When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4)

When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4) Page 15

“But of course. The Gardella blood runs deeply through us both—but as I’ve told you before, my dear”— Sebastian bowed briefly to Victoria—“it’s from my mother’s side of the family. The Gardella name is so far back in my family tree that you and I needn’t worry about our branches crossing. We aren’t closely related at all.” His face lit with joviality, but his eyes . . . they were sharp with apprehension.

“But that is not what I meant,” Kritanu said in his precise tones. “I am speaking of Giulia.”

Silence.

Victoria looked at Sebastian, whose face had settled into an odd expression of chagrin and annoyance. When he didn’t speak, she turned to Kritanu. He, too, remained silent, watching Sebastian with an expectant look.

She folded her arms over her middle. “Another secret, Sebastian? Aren’t you through with them?”

He was silent for a moment, then he spoke at last, in a low, tight voice. “Max was a member of the Tutela, years ago.”

“That’s no secret to me.” Although Max had shown Victoria the marking on his skin from his days with the Tutela, he’d told her little else. She had had to get more information from Wayren, when Max had left the Venators after executing Aunt Eustacia.

“He exposed his father and sister to the Tutela,” said Sebastian.

“I know about that . . . it was a terrible mistake, but he was trying to protect them—they were sick, and his father was old, and dying,” Victoria replied evenly. “Max was young, and the Tutela was smart—”

“Then you must know that the Tutela killed his father . . . and allowed the vampires to turn Giulia to an undead.”

“Giulia?” Victoria felt as though the bottom of her stomach had opened and her insides were tumbling out.

“Giulia,” he continued in that tight voice, “was the first vampire I slew after receiving my vis bulla. She was my . . . I loved her. Max’s sister.” Then he looked steadily at her with empty golden eyes, his mouth angled into a humorless smile. “So you see, Victoria, Kritanu is right. You and I have much in common. We’ve both had to send the one we loved most to Hell.”

Eight

Wherein the Delights of a British Chef Are Discussed

Victoria forced her lips into a polite smile and nodded to Lord Bentworth as he and his triple chins extolled the virtues of his new chef in comparison to the one here at the Hungreath residence.

“Don’t skimp on the salt, either,” he said, emphasizing his pleasure with the slice of pheasant skewered on the tines of his fork. “Told him not to, and listened from the first day. And the sauces. None of that Frenchy stuff— like this here—told him that. Don’t need the beef swimming in it, said.” He slipped the fowl in his mouth, and his jaw ground furiously as he chewed, cheeks bulging.

Her mind distracted by other matters more pressing than an appropriate level of seasoning or the cultural influence thereof, Victoria glanced down the table. Sara Regalado was indeed watching her, sharp brown eyes and mysterious smirk all aimed in her direction. Victoria firmed her lips to let the other woman know she wasn’t intimidated, then turned back to her own roast pheasant.

Although she could have manufactured an excuse for staying home tonight, Victoria had decided to attend the dinner party at the Hungreaths’ for a variety of reasons. First, because Lady Hungreath was Gwendolyn’s god-mother and was giving the party in honor of the happily affianced couple, and Gwen had extracted Victoria’s promise to attend. Secondly, because George Starcasset and Sara were to be in attendance, and Victoria felt that it might be prudent to keep an eye on them. And finally, because it gave her a bit of space from Sebastian and his shocking revelations.

It was no wonder he and Max could barely stand to be in the same room.

“Don’t like green food, either,” Bentworth said. He pushed away a bowl of soggy spinach in favor of stabbing a boiled potato bursting from its skin. He plopped it on his plate and beckoned the footman to bring the butter. Apparently Bentworth was a frequent guest at the Hungreaths’, as the servant seemed well aware of the man’s delight with the dairy confection, and apportioned a generous pale yellow slab onto the potato. “Don’t care for the sweets, and told him too. M’wife has a sweet tooth, loves sugar biscuits, but don’t care for ’em myself. Just meat and potatoes and bread. Stewed carrots, beets, onions. Can’t abide hard or crunchy.”

