When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

“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.”

Victoria couldn’t contain the little amused smile that escaped, and immediately she bit her lip. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend him. His humor and charm were refreshing, absurd enough to make her forget that the rest of her life was too bloody dark. He would have the ladies in the ton eating out of his hand in no time. And then she realized what he’d meant earlier. “Oh, the heavy thing. Do you mean the ton?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s it. Where do we find the ton? And what do we do with it?”

Stifling another smile, Victoria explained that the haute ton was the nickname for the crème de la crème of London Society—and that he was now a member of “the heavy thing.” By the time she was finished, they were both chuckling. Their conversation ended with James, as he’d insisted she call him—“for if you don’t, I won’t know who you’re talking to!”—extracting a promise that she would join him for dinner that evening in the main dining room.

She would make a visit to Kritanu, who was with Briyani’s body in the chapel, then have time to dress for dinner.

Despite the time it would take away from other matters, Victoria had a suspicion that the meal would likely be the most enjoyable part of her day.

That night, it was well past eleven by the time Victoria excused herself from James Lacy and his newfound enjoyment of a French brandy from Armagnac. Apparently he was used to something they drank in Kentucky called rotgut, which sounded as horrible as he claimed it tasted. She herself had had two glasses of sherry—one more than usual—and she was feeling more than a little loose-limbed.

Yet, as she climbed the stairs, it all came back to her: less than twenty-four hours earlier, she and Sebastian had been slogging through an underground river of sewage. And the rest of the day’s events had left her even more worried, confused, and grieving.

Inside her chamber, she pulled the cord to summon her maid, Verbena, to assist her in preparing for bed. Or perhaps not. . . .

A lamp had been left burning low on her dressing table, and Victoria refrained from turning it brighter. Instead, she walked over to the tall window that gave her a view of the moonlit gardens below. Behind her, the room was lit with a bare glow, enabling her to see through the pane. There was only a quarter moon and clouds obscured many of the stars, so the grounds were painted mostly in heavy shades of black and dark blue. A pale sweep of gray designated a pea gravel path, and a cluster of lilac bushes rose in dark relief next to a glowing white bench that happened to catch the glare of the moonbeams.

She touched the cool glass, considering. Perhaps she should be on the streets tonight, trying to find out what she could about a vampire that attacked in the daylight.

Or perhaps it would be best to get a solid night’s sleep and allow her mind to clear of sherry, as well as the reality of the problems she faced.

Alone.

Despite the fact that Sebastian was here in London with her, he came and went as he pleased, and Victoria felt utterly alone. She was without her Venator companions, far from the people who understood her and what her life was.

Max was gone, somewhere, God knew where. Wayren was in Rome, along with the other Venators Victoria had come to know and like—Brim, and Michalas, and others.

Aunt Eustacia was dead. Kritanu, though here, was grieving his nephew, and still reeling from the loss of Aunt Eustacia.

She also felt the loss of kind, gentle Zavier, a Venator who had made his desire to court Victoria quite clear. He had died at the hands of Beauregard.

She heard the faint snick of a door as Verbena came in behind her, entering through the sitting room that sat between the marquess’s chamber and that of the marchioness. Still trying to decide whether to have her maid dress her in a night rail or in men’s trousers, Victoria continued staring out the window.

She realized a fraction of a second later that Verbena was never so quiet, no matter what time it was or how tired she might be. Victoria’s heart gave a little bump and the hair on her arms lifted.

Just as she started to whirl away from the window, a shadow moved behind her—a blurred reflection in the pane, and then it shifted out of sight. Strong hands closed over her shoulders, halting her in midpivot. Although he wasn’t standing so as to reflect in the window, she recognized him now—by the way he touched her, the familiar scent that lingered on his fingers, the way his body brushed against hers. Her edgy nerves settled.

“Where’s Verbena?” she demanded. She didn’t attempt to turn toward him.

“Sleeping quite soundly, I believe,” he said. “A comely girl, but repose is definitely not her most attractive state. Her snores are like to rattle the windows from their frames, and would be fairly off-putting to a gentleman who might wish to . . . er . . . lie . . . with her . . . though I’d venture to say that the poor beleaguered Oliver would seize the opportunity if offered.”