Besides, she’d expected nothing less from him.
Eight
Victoria slipped her hand through Zavier’s arm after they alighted from the carriage at the entrance to the Villa Palombara.
She was dressed as if she were attending a ball at Almack’s, attired more formally and finely than she’d been in months. Despite the inconvenience of wearing a gown in a situation that could become anything but sedate, deep in the most feminine part of her it had been worth it to see the expression on Zavier’s face when she came into the sitting room, ready to leave. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to dress for an evening out.
That part of her life was so far behind her now, so submerged, it was like a dream.
Lady Winnie had indeed spoken to her maid, Rudgers, who had unfairly taken poor Verbena to task. That had given Verbena at last an excuse to dress her mistress as befitted the marchioness she was. Her gown was a pink pearl hue, made of silk and trimmed with dark pink rosettes in two rows along the flounced hemline. More rosettes clustered at the tops of her sleeves in small red-and-white bouquets with long, grass-green ribbons dangling to brush her arms. The sleeves were short caps, but Victoria had pink gloves that reached from fingertip to past her elbow, so despite the fact that her wrap was little more than a cobweb of white lace, her arms were not chilled.
Rather than the simple plait she’d taken to wearing, Victoria’s coiffure was an intricate gathering of tiny braids, spiraling curls, and pink pearls at the back of her crown. It left her long white neck bare except for pale rubies that dangled from her ears, and the silver cross that sat at the base of her throat.
Into the coiffure, Verbena had slid one of the decorated stakes she and Oliver had taken to creating for their vampire hunter mistress. This particular one was long and slender—but thick enough to be deadly to a vampire— with roses carved on the handle and the whole stake painted pink. Victoria had been able to convince Verbena to leave off the feathers this time, although two pearls had found their way into the centers of the roses.
Beneath all these accoutrements of feminity was Miro’s latest creation in the battle against the undead: a special corset. The idea had come from Verbena initially. Not only did she take her mistress’s fashion seriously, but she was also the only maid in London who fussed over weapons and tools.
Flimsy slippers allowed every little stone to poke through to her soles as she and Zavier, with Lady Nilly on his other arm, walked up to the entrance of the villa. They followed in the wake of the ladies Melly and Winnie.
“It isn’t very festive,” Lady Winnie said, her comment loud enough for Victoria to hear from behind, and obviously forgetting that they weren’t attending a party. “It’s as if there’s hardly anyone here. Not even a footman to help us down from the carriage! I know the family hasn’t lived here for decades, but one would think they would have cleaned up a bit before having us.”
“It’s a treasure hunt,” Lady Nilly trilled, edging closer to Zavier. “It’s the atmosphere! Intriguing, foreboding, haunting…”
“And it isn’t as if it’s to be a crush of a ball,” Lady Melly added, glancing back at her daughter. “It was made very clear that tonight is not a celebration of any kind, and only very few were invited. We were lucky enough to be asked. If it weren’t for
It was indeed an eerie, strange atmosphere. The mansion itself was hidden by the same tall wall Victoria and Ylito had climbed through to get to the Door of Alchemy, which was at the opposite end of the vast grounds of the estate, set away from the main building of the villa. Behind the crumbling wall, the manor house was gloomy and dark.
Instead of the great light spilling from numerous windows that would accompany most fetes or dinner parties or soirees, the building had only a small yellow glow from the front entrance. The door opened, giving just a brief glimpse of a butler, and then closed behind a cluster of people, as though loath to waste its illumination on the night.
Indeed, the line of carriages dropping off guests was hardly a line at all, for there weren’t so very many guests. This was a fact that had not escaped Victoria, and as they approached the door and it opened again she paused, edging into the welcome shadows so that no one inside could see her. She wondered not for the first time whether it had been by accident or design that the mother of a Venator had been invited to attend.
Zavier stopped, urging Lady Melly to go on ahead as Victoria pretended to adjust her loose slipper. The older woman, thrilled by the same environment that set her daughter’s instincts on edge, did not hesitate and gladly entered the door, opened by a butler who barely stepped far enough away for them to enter. She was followed by Lady Nilly and Lady Winnie.
The door closed without the butler even looking about, and Victoria and Zavier were alone in the darkness together.
“Ye’ll take care now,” Zavier said, capturing Victoria’s gloved hand as she straightened from pretending to fix her slipper, a task meant to keep her from being recognized by anyone inside the villa.
“Of course. Thank you again for coming, Zavier. I know my mother will be safe in your care, and I’ll be able to slip into the building without being noticed. If you see anything—”
“Aye, I’ll tend to her. And I’ll keep watch for anything odd, though I don’t ken what it is we might find. I canna believe the key is hidden in this house any longer.”
“I begin to wonder myself. It could be a perfectly harmless, foolish little event meant to slip under the notice of the priests during Lent…but I do not believe it. However, I don’t sense any undead nearby. So perhaps all will be well.”
She would have turned away to melt back into the shadows so Zavier could enter the house, but his hand, rough from the calluses on his palm, stopped her, brushing over her cheek. “Your lip’s nearly healed. Best take care not to run into more door corners,” he said, reminding her of the lie she’d given to excuse the nip Beauregard had given her the night before.
“It was very clumsy of me,” she replied, thinking of how she’d bumped her forehead into Max that same evening…and then she realized Zavier’s intention.
He was going to kiss her. She tensed in anticipation.
Zavier moved closer and brushed her mouth with his, leaving a gentle scrape of whiskers and the musty smell of tobacco in the wake of the kiss. When he pulled back to look at her, their eyes were nearly level. Though it was too dark to see his expression, she could feel the faint tremble in his fingers against her chin. “Och, now,” he said, a smile in his voice, “how does that feel?”
“I think it feels much better,” she replied lightly, smiling back, hoping that Max wouldn’t appear from the shadows and ruin the moment. It would be just like him.
“Victoria,” Zavier said so softly his brogue was hardly noticeable, and then leaned forward to kiss her again. This time it was more than a brush of lips, yet there was still gentleness about it—as if he still wasn’t certain she’d allow it, or as if he wasn’t sure it was real.
The kiss was brief, as kisses went—certainly not as long or involved as others she’d experienced. When Victoria realized her hand had somehow made its way to the front of his massive shoulder and felt the slamming pounding of his heart all the way up in his neck, she drew back.
He pulled in a breath as if to speak, but she forestalled anything he might have said. “My mother will be wondering what’s keeping us. Perhaps you’d best make your way inside. Give her the excuse that the strap on my slipper has broken and I’ve returned home to get a new one.”
He nodded, his shaggy hair falling forward. With a sweep of his hand he brushed it back over his brow and stepped away. “Ye have a care,” he said, and turned to walk back toward the main entrance, which had, during this interlude, remained closed and deserted.
Victoria watched him go and waited for Max to emerge from the shadows as she stripped off her gloves.
