'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
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.
Unsurprisingly, Pesaro appeared eager for Phillip to drink his whiskey; so he obliged, but only if the cousin drank with him. It was when their glasses were nearly empty that he began to see signs of the other man's edges wearing down. His eyes drooped; his words came slower. Whether he was being poisoned or merely drugged, Phillip did not know… but whatever it was, the other man had attempted to foist it upon Phillip, so he felt very little remorse.
'You switched glasses,' Pesaro said, his voice slurred and his eyes glistening with anger. 'Damn fool.'
'It is only what you deserve. Why have you tried to poison me?'
'You do… not know… danger… Keep you… safe… Fool.'
He waited until Max gave up, his head slumping to the table. 'Now I will find Victoria.' Phillip dropped a few coins on the sticky wooden planks and they clattered to a stop next to the man's half-curled fingers. Then he stood and walked away without looking back.
It was clear that his fiancee was not here, if she ever had been. He crossed the room, hurrying toward the stairs, lingering the pistol under his cloak.
Phillip couldn't wait to get out of this cloying, depressing place; he rushed up the steps, needing to breathe the clean night air. He had to clear his mind, which now had many more questions than when he'd arrived— including the reason Victoria's cousin would try to drug him.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Phillip heard heavy steps behind him. He turned and saw one of the patrons, large and pale-faced, stalking up the stairs.
Slipping through the door, Phillip was back in the night. He closed the door and turned to hurry away; but the man came through more quickly than he could have imagined. Suddenly he was right behind him, and Phillip felt hot breath on his neck… even though it was covered by his cloak, and the man was not touching him.
He turned, pulling the pistol from his pocket and pointing it at his stalker. They were standing in the middle of a narrow alley, and there was nowhere for him to run but back down the stairs to the Silver Chalice… or past the man who blocked the street entrance of the alley.
'Stay back, or I will shoot,' Phillip warned, his finger tightening on the trigger. His aim was steady, his senses alive and singing even as a confident calmness flowed through him. He did not wish to hurt the man, but he would do what he must to protect himself… and find Victoria.
The man took another step forward and Phillip pulled the trigger, aiming for his shoulder. His aim must have been off; the man kept coming. His vision swam, and he felt an odd tightening in his chest, as if his lungs were not his own… as if someone else inflated and deflated them.
He could not look away, could not move away from the man coming toward him.
Something glinted red, but Phillip could not see it… it curled at the edges of his blackening vision. Phillip could not focus; he aimed blindly ahead, hoping for the man's chest, and pulled the trigger.
His attacker's eyes were burning an odd color… like glowing wine. He reached for Phillip, who tried to pull away, but the man had inhuman strength; Phillip could not shake him, could not dislodge his grip even slightly. And then something white gleamed in the dim light as one hand closed over Phillip's head, pulling it to one side.
Sharp white teeth, descending toward his neck.
