Not where she and Phillip had made love, only a few precious times during their short marriage.
Not here, where she’d kissed him for the last time, felt his hands on her body and the length of him next to her . . . just before she drove a lethal stake into his heart.
Not on this bed, or in this room . . . or in this house.
Five
In Which a Painting Is Criticized
Max moved with the shadows, alternating his quiet footsteps with the call of a night animal or the sift of wind through the trees.
The last time he’d been here at St. Heath’s Row, slipping silently across the trimmed lawn and between the well-tended yew hedges, was nearly two years ago. That time he’d had no trouble gaining access to the residence, for Victoria had dismissed all of the servants for the evening.
She had been expecting the return of her husband as well.
Max had followed Rockley through the house, unseen and unnoticed by the vampire who was driven purely by the need for his wife’s blood. He could have staked the creature on more than one occasion—just beyond the gates of the estate, as Rockley crossed the threshold of his own home, as he mounted the stairs, drawn by Victoria’s scent and her heartbeat.
But Max had waited.
Instead, he’d followed, listened, paused outside of the door Rockley had left open. The door leading to the chamber where she slept.
The sounds, the unmistakable ones of shifting bedclothes and sliding lips, of sighs, intimate murmurs, and ratcheting breathing at last forced him to peer into the room. The stake firm in his hand, Max tensed, tasting bitter disappointment . . . and a bit of self-righteousness. He had been right to come, for he was prepared to do what had to be done, what she was too bloody blind, too weak to do. . . .
Then he saw her arm raise high, an elegant, slender limb caught by moonlight above the rumpled coverlet. And she plunged the stake down into the dark.
He saw the small explosion of silvery ash, heard the faint sob of grief, and he lowered his stake.
When at last she pulled herself up to sit, her rich, black curls had poured over her shoulders and gauzy white gown. That moment, that colorless image of pale skin, shadowed eyes, a streak of tears, was indelibly printed in his memory. He’d never forget the glaze of moonlight over her features, haunted yet determined, when she turned to look at him.
At last, she truly understood.
And that was the moment everything changed.
Tonight, he had no need or desire to enter the house. His destination was the small chapel on the grounds, and it was this brick building that he approached after making his way beyond the looming house.
The wooden doors curved at the top, forming a gentle point, but they weren’t locked. They made only a soft snuffing sound when Max eased through.
The space was small, barely larger than a parlor. Four rows of benches lined each side of the aisle, padded with red velvet cushions. Candles of varying heights and widths burned around the altar and on the floor. The body, bound in white cloth, lay on a table in the center of the dais. Frankincense burning in a shallow bowl mingled its scent with that of the musky balm applied to the corpse’s wrappings.
“Max.” Kritanu pulled smoothly to his feet. Despite his seven decades, he was as agile and strong as a man half his age. His jet-black hair had held no hint of gray until the death of Eustacia, only six months ago, when a wide streak of white had appeared overnight. His face also showed the depths of his grief: hollow mahogany cheeks, his skin so taut it shone, the squareness of his jaw more pronounced. “You should not have risked coming.”
“Of course I must.” Max strode up the aisle, his long legs making short work of the distance. He paused at the altar, facing the body of the man who’d been his companion for eight years.
Death was nothing new to him; in fact, he would eagerly accept it for himself. He’d wished for it more than once. Eustacia had said that was part of the reason he was so skilled as a Venator.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t grieve for the loss of a friend.
After a moment of prayer and commendation, he turned to Kritanu. “I’m sorry.” Those words, very simple, said many things.
The elder man’s eyes shone with the understanding of all of them, the pinpoint of candlelight reflecting in his black orbs. “Briyani made his own choices, Max, just as you do. He fully understood the risk of staying with you. I’m glad he did. You should not be alone.”
Max’s lips pulled in a humorless smile. “Nor should you.”
“You took a great chance in coming here tonight. I told you it wasn’t necessary.”
“I wanted to see him. To say good-bye.” As he hadn’t been able to do with Eustacia. Or Father. Or his sister Giulia. “I know how to move about unseen.”
“But Victoria?”
“Is apparently otherwise occupied.”
Kritanu looked at him, something suspiciously like pity in his handsome face. “And you shan’t tell her you’re here?”
“I have no desire to be ordered about, as she would be wont to do. To be at her beck and call. I’m no longer a Venator, and can be of little use to her or to any of you.”
