The Rest Falls Away (34 page)

And he shut the door. Softly. But ever so loudly.

 

+ + +

“They have been home from their wedding trip only two days, Nilly,” said Melly complaisantly, “but I am sure I can prevail upon the
ton's
newest fashionable couple to attend your niece's ball.”

“That would be divine!” gushed Petronilla, eyeing the platter of orange-cinnamon finger cakes. They smelled delicious, but it was that odd carroty hue that put her off. Perhaps she would have a talk with Freda about toning down the color. At least the lime biscuits weren't the nasty green shade they had been the last time Freda had made them. Now they looked rather appetizing, even with the thin veneer of white icing.

“Where is Winnie? I thought she wanted to hear all of the details of the wedding trip,” Melly complained. She had none of her friend's hesitation; she snatched up two of the cakes and began to nibble on a third.

“I'm here!” As if on cue, the parlor door opened and in sailed the Duchess of Farnham. She jingled and clunked.

“What on earth is that?” asked Melly, staring in askance at the large cross that hung from her waist like a chatelaine's ring of keys would have done in medieval times. Only the cross was much larger than any ring of keys. “And
that?”

“It's her stake, of course,” Petronilla explained as if Melly had lost her mind…when, in fact, it appeared to Lady Grantworth that it was her two dearest friends who had done so. “Winnie, I do hope you haven't any thought of using such a thing! That would be so cruel!”

Winifred plopped down in her favorite seat in Petronilla's parlor, somehow managing to slide four finger cakes and three lime biscuits onto a plate and pour herself a cup of tea in the process. “I am not foolish enough to be prancing about without protection, and you two ladies would be wise to do the same.”

“No, no, no,
no!
…Winnie, do not tell me you are still afraid that a vampire is going to jump out of the shadows at you some night!” Melly stuffed the rest of the orange finger cake into her mouth and swallowed a gulp of tea, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

“I should say so.” Winifred poured a generous amount of cream into her tea, disdaining the sugar, and stirred with gentle, elegant strokes to disperse it. “You did hear about the incident at that gentleman's club last night, Bridge & Stokes, did you not? When I heard about that, I went right out to one of the footmen and demanded he take one of the duke's old walking sticks and make it into a stake for me. I'm going nowhere without it!”

“Incident at Bridge & Stokes?” echoed Petronilla, her pale blue eyes wide with interest. “Whatever are you talking about? Were there vampires there? Did anyone get bitten?” There was a breathy note to her voice at this last.

“Those were not vampires, Winnie!” Melly shook her head and smoothed her skirts. “I know the incident you're talking about—and it was not vampires. How many times must I tell you that they simply don't exist? They are the product of Polidori's imagination, fueled by legend and ghost tales.”

“What happened at Bridge & Stokes?” asked Petronilla again.

“How can you not have heard about it? It has been roaring through the servant gossip mill faster than a fire in a dry field,” Melly replied archly.

“I have been indisposed all morning,” Petronilla replied delicately.

Melly snorted, but Winnie deigned, at last, to explain. “Five men were found dead after some passersby reported to the Runners that there had been a loud altercation there early this morning. No gunshots were reported, and from what I have heard, the bodies were found quite destroyed, torn up, even. Very messy.” She reached for another biscuit, thought better of it, and set it back on her plate. Apparently there were some topics that affected her appetite.

“Lord Jellington, my cousin, called on me first thing this morning,” Melly interceded. “Because the marquess belongs to the club in question, and had, in fact, been there last night. But apparently he left before the incident occurred, and Jellington wished to assure me that he was not involved.”

“Knowing Jellington, I am quite sure that was not all he wished to accomplish by calling on his attractive,
widowed
, third cousin,” Petronilla commented slyly.

“Oh, do go on! Jellington has never looked twice…well, perhaps twice, but definitely not thrice…at me in that fashion,” Melly replied, burying her face in a cup of tea.

