When Twilight Burns

“Our mutual friend?” Victoria replied. She was damned if she was going to talk to her about Max—let alone admit that she had no idea where he was hiding. For all she knew, Sara had aligned herself with Lilith and was looking for Max herself.

The thought—absurd as it was, for how would Sara find Lilith? And why?—made her blood run cold.

“Why, si, was it not . . . Mrs. Withers, ci credo. Mrs. Emmaline Withers?” The glint turned to laughter in those brown doe eyes, hard and knowing. “Did I not meet her in Roma? Is she not a friend of yours? The povero widow?”

Before Victoria could reply, her mother leaped into the fray. “Emmaline Withers? Why, I don’t know any Mrs. Withers, Victoria. What have you been keeping from us.” It was quite pointedly not a question, but a statement. The crease between her eyebrows clearly told Victoria what her words did not.

But Lady Melly had nothing to fear, and Sara was well aware of it, for Mrs. Withers was merely the name Victoria had used during her visit to Rome. She had done so in order to keep her identity as Aunt Eustacia’s great-niece, a Venator, secret.

“I’m so sorry, signorina,” Victoria replied. “Mrs. Withers is no longer with us.”

“Pardon me, I am so sorry for your loss,” Sara replied in a voice as thick as the honey Lady Winnie liked to slop in her tea. “I have suffered a recent loss myself.” She lowered her face as if to hide a sudden tear, a flimsy lace handkerchief suddenly appearing in her hand.

Victoria had a sudden suspicion that she spoke of her father, the Conte Regalado, who had been wooing Lady Melly. 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 conclusion she could draw was that either they were well aware of the attack and wanted to see what Victoria had figured out, or they suspected there was vampire activity, and they 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 that 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 midbreath, 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. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">