When Twilight Burns (6 page)

How she
really
felt about Sebastian. A warm flush spread through her. Whatever her feelings, it was clear that he made her skin tingle and her head light—even when he wasn't around.

Victoria realized with a start that her hands had clasped tightly together, and that Mr. Needleton—ignoring his sister's agenda for conversation—had been expounding quite profusely about the merits of a certain filly at the Derby, and why he expected she should take the cup.

The oaks and cottonwoods were thick and stately as the carriage turned past the stucco villas and into the Outer Circle of Regent's Park. When Victoria and Phillip had driven through here, John Nash had just begun the park's redesign. Though it wasn't near completion, the park already showed his influence, with its sweeping pathways and havens for waterfowl.

“Miss Needleton,” Victoria said when the young woman's brother stopped for a breath of air, “did you say that you were acquainted with my husband as a young boy?”

“Yes, my lady,” she replied. “His mother was a friend of my mother's, and we spent two summers together when I was seven and he was perhaps thirteen. He was frightfully fond of raspberries, though his mother forbade him to eat any, for they gave him a terrible rash. I recall how he convinced me to go berry picking with him one day—”

Her story was interrupted as the carriage approached that of another high-strung vehicle. As was expected, the Needletons stopped in order to greet the others. It was Gwendolyn and her earl, Brodebaugh. He seemed vaguely attentive to his adoring fiancée, but kind enough to agree with her when she pressed him for his thoughts on the weather.

This was the first time Victoria recalled meeting him—although, according to Gwendolyn, he'd attended the Straithwaite musical the summer of their debut. They exchanged pleasantries for a short time. When the Needleton carriage was ready to move on, another conveyance had approached, and the conversation was extended. Victoria waved to Gwendolyn as Brodebaugh drove away, wishing she'd invited herself to ride back with them, for she didn't anticipate extricating herself any time soon.

For now that word had spread from carriage to rider to curricle that the Marchioness of Rockley was in the Needleton vehicle, everyone seemed to converge on their path.

Victoria's mouth was tired of smiling and her palms were sore from the score of her nails biting through her cotton gloves. She was just about to suggest that they return to the Grantworth home when someone screamed.

They all turned to look toward the terrified cry, which had been cut off in a sort of bubbling way. It had come from the direction of a far distant clump of thick bushes and grass that had not yet been subjected to Mr. Nash's attentions. Victoria bolted to her feet, causing the carriage to sway—but she caught herself before she hurtled out of the vehicle like a madwoman. Miss Needleton looked up at her in astonishment, for apparently it had never occurred to her that she might be of assistance.

Of course it wouldn't. Women of the
ton
let everything be done for and about them. Victoria remained standing, however, as Mr. Needleton and several other men leaped from their vehicles, dashing toward the cry of distress.

“Oh, my,” Miss Durfingdale squeaked rather belatedly, and Victoria, who had nearly forgotten her existence, looked at her in surprise. Was she knocked for six by the scream, or the equally amazing speed at which the men had moved?

“Perhaps they may need assistance,” Victoria said, lifting her skirts to climb carefully down from the carriage—an unusual feat for a woman, but one that she was well accustomed to performing. “If she is in distress.”

Miss Needleton's mild protestations ringing in her ears, Victoria hurried as quickly as she could through the tall grasses in the wake of the men. As soon as she was out of sight of the carriage, she thrashed through the brush, heedless of her new muslin day dress, and found herself running down a small incline. At the bottom, a creek trickled beneath scattered trees. Ahead of her, she heard the men running and calling to each other, but she remained silent as she ran pell-mell down the creek bank. There'd been no other cries from the victim, and at last Victoria came to a rushing halt when she reached the small stream.

Panting, she looked around for some sign of trouble, but saw nothing but dappled sunlight over the smooth stones scattered in the creek. Just then, a splash of pink caught her attention behind a massive, felled tree trunk.

It took her only a moment to reach the crumpled figure, and when she did, Victoria gasped in shock. Blood spattered the grass around her, staining the pink gown that had caught her attention. When she turned the young woman over, Victoria stared down at the horror.

