-fashioned outhouse. It was situated in the far left corner of the garden, next to the stone enclosure that bordered the grounds. Her skin prickling, she crept up to the small building, listening for any human sounds. What could Sara Regalado be doing out here?

But when Victoria came close enough to sidle alongside the small building, her mouth began to water and her heart started to thump hard. The scent of blood filtered through the air. Her vision clouded at the edges.

No. Not again.

Easing her way around the corner of the shed to the front, she found the door. It was locked…but the aroma of thick, rich blood was stronger. It was as if it weighted the summer evening air, clogging the delicate essence of roses and lilies with rust. Her head pounding, Victoria blinked hard and moved along the front of the shed, following the smell and her instincts around the corner toward the back…and then she needed go no further.

It was just as bloody a mess as the last one she'd found, in the park. Her mouth salivating so she had to swallow back, twice, Victoria bent shakily next to what remained of the body.

It wasn't Sara Regalado. Victoria didn't recognize her, but based on the simple worsted wool of her dress—now bloodied and torn—the victim appeared to be a chambermaid or some other servant. The puncture wounds on her throat and the claw marks on the tops of her shoulders clearly indicated an attack by an undead.

Victoria's hand shook as she reached to close the woman's sightless eyes. Her lids were still warm, and Victoria let her fingers move gingerly over cheeks so pudgy they could belong to her own maid, Verbena. The vampire probably hadn't gone far.

A sound behind her had the hair on the back of her arms prickling, and Victoria half turned as she looked automatically for something that could be used as a stake.

“Lady Rockley?”

Victoria looked up into the face of Brodebaugh, Gwen's earl, who was flanked by Baron Hungreath and George Starcasset. She pulled to her feet and swallowed again. “She's dead.”

“So it appears.” Hungreath was looking at her with something like apprehension tinged with suspicion. “How did you come to find her?”

Victoria glanced at George, instinctively looking to see if he was somehow responsible for the trio discovering her and the mauled maid. His soft face was bland, but she saw a glint in his blue eyes that made her tighten her lips. And while the other two men were looking at the bloodied body with a combination of disgust and horror, George appeared unmoved.

As if recognizing her suspicions, he said, “The other women are in the parlor enjoying their sherry. When they said you'd been gone for some time, and no one knew where you were, we thought it would be best to check the gardens.” His deceptively sweet dimples appeared.

Smoothing her skirt, which she realized now had streaks of blood on it, Victoria said, “Someone had best send for the magistrate. And perhaps the housekeeper, to see if she recognizes the poor thing.”

“What ho,” said George, bending toward a bush. When he stood, he was holding a long shawl, stained with blood. “What is this?”

Victoria stared at it, feeling light of head. Her vision blushed with red as she recognized her own shawl. The one she'd left on a small table in the foyer, upon arrival this evening.

“Poor gel,” Brodebaugh said, with real sincerity in his voice as he looked down at the victim. Then he turned and offered Victoria his arm, cementing her affection for the man that her best friend was to wed. “And for you, Lady Rockley, to have found her in such a state. Lean on my arm, and I'll assist you back to the house.”

Victoria did as he suggested, not because she needed his support, of course…but because the expression on George Starcasset's face made her uneasy. When he'd produced the shawl, there was an unmistakable smugness in his expression that suggested he knew that it was hers. Not that she would deny it of course, but she wondered how it had gotten there—and who had moved it.

It was most certainly not beyond the realm of possibility—and in fact, was likely—that Sara had lured her into the gardens so that she would discover the remnants of another daylight vampire attack, and had planted the shawl nearby.

Which then begged the question: was it Sara or George who had turned undead?

Or someone else?

 

+ + +

Victoria came awake sharply.

She didn't move, kept her breathing easy and regular, and slitted her eyes a crack. Someone or
something
was in the bedchamber with her.

The room was all shapes and shades of dark gray, any detail that might be discernible in the predawn light distorted by her narrow view. She'd have to turn her head….

“Good God. You might as well open your eyes, Victoria. A gnat could do a better job feigning sleep than you.”

Victoria's eyes flew open. She sat up abruptly, her fingers tightening around a stake as she pulled it from beneath the coverlet. She hadn't slept without one since the night she'd killed Phillip.

“Well, Max. It's been quite some time since you've visited my bedchamber.”

Her voice was rough with slumber, and she wasn't quite certain why she said such a provocative thing…unless it was because there was nothing else one could say to a man who sneaked into one's bedchamber in the hours just before dawn.

Particularly a man who'd kissed one against the stone wall of a Roman villa, then had given up his role as a Venator and disappeared without saying good-bye.

Something fluttered deep in her stomach.

He was standing in a dark corner of the room, well in the shadows. It was only his voice that had given him away. None of the windows were open, nor was the door, to indicate how he'd managed to enter.

“I don't think you'll need that.” he said, obviously noticing the stake. “Unless it's become an addition to your nighttime bedchamber activities.”

“What are you
doing
here?”‘

He stepped more fully into view. Max was taller than most men, so he loomed over the bed, and he preferred black clothing. Neither factor did much to reveal the details of his form or countenance tonight; he remained an elegant shadow with only the bridge of his long, straight nose outlined by the pale light glazing the window. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Victoria gave an impatient jerk of the stake against the coverlet's whitework embroidery. “I mean, what are you doing in London? Of course you came to talk to me. What other reason would you have to be in my bedchamber?”

