When Twilight Burns gvc-4

by Колин Глисон

  Eight:

  Wherein the Delights of a British Chef Are Discussed

  Victoria forced her lips into a polite smile and nodded to Lord Bentworth as he and his triple chins extolled the virtues of his new chef in comparison to the one here at the Hungreath residence.

  “Don’t skimp on the salt, either,” he said, emphasizing his pleasure with the slice of pheasant skewered on the tines of his fork. “Told him not to, and listened from the first day. And the sauces. None of that Frenchy stuff- like this here-told him that. Don’t need the beef swimming in it, said.” He slipped the fowl in his mouth, and his jaw ground furiously as he chewed, cheeks bulging.

  Her mind distracted by other matters more pressing than an appropriate level of seasoning or the cultural influence thereof, Victoria glanced down the table. Sara Regalado was indeed watching her, sharp brown eyes and mysterious smirk all aimed in her direction. Victoria firmed her lips to let the other woman know she wasn’t intimidated, then turned back to her own roast pheasant.

  Although she could have manufactured an excuse for staying home tonight, Victoria had decided to attend the dinner party at the Hungreaths’ for a variety of reasons. First, because Lady Hungreath was Gwendolyn’s god-mother and was giving the party in honor of the happily affianced couple, and Gwen had extracted Victoria’s promise to attend. Secondly, because George Starcasset and Sara were to be in attendance, and Victoria felt that it might be prudent to keep an eye on them. And finally, because it gave her a bit of space from Sebastian and his shocking revelations.

  It was no wonder he and Max could barely stand to be in the same room.

  “Don’t like green food, either,” Bentworth said. He pushed away a bowl of soggy spinach in favor of stabbing a boiled potato bursting from its skin. He plopped it on his plate and beckoned the footman to bring the butter. Apparently Bentworth was a frequent guest at the Hungreaths’, as the servant seemed well aware of the man’s delight with the dairy confection, and apportioned a generous pale yellow slab onto the potato. “Don’t care for the sweets, and told him too. M’wife has a sweet tooth, loves sugar biscuits, but don’t care for ’em myself. Just meat and potatoes and bread. Stewed carrots, beets, onions. Can’t abide hard or crunchy.”

  “He must be a versatile chef in order to prepare those items in an agreeable way,” Victoria commented in a voice as bland as the food she was eating. Perhaps the Hungreaths ought to speak with Lord Bentworth about hiring a better chef. But she wasn’t all that hungry, and, unlike in Italy, the food here was pale in color and mostly the same texture. And thankfully, as long as she kept nodding every so often and adding a comment once in a while, she could try to comb through her tangled thoughts.

  It was no news to her that Max had been involved with the Tutela when he was younger. She’d seen the secret society’s mark on the back of his shoulder: a whiplike, sinuous dog curved in a writhing circle. As abhorrent as the society it represented, the tattoo was symbolic of the mortals who acted, as Kritanu had once said, like subservient bitches and whores for the undead.

  The Tutela coaxed and lured people of all ages into their alliance, preying on the mortal fear of death by promising a chance for immortality and protection from the undead. Max had been one of them for a time, but now she knew without a doubt that the experience, and his early, naive choices, had given him an unflinching and deeply rooted hatred of the undead and the Tutela.

  Victoria realized with a start that the people around her seemed to be looking at her, waiting for something. “Pardon me,” she said with a little smile, “I seem to have been woolgathering. What was it you asked, Mrs. Cranwrathe?”

  The woman across the table cleared her throat in a grating, rough manner that sent Victoria reaching for her own wine. “I was saying, Lady Rockley, how delightful it was for you to encourage the new marquess to join us this evening.” There was a sparkle in her light eyes that made Victoria straighten up in her chair. “I understand you are still in residence at St. Heath’s Row? And he arrived yesterday?”

  She glanced down the table and saw that James, who’d been seated clear at the other end near his hostess, was buffeted on both sides by eager mamas. The poor man. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mrs. Cranwrathe. I’m no longer in residence at St. Heath’s Row, but have taken over the home of my mother’s deceased aunt.”

