When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4)

When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4) Page 6

She wished she really did give more than a fig about these things, but it was difficult to worry over tatting and trims when Briyani lay dead and she hadn’t been able to see Kritanu yet. He was staying at the home he’d shared with Aunt Eustacia here in London; the place where Victoria would move upon leaving St. Heath’s Row—which was yet another thing she needed to attend to.

“Oh, dear, Victoria,” her friend sighed in mock annoyance. “But you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? This lace, this beautiful Brussels lace, isn’t meant for my wedding gown . . . but for my wedding night. That is why I invited you here, to the private parlor. Why, see, I’ve even had the drapes drawn!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Ahh!” Victoria picked up the lace again. It was quite lovely—an eggshell white, shot through with shiny, glittering silver thread, tatted into the most intricate miniatures of loops and knots and scallops. “The earl will no doubt find himself speechless with delight.”

“I do hope so.” Gwen beamed, and for a moment, in the glare of her happiness, Victoria was shocked by pure, unadulterated envy.

It shot through her like a bolt of lightning: envy that she’d never have an ignorant life with a man she loved, and who loved her (for it was clearly a love match between Miss Starcasset and her wealthy earl, despite the fact that he was more than two decades older than she). The ugly feeling roiled inside her, threatening to burst free in the form of snide remarks and accusations that she didn’t really mean.

Victoria dropped the lace when she realized her fingers had crumpled it, and a sting of tears surprised her. She forced herself to take a deep breath, to smile, to look at her friend’s beaming face and ask herself: Why shouldn’t she be happy? Some of us have to be. I’ve more than enough angst for both of us.

“And George may soon follow—as you can imagine, my mother has been nagging at him for years now,” Gwendolyn was rattling on. Miraculously, she hadn’t noticed or recognized Victoria’s lapse, saving her from another explanation that would likely make no sense.

But Gwen’s words served also to catch Victoria’s attention, snatching her back to their conversation. “George? Your brother has returned to London?” She lifted her teacup.

The last time she’d seen George Starcasset had been in Rome, when he had imprisoned Victoria, Max, and Sebastian—capturing them for the demon Akvan. Victoria didn’t know when or how George had become involved with the Tutela, the secret society of mortals that protected and served vampires, but he had become a nuisance. When he wasn’t trying to seduce her, he was handing her over to the undead or a demon. And not doing it very capably.

When Max had taken on the task of destroying Akvan, George had disappeared during the melee that followed, and was presumed dead.

Apparently, that was not the case, if he was planning to attend Gwendolyn’s wedding.

“Oh, yes. Mother and I hadn’t had any letters from him for more than a month, then about three weeks ago he returned from his Grand Tour of the Continent. Then he spent a week at Claythorne Manor before arriving here in Town. I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Gwen continued, “but I confess, I always harbored the hope that you and George might form an attachment, Victoria.” She held up her hands as if to ward off any response her friend might make, adding, “Not now, of course, for it’s not even been two years since Rockley died, but . . . well, he seemed quite smitten with you during the house party at Claythorne, and you didn’t seem put off by him at all. And then he followed you to Italy, and I thought—”

“No, indeed,” Victoria replied politely, thinking that the only off-putting thing about Mr. Starcasset was that he’d sneaked into her bedchamber during that very same house party—after inviting vampires to the estate. Oh, and that he’d planned to ravish her at gunpoint when they met up in Rome. No. She didn’t find him terribly off-putting at all. More like an annoying gnat.

“But, alas, it appears my fondest wishes will never come to fruition . . . unless . . . you can distract him from that Italian woman he seems to have developed a tendre for.”

“Italian woman?” There was only one person that could be. Victoria set her tea down—it was cold, and she’d put too much sugar in it.

“Signorina Sarafina Regalado,” said Gwen. “Aside from the fact that she is disrupting my plans to have you as a sister-in-law, I rather like her myself. For all her English leaves much to be desired, her sense of fashion is quite good. She’s been a blessing as I prepare my trousseau.” If that was a veiled criticism of Victoria’s inattention, it was belied by the sparkle in her friend’s eyes.

Victoria raised her brows and reached for a lemon biscuit. “Blessing” was not quite the word she’d use to describe Sara Regalado. But Gwen was indeed right—Sara had a deep love for fashion, and debates about which lace to adorn which gown, new fabrics, and how long a hem should be dominated her every conversation. And the woman seemed to collect fiancés even more quickly than shoes. Less than a year ago, she and Max had been engaged.

Supposedly.

