When Twilight Burns (18 page)

“Victoria,” he said as soon as they were far enough away, almost to the patio. She could breathe now. The blood-smell was gone and her head was a little clearer. The fire had quieted a bit, though the golden light flickered through the trees. The muted sounds from the crowd reached her ears.

Clarity.

She sank into his arms, felt them wrap strong around her, buried her head in his sweaty neck. “So much blood,” she whispered. “I couldn't think.”

“I know,” he said. He lifted her face. The kiss tasted like smoky Sebastian and sweat and it chased away the lingering essence of iron. He pulled away and looked down at her. “I thought you'd gone back in the house.”

His eyes were tigerish, the blaze turning them gold even in the dark. His fingers curled tight on her arms.

“No.”

But she thought of Max. If he wasn't outside, he had to be in the house.

“Victoria,” said Sebastian. “I…let me take you home.”

She knew what he meant. But she didn't answer.

Though she didn't need to be steadied, didn't need to be held up, she let him put an arm around her. Moments later they were back with the others, but, by now, the crowd had begun to thin out. Some had been able to find their carriages and had left in disheveled, smoky clothing.

Others still stood, talking, describing in loud, important voices, what had happened. How they'd escaped the fire, what they'd been doing prior to the alarm, how they'd helped pull out Mr. or Miss or Lady So-and-So.

She felt clearer now. Stronger.

Victoria turned toward the house, which had crumbled in on itself in some areas and still blazed angry orange and red. An elegant poplar that grew too close to the building had all its leaves burned off. The heat still blasted, but there was little to be done. The fire would burn itself out; keeping it from spreading was the only reasonable objective.

No one could get close enough to the structure to even pour water on it. There could be no survivors inside. How many people had perished?

Who?

Victoria turned, not yet ready to leave with Sebastian, still searching, and she noticed a tall, dark, blade-nosed figure. Her heart leaped, and she lurched toward him—but then he moved from the shadows.

Mr. Bemis Goodwin.

He saw her and she felt the ugly weight of his eyes on her, sweeping over her. She could only imagine what he saw—a torn gown, blood streaks everywhere, her hair in dishabille. His gaze narrowed and although he said nothing, did nothing to acknowledge her beyond an arrogant nod—she felt it.

The animosity.

Sebastian folded her into his arms; she'd told him nothing about Goodwin, so he couldn't know. But she felt a wave of foreboding sweep over her.

“Let me take you home, Victoria,” Sebastian said. His chin brushed the side of her head and she raised her face to look over his shoulder.

“Not yet,” she said, still scanning the darkness.

At that moment, a dark figure came into view, making a wide skirt from around the front of the house. Appearing not to see her off to the side, he moved quickly, yet unsteadily, disappearing into the crowd of people. There was no mistaking it.

“Max,” Victoria breathed, her whole body going soft with relief. Then she felt jittery and warm. “Thank God.” She stared after him, trying to determine if he was hurt or wounded. Where had he been?

“And so it goes,” Sebastian muttered, so quietly she wasn't certain he'd really spoken. Then she realized she'd stepped away from him, toward the crowd of people. And Max.

“What?” Victoria looked back up at him.

His face was drawn and hard. His lips formed a humorless smile. “Ah, Victoria…don't be a fool. He doesn't want you. He doesn't want anyone.”

+ Twelve +

In Which Sebastian and Victoria Have an Uneventful Carriage Ride

The carriage rumbled down
the night-dark street. The smell of smoke lingered inside, clinging to all three of its silent occupants.

Victoria sat next to Sebastian, across from a grim-faced, bedraggled Max.

But they were all weary, their throats and lungs skimmed with smoke, eyes dry and stinging, clothing torn and soot-streaked. Victoria's thigh continued to ooze blood, and the scratches on her face still stung.

She'd had to fairly shove Max into the carriage for the ride back to Aunt Eustacia's home, reminding him that they were going to the same place. Since he'd settled grumpily into his seat, arranging himself so no one could sit next to him even if they'd wanted to, he'd remained silent.

