She was no more than a wisp of a girl, with flyaway hair of a nondescript brown, and soulful brown eyes. In addition, she had an excuse that made it impossible for Victoria to decline her request that she ride in the carriage.
“I knew Rockley when he was a young boy,” Miss Needleton said. “Perhaps if you sit next to me, I could tell you some stories about him. ”
Curiosity won out, of course. Victoria climbed into the carriage with the help of Mr. Needleton, whose pale cheeks flushed with pleasure as their gloved hands skidded against each other. Smiling at him, and settling her day dress skirts so that they didn’t infringe upon his sister’s or Miss Durfingdale’s, she realized how easy it could be for her to slip back into this world. Perhaps too easy.
If her mother had her way, Victoria would be intent on finding a new husband in order to provide Lady Melly with grandchildren (and an heir to the Grantworth estates). Instead all she could think about was what that copper ring meant to Sebastian, and whether he meant to give it to the Venators, or keep it for some other reason. And how to find Max to tell him about Briyani. And what George Starcasset was doing here in London with Sarafina. And how she felt about Sebastian.
How she really felt about Sebastian. A warm flush spread through her. Whatever her feelings, it was clear that he made her skin tingle and her head light—even when he wasn’t around.
Victoria realized with a start that her hands had clasped tightly together, and that Mr. Needleton—ignoring his sister’s agenda for conversation—had been expounding quite profusely about the merits of a certain filly at the Derby, and why he expected she should take the cup.
The oaks and cottonwoods were thick and stately as the carriage turned past the stucco villas and into the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park. When Victoria and Phillip had driven through here, John Nash had just begun the park’s redesign. Though it wasn’t near completion, the park already showed his influence, with its sweeping pathways and havens for waterfowl.
“Miss Needleton,” Victoria said when the young woman’s brother stopped for a breath of air, “did you say that you were acquainted with my husband as a young boy?”
“Yes, my lady,” she replied. “His mother was a friend of my mother’s, and we spent two summers together when I was seven and he was perhaps thirteen. He was frightfully fond of raspberries, though his mother forbade him to eat any, for they gave him a terrible rash. I recall how he convinced me to go berry picking with him one day—”
Her story was interrupted as the carriage approached that of another high-strung vehicle. As was expected, the Needletons stopped in order to greet the others. It was Gwendolyn and her earl, Brodebaugh. He seemed vaguely attentive to his adoring fiancée, but kind enough to agree with her when she pressed him for his thoughts on the weather. This was the first time Victoria recalled meeting him—although, according to Gwendolyn, he’d attended the Straithwaite musical the summer of their debut. They exchanged pleasantries for a short time. When the Needleton carriage was ready to move on, another conveyance had approached, and the conversation was extended. Victoria waved to Gwendolyn as Brodebaugh drove away, wishing she’d invited herself to ride back with them, for she didn’t anticipate extricating herself any time soon.
For now that word had spread from carriage to rider to curricle that the Marchioness of Rockley was in the Needleton vehicle, everyone seemed to converge on their path.
Victoria’s mouth was tired of smiling and her palms were sore from the score of her nails biting through her cotton gloves. She was just about to suggest that they return to the Grantworth home when someone screamed.
They all turned to look toward the terrified cry, which had been cut off in a sort of bubbling way. It had come from the direction of a far distant clump of thick bushes and grass that had not yet been subjected to Mr. Nash’s attentions. Victoria bolted to her feet, causing the carriage to sway—but she caught herself before she hurtled out of the vehicle like a madwoman. Miss Needleton looked up at her in astonishment, for apparently it had never
occurred to her that she might be of assistance.
Of course it wouldn’t. Women of the ton let everything be done for and about them. Victoria remained standing, however, as Mr. Needleton and several other men leaped from their vehicles, dashing toward the cry of distress.
“Oh, my,” Miss Durfingdale squeaked rather belatedly, and Victoria, who had nearly forgotten her existence, looked at her in surprise. Was she knocked for six by the scream, or the equally amazing speed at which the men had moved?
“Perhaps they may need assistance,” Victoria said, lifting her skirts to climb carefully down from the carriage— an unusual feat for a woman, but one that she was well accustomed to performing. “If she is in distress. ”
Miss Needleton’s mild protestations ringing in her ears, Victoria hurried as quickly as she could through the tall grasses in the wake of the men. As soon as she was out of sight of the carriage, she thrashed through the brush, heedless of her new muslin day dress, and found herself running down a small incline. At the bottom, a creek trickled beneath scattered trees. Ahead of her, she heard the men running and calling to each other, but she remained silent as she ran pell-mell down the creek bank. There’d been no other cries from the victim, and at last Victoria came to a rushing halt when she reached the small stream.
Panting, she looked around for some sign of trouble, but saw nothing but dappled sunlight over the smooth stones scattered in the creek. Just then, a splash of pink caught her attention behind a massive, felled tree trunk.
It took her only a moment to reach the crumpled figure, and when she did, Victoria gasped in shock. Blood spattered the grass around her, staining the pink gown that had caught her attention. When she turned the young woman over, Victoria stared down at the horror.
The victim’s bodice had been torn away, and the flesh of her chest and over her collarbones was marked with three large Xs, gouged into her skin. Fresh blood seeped through the fabric and oozed from her wounds. But what caught Victoria’s attention were the four small marks on the girl’s blue-white neck.
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.