Victoria had never been able to get a straight answer from Max as to whether he had arranged the betrothal in order for him to be accepted by the Tutela, or a real engagement. It had been vital for him to pretend to be wholly loyal to the Tutela, as well as Nedas, in order to get into the inner circle of vampires and close enough to destroy the demonic obelisk. He’d even had to do the unthinkable in order to be accepted: execute Aunt Eustacia. Knowing that, it shouldn’t surprise Victoria that he’d go so far as to get engaged to a woman who was part of the Tutela . . . but how much further would he have gone?

The one time she’d pressed him about whether he really would have married Sara, Max had replied, “If it was necessary, I would have.”

Victoria had never actually asked Max if he’d loved his fiancée—for if he had, he must have been devastated by the fact that Sara’s father, the leader of the Tutela, had been turned to a vampire.

Not to mention the fact that the lady in question seemed to enjoy being around and fed upon by vampires. Victoria had staked the newly undead Conte Regalado herself several months ago when he turned his attentions to wooing Lady Melly. But she wouldn’t be surprised if Sarafina had taken her father’s place—either as the leader of the Tutela, or as a vampire herself.

And now, Sara had arrived in London, ostensibly as George Starcasset’s fiancée.

And Briyani had been found in a hidden vampire lair. In London.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Because of her late nights patrolling streets where the undead might be found, Victoria wasn’t often about during the day. Normally, she spent much of sunlight’s hours catching up on her sleep, practicing her fighting skills with Kritanu, and avoiding her mother. But today she had to make an appearance.

Ironically, the cream of London Society lived much the same schedule as a Venator—sleeping late in the day, often till noon, then rising and dressing for afternoon calls. Late in the afternoon, they returned home to dress for the evening’s events, which could include the theater, a dinner party, or a ball, wherein they ate and danced and gossiped until the early hours of morning.

Victoria’s visit to Gwendolyn today had been made rather earlier than usual. They’d had luncheon together in the private parlor strewn with bolts of lace, silk, and ribbons.

After leaving the Starcasset residence, Victoria fulfilled her mother’s demand to join her for her own afternoon calls. Lady Melly was no longer content to wait for her daughter to make her own entrée back into Society, and she’d threatened to bring droves of her friends down upon St. Heath’s Row if her daughter didn’t cooperate. Thus, she sat Victoria on the least comfortable chair— which also happened to be the focal point of a room over-filled with parlor chairs, twittering ladies, eaux de toilette of the most sweet scents, and poorly hidden nosiness.

“We are so pleased you’ve returned from your journey to Italy,” crooned Lady Winnie, the Duchess of Farnham and one of Lady Melly’s two cronies. She enveloped Victoria in a smothering hug against her shelflike bosom, her plump arms stronger than they looked. “We had a lovely time visiting you there, but the ton was calling, and of course, we had to return.” When she released Victoria, she moved smoothly to scoop up three little ginger biscuits and a lemon scone.

Victoria smothered a smile. Fortunately, Lady Winnie wasn’t able to recall just how much fun they’d had visiting her, thanks to Aunt Eustacia’s special golden disk. With Wayren’s help, Victoria had been able to eliminate any memories the ladies might have had about their attempt to hunt down and stake the Conte Regalado. Lady Winnie herself had carried a wooden pike as thick as her arm.

“It was quite exciting to be in Rome—or shall I say Roma?” added Lady Petronilla, rolling her R enthusiastically. Lady Nilly was one of Lady Melly’s closest friends, and a surrogate aunt to Victoria. “The Carnivale was astonishing, but I daresay the King’s coronation will be even more of an event. I’ve heard he’s spending upward of forty-four thousand pounds . . . on his robe alone!”

“I never had the chance to give you my condolences personally, Lady Rockley,” said Mrs. Winkledon, wedging herself between Ladies Melly and Nilly on the sofa. “About the loss of your dear Rockley. A love match it was, was it not?” Her sharp eyes matched her sharp nose, which nearly quivered with curiosity, as if she expected Victoria to admit that she hadn’t actually loved Phillip. Not that it should matter, for few ton marriages were love matches. In fact, it was almost considered passé to love one’s spouse.

“Thank you, Mrs. Winkledon,” Victoria replied. “I do miss Phillip terribly.” That was at least the truth.

“An accident on a ship?” asked Lady Breadlington, leaning in with a smile. Her teeth, flat instead of curved across the front of her mouth, looked as though they’d been kicked in by a horse. “How terrible that he perished in the cold sea, on his way to—where was it? Spain? His body was never found, was it?”