"He wanted to know why I put the salvi in his drink. He was quite… agitated. We nearly came to fisticuffs. He appeared to be under the impression that I had taken Victoria to the Silver Chalice, and that it was I who influenced her so. He was babbling on about destiny… and from what I was able to glean, he had just come from her home. He left me with the impression that they were calling off the wedding. Which is the reason I was quite surprised to receive that."
Eustacia could think of nothing to say. She merely raised her eyebrows, hoping he would continue. When he did not, and instead sat glaring at the offending invitation, she prompted, "Whatever did you tell him? About the salvi?"
"I told him the truth—that it was for his protection. That he'd walked into a nest of vipers that he had no hopes of understanding, and that the only way I knew to get him out safely was to make him sick. Unfortunately, it did not work as planned."
And that he'd been bested by a non-Venator was probably the largest reason it sat like a stone in his belly.
"If he follows her again, he could easily jeopardize our work."
True. Too true. "Victoria will have to find a way to manage that, Max. I trust that she will be able to."
She prayed her niece would be able to.
"It would have to be raining today, of all days," Melly muttered to Winnie as she watched her beautiful daughter exchange vows with the catch of the Season. "A fortnight of sunshine, and today must be overcast!" Despite her annoyance, she cast a satisfied glance over her shoulder, gleeful at the expressions of some of the other mamas who hadn't been quite as successful in their matchmaking endeavors. Today was truly a coup!
Indeed, a soft, summer rain was falling on this, the day of the Marquess of Rockley's wedding. The sky was colored with pearl-gray clouds, and the steady rain brought the smell of peat and summer flowers to the air. The overflow guests were huddled outside the chapel under hastily erected tents, and more than one pair of spectacles had fogged or misted up. Melly's lorgnette was damp, but that was from tears of joy… not the rain.
"The drizzle isn't bothering them," Winnie whispered back. "I've never seen Victoria look so beautiful, and so happy." She dabbed at her eyes, then snorted, bull-like, into her lacy handkerchief.
Melly had helped her daughter dress at St. Heath's Row in a slip of soft lemon silk, with a lacy white gauze skirt over it. The lace was embroidered with seed pearls, twists of satin ribbon, and ocean pearls, giving the whole of it a gentle glittering sort of glow. Madame LeClaire had outdone herself!
Victoria's maid had drawn up only the topmost of her curls onto the crown of her head, leaving the rest of the unruly mass to cascade down her back and over her shoulders. Melly had forbidden the use of those ridiculous sticks in the bridal coiffure, and so more pearls, and also ice-white diamonds, had been woven into the corkscrew tresses. Still more created a wrap around the top of her cluster of curls, holding them in a crownlike position.
Moments after the heaviest of the rain showers eased, Victoria had walked down the aisle at the small stone chapel on the grounds of St. Heath's Row carrying a cluster of lilies of the valley and yellow roses. English ivy, wrapped around the stems, trailed to the ground at her feet.
The marquess was resplendent in a dove-gray coat and ink-black breeches. His boots shone like jet, and his waistcoat was rich claret patterned with black-and-gray paisley. His neckcloth, a solid color matching the waistcoat, had been tied to within an inch of its life, and was as crisp as a bloodstain on his perfect white shirt. Such exquisite fashion sense!
Rockley's thick walnut hair was brushed back high off his forehead, and did not dare fall from its place even when he tipped his head to look down at his bride. The long sideburns that framed the very edges of his cheeks had been trimmed and lay flat and smooth against his skin. His eyes, half-lidded as they always were, were fixed with great emotion on the glowing bride next to him as he spoke his vows clearly and for all to hear.
As his mellow voice boomed his promise to love her daughter until death did they part, Melly couldn't resist looking over at Lady Seedham-Jones, whose three single daughters—all of whom had come out in the last four years—were sitting next to her. The lady in question had the look of a wrinkled prune about her face.
That was when Melly noticed the Italian gentleman who seemed to know her aunt Eustacia quite well. Maximilian someone-or-other—since he didn't have a title, Melly hadn't bothered to learn his last name. "Whatever does that Maximilian person have in his hand?"
Winnie turned to look at the tall dark-haired man with the arrogant face. He sat in the back row of the chapel, looking rather bored, and as Melly watched he slipped something—a long, pointed stick—from the sleeve of his jacket. He hefted it in his hand, then slid it back into the starched white cuff. More than once.
"How very odd," Winnie murmured, fingering the crucifix that dangled from her neck. "It almost looks like a stake one would use to impale a—"
"Don't say it!" Melly hissed. "Do not even breathe your foolish thoughts here at my daughter's wedding!"
"But, Melly, you know—"
"Hush! They are about to be presented as husband and wife!"
Winnie complied and closed her mouth, but her eyes darted back to the Italian gentleman sitting in the last row. Melly pretended not to notice, but she did keep a wary eye on the man for the rest of the wedding celebration.
However, he remained on the outskirts of the revelry and never once left the fete. So it was most certain that Winnie's imagination had run away with her yet again.
Silly woman.
Victoria had never seen the bare chest of an adult male, but she found it exceedingly captivating when, late on the day of her wedding, in the privacy of his bedchamber, her new husband whipped off his shirt.
The starched white broadcloth fell in a crumple on the floor and Phillip stepped over it, moving toward her outstretched hand. She wanted to feel the smooth skin that had been hidden under his shirt. Who would have known that such a proper gentleman had such firm, golden ridges dusted with dark hair, of all things! But the curls felt soft and interesting when she finally touched them, and if the gentle intake of his breath was any indication, he did not mind her questing fingers at all.
Not at all.
Victoria was still garbed in the night rail that Verbena had hustled her into, after all of the guests had left St. Heath's Row. The faintest sounds of clattering dishes and servants ordering one another about during their effort to clean up did reach her ears, up there in the suite of rooms that belonged to her husband, but Victoria's attention was quite focused elsewhere. In particular, on the hands of her husband, which were industriously unbuttoning the tiny buttons that Verbena had done up a mere fifteen minutes earlier.