When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4)

When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4) Page 8

Vampire bites. Fresh ones.

In the middle of the day.

Four

Wherein a Bellpull Is 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 house, 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.”

“That is very kind of you,” Victoria replied, unsure of how she felt about his protestations. Part of her had wanted an excuse to move from the chambers that belonged to the lady of the house, which attached to the master’s rooms. And the other part of her wasn’t quite ready to let them, along with their bittersweet memories, go. “And there are many very comfortable chambers available for your pleasure. I’ll express your wishes to the staff if you like.”

“That would be greatly appreciated. I must confess my ear is not used to hearin’ the accents, and I have had a terrible time understandin’ the butler—is that who he is? The one whose eyebrows stick out further than his nose?” At Victoria’s surprised smile and nod, he continued in his own oddly accented voice, “It took me three times to understand that I should let the groom take my horse, and that I couldn’t have tea until three o’clock—although he did offer me some other food, something he called ‘repast.’ In Kentucky, we don’t drink a lot of tea, but when we do, it’s whenever the urge strikes us. Not at three.”