Yet his eyes were not quiet. Still sharp, they scanned over her—yet never met her gaze—and Sebastian, then moved to stare out the window of the vehicle. His mask was long gone, as was the hat he'd worn, and the cape she'd teased him about. Stubble made his face darker and more shadowed. His eyes were sunken in their sockets, and his skin seemed to have tightened in the last hours. Those elegant hands hid in the shadows.

Sebastian shifted next to her, bringing a gentle waft of smoke and clove, and she felt his ungloved hand settle on her knee. Lightly, half pinned between their thighs…but it had eased there stealthily and smoothly. As if to keep from drawing attention.

Yet it was there. Warm.

He doesn't want you. He doesn't want anyone.

Victoria glanced at Max, who continued to watch out the window. Sebastian's words had opened whole recesses in her mind. Had he guessed that the great weight, the awful, heavy mood that had settled over her as he encouraged her to come home had been from worry and grief over Max?

As she was turning to leave with Sebastian, knowing there'd been no hope for anyone left in the flaming building, knowing that if Max hadn't been in the house he would have been fighting with them, realizing that this time he had to be gone…had Sebastian realized how empty and weary she felt? How lost?

Would she have felt the same way if things had been reversed—if Max was leading her away from a missing Sebastian?

And so it goes.

“Sorry to intrude on your carriage ride, old chap.” Max's curt voice cut the silence. He had shifted and was looking at them. Down at the hand on Victoria's knee. “But my lady insisted.”

“Where were you?” Victoria asked.

He lifted his gaze to her languidly, as though contemplating whether to respond. “As it turned out, Miss Sara Regalado required my escort. It took some time to extricate myself from the situation.”

“You left with her?”

One side of his mouth twisted. “The lady was most insistent, and I do hate to disappoint. She had visions of reacquainting me with an old friend, believing she'd be rewarded for doing so. However, I found the idea quite distasteful.”

“So Lilith is here? In London?”

Max's eyes gleamed with appreciation for her quick study. “Apparently that is the case, although I cannot confirm it.”

“And in what condition did you leave Miss Regalado?” asked Sebastian.

Max transferred his gaze. “As I usually do—quite distraught.” His smile was pale and humorless in the shadows. “But nevertheless mobile.”

“What about George?”

“I didn't have the pleasure of his company; I assumed he was herding the evening fodder out to the vampires. Did you not see him?”

Victoria shook her head. “No, although I was otherwise…engaged. He could have been there for some time, and later took himself off once it was clear the battle wasn't to be won.”

“And did you bestir yourself to stake some vampires, then, Vioget?”

Victoria felt Sebastian move. Ever so slightly, tension rippled along the arm and leg that pressed against her side. Then, as the hand on her knee lifted, the tension eased. “A few,” he replied negligently. “We…Victoria and I…took care of most of them.”

She felt a gentle tug on the loose part of her hair and thought it had caught between them…but then she realized he'd taken a lock of it and was rubbing it between a forefinger and thumb, twisting it softly around a digit. A most intimate gesture, and one that made her distinctly uncomfortable.

Before she could pull away or otherwise respond, the carriage gave the great lurch that announced their arrival.

Victoria stood quickly, causing Sebastian to release her hair. Max had the same idea and they fairly collided in the center of the small carriage, shoulder to chest.

“In a hurry, my dear?” he asked with a grim smile. “Don't let me get in your way.”

He settled back into his seat as the carriage door opened. Barth was there to help Victoria climb down, which she did with little fanfare—and without waiting for Sebastian.

The dawn had come, and her mind was spinning.

As she walked up the house's walkway, she heard the low murmur of a male voice behind her, and the carriage door close again. A quick glance behind told her she was alone, and that Max and Sebastian had remained in the carriage.

Only hours later, with the sun blasting its heat through a rare, cloudless London sky, Victoria was awakened by a knock on her bedchamber door.

With bleary eyes, she looked next to her. The bed was empty, but rumpled. No, she hadn't dreamed it—the warm slide of Sebastian's body next to hers, the hands on her hair, the gentle kiss before he gathered her close to sleep. He'd murmured something unintelligible into the top of her head.

She'd drifted off thinking how unlike him that was…and wondering what had transpired between him and Max after she left the carriage.