“It was vampires that did it.” Winnie steered the conversation back on track. “That's why there were no gunshots! They don't need guns to get what they want.”

Melly was shaking her head. “No, Jellington says it was likely one or two people with knives who attacked the members of the club. Perhaps in some sort of vigilante manner, for all of the ones found dead—except one, who may have been an accidental casualty—were quite in debt and owed much money to some of those nasty moneylenders they speak of from St. Giles. The Runners believe it was an attempt to collect funds due them, or to make an example of those men for not paying back their debts.” She sniffed and set down her teacup.

It was Winnie's turn to snort. “That is what the Runners are saying. But I don't believe them. They don't want there to be a mass panic from everyone in London believing there are vampires running about.”

“If there are vampires causing all of this,” Melly returned, “why has no one reported seeing one?”

“They are very careful…they sneak about in the dead of night,” Winnie replied. “Make certain your bedroom windows are closed and bolted.”

“I shall ensure mine are locked up tightly,” Petronilla replied a bit too earnestly. “They do sneak around in the dead of night, don't they? But I heard they can change into mist or fog and slip through the crack of your window…and then turn themselves back into men. Right in your bedroom! Oh, dear, and Mr. Fenworth sleeps in his own chamber across the hall! I will be quite alone and unprotected!” Her voice was pitched loud, as though to make certain any vampires lurking about might hear.

“If they sneak around in the dead of night, then that is most definitely an indication that vampires—if they do exist—weren't responsible for the attack at Bridge & Stokes.” Melly leaned forward to drop a small lump of sugar in her tea.

“And what about that incident at Vauxhall Gardens the night before last?” Winnie commented. “Did Jellington tell you anything about that?”

“No.”

“There was some sort of altercation there, but no one was hurt or injured.”

Melly raised her eyebrows. “No one was hurt, injured, or—heaven forbid!—bitten…and you ascribe the incident—whatever it was—to nonexistent vampires? Winnie, my dear, you really are taking those gothic novels too seriously. Everything violent or unexpected that happens in this city cannot be attributed to creatures like vampires. There is enough evil perpetrated by man that we don't need to invent paranormal beings to blame it on.

“Now, let us dispense with this nonsense and talk about something much more interesting…such as how soon we might have a little marquess on our hands!”

 

+ + +

His wife was mad.

She had to be mad, for the alternative was terrifying.

For the first time he could remember, Phillip de Lacy, Marquess of Rockley, did not know what to do.

He left St. Heath's Row and drove his curricle into town. He stopped at White's, another of the clubs he frequented, and sat at a table by himself. He had several glasses of whiskey, a large hunk of beef that tasted like sawdust, and a slab of bread that could have carried weevils for all he noticed.

After White's, he felt restless and left to visit another gentleman's club, although he did not wish to be sociable at all. At Bertrand's he avoided his friends and sat in an empty room, ignoring the buzz about the unfortunates who had perished at Bridge & Stokes last night.

Perhaps that was the reason he did not wish to talk with anyone.

He didn't want to know whether Victoria was right or wrong. He didn't want to have to think about what it meant if she was right…or if she was wrong.

 

+ + +

When Phillip had not returned to St. Heath's Row the next morning, Victoria could stand it no longer. She called for the carriage to come around and took herself off to Aunt Eustacia's home.

Her aunt took one look at her and understood. “He knows.”

Victoria sank into a chair, angry that her hands were trembling and that tears threatened her eyes. She nodded. “He's forbidden me to continue to hunt.”

Eustacia waited. She knew the power of silence. The sound of the clock ticking marked the minutes, paring away at the hope she'd placed in Victoria.

“I told him I could not stand by and let people die.”

Eustacia nodded. That was good.

“He became angry and left. He hasn't been home since we quarreled yesterday morning.”

“He saw you at his club?” Max had told Eustacia about the attack at Bridge & Stokes while she was tending to his wounds. It had been his attempt to keep her from lecturing him about taking better care of his injuries. Eustacia saw through it, and let him think he'd had his way. Then after he was finished, she chastised him roundly. Even Venators had to care for their wounds, she reminded him.

