He stepped through the door as Victoria’s vision began to burn. She felt her heart beat and her breath increasing in speed, and herself wanting to move toward him . . . to stop him. Stop him from these snide remarks, these thinly covered accusations.
He had one more thing to say. “I believe you had something to do with his disappearance, Lady Rockley. Just as you had something to do with the attacks on Miss Forrest and Miss Flowers. And a man left for dead in the Dials more than a year ago. He had been repeatedly stabbed.
“I’ve been awaiting your return from Italy for nearly a year now. ” He smiled and slammed his hat onto sleek, smooth hair, looking at her with the same insolence that Nedas, the vampire son of Lilith, had. “I’ve seen many of your class behind the bars of Newgate, Lady Rockley, and watched them on the scaffold. It’s my opinion that you will soon join them, and then how long will your lush, dark beauty last?”
And he closed the door so quietly it was ominous.
Despite the uneasiness from her meeting with Mr. Goodwin, Victoria was clearheaded enough to order Charley, Aunt Eustacia’s trusted butler, to follow the odious man.
Once she was alone, standing in the foyer, Victoria shook off the foreboding and fury that had billowed through her during their meeting. Her vision cleared, and she looked down at her hands—one scarred and creamy, the other faintly blue, as though she’d been out in the cold for too long. They showed the marks of her nails, but none had drawn blood.
And her fingers no longer shook.
Despite his threats, she had no real fear of the Bow Street Runner. What could he do to her? Not only was she a member of the ton, but she was Illa Gardella. And most importantly, she’d done nothing wrong. She’d certainly not had anything to do with the deaths of Miss Forrest and Miss Flowers, and the situation with Phillip was utterly different.
But . . . there had been that incident in the Seven Dials neighborhood.
As she stood in the entrance of Aunt Eustacia’s home, Victoria couldn’t help but remember the night she’d come into this very same space. Well past midnight, nearing the dawn, only a month after Phillip’s death, she’d eased through the front door, blood-spattered and insensitive.
There wasn’t supposed to be blood.
That phrase rang through her memory again, just as it had done that night, over and over. Aunt Eustacia, roused by her niece’s arrival, had listened with calm, dark eyes as Victoria described how she’d come upon a large man attempting to ravish a young girl in the filthy, poverty-stricken, and mean streets of the Dials. It was her first night out hunting for undead after Phillip’s
death, and grief for him and hatred toward herself had burst forth as she attacked the man bare-handed.
When he turned on her, a dagger in his hand, she’d wrested the unfamiliar weapon from him and used it against him—plunging it into mortal flesh and bone in an awful parody of slaying an undead. A berserker had overtaken her.
The man had been breathing when she left him, but, nevertheless, Victoria had inflicted grave harm on a human. A mortal, of the very race she was bound to protect.
After that incident, she’d removed her vis bulla and let it languish. She mourned Phillip for a year, struggling to contain and control her need to destroy and avenge. It was then that she realized how terrible and dangerous her Venatorial gifts were—how they could be used to destroy those she was meant to save.
When she replaced the vis bulla, she did so with the full understanding of who she was, and what her limits were. And with the vow that her powers were not to be used against her own race. That was not her role to play.
She took a deep breath and unclasped her hands, stretching her fingers, tried to ease the tension. The oddest thing of all was that Mr. Goodwin even knew of the incident in the Dials. After all, in that area of town, violence and murder happened so regularly that it was difficult for the authorities to bring the criminals to justice, if they were even notified of every death or injury—which was impossible.
I’ve been awaiting your return from Italy for nearly a year now.
Those words hung in her mind, leaving her with a greasy lump in the back of her throat.
She had to find out who—or what—Bemis Goodwin was.
Ten
Wherein a Highwayman Engages in Social Frivolities
In Victoria’s mind masquerade balls weren’t so terrible, as far as Society events went. After all, she wore her own kind of mask every day, and she’d only ever attended one other such Society event—shortly after she and Phillip had announced their engagement. The mystery and intrigue reminded her of a safer, more lighthearted version of her nightly hunts on the streets. Certainly, masked dances with many rich-blooded potential victims were liable to attract some of the undead, due to their ability to hide behind a domino or other facial obstruction, but it wasn’t as though a vampire could enter a home uninvited.
That aspect did cut down on the number of vampires that crashed these soirees.
As she alighted from the sleek, midnight blue carriage, Victoria adjusted her mask and slung her small reticule over the other wrist. She’d purposely elected to use a plain carriage and arrive alone so that her identity would remain unknown for as long as possible. Despite her mother’s transparent attempts to engage James Lacy as her escort, Victoria had slipped firmly out of any such mazes, warning her mother not to reveal the nature of her costume to the new marquess—or even that she planned to attend. She didn’t want anyone to know she would be there, particularly George Starcasset and Sara Regalado.
“If you do, I promise you, Mother, that I’ll never accept another dance or invitation from Rockley again. And then how on earth will you ever get anyone to believe we’ve developed an attachment?”
Apparently, Lady Melly believed her—and the fallacy that there was a chance for the two to form an attachment— for she clamped her lips and nodded. “But you must promise to dance with him at least twice, and most definitely once after the masks have been removed. ” Victoria had made some vague reply, helped in her attempt to prevaricate by the industrious Verbena, who’d been working on her hair in a most enthusiastic manner.
Now, as she took measured paces up the steps to Landross House, the residence of Lord and Lady Philander, Victoria felt a little knit of excitement trip down her spine. Unlike a few months ago, during the Carnivale in Rome where the streets were packed with costumed revelers, this would be a bit more sedate. The masks and costumes wouldn’t include long beaks or ungainly papier-mâché animal masks; likely, most of the garb would be gowns or dress clothing fashioned to represent the personage portrayed.
Because it was a masquerade ball, and the attendees’ identities were to remain secret until midnight, when the masks were removed, the butler did not announce Victoria by name as she entered the ballroom. It was busy, but not thoroughly crowded. Since the fascinating new Marquess of Rockley was due to attend, Victoria knew the room would soon be a complete crush.