George was older than his sister, but his face bore a trace of youth that gave him dimpled cheeks and a cleft chin. He wasn’t an unattractive man, by any stretch, but his hair was a flat flaxen helmet that curled up at the ends, and his sideburns were too short. Overall, he merely made Victoria want to pat him on the head and send him off to play with his wooden blocks.
He wasn’t an especially adept villain either, for the one time he’d had Victoria alone and planned to ravage her at gunpoint, it had been much too simple to distract and disarm him. So much so that Victoria hardly credited herself with the escape.
But there was something different about him now . . . something harder and more confident as he swept his attention over her. There was a knowing look in his eyes, and a hint of challenge.
She had no worries that he might divulge the specifics of their last few meetings—not only would no one believe it (well, no one except Lady Winnie and Lady Nilly), but those events would definitely not show him in the most esteemed light. Perhaps his self-assured air was because he knew his presence had taken her by surprise, or perhaps it was because of the lovely young woman on his arm, who was clearly managing the event.
Sara Regalado flounced across the parlor in her perfectly tailored butter yellow day dress. Even Victoria, who was not one to care much for style—at least, not any longer—took notice of the fine Alençon lace dripping from the wrist-length sleeves, and the three rows of rosettes and lace decorating the hem of her skirt. The fabric alone was worth notice, for the design of bluebirds and spring green ivy wasn’t stamped on it, but embroidered in painstaking detail.
“Victoria,” Gwen was whispering once all the introductions were made, pulling a chair closer to hers. “I couldn’t wait to meet him! I heard he arrived yesterday, and he seems divine. His accent is so . . . rustic.”
Clearly, Lady Melly wasn’t the only one who had designs on reinstating Victoria as the Marchioness of Rockley rather than merely the Dowager Marchioness. And since George appeared otherwise engaged, Gwendolyn wasn’t wasting any time.
“Lady Rockley, is splendido to see you again,” said Sara in her accented English. She smiled prettily, but Victoria didn’t trust the glint in her brown eyes. “Forse, we might do the shopping together, on Via Fleet, is it? Perhaps you and I and our mutual friend?”
“Our mutual friend?” Victoria replied. She was damned if she was going to talk to her about Max—let alone admit that she had no idea where he was hiding. For all she knew, Sara had aligned herself with Lilith and was looking for Max herself.
The thought—absurd as it was, for how would Sara find Lilith? And why?—made her blood run cold.
“Why, si, was it not . . . Mrs. Withers, ci credo. Mrs. Emmaline Withers?” The glint turned to laughter in those brown doe eyes, hard and knowing. “Did I not meet her in Roma? Is she not a friend of yours? The povero widow?”
Before Victoria could reply, her mother leaped into the fray. “Emmaline Withers? Why, I don’t know any Mrs. Withers, Victoria. What have you been keeping from us.” It was quite pointedly not a question, but a statement. The crease between her eyebrows clearly told Victoria what her words did not.
But Lady Melly had nothing to fear, and Sara was well aware of it, for Mrs. Withers was merely the name Victoria had used during her visit to Rome. She had done so in order to keep her identity as Aunt Eustacia’s great-niece, a Venator, secret.
“I’m so sorry, signorina,” Victoria replied. “Mrs. Withers is no longer with us.”
“Pardon me, I am so sorry for your loss,” Sara replied in a voice as thick as the honey Lady Winnie liked to slop in her tea. “I have suffered a recent loss myself.” She lowered her face as if to hide a sudden tear, a flimsy lace handkerchief suddenly appearing in her hand.
Victoria had a sudden suspicion that she spoke of her father, the Conte Regalado, who had been wooing Lady Melly. But before she could divert the subject, Lady Nilly interrupted. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. Who was it?”
“My father,” Sara replied, her face still obscured except for the hard, deadly look she lifted to Victoria. “He recently met his end because of a horrid woman who destroyed his heart. She is a murderess!”
Namely, Victoria. The one who had driven the stake into Regalado’s undead chest.
Well, at least she no longer had to wonder how Sara perceived her.
“Oh!” Lady Melly squeaked as if she’d just seen a mouse. “Regalado. Conte Regalado? Alberto Regalado?” Her face had drained pale except for the spots of red in her cheeks. “I feel rather . . . faint . . . could I . . . could it . . . he was . . .” Another handkerchief fluttered, appearing, surprisingly, from the tanned hand of James Lacy.
Victoria’s lips firmed. “Nonsense, Mother. I’m quite certain you had nothing to do with his . . . er . . . broken heart. Any man’s heart as fragile as dust is not worthy of your esteem. Now, shall I pour you some tea, Gwen?”
“Lady Rockley,” said George in his easy voice. “Understand you had an unsettling experience in the park yesterday.”
“It was horrid,” Lady Nilly announced, her spoon clanking against the sides of her teacup. “Why, there was blood everywhere.”
“And markings on her chest!” Lady Winnie added. “Three Xs, and her clothes were torn everywhere . . . as if some animal had mauled her.”
George’s eyebrows rose in unadulterated surprise. “You were there as well? You saw this horrible sight? Daresay, a sight like that would send m’mother to bed for a week.”
“No, we weren’t there, but I—”
“It was a terrible sight,” Victoria interrupted firmly. She didn’t know what George and Sara were up to, but she suspected they were quite aware of the details of what she’d seen. It was too much of a coincidence for them to arrive unannounced at her residence the day after she’d seen the results of a vampire attack—in the sunlight, no less. They were both members of the Tutela, and the only conclusion she could draw was that either they were well aware of the attack and wanted to see what Victoria had figured out, or they suspected there was vampire activity, and they were trying to confirm it. Either way, she was understandably disinclined to assist them.
But before she could respond by changing the subject, the parlor door opened again. “Monsieur Sebastian Vioget,” announced the butler, his nose lifted as though he smelled something a bit unpleasant. Lettender had not been fond of the French since his brother was killed at Waterloo.