The Bleeding Dusk (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #3)

The Bleeding Dusk (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #3) Page 7

With a weary glance over her shoulder, she told Giorgio, “Please tell Verbena I shall be a while.”

A long while.

Two hours later Victoria sank onto the stool in front of her dressing mirror. Two hours.All that time listening to her mother and the ladies Winnie and Nilly prattle on about the circles under her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks (although Lady Nilly thought it wasn’t so terrible, she of the hollow cheeks herself), and the paleness of her skin. Not to mention the droopiness of her plain hairstyle and unfashionable clothing.

And that wasn’t all. There were unveiled hints about her returning to London to find another husband. And how her dear friend Gwendolyn Starcasset was now the toast of the ton, with her new betrothal to an earl with more than fifty thousand a year, and how her brother, George, would be a perfect match for Victoria. (Victoria had had to bite her tongue particularly hard on that topic, for the last time she’d seen George Starcasset he’d been here in Rome with Nedas, as a member of the Tutela, and had been intent on ravishing her.)

There had been Lady Melly’s grievances about the erstwhile Lord Jellington, who had, apparently, failed to meet her expectations of what a beau should do and be, and was thus the impetus for her visit to Italy.

Then followed opinions on Italian biscuits (too dry and crusty), Italian streets (crowded and confusing and filled with pilgrims), and the beauty of the little fountain in front of the villa.

She’d had to keep the ugly red calluses on her left hand—her tea-pouring and stake-wielding hand—hidden while playing hostess, for, of course, she wasn’t wearing the gloves she would have been wearing had she been home in London. Nor was she garbed in a proper gown, the lapse of which still had her mother in horrified raptures.

The entire event had culminated in one big problem that led somewhere she wasn’t sure she wanted to go. She rested her head on the dressing table in her chamber.

“Now, milady, no sense in lettin’ em make it any worse’n it already is. Ye have important things to attend to.”

Victoria lifted her head to look in the mirror. All she saw at first were two puffs of orange-colored hair on either side of her own dark head, and then her maid, Verbena, looked up from where she’d been unfastening the buttons of Victoria’s tunic. Her face bore pity, but also a glow of interest.

“Did ye see that massive crucifix the duchess was wearing? I swear, even m’cousin Barth wouldn’t be wearin’ one that size, though he’s been known to drive vampires around himself. Pardon me for sayin’ so, but the duchess’s cross looks bigger than the pope’s.”

As she spoke, Verbena drew the tunic up and over Victoria’s head, leaving her droopy-eyed mistress to sit at the table in merely her split-skirt and chemise.

Victoria sighed. “I cannot believe they’re here,” she said wearily. “Without a word of warning Mother has arrived with them, and now I haven’t any idea how I’m going to get out at night without their knowing.” Sundown—vampire-hunting time—was in a matter of hours, and Melly expected her to join them for dinner, and likely more conversation. Surely she would also expect Victoria to join them in other activities, both during the day and in the evening.

In fact, the dearth of calling cards on the front table of the villa had sent Lady Melly into yet another soliloquy about how cloistered Victoria had allowed herself to become since Aunt Eustacia died, and how terrible it was that her social life had gone to null. And how glad Melly was to be here to set things right.

But that was the least of Victoria’s worries.

Verbena loosened Victoria’s hair from its casual mooring at the back of her head. “An’ ye’ll have to give more attention to your hairdressing and gowns, now that your mama is here. She won’t tolerate ye lookin’ less than a marchy-ness, now that ye finally got the title.” She sounded magnificently pleased with this new development, which was no surprise, as Verbena lived for the opportunity to get creative with Victoria’s coiffure and toilette whilst finding ways to incorporate the tools her mistress Venator might need.

Recently Victoria’s choice to wear the split skirt and long tunic favored by Kritanu for both training and rest had nearly given Verbena fits. But since Victoria had rarely left the villa except late in the day to go to the Consilium and then to search the streets for vampires, it was her opinion that it mattered not what she wore. Since she knew few people in Rome, there were no social obligations requiring her attendance. And, quite honestly, Victoria preferred it that way.

Her days of balls and soirees and musicales (thank goodness) were over. She was a Venator, and that was her life.

But all that would change now that Lady Melly and her cohorts were here.

“Mother’s horror at my choice of attire and coiffure was made abundantly clear, but at least the neglect was attributed to grief due to Aunt Eustacia dying.” Victoria looked longingly toward her bed. Perhaps she would have two hours to rest, if she could keep the list of worries at bay. “However, sadly, that topic brought an even larger problem to mind.” She looked in the mirror at her maid’s crystal blue eyes.