The victim's bodice had been torn away, and the flesh of her chest and over her collarbones was marked with three large Xs, gouged into her skin. Fresh blood seeped through the fabric and oozed from her wounds. But what caught Victoria's attention were the four small marks on the girl's blue-white neck.

Vampire bites. Fresh ones.

In the middle of the day.

+ Four +

Wherein a Bellpull is Conveniently Out of Commission

Despite the horrible
fate of Miss Belvadine Forrest (as the victim's name was revealed to be), it turned out to be morbidly beneficial to Victoria. For, as a result of the traumatic discovery, she simply did not feel up to attending the Burlington-Frigate dinner party that night.

Lady Melly accepted the excuse with watery eyes and a tremulous smile. Armed with yet another fresh topic on which she would be the ultimate source, she took herself off to the dinner party in full regalia.

Victoria, meanwhile, took herself gratefully back to St. Heath's Row.

As the carriage pulled past the iron gates into the generous Rockley estate, she glanced past the stables to the small family chapel cloaked by a cluster of maples. Almost two years ago, she'd hidden the Book of Antwartha there to keep it safe from Lilith, and now Briyani reposed in the same building until he was buried.

Vampires couldn't scale the stone walls surrounding the house, for the stone was stamped with crosses in honor of St. Heath, who, apparently, had died upon one (although the story was rather muddied, and no one other than her husband's family, the de Lacys, had ever heard of St. Heath, so there was no way to verify its accuracy). Another, larger, cross sat at the top of the iron gateway, splitting only when the gate was opened. And then of course, there was the fact that the chapel itself was too holy for any undead to enter.

Her groom helped her alight from the carriage, and Victoria hurried up the sweep of steps to the tall double doors. Her first order of business would be to send a message by pigeon to Wayren, in hopes of finding a way to notify Max about Briyani's death, and also to let her know about the events at the park today. The reality of a vampire attack in daylight gave Victoria a heavy, rolling feeling in her stomach. Vampires just weren't able to move about in the sunlight. Their flesh burned instantly, peeling away. Even a powerful vampire like Lilith the Dark couldn't stand pure sunlight.

And that reminded her of the copper ring Sebastian had retrieved. He hadn't offered it to her, nor had he indicated what he planned to use it for. But either way, she would feel much more comfortable if it were placed somewhere in the Consilium for safekeeping. After all, he'd teased her with the fact that she should show him gratitude for locating it—

“My lady,” intoned her very proper butler, Lettender, as Victoria crossed the threshold into the vast foyer, “the master awaits you in the parlor.”

His words brought her to a surprised halt. “Pardon me?”

“The master has arrived. He awaits you in the parlor,” replied Lettender with agonizingly even tones, as though he regularly made such an announcement.

Her mouth suddenly dry and her palms springing moisture, Victoria pivoted slowly toward the twin doors of the sitting room. Absurdly, she'd never noticed before, but a wooden lotus blossom had been stamped in the center of each panel, its design a simple relief in an otherwise austere expanse of creamy white.

It shouldn't be that much of a shock; she'd known her husband's heir would arrive someday soon. She just…it had been a very long, trying day.

And she wasn't quite ready, yet, to meet the man who would take Phillip's place.

Victoria drew in a long, slow breath and reached for the glass doorknob. It was cool, even through her gloves, and she turned it.

Stepping in, she turned so as to ensure her skirts had made it completely through, and closed the door. She wanted no witnesses to this meeting.

She looked over.

He must have seen her carriage arrive moments ago, for he stood at one of the tall, narrow windows that faced the half-circle drive. His back was to her; perhaps he hadn't heard the door open and close…or perhaps he was merely preparing them both for the inevitable.

But Victoria shook that off. What would he have to prepare for? He, a poor American relation, had just inherited a title and estates that would propel him to wealth, status, and a seat in the House of Lords. He had nothing for which to prepare when meeting the woman who was now the Dowager Marchioness of Rockley.

He turned, the sunlight behind sending his face and features into shadow. At first, her impression was one of a tall puff of hair and angular shoulders, but then he stepped away from the window, closer to her.

