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. She 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.
She’d realized that there could be more than one daytime vampire, as she’d begun to think of the creature. After all, if an undead merely had to drink the special elixir, what was to stop more than one of them from doing it?
Or many of them?
She sat in the hackney, her shoulder slamming against the side every time Barth made a right turn, and her head bobbing every time he urged the horse forward. His vulgar language peppered the air as he navigated them down Fleet Street—a mistake in itself, for the road was clogged with other carriages and conveyances, as well as shoppers, shopkeepers, and street urchins.
But it gave Victoria a bit of time to consider the situation.
From what she knew about the elixir, it could only be made from the stamen of a special plant that bloomed rarely—perhaps once per century, or no more than twice. Since little could be made, more vampires must want it than could have it. That didn’t preclude more than one undead from using it, but the supply couldn’t last forever. And there couldn’t be an entire army of undead drinking it, which gave her some measure of comfort.
Still, both Sara and George could be daytime vampires.
Of course, as Max had suggested, James could be the daytime undead. She hadn’t missed the fact that the incidents had begun to occur the day he arrived at St. Heath’s Row.
Sara and George, as well as James, had been at the Hungreath dinner party, and also at the masquerade ball. And while she’d seen none of them in Regent’s Park when Victoria found the first victim, that didn’t mean they hadn’t been around. She had, after all, spoken with Gwen and Brodebaugh, who could have told them Victoria was in the vicinity.
Or, it could simply be that the daytime vampire was someone she didn’t know or hadn’t noticed. After all, it didn’t have to be someone she’d seen. It could be any minion of Lilith.
And, yes indeed, it could also be Mr. Bemis Goodwin.
Oh, how she wanted it to be him.
Even now, thinking about how his sharp, angry eyes examined her, searching for something that wasn’t there, she felt tension rise. Her fingers itched for a stake, ready to plunge it into his chest. He had made it clear he wanted nothing more than to see her hang.
But why?
Victoria turned the ugly thought over in her mind. It wasn’t easy; the fury tinged her vision, and her mind rebelled at the very thought . . . but she had to consider it.
Why would a man she didn’t know want to harm her?
Several deep breaths later—ones she’d had to focus on, draw in deeply, hold, and then release—Victoria had pared her scattered, berserker thoughts down.
He either truly thought she was a murderess and wanted to see justice done—in which case, she was innocent and should have nothing to worry about. But that wouldn’t explain his pointed comments about the undead.