“I’ve no fear ye can’t handle yer mama an’ her biddies. I heard her say ye should come back to London and rejoin Society…she wants ye to marry again so ye can give her some little bunnies in nappies.”

Victoria was shaking her head. “No, no…that I can manage. I think. ’Tis even a bigger problem.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then rose to move toward her bed. “The silver armband that my aunt always wore…I must find it. As soon as my mother remembers it she’ll want it—but the bigger problem now is that the vampires are already looking for it, because it holds a special key.”

Their gazes met again in the mirror, Verbena’s eyes rounding in her cherub face, and her mouth following suit.

“That, my lady, is a bloody mess of a pro’lem.”

“Indeed it is, since my mother believes Aunt Eustacia died in her sleep. Thus, she expects that the bracelet would have been on her arm, readily available for me to retrieve.”

“Per’aps yer auntie gave it to Kritanu.”

Victoria shook her head. “No, she did not, for he gave me all of her personal effects, and it was not there.”

The apple-cheeked maid tsked, pity curving her lips down at the corners. Then they tilted up. “But, my lady, ye’ve forgotten someone did see th’ body after. He must’ve, in order to send ye her vis bulla. Perhaps—”

“I know,” Victoria said again, rising to go to the bed, her head suddenly aching. “That is the biggest part of the problem.”

Not only would she have to keep the vampires from finding the keys and opening the Magic Door…but now it appeared she would have to find some way to contact Sebastian and ask for his help.

Then he would, as usual, expect her to demonstrate some form of gratitude for said help.

And, truth be told, she could think of worse things to do. Much worse.

Victoria’s meeting with Ylito was delayed to just before noon on a rainy morning two days after her mother and friends arrived. Even so, it was pure luck that she’d actually been able to slip out of the villa that day, for Melly had planned to take her to see the Colosseum, but had developed a headache. Victoria had quickly seized upon a similar excuse, retreating to her room and instructing Verbena to allow no one to enter until the next morning.“This is the first day she’s not dragged me about shopping, viewing the sights, parading around the city,” Victoria hissed as she slipped back down through the servants’ hall to the exit. “Pray God she has the headache all afternoon and misses dinner as well.”

“Now, milady, ye shouldn’t wish such stuff on yer mama,” Verbena cautioned. “She can’ help it if she jus’ wants t’ show ye off and dress ye pretty.”

“Marry me off is rather more accurate,” Victoria mumbled, tamping away the guilty feeling. She paused with her hand on the back door. “And for someone so concerned with propriety, the fact that it’s been only three months since Aunt Eustacia died and we’re not expected to be in mourning is surprising.”

“’T might be so, milady, but close as ye were to her, she was still jus’ yer great-aunt. Not so long fer mournin’, even back in Lunnon, but ye’re in Rome now. An’ if Lady Melly was in mournin’ she wouldn’t be able t’ go to Carnivale this week.” Verbena looked up at her, and Victoria saw sympathy in her cornflower eyes. “Ye’re still so young and pretty, milady. Yer mama jus’ wants ye to find happiness. She wants t’ erase that sadness in yer eyes.”

Happiness. Victoria wasn’t sure it was possible.

Perhaps not happiness, then, but contentment. Or at least satisfaction that her place on earth was as more than merely one half of a marriage, a womb to bear an heir, or a showpiece for her mother to flaunt.

Victoria had a more important, more difficult role than most women—or men—could imagine. If she could find the same satisfaction and peace her aunt had as Illa Gardella, Victoria could ask for little more.

Because her mother delayed her, Victoria was late meeting Ylito at what was left of the Villa Palombara. Despite the early February chill and dampness, she had Oliver drive a circuitous route in the city in order to make certain no one was following her from Aunt Eustacia’s villa. When the barouche stopped in front of the crumbling wall shaded by the old oak that had grown through it, Oliver turned to look at her.

“This the meeting place?” He looked at her questioningly. Not only was his driving gentler than that of Barth back in London, but his care for her safety was as well. Unlike Barth, Oliver wasn’t as keen on leaving a woman alone on the streets, particularly in areas that could be considered dangerous.

Of course, unlike Barth, Oliver had never seen Victoria fight vampires.

“Yes, you may let me off here and return to the villa.”

She’d never seen a person with such dark skin as Ylito. Even Kritanu, who had the mahogany skin and sleek dark hair of his Indian heritage, had lighter coloring than the hermetist.