Verbena entered at her bidding.

“My lady,” she said, her lips pursed in a tight circle that barely moved when she spoke. “I'm sorry to wake ye, but that Ol'ver claims he needs to speak t'you right away.” She shook her head, tsking in disgust. “I told him you'd only been abed for a few hours, but he 'nsists.”

“Send him up to me,” Victoria said. An uncomfortable feeling opened in her stomach. Any news from Oliver would likely pertain to Mr. Bemis Goodwin.

“Up here?” Verbena fairly screeched, her eyes springing wide open. “Why, m'lady, it's not proper. That man can wait while I dress ye, for sure, my lady. 'E has no call t'be—”

Victoria shook her head. “No, it cannot wait, I'm afraid. Call for him to be sent up, and if you're quick, perhaps you can help me into a day frock before he gets here.

Verbena muttered something about Langford, who happened to be the personal maid to Duchess Farnham and who most likely would require smelling salts should her mistress have ordered her to bring a man to her bedchamber. Even, Victoria suspected, the late duke. But Verbena disappeared from the room for a brief moment, and her mistress heard the reverberation of her voice and its direction to Oliver. Then she returned and threw herself into Victoria's wardrobe.

“I never heard o'such a thing,” she muttered as she bustled about, pulling forth a clean chemise and new corset for her mistress. Victoria had bathed the night before, to cleanse herself from the smoke, blood, and soot, so the small ewer of water on her night table would suffice for her to freshen up.

“'Avin' a man no better'n a footman into the lady's chamber! Why, the on'y time I ever knew o' such a happenin' was when Lady Meryton was tuppin' her groom on the sly o' her husband, y'know. An' it wasn't long afore such was all the talk o' the belowstairs!”

She pulled the cotton shift down over Victoria's head, jerking it into place as she emphasized her words. “An' the groom, well, 'e was no prize, if ye ask me. I seen'im once an' he had big eyebrows that looked like spiders. I'd not be wantin' that face too close t'me, ye know, wit' them squiggly things. An' on 'is ears, too! But”—she pulled on Victoria's corset to hook it in place beneath her breasts as there came a knock on the door. “Ye can jus' wait a minnit,” she hollered.

“Come in, Oliver,” Victoria said.

Verbena straightened in shock, barely missing clipping Victoria's chin. She fairly flew to the chair over which she'd hung the chosen frock. “Do not come in here, Oliver,” she ordered as the door cracked. “Only one more—” Her words became muffled as Victoria's ears were filled with the swoosh of fabric and rustle of lace and other gewgaws. She wouldn't have chosen such a decorated dress, but it was too late now.

At last Oliver came in, the large red-haired man half skulking as if in fear of Verbena's wrath. And rightly so. Victoria wondered what would become of them if they ever admitted their attraction for each other and actually had a normal conversation. He hunched a bit, twisting his cap in his large hands, and gave three bows in a row. “My lady, I've come wi' some news.”

“O' course ye have,” Verbena railed, tugging roughly at the buttons lining the nape of her mistress's neck. “Else why would we let ye in 'ere? Now, spit it out, my lady's not got all the day to wait for ye to figger out what t'say.”

“Come in, Oliver,” Victoria said. “What have you to tell me about Mr. Goodwin?”

The process was excruciating, working around Verbena's bossy interjections and Oliver's hesitant narrative, but Victoria at last reeled the information from his depths.

It wasn't the least bit comforting.

Last night's events had fixated Goodwin's suspicions more sharply on Victoria—as if they hadn't already been sharp enough. The fact that she'd been at the affair had been only part of it. Vague stories of her acting in an unladylike manner had blossomed. As Oliver told it, when Goodwin learned she had been found crouched next to a ravaged man alone in a sequestered part of the garden with blood everywhere, including dripping from her mouth and an odd expression on a scratched face…

Blood dripping from her mouth?

It took her a moment to remember pushing the hair away from her face. Maybe blood had been on her hands and smeared near her lips.

And apparently the scratches on her face had been, not the result of blasting through a hedge of boxwood, but in self-defense from her victim as she'd bent to drink his blood.