"And you did not tell Max about the protection on the Book of Antwartha," she replied. "We all have our secrets. "
He smiled. "Is it a secret that you are engaged to a rich dandy? One who must be rescued from the darkness like a debutante fending off an overzealous suitor?"
At that, Victoria did yank her arm away, breaking his grip. "Rockley is no secret, and he is not the weak fool you make him out to be. You needn't stand so close to me. "
"Has he seen your vis bulla?" He had not moved away, and his hand had shifted between them, below her breasts, to press flat over her shirtwaist against the trembling muscles of her stomach. "Does he know
what it means?"
She shoved against his shoulders and pushed him away. He moved, but barely stumbled backward. He was stronger than she realized.
"Does he know that it means his love walks the streets at night? That she must mingle with those from the dark side to learn their secrets?" Unruffled, nonplussed by her violent reaction, he spoke, his voice low and hypnotic. "That she kills every time she raises her weapon? That she has a strength he cannot hope to possess?"
"He knows nothing. " Victoria spoke from between clenched teeth. Sebastian had moved in toward her again, crowding her back against the wall, but he did not touch her.
"Has he seen it, Victoria?" The gentle roll of her name's last syllables caused an odd wave in her middle. "Has he?"
She could not look away from his tigerish eyes, could barely move her lungs to breathe. The damp, rough wall jutted into her cloak and through the cloth of her flimsy gown, just as the pressure of his hand had come through the front of her skirt. She felt a trickle of sweat from the stones seeping into the back of her head. It was cold and musty.
"No," she whispered.
Satisfaction glowed in his expression. "I see. "
He stepped away suddenly, as if he'd been yanked back. As if her proximity had suddenly become too much. Victoria was able to breathe and to move, and she leveraged herself from the wall, shifting away from him.
"Come. Let us go before your Venator comes back to check on us. "
He turned and strode down the passageway, leaving Victoria to follow; so different from the first time, when he'd led her by the arm. She hesitated, as she had then. The choice between Scylla and Charybdis: solid Phillip and the maelstrom of Sebastian. Which was the lesser of the two challenges?
In the end, she followed Sebastian. Phillip was a bigger part of her life, one she would not risk jeopardizing. Sebastian was merely a man.
Chapter Sixteen
The Marquess Wins the Shell Game and Makes a Grave Error
Phillip de Lacy was no fool. Not a bit. He knew something was amiss; what he did not know was whether Victoria's brooding cousin Maximilian Pesaro was the cause or the cure.
The man seemed capable and intelligent; he did not appear sly or devious. By firmly suggesting that Phillip put away his pistol, he had likely saved him from causing an altercation here in this filthy place—something that Phillip had missed in his concern for Victoria. He had to give him credit for that, if nothing else.
The way some of the patrons here were looking at him, as if he were a young hare ready for the spit, made Phillip more than a bit uneasy. He was no light-footed jackrabbit, skittering off at the slightest hint of danger. But there was something wrong about this place. Something that made his blood run cold.
He'd seen Victoria leave her house; despite Pesaro's arguments, he was certain it was she. The way she walked, her height, even her movement as she closed the door behind her… he would recognize Victoria anywhere, in any disguise. And that garnet-colored cloak was fine wool; surely she would not loan it to her maid.
Thus he'd followed the hackney, at first with a jealous twisting in his heart—was she going to meet someone? A lover? This was not the first time she'd left an evening early or cut short her visit. Uncertainty borne of his need for her, and worry for her safety, drove him to follow her. He did love her; he could not bear it if there were someone else who possessed her heart.
When the hackney took a turn to the worst part of London and finally rolled to a stop in this dark, dingy place, Phillip no longer worried that she was meeting a lover. Instead he realized that whatever called her to this part of town went much deeper than lust or passion.
Whatever she was involved in she could not, should not handle alone. She must be frightened out of her mind to travel to such a place; and it could be only the worst of circumstances for her to be unwilling to confide in him. But he would take her home and convince her to tell him… for they were to be married, and he to be her husband. He would take care of her. He would fix whatever needed to be fixed.
That, at least, had been his plan until he walked down the stairs into this hellhole of a pub that smelled like rusting iron and must. The cousin had drawn him to a table in the most shadowy corner and ordered him a drink. It wasn't until he saw, from the corner of his eye, Pesaro's hand shift over Phillip's own drink, ever so quickly, so slightly—but enough that he recognized the movement—that Phillip realized Pesaro had his own agenda. And when Phillip took a sip of the whiskey and felt Pesaro watching him, he knew it for certain.
So when the other man turned to speak to the massively well-endowed serving woman, Phillip exchanged their glasses.
And when Pesaro turned back, Phillip offered a toast, watching as the other man drank of the same drug he'd attempted to foist upon him, all the while wondering why Pesaro would do such a thing. Was he trying to kill him, or merely drug him?
He supposed if Victoria's cousin wanted him dead, he wouldn't have advised him to put his pistol away, or drawn him away from the center of attention in the room.
No matter. He would either ask him or, if he died, it would be a moot issue.