  The footman slipped in between her and Lord Bentworthand removed their rose-patterned dishes: the man’s fairly gleaming in its emptiness, and Victoria’s roses still obliterated by blobs of potatoes, carrots, and a bit of stringy pheasant. Frivolous confections towering on small plates replaced them, and everyone’s dessert was dispatched with great enthusiasm, except for Bentworth’s.

  “Shall we ladies repair to the parlor for sherry?” said Lady Hungreath from her position further down the table. “There are sugar biscuits as well.”

  Victoria made her way between the other guests, slipping her arm around Gwendolyn, who’d just returned from refreshing herself. As they walked to the parlor, she glanced out at the gardens behind the house. It was barely eight o’clock, so the sun had slipped near the horizon, but was still at just the top of the trees in the distance. She would stay for another hour, perhaps ninety minutes, and then would make her excuses.

  Once the flurry of skirts and crocheted wraps and reticules were settled, along with their owners, in the parlor, Victoria realized that Sara Regalado was missing. Drat and blast! She should have hung back and waited to enter the room until she was sure the other woman had joined them.

  That faintly supercilious smile during the soup course had implied the Italian chit was up to no good. But now Victoria was in a fix. The men were in the study, enjoying their cigars and brandy, and until they came in to join the women in the parlor, she was going to be stuck here, playing whist or listening to wedding plans or gossip about who was fornicating with whom.

  Or at least, if she weren’t Victoria Gardella Grantworth de Lacy, she would be stuck in this green and gold parlor, playing the polite Society matron. But being Illa Gardella, and having other matters to deal with besides gossip and fashion, she would take matters into her own hands.

  Victoria stood, excusing herself to freshen up.

  And, as luck would have it, as she started out of the room, she glanced toward one of the hip-level square windows that faced the Hungreaths’ enthusiastic gardens of pergolas flanked by clusters of lilies and hyacinth bushes, decorated with climbing roses. She saw the flutter of a rose-colored fabric as it passed behind the statue of a water-spouting cupid.

  Sara had been wearing a rose-colored frock.

  Moments later, Victoria was hurrying along the slate pathway, staying out of sight of the house windows as much as possible. Although she had to enter from the other side of the garden, she found the cupid fountain and started off in the direction in which the fluttering skirt had disappeared.

  Victoria avoided dry sticks and rustling leaves, peering around trees and hedges before turning a corner. One arm of the path took her through the herb garden, where she passed clumps of silver-leafed sage, yellow hyssop, and miniature myrtle. She paused often to look through a filter of climbing rose vines and decorative wrought iron, or clusters of tall grasses and equally tall blooms.

  Everything was still but the spray of water from the cupid’s mouth, rumbling in the distance. A bird chirped a warning, then fluttered to its nest, sending a few dried leaves drifting down. The sun lowered, its orange ball blazing through the treetops in the distance, still clearly lighting the garden.

  Victoria increased her pace, and found herself retracing her steps through the four large circular pathways of the garden, all of which intersected at the cupid fountain. There was no one about.

  Frowning, she pivoted at last to return to the house, admitting defeat. Either she hadn’t seen what she thought she had, or Sara had made her way back inside. Or she was hiding somewhere that Victoria couldn’t find-but there was really no place for her to do so.

/>   Other than the small gardener’s shed.

  Victoria’s heart rate kicked up as her attention landed on the small, well-kept building-hardly larger than an old-fashioned outhouse. It was situated in the far left corner of the garden, next to the stone enclosure that bordered the grounds. Her skin prickling, she crept up to the small building, listening for any human sounds. What could Sara Regalado be doing out here?

  But when Victoria came close enough to sidle alongside the small building, her mouth began to water and her heart started to thump hard. The scent of blood filtered through the air. Her vision clouded at the edges.

  No. Not again.