Silence descended and stretched for a moment, then Max replied, his voice smooth, “Perhaps your imagination is more limited than I supposed.” He shifted, removing hands from his pockets to cross them over his middle.

Victoria realized her heart was thumping hard at the base of her throat. All she could think of was the way he'd kissed her, against that cold, wet stone.

He continued, “Vioget informed me of your find in the park. The vampire attack during the daylight.”

“You've spoken to Sebastian?”

“Last night, as a matter of fact. After he left you.” Max shifted, spreading his long-fingered hands to emphasize his words. “A bit of advice, Victoria. Keep away from the windows when entertaining in your bedchamber.”

“I didn't take you for a voyeur, Max. But perhaps watching is more to your liking than doing.”

Now she saw the gleam of white teeth in a humorless smile. “Mmm…no.” Then the smile faded. “Do you mind covering up a bit? That's a ghastly-looking gown.”

Victoria looked down. No only had the bedclothes drifted into her lap, but the growing light from the window seemed to shine directly on her and the lavender night rail she wore. The fine lawn material and deep lace trim of the plunging neckline—one of her favorites—hid none of the curves of her torso. “I'm terribly sorry to have offended your fashion sensibilities, Max. I didn't realize you had any.” She shrugged, pulling the covers up. “But after all, I didn't invite you into my bedchamber.”

“Quite true. Please accept my deepest gratitude.” He made an insolent bow, leaving her to wonder whether he was thanking her for pulling the bedclothes up to her collarbones, or for not inviting him into her room. “I must also commend your efficiency.”

“My efficiency?”

“From dinner with the newly arrived marquess to…er…nocturnal entertainment in the marchioness's bedchamber the very same night, and then a move to another bedchamber in a different house the next day. Quite efficient, all that coming and going. So much so, I felt it necessary to take precautions Vioget would be otherwise occupied this evening.” Now she saw another flash of white teeth in the dark. “Far be it for me to cause an interruption.”

“How very accommodating of you, Max. What did you do to Sebastian?”

“Oh, you needn't fear for the man's safety. He's merely on the tail of a woman who, from a distance, bears an astonishing resemblance to you.”

“And what is this woman doing?”

“I'm not quite certain, but I do believe she's having an assignation in Vauxhall Gardens.” His smile gleamed again. “I don't think Vioget was pleased.”

Victoria hid her own smile. It would serve Sebastian right to be following a false trail—especially after his blithe announcement in the parlor today, chosen, of course, for timing and audience. “Perhaps now might be a good time to reveal exactly why you've made it a point to invade my chamber. But, truly, Max,” she said, her voice softening from the haughty edge she'd adopted. “I am glad to see that you are safe and well. And…of course you must know about Briyani.”

He nodded, and she saw his shoulders relax. “I spoke with Kritanu last night as well.”

“Kritanu too?” Victoria felt a swell of annoyance again.

“Don't be angry with him,” Max said. “I told him I'd speak with you…and as you're aware, he's been otherwise distracted.”

“I notice you don't defend Sebastian's lack of communication about your presence in London.”

“In fact, I'm shocked he didn't rush to inform you of it, knowing how it would annoy me. He threatened to do so.”

“Your fiancée is here as well. Did he tell you that?” Victoria had never been able to resist the urge to needle him about his engagement.

“Vioget didn't see fit to tell me that—unless he wasn't aware.”

Victoria shook her head. “He is fully aware, for Sara and George Starcasset were there when he fairly announced our engagement to my mother this afternoon. And I'm terribly sorry, Max, but it appears you've been replaced in her affections by Gwendolyn's brother George.”

“I'm devastated.”

“I used to feel sorry for the woman, for you made her believe you loved her,” Victoria chided.

“Did I?” Max sounded amused.

“You certainly appeared to be promoting such a state when I met you at the home of the Conte Regalado.”…And come upon a rumpled Max leaving an obvious
tête-à-tête
with Sara.

“That must certainly have made an impression on you, Victoria, for you bring that incident up nearly every time we talk.”

“You looked utterly out of sorts, with your hair mussed and your neck cloth crooked. It was more than obvious what you'd been doing. And will you please
do
sit down,” Victoria said in exasperation. “Your hovering is beyond irritating, and if you don't, I shall be forced to stand myself—and I daresay you don't want to be treated to the full sight of my ghastly nightgown.”

He made a sound that could have been a strangled laugh or a cough, but in either case, he took her advice and sat—in the chair farthest from the bed, placing himself back in the shadows. “I daresay I don't.”

“Now tell me why you are in London when you should be running as far from Lilith as possible.”

She actually felt the tension settle back in the room, chilling whatever lightness their banter had brought to bear. “Ah yes…my unfortunate circumstances. We needn't discuss the banalities of why I came back to this drafty, wet country—but more to the purpose, how I might be of assistance in your current dilemma. The daylight vampire attack.”

Victoria nodded, focusing her attention on the problem at hand instead of flinging one-sentence barbs back and forth. It did become wearying after awhile, and, truth to tell, she was relieved to see Max. If only he didn't have to be so prickly. And arrogant. And rude. “There was another one today.”

She told him, and ended with her suspicions about Sara and George. “But it seems rather heavy-handed for them to taunt me so blatantly, if indeed one of them is the daylight vampire.”