“Yes, he recognized me. I told him the truth; I couldn't hide it any longer, Aunt. I couldn't live the lie, keep feeding him
salvi
…”

“Of course you couldn't,
cara.
It is not in your nature to be deceitful. I realized it was a possibility you would have to tell him at some time. I did not expect it to be so soon, and in the midst of this very precarious time—”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Max have had to stop two raids in the last three nights; perhaps there was even one last night that we weren't aware of. Lilith is gathering her forces. She is ready to make her move against you in retaliation. She wants the book back, and she's put some plan in place to get it.” She rubbed the knuckles on her left hand, where the sharp sting of arthritis jolted her.

“Max is in no condition to be out, but he has been at the Silver Chalice since yesterday, trying to learn what is going on.” He'd suspected Rockley might have recognized Victoria, and that they would have had a confrontation, so he'd refused to let Eustacia get Victoria involved, insisting he'd handle it alone while she tended her home fires, as he put it so cynically.

“I knew he was badly injured, but he wouldn't let me tend to him.”

“I know. He confessed it to me.” Eustacia sighed. She had other suspicions about Max's motivations, but now was not the time to air them. Instead she said, “He doesn't like to be coddled.”

“Aunt Eustacia, did I do the wrong thing in telling Phillip?”

“I don't know how you could have done otherwise; but I do believe there will be consequences. They may be as simple as the marquess trying to prevent you from leaving when we need you—or they may be more severe. You must impress upon him this is not something he can be involved in, as much as he might want to protect you. He cannot. You must make it clear to him. Or send him to me, and I will do it.”

Victoria nodded. She would do that—if he ever came back to St. Heath's Row.

“Now,
cara,
you must go home and get some rest. Your husband loves you; he will return in his own time, when he has come to terms with your confession. And we need you. Max cannot do this alone.”

Victoria nodded…but for the first time she truly regretted her decision to accept the Legacy. She wished she had turned it down and had her mind cleared.

She wished for ignorance. And a normal life.

+
24 +

In Which Three Gentlemen Meet Up

Late in the second day
after Victoria had told him her fantastical story, Phillip realized what he needed to do.

Certainly, he'd already visited Bridge & Stokes, and found it closed, “due to death.” And there definitely had been rumblings about the attacks that had happened there. But no one had mentioned vampires.

He'd even gone so far as to drive his curricle to Victoria's cousin Maximilian's home, planning to confront him as he had done before…but the man was not home, and the dark-skinned butler was unable to tell Phillip when his master would return within a day.

One thing he knew he could not yet do was face Victoria. So he did not return to St. Heath's Row.

Instead he hired a hackney to take him to St. Giles. To the place he'd followed Victoria, to the establishment called the Silver Chalice.

There he would find the answer.

Oh, he wasn't foolish. Numb, perhaps, dull and mind-fractured with grief and pain…but not foolish. He prepared: He wore a crucifix under his coat. He stuffed full bulbs of garlic in his pockets. He even found something that could be used as a wooden stake—a broken walking stick in the cloakroom at White's.

Phillip didn't believe in vampires, and though he hadn't wasted his time reading that ridiculous story by Polidori, he knew what lore said about protecting oneself from the undead.

But he also pocketed a gun.

 

+ + +

When Max walked into the Silver Chalice for the third night in a row, he knew something bad was going to happen.

It was about time. He'd been waiting for it all to explode for three days. Ever since that first raid at Vauxhall, followed by the one at Bridge & Stokes, he'd known this was leading up to something.

Lilith's patience had worn thin.

What he didn't expect—couldn't have fathomed finding—was the Marquess of Rockley sitting companionably at a table with Sebastian Vioget.

Before he had a chance to wonder about it, Vioget looked up and saw him standing at the entrance. The faintest flare of a smile tipped his mouth, and he nodded to Max.