  Easing her way around the corner of the shed to the front, she found the door. It was locked… but the aroma of thick, rich blood was stronger. It was as if it weighted the summer evening air, clogging the delicate essence of roses and lilies with rust. Her head pounding, Victoria blinked hard and moved along the front of the shed, following the smell and her instincts around the corner toward the back… and then she needed to go no further.

  It was just as bloody a mess as the last one she’d found, in the park. Her mouth salivating so that she had to swallow back, twice, Victoria bent shakily next to what remained of the body.

  It wasn’t Sara Regalado. Victoria didn’t recognize her, but based on the simple worsted wool of her dress-now bloodied and torn-the victim appeared to be a chamber-maid or some other servant. The puncture wounds on her throat and claw marks on the top of her shoulders clearly indicated an attack by an undead.

  Victoria’s hand shook as she reached to close the woman’s sightless eyes. Her lids were still warm, and Victoria let her fingers move gingerly over cheeks so pudgy they could belong to her own maid, Verbena. The vampire probably hadn’t gone far.

  A sound behind her had the hair on the back of her arms prickling, and Victoria half turned as she looked automatically for something that could be used as a stake.

  “Lady Rockley?”

  Victoria looked up into the face of Brodebaugh, Gwen’s earl, who was flanked by Baron Hungreath and George Starcasset. She pulled to her feet and swallowed again. “She’s dead.”

  “So it appears.” Hungreath was looking at her with something like apprehension tinged with suspicion. “How did you come to find her?”

  Victoria glanced at George, instinctively looking to see if he was somehow responsible for the trio discovering her and the mauled maid. His soft face was bland, but she saw a glint in his blue eyes that made her tighten her lips. And while the other two men were looking at the bloodied body with a combination of disgust and horror, George appeared unmoved.

  As if recognizing her suspicions, he said, “The other women are in the parlor enjoying their sherry. When they said you’d been gone for some time, and no one knew where you were, we thought it would be best to check the gardens.” His deceptively sweet dimples appeared.

  Smoothing her skirt, which she realized now had streaks of blood on it, Victoria said, “Someone had best send for the magistrate. And perhaps the housekeeper, to see if she recognizes the poor thing.”

  “What ho,” said George, bending toward a bush. When he stood, he was holding a long shawl, stained with blood. “What is this?”

  Victoria stared at it, feeling light of head. Her vision blushed with red as she recognized her own shawl. The one that she’d left on a small table in the foyer, upon arrival this evening.

  “Poor gel,” Brodebaugh said, with real sincerity in his voice as he looked down at the victim. Then he turned and offered Victoria his arm, cementing her affection for the man that her best friend was to wed. “And for you, Lady Rockley, to have found her in such a state. Lean on my arm, and I’ll assist you back to the house.”

  Victoria did as he suggested, not because she needed his support, of course… but because the expression on George Starcasset’s face made her uneasy. When he’d produced the shawl, there was an unmistakable smugness in his expression that suggested he knew that it was hers. Not that she would deny it of course, but she wondered how it had gotten there-and who had moved it.

  It was most certainly not beyond the realm of possibility-and in fact, was likely-that Sara had lured her into the gardens so that she would discover the remnants of another daylight vampire attack, and had planted the shawl nearby.

  Which then begged the question: was it Sara or George who had turned undead?

  Or someone else?

  Victoria came awake sharply.

  She didn’t move, kept her breathing easy and regular, and slitted her eyes a crack. Someone or something was in the bedchamber with her.

  The room was all shapes and shades of dark gray, any detail that might be discernable in the predawn light distorted by her narrow view. She’d have to turn her head…

  “Good God. You might as well open your eyes, Victoria. A gnat could do a better job feigning sleep than you.”

  Victoria’s eyes flew open. She sat up abruptly, her fingers tightening around a stake as she pulled it from beneath the coverlet. She hadn’t slept without one since the night she’d killed Phillip.

  “Well, Max. It’s been quite some time since you’ve visited my bedchamber.”