“He must be a versatile chef in order to prepare those items in an agreeable way,” Victoria commented in a voice as bland as the food she was eating. Perhaps the Hungreaths ought to speak with Lord Bentworth about hiring a better chef. But she wasn’t all that hungry, and, unlike in Italy, the food here was pale in color and mostly the same texture. And thankfully, as long as she kept nodding every so often and adding a comment once in a while, she could try to comb through her tangled thoughts.

It was no news to her that Max had been involved with the Tutela when he was younger. She’d seen the secret society’s mark on the back of his shoulder: a whiplike, sinuous dog curved in a writhing circle. As abhorrent as the society it represented, the tattoo was symbolic of the mortals who acted, as Kritanu had once said, like subservient bitches and whores for the undead.

The Tutela coaxed and lured people of all ages into their alliance, preying on the mortal fear of death by promising a chance for immortality and protection from the undead. Max had been one of them for a time, but now she knew without a doubt that the experience, and his early, naive choices, had given him an unflinching and deeply rooted hatred of the undead and the Tutela.

Victoria realized with a start that the people around her seemed to be looking at her, waiting for something. “Pardon me,” she said with a little smile, “I seem to have been woolgathering. What was it you asked, Mrs. Cranwrathe?”

The woman across the table cleared her throat in a grating, rough manner that sent Victoria reaching for her own wine. “I was saying, Lady Rockley, how delightful it was for you to encourage the new marquess to join us this evening.” There was a sparkle in her light eyes that made Victoria straighten up in her chair. “I understand you are still in residence at St. Heath’s Row? And he arrived yesterday?”

She glanced down the table and saw that James, who’d been seated clear at the other end near his hostess, was buffeted on both sides by eager mamas. The poor man. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mrs. Cranwrathe. I’m no longer in residence at St. Heath’s Row, but have taken over the home of my mother’s deceased aunt.”

The footman slipped in between her and Lord Bentworthand removed their rose-patterned dishes: the man’s fairly gleaming in its emptiness, and Victoria’s roses still obliterated by blobs of potatoes, carrots, and a bit of stringy pheasant. Frivolous confections towering on small plates replaced them, and everyone’s dessert was dispatched with great enthusiasm, except for Bentworth’s.

“Shall we ladies repair to the parlor for sherry?” said Lady Hungreath from her position further down the table. “There are sugar biscuits as well.”

Victoria made her way between the other guests, slipping her arm around Gwendolyn, who’d just returned from refreshing herself. As they walked to the parlor, she glanced out at the gardens behind the house. It was barely eight o’clock, so the sun had slipped near the horizon, but was still at just the top of the trees in the distance. She would stay for another hour, perhaps ninety minutes, and then would make her excuses.

Once the flurry of skirts and crocheted wraps and reticules were settled, along with their owners, in the parlor, Victoria realized that Sara Regalado was missing. Drat and blast! She should have hung back and waited to enter the room until she was sure the other woman had joined them.

That faintly supercilious smile during the soup course had implied the Italian chit was up to no good. But now Victoria was in a fix. The men were in the study, enjoying their cigars and brandy, and until they came in to join the women in the parlor, she was going to be stuck here, playing whist or listening to wedding plans or gossip about who was fornicating with whom.

Or at least, if she weren’t Victoria Gardella Grantworth de Lacy, she would be stuck in this green and gold parlor, playing the polite Society matron. But being Illa Gardella, and having other matters to deal with besides gossip and fashion, she would take matters into her own hands.

Victoria stood, excusing herself to freshen up.

And, as luck would have it, as she started out of the room, she glanced toward one of the hip-level square windows that faced the Hungreaths’ enthusiastic gardens of pergolas flanked by clusters of lilies and hyacinth bushes, decorated with climbing roses. She saw the flutter of a rose-colored fabric as it passed behind the statue of a water-spouting cupid.

Sara had been wearing a rose-colored frock.

Moments later, Victoria was hurrying along the slate pathway, staying out of sight of the house windows as much as possible. Although she had to enter from the other side of the garden, she found the cupid fountain and started off in the direction in which the fluttering skirt had disappeared.

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.