“Mrs. Rockley,” he said in long, easy accents. “I am happy to meet you. I am James Lacy, and it is my pleasure to live with you under this roof.”

The whole package—his drawling speech, the pure joy in his face, the sag of his ill-fitting clothing—was so different from Phillip that immediately Victoria felt a combination of relief and regret. And then his words sunk in.

Apparently they penetrated his consciousness at the same moment, for his tanned cheeks tightened and his eyes widened. “Oh, forgive me, Mrs. Rockley. I didn't mean what I said. I meant” —by now he was beginning to smile, and so was she— “that you are welcome to stay here with me as long as you wish. That you don't have to rush to move out,” he amended hastily. “I've had my things put in a guest chamber.”

And at that moment, Victoria felt her fears slip away. Not because he'd offered to let her stay, but because this man was so unlike Phillip, so far removed from the genteel, proper man she'd loved, that his taking over the title would never be as difficult and painful as she'd expected it to be.

He must be a very distant relation of the de Lacys, for, at least initially, she saw nothing reminiscent of her husband in the man's physical appearance. Where Phillip's hair had been the color of walnuts, this man's high sweep of hair was the color of deer hide. His brown eyes crinkled deeply at the corners, suggesting either frequent smiles, or much time squinting against the sun. Since his skin was tanned and weather-beaten, she presumed it was the latter. James Lacy, as he'd called himself, now Rockley to one and all in England, was perhaps five years younger than Phillip would have been had he lived. Victoria placed his age at about twenty-three.

If Lady Melly were there to see his attire, she would have been appalled. Although he wore pantaloons, a shirtwaist, and a coat like any other English gentleman, his clothing gave clear indication that he'd never sat for a tailor fitting. The pantaloons bagged at the knees and even above them, and his coat was too short for his long arms.

Her examination completed in an instant, Victoria now made a curtsy to him. “Lord Rockley, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, and I'd like to welcome you to St. Heath's Row.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rockley.” Then he looked abashed, and smiled sheepishly. “Or is it Mrs. de Lacy? I trust you'll help me to sort out all of the things I must learn about society here—the titles, the manners, and whatever that heavy thing is that seems to be so important. I've only disembarked from my ship three hours ago.”

“Heavy thing?” Victoria repeated as she tapped back a bit of panic. The last thing she needed was another task to add to her list. Despite the charm of his openly self-deprecating tone and his informal amiability, she had no desire to tutor him into his place in Society. Surely he didn't truly expect it of her. “Forgive me, but I'm not at all certain to what you're referring. And, the proper way to address me would be Lady Rockley, or my lady. And you will now simply be called Rockley, as you have thus taken on the title of the Marquess of Rockley.”

“So in the eyes of London, I'm no longer James Lacy, Kentuckian?” He had a bemused expression on his face, as though he could barely conceive of losing his identity. “I become no one but a title?”

“Only your intimates would call you James,” Victoria explained. “Your name will change so that all might attribute your title and estate to you, but you will still be yourself, James Lacy, the Kentuckian—whoever that might be.” Just as she was still Victoria Gardella Grantworth de Lacy—yet also a born Venator.

He looked at her for a moment, long enough that she felt the urge to blush. “So perhaps my wife might call me by my given name.”

“Indeed, I believe that is quite common…particularly in more private settings.” Feeling as though the conversation had quite gotten out of her control, Victoria gave another little curtsy designed to be a farewell. “I will excuse myself now, my lord, and begin to make arrangements to give over the master's chambers now that you have arrived. I apologize for not having already done so, immediately upon my return here from Italy.”

“No,” he said, reaching for her—and then stopping, as if realizing he'd overstepped. “No, Mrs.—my lady. Please don't get your dander up over my account. I'm well used to a much smaller, less fancy abode than this. I'd feel very ungentlemanly if I felt as though I'd displaced you. There will be time enough for that later. There must be some other place that I could put my things.” Whenever he said “I” it sounded as if he was suddenly comprehending something. It came out sounding like “ah.”