  Her voice was rough with slumber, and she wasn’t quite certain why she said such a provocative thing… unless it was because there was nothing else one could say to a man who sneaked into one’s bedchamber in the hours just before dawn.

  Particularly a man who’d kissed one against the stone wall of a Roman villa, then had given up his role as a Venator and disappeared without saying good-bye.

  Something fluttered deep in her stomach.

  He was standing in a dark corner of the room, well in the shadows. It was only his voice that had given him away. None of the windows were open, nor was the door, to indicate how he’d managed to enter.

  “I don’t think you’ll need that,” he said, obviously noticing the stake. “Unless it’s become an addition to your nighttime bedchamber activities.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stepped more fully into view. Max was taller than most men, looming over the bed, and he preferred black clothing. Neither factor did much to reveal the details of his form or countenance tonight; he remained an elegant shadow with only the bridge of his long, straight nose outlined by the pale light glazing the window. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Victoria gave an impatient jerk of the stake against the coverlet’s whitework embroidery. “I mean, what are you doing in London? Of course you came to talk to me. What other reason would you have to be in my bedchamber?”

  Silence descended and stretched for a moment, then Max replied, his voice smooth, “Perhaps your imagination is a bit stunted.” He shifted, removing his hands from his pockets to cross them over his middle. Victoria realized her heart was thumping hard at the base of her throat. And she was remembering the way he’d kissed her, against that cold, wet stone.

  He continued, “Vioget informed me of your find in the park. The vampire attack during the daylight.”

  “You’ve spoken to Sebastian?”

  “Last night, as a matter of fact. After he left you.” Max shifted, spreading his long-fingered hands to emphasize his words. “A bit of advice, Victoria. Keep away from the windows when entertaining in your bedchamber.”

  “I didn’t take you for a voyeur, Max. But perhaps watching is more to your liking than doing.”

  Now she saw the gleam of white teeth in a humorless smile. “Mmm… no.” Then the smile faded. “Do you mind covering up a bit? That’s a ghastly-looking gown.”

  Victoria looked down and saw that not only had the bedclothes drifted into her lap, but the growing light from the window seemed to shine directly on her and the lavender night rail she wore. The fine lawn material and deep lace trim of the plunging neckline-one of her favorites-hid none of the curves of her torso. “I’m terribly sorry to have offended your fashion sensibilities, Max. I didn’t realize you had any.” She shrugged, pulling the co
vers up. “But after all, I didn’t invite you into my bedchamber.”

  “Quite true. Please accept my deepest gratitude.” He made an insolent bow, leaving her to wonder whether he was thanking her for pulling the bedclothes up to her collarbones, or for not inviting him into her room. “I must also commend your efficiency.”

  “My efficiency?”

  “From dinner with the newly arrived marquess to… er… nocturnal entertainment in the marchioness’s bedchamber the very same night, and then a move to another bedchamber in a different house the next day. Quite efficient, and much coming and going. Thus I felt it necessary to take precautions that Vioget would be otherwise occupied this evening.” Now she saw a flash of white teeth in the dark. “Far be it for me to cause an interruption.”

  “How very accommodating of you, Max. What did you do to Sebastian?”

  “Oh, you needn’t fear for the man’s safety. He’s merely on the tail of a woman who, from a distance, bears an astonishing resemblance to you.”

  “And what is this woman doing?”

  “I’m not quite certain, but I do believe she’s having an assignation in Vauxhall Gardens.” His smile gleamed again. “I don’t think Vioget was pleased.”

  Victoria hid her own smile. It would serve Sebastian right to be following a false trail-especially after his blithe announcement in the parlor today, chosen, of course, for timing and audience. “Perhaps now might be a good time to reveal exactly why you’ve made it a point to invade my chamber. But, truly, Max,” she said, her voice softening from the haughty edge she’d adopted. “I am glad to see that you are safe and well. And… of course you must know about Briyani.”

  He nodded, and she saw his shoulders relax. “I spoke with Kritanu last night as well.”

  “Kritanu too?” Victoria felt a swell of annoyance again.