Kritanu gave her the impression that he was aware of Max’s whereabouts. But when Victoria broached the subject, she was met with a gentle shake of the head and closed lips.
Well, if Max wouldn’t give her the chance to apologize, to explain why she’d been so certain—and that she’d been right!—that the evening had been a trap meant for her as well as him, so be it. He could sulk and brood and stay away.
Victoria had more important things to concern herself with. Besides, if Max were around, she’d be forced to confess the whole situation to him, including Lilith’s frightening prediction. Which she felt no real need to do. She hadn’t forgotten the fact that he’d been holding a stake, ready to put it to use when she woke up back in the Consilium.
And that was what she kept telling herself, over and over. And over.
Max was out of her life. For good.
He doesn’t want anybody.
Instead, she had to face the facts. Her night vision had become much clearer. If Lilith was right, and the vampire blood was taking over inside her . . . was it something she could fight? Something she could stop? Or was she destined to become undead?
The possibility was simply too horrific to consider. It just couldn’t happen.
She wouldn’t allow it.
The fact that Wayren hadn’t responded to a message sent by pigeon caused Victoria even greater trepidation. Wayren’s pigeons were trained to find her anywhere, and always seemed to do so, and to provide a response within twenty-four hours regardless of where she was. Thus Victoria began to fear that the wise woman had abandoned her as well.
Late that afternoon she sat grumpy and fidgeting in Lady Melly’s parlor, listening to the three cronies discuss the details of George IV’s coronation ceremony, which was to be held in a matter of days.
It was no surprise that the topic dominated their conversation, for the coronation of the man who’d been known as Prinny, nearly eighteen months after he’d ascended to the throne, was to be the greatest, most expensive and flamboyant crowning of an English king.
“What will you wear, Victoria?” asked Lady Nilly, leaning forward as if in anticipation of some great fashion secret.
“I don’t believe I’ve been invited,” she replied tartly, unconcerned with civility today. “And I do not plan to attend. ”
“But of course you have been invited! The only person of Quality in all of the land who is not to attend is the queen herself,” Lady Melly chided her. “And if you stay away, you may be aligned with her in the eyes of the ton. That would not be fitting for the Marchioness of Rockley, Victoria, to take the side of Queen Caroline. ”
“It is abominable that the working and trades cheer that disgusting creature whenever she goes about the City, giving her false support,” Lady Nilly said, her nose raised as if she smelled something objectionable. Perhaps it was the bouquet of daisies on the table near her tea. Victoria had always disliked the smell of the sunny flowers.
“It’s only because they despise Prinny—er, His Majesty—that they love her. Or claim they do, which I freely doubt. If any of them got within a king’s yard of that smelly sow, they should run the other direction and reexamine their thoughts,” Lady Melly said primly.
“If the woman would wash or change her undergarments, or even comb her hair, perhaps His Majesty would allow her near him . . . but she does not. ” Duchess Winnie’s multiple chins trembled, but she was not in danger of being accused of living in a glass house. “It’s a simple matter of grooming,” she said, smoothing her perfect skirts pointedly. The duchess, who was also a woman of large proportion, was always supremely clothed and coiffed before she stepped from her chamber. “I vow the queen’s goats are better groomed than she. ”
The other ladies laughed, and even Victoria couldn’t hold back a little smile. The gossip about the queen wasn’t completely mean-spirited. The woman had made no friends from the moment she arrived from Germany to wed the man who at the time was the Prince Regent.
Victoria remembered the story of Caroline of Brunswick’s first meeting with Prinny, in which the prince had come face to face with the sloppy, putrid woman and said, quite loudly, to the Baron of Malmesbury, “Harris, I do not feel well. Pray get me a glass of brandy. ” He’d not ceased drinking for the three days up to and including the wedding. He’d passed out on his wedding night, and Caroline had left him on the floor.
It was no wonder there was enmity between the two.
A knock came at the parlor door, and Lady Melly straightened expectantly. Victoria tightened her fingers around an innocent teacup, knowing that her mother’s anticipation could bode no good for her.
But then she recalled that it couldn’t be James. He’d been turned into a pile of dust and would no longer be at the mercy of her mother’s machinations.
Thus, Lady Melly was bound to be disappointed—in more ways than one. The Grantworth House butler entered the room on command, carrying a silver tray, on which rested a thick white paper, folded and sealed with a blob of yellow wax and an unidentifiable crest. “This missive for Lady Rockley,” he intoned.
Victoria nearly knocked over a vase of sweet-smelling lilies in her alacrity to seize the message. An excuse to leave, she hoped, before the droves of afternoon callers began their never-ending influx.
The message was simple, and in an elegant hand that Victoria recognized with relief: Your carriage awaits without.
“I must go,” she said, without sitting back down.
“What is it?” asked Lady Nilly. But she was overrun by Lady Melly.
“Surely not now!” exclaimed that genteel lady. “It is too early. ”
Victoria fixed her gaze on her parent. “I’m sorry, Mother, but it is of an urgent nature. ”