Max and a bloody, one-handed Kritanu, out of the room where Victoria had slain a group of vampires. George was a member of the Tutela, the secret society of mortals that protected and served the undead.
“I’m certain you didn’t,” he had the grace to say. And when she looked at him, she saw a bleak sincerity in his eyes that had replaced the bravado she was used to seeing there. “But I needed to see you. Will you dance with me?”
Victoria would have rather taken a spin around the ballroom with Beauregard, the great vampire who’d tried to turn her undead, than George. But Lady Nilly and Duchess Winnie looked as though they were about to explode with pleasure at the handsome, albeit boyish, young man who was not only titled but also wealthy, and who was clearly attempting to charm Victoria.
She could see no gracious way out of the mess, so she took his arm. And at the very least, she could lecture him about spreading rumors of the undead among unsuspecting ladies of the
“What are you doing here?” Victoria demanded as George spun her into his arms.
“My God, you look lovely tonight,” he replied, unable to keep the bald admiration from his voice. He stepped them into the waltz, still looking at her as though every other thought had evaporated from his head.
Victoria knew from past experience that he was easily distracted, and that he wasn’t the most efficient of villains. The two times he’d tried to capture her, he’d been abysmally inept with aiming a gun, binding with ropes, and other nefarious activities. She had absolutely no fear of him. Not even an inkling. The biggest emotion he raised in her was flat annoyance, which was what she felt now.
But before she could open her mouth to speak again, he looked up from her half-exposed bosom and into her eyes. The admiration was gone, replaced by fear.
“I’m in trouble, Victoria. I need your help.”
Two
“I find it exceedingly ironic that you should ask me, of all people, for help,” Victoria replied. She tried to keep the sarcasm from her voice, but, based on the abashed look on George’s face, she didn’t quite succeed.
Yet he forged on, showing a resilience she would never have expected of him. And for once, he wasn’t looking down the front of her bodice. “Daresay it’s mad, but there’s no one else who could be of assistance.”
Victoria concentrated on the waltz for a moment, if only to keep from laughing outright at his presumption. He’d spent the last year trying to capture her for a variety of villains, including vampires and a demon. And that was after he had sneaked into her bedchamber-and bed-one night and tried to kiss her. Of course, he’d been foxed at the time, and goaded on by a mischievous Sebastian… but still. Despite her concentration, she wasn’t able to keep a smile in check.
“Should be the last person in the world to turn to for help,” George muttered, “after you killed my sister, but there’s nothing for it.”
“That’s what I do to vampires, George. I stake them,” Victoria reminded him drily. “And you-you protect them, and serve them. I cannot imagine how you think I might, or should, assist you.”
“They’re all gone, y’know,” he told her. “Since you ruined Lilith’s plan to kill King George, she’s gone away and taken them-most of them-with her.” His lips twisted grimly. “There’s where I need your help.”
“What? Is there a vampire that hasn’t gone with Lilith that you’d like me to chase away?” Victoria thought she was making a jest, but when his face dissolved into shock, she realized her flippant comment had hit the mark. “Is that it? Truly?”
George tightened his hand at her waist, pulling her toward him to redirect their path from a collision with another couple. “Sh’won’t leave,” he admitted. “I was… er… attached to her a bit, but her demands are getting too much. Need her gone.”
“Her demands? For drawn curtains to keep out the sunlight? And for fresh blood, of course. Does she have you snaring rabbits or catching mice? Visiting the butcher?” Victoria felt the giggle bubbling up inside her and swallowed it back as she thought of George running to and fro betwixt the butcher and the attic to check mousetraps. It was so unusual in her world, in the battle of mortals versus the undead, that she encountered a situation in which she found amusement.
Then her eyes narrowed and all humor fled. “You’d best not be bringing her humans, George. If you are, I’ll kill you myself.” It was a bluff; of course she wouldn’t kill George. He was a human-a member, albeit an insufferable one, of that race she was charged with protecting, no matter what the cost. “No, perhaps I’ll tie you up and set her on you.”
He swallowed and managed an uncomfortable smile. “Too late for that, Victoria.” He released her hand to pull the tall, starched collar of his shirt away from his neck. Beneath were four angry red bite marks. Fresh enough that the inside of his collar was smeared with dark red.
“Aside of that, only brought her two people-” He must have felt Victoria tense up beneath his hands, for he continued quickly. “They were willing. I swear it! Wanted to see what it was like, y’know.” He leaned forward, a sudden leer showing his teeth. “Y’dear friend Lady Fenworth wanted to go, Victoria.”
“Lady Nilly?” Victoria didn’t doubt it for a moment. The twittering old lady had been fascinated by vampires-or at least the romantic legend of them-since Polidori’s book.
George seized the opportunity to press further. “If y’don’t help me, I’ll take her to visit Maybelle.” He seemed to think his pronouncement a perfect occasion to examine Victoria’s dйcolletage more closely.
“Maybelle?” Victoria missed a step and nearly trod upon George’s foot-something she hadn’t done since her first year out in Society, when she was putting all of her Venator strength behind her sharp, little heel into the toe of the obnoxious Lord Beetleton. She didn’t feel the need to do so in this case, although it was a close call. George was still ogling her cleavage.
“You aren’t perhaps speaking of Miss Maybelle Felicity-Underwood, who was rumored to have run off to Gretna Green with her fifth cousin?” she said, poking George in the back of the neck with a sharp fingernail.
“The very same,” replied George. Now he had the grace to meet her eyes, and as the music tinkled to an end, he kept his arm around her waist, drawing her off to the edge of the dance floor. “Lots of rumors as of late ’bout people running off, see? Better say that than to put about that they were lost at sea, hmm, Lady Rockley?” This was the first time he’d used her title, and it was purposeful.
Victoria kept her face devoid of emotion and allowed George to propel her toward the main foyer of the house. His reference to the story Victoria had given out to explain the death and disappearance of her husband, Phillip-that he’d died while on a ship-reminded her of the evil Bemis Goodwin. Goodwin had been a Bow Street runner and the brother of a vampire she’d slain her first year as a Venator. Goodwin had been bound and determined to turn her over to the authorities for murder, and he’d very nearly succeeded in getting her thrown into Newgate.
The problem in Goodwin’s case-and in any case involving the death of a vampire-was that there was no body to be produced. Only a dusting of smelly ash remained after an undead was staked. Thus, a story had to be created to explain the sudden disappearance of people like Phillip, and then the new (impostor) Marquess of Rockley, along with Gwendolyn Starcasset, George’s sister, and now, apparently, Miss Maybelle Felicity-Underwood.
“And so you wish me to help rid you of Miss Maybelle, who has now become undead, and who, through someone’s meddling, has dragged her fifth cousin’s presumably good name into the fray. Pray tell, George… how did that come to pass?”
She stopped at the edge of the ballroom, and glanced at the foyer beyond. Guests were still arriving, despite the fact that there were more than three dozen already here. Firmly she pulled her arm from his grip and stepped away, looking up into his pale blue eyes.
“Her fifth cousin is a swine and a fool, and is most likely at the bottom of the Thames with the fish,” replied George airily.
“I suppose that to mean Miss Maybelle partook of a generous portion of his blood before disposing of him. Or did she have you do it?”
