“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 cur
ves 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 covers 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. ”