“Then why come to London? The world is vast, and there are many places to hide from Lilith that she would never suspect.”
No one was more acutely aware of that fact than Max himself. But he’d been compelled to come to London, foolish as it had been.
He bloody well could have gone on, knowing that it would be safer for everyone if he went to Spain or Denmark or America, or even the wilds of Africa. Lilith would never find him there. But Vioget had raised the concern about Victoria, leaving Max with little choice but to assure himself all was well.
And, apparently, Vioget was still taking his job as protector quite seriously.
At least Max could give him credit for that.
He realized Kritanu was still watching him and selected a slightly easier topic. “Briyani and I were in Vauxhall, looking for vampires, when we got separated. I found some undead, but he never returned to our rooms. I returned to Vauxhall hours later and found no trace of him.”
“Briyani wanted to be a Venator,” Kritanu said. “He was a better Comitator than he would have been as a Venator, but he was preparing to attempt the trial for the vis bulla. I suspect he would not have succeeded, for although he was very brave, and a skillful combatant, he lacked many necessary attributes, including a cool head under pressure.”
Max looked at the swaddled corpse. Grief stirred again, more deeply. “I didn’t know of his intentions.” The flash of a memory of his own trial, where he knew the choice was either success or death, assaulted him. He’d been more prepared for death than for success, for only five men over the centuries had ever achieved the vis bulla without the blood of the Gardellas in their veins.
Kritanu turned from his nephew and looked up at Max. “How does your training go?”
“I’ve neglected it as of late.” Yet, his body desired it—the quick, measured swipes with the kadhara knife, the kicks and leaps and thrusts of hand-to-hand kalaripayattu . . . and especially, the easy gliding of qinggong, where his body actually left the ground in long, sweeping arcs.
“Why should you do so? A lack of vis bulla does not eliminate what you have learned these years, Max.”
A soft scuff drew their attention to the entrance to the chapel, and Max immediately began to slip into the shadowy alcove next to the altar. It was better for Victoria not to know he was here.
But it wasn’t Victoria who moved toward them.
“Pesaro. Such an unexpected pleasure,” Sebastian said as he drew near.
Max sensed an air of frustration about Vioget and saw no reason to let it pass. “It’s rather early to be ending the evening, isn’t it? I thought you’d be engaged much longer.” He scanned the other man’s well-tailored coat and the white shirt that, though still tied at the throat, was missing a neck cloth.
Vioget’s eyes narrowed, but then he smiled coolly. “If it’s Victoria for whom you’re concerned, allow me to assure you that she’s happily ensconced in her bedchamber. With a smile on her face.”
“With the painting of Circe and Odysseus in full view.” He assumed the picture in its heavy gold frame hadn’t been moved. “Not the finest rendition, but an acceptable one nevertheless.”
Vioget’s expression darkened, validating Max’s assumption, but then his features rearranged into another smile, laced with contempt. “Does Victoria know that you’ve been skulking around London, unwilling to show your face?”
“There’s no reason—”
“I disagree. She should know you’re here, so that arrangements can be made to see to your protection. I’ll be certain to advise her of your presence.” Vioget fairly oozed condescension and confidence and Max felt a sharp pain shoot along his jaw as he ground his teeth. “I’m certain she’ll want to see for herself that you’re safe, particularly in light of poor Briyani’s fate.”
“It would delight you no end, wouldn’t it?” Max was under no illusion. Vioget knew that he would show to his best advantage next to a weakened, vis bulla-less Max, who had been reduced to living on the run. Merely a man.
The other man’s reply was nothing more than a bland smile.
Six
A Crowded Parlor
Victoria knew it would only be a matter of time before the news of James’s arrival spread. But even she didn’t account for the efficiency of the gossip trail spread by the house servants—as evidenced by the presentation of Lady Melly in St. Heath’s Row’s parlor scarcely past noon the next day.
She wasn’t alone. She’d brought reinforcements in the form of Ladies Nilly and Winnie . . . and a bulging portmanteau.
“Hello Mother,” Victoria greeted her, trying to sound more glad than she felt. “I thought you were going to the race today with Lord Jellington.” Lady Melly’s beau had nearly lost his position when she was in Rome, being wooed by a handsome vampire. A vampire who’d turned out to be Sara Regalado’s father.