Last night’s events had fixated Goodwin’s suspicions more sharply on Victoria—as if they hadn’t already been sharp enough. The fact that she’d been at the affair had been only part of it. Vague stories of her acting in an unladylike manner had blossomed. As Oliver told it, when Goodwin learned that she had been found crouched next to a ravaged man alone in a sequestered part of the garden with blood everywhere, including dripping from her mouth and an odd expression on a scratched face . . .
Blood dripping from her mouth?
It took her a moment to remember pushing the hair away from her face. Maybe blood had been on her hands and smeared near her lips.
And apparently the scratches on her face had been, not the result of blasting through a hedge of boxwood, but in self-defense from her victim as she’d bent to drink his blood.
Victoria had a healthy enough imagination to know that was exactly what Goodwin would be thinking.
“ ’E’s goin’ to come here an’ take ye right to the magistrate. Today,” Oliver concluded, still worrying his hat. “An’ he’ll listen t’Goodwin, and put ye in Newgate. M’lady, ye can’t go in there. It’s no place—”
“I have no intention of being put into Newgate,” Victoria said. “And I’ve no fear of the place anyway. ” Yet a shiver skittered over her shoulders. Even for Illa Gardella, it would be unpleasant.
But the worst of it was that she wouldn’t spend much time in Newgate at all, for murderers were tried quickly. She’d be on the scaffold with a noose around her neck within a week, if Goodwin had his way.
She turned to Verbena. “I’m indisposed for the day. I will see no one. No one, Verbena. Not Max, not Kritanu, nor Sebastian Vioget. ” She looked at Verbena sharply. “And don’t drink anything with Sebastian—or Max, for that matter. And you’re to tell no one of this conversation—either of you. ” She glared at both of them, fixing the strength of Illa Gardella in her gaze. “I cannot risk having any of you carted off to Newgate for trying to protect me. ”
“But what will you do, my lady?”
Victoria stood. “First, I will borrow your cloak. And . . . could you perhaps cut off a bit of your hair for me?”
The short puff of orange hair peeking from the low-hanging hood of Verbena’s cloak easily disguised Victoria out of the back of the house, through the mews, and onto the street nearby. She met Barth in his hackney a few blocks away, feeling as though she was making the secret assignation that Sebastian had suspected of her.
The ride to Gwendolyn Starcasset’s home gave Victoria a few moments to remove the disguising cloak, and to think about Bemis Goodwin. It wasn’t possible that coincidence kept bringing him to the places where vampire attacks happened.
Near the Starcasset residence, Victoria alighted from the hack and walked a half block to the walkway. S
he preferred not to have to answer queries as to why she used a public hackney instead of one of her own carriages. Victoria actually wondered why she even kept her own carriages. She never used them.
“Victoria!” Gwendolyn shrieked and threw herself into her friend’s arms. In any other case, a young woman such as Victoria would have staggered back under the force of her onslaught . . . but of course one as strong as Illa Gardella did not.
Gwen’s eyes were red-rimmed and her nose tinged pink. Her face looked as though she hadn’t slept all night. Her embrace included a damp handkerchief.
“Gwendolyn,” Victoria replied with as much heartfelt emotion as the other woman. “I just had to see for myself that you were uninjured. ”
“I sent a message to your house this morning to ensure myself that you’d escaped the tragedy, but had no response! I’ve been simply distraught, Victoria. And George too,” she said, with a covert look at her friend.
Ah, a convenient opening. Victoria smiled inside but kept a sober expression. “Then Mr. Starcasset is well? I was able to learn that you’d left early—which surprised me, Gwen, for I know how you adore such parties—but I did not see your brother anywhere during the horrible fire. ”
“Was it truly frightening?” Gwen asked. She looked sincerely upset—rather than greedy for the sordid details. “I’ve heard that at least eight people are unaccounted for, Victoria, and I so feared that you were one of them. And poor Mr. Ferguson-Brightley was burned so badly, it’s certain he won’t live. ” Her eyes welled with tears. “I cannot fathom how I was so lucky as to have been called home early, even if it was a misunderstanding. ”
“You were called home?” The pieces clicked into place. Had George made certain his sister was spared?
“It was quite Providential that George recognized me, for he had no idea that I was meant to attend last night. I thought . . . ” Gwen actually blushed, looking away from Victoria for a moment. “I told no one that I was to attend, for I thought that it would be amusing . . . well, I am to be married in a few weeks, and though I do love Brodebaugh. . . but, Victoria, he is just not quite so handsome and dashing as your Phillip was . . . and, oh, I’m making a cake of this, am I not! You must think so poorly of me, but truly, it was a harmless thought I had . . . to spend one last night as a debutante. I was masked, so no one would recognize me, and I only wished to dance. ” Her voice trailed off as Victoria nodded encouragingly.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she told Gwen soothingly. “How did it come about that you left the party early, though?”
“Well, George espied me and he told me that Brodebaugh had come to the house looking for me . . . and of course, I left immediately. ” She twisted her hands together, looking altogether miserable. “I do love him, Victoria. And I never meant to do anything to harm him. It really was for innocent fun. ”
Innocent fun that nearly got her killed . . . or fed on by a vampire. At least George had had the conscience to send her home before executing his Tutela plan.
But that answered one question. A vampire would just as soon walk away from their dying lover or mother as feed on them, should the urge arise. It would be hard to believe that George was the daytime vampire . . . for the one thing the undead didn’t have was a conscience.
Thirteen
Wherein Our Heroine Makes a Telling Decision
Victoria left Gwendolyn’s house relieved that her friend was unhurt, but deep in thought.