Rises the Night

Chapter 9 In Which Mrs. Emmaline Withers Annoys an Italian Contessa

Venice, Victoria learned, was not at its most pleasant in the late summer months. Although it was late September when she arrived at last, it was still hot and sunny. The city itself, shaped like a large fish with its tail pointing toward the Adriatic Sea, evoked dreaminess and calm with its bright gondolas easing up and down the canals. But the stench of refuse rising from the water was made worse by the heat.

"I fussed 'bout the smell o' London when it's hot," Verbena complained, checking to make sure Victoria's handbag included a small vial of salted holy water. Ever since her mistress had been bitten by a vampire and had to have the wound treated with salted holy water, Verbena had made it her responsibility to ensure Victoria always carried some. "This city is worse! Why, with the dead fish floatin' in the streets and the muck o' seaweed and that smelly green stuff that grows on top o' the water, I can't know why anyone would live here in the summer! But that Oliver. He says it ain't so bad, and he thinks the city ain't any smellier than a farm is. Well, that's a country boy for ye. He like as left his nose back on the farm in Cornwall."

She shook her head and replaced Victoria's reticule on her dressing table. "I still don' understand why m' cousin Barth didn't leave his hackney wi' someone else and come with us, instead of sendin' his friend Oliver. He might not be the best driver—Oliver takes a bit more care in my opinion—but he's certainly got his head on straight when it comes to them vampires. Wearin' his cross and carryin' holy water and a stake. He'd'a been a better man-about-town for us than this green'un from the farms."

"Oliver seems a gentle sort, for all his size," Victoria ventured. "Has he been giving you any trouble?"

"Trouble? Not him, no, my lady, trouble's the least thing he gives me. He's too accom'datin' is what he is. Always askin' what's to be done, how can he help. I say he's a green boy from the country and never been to the city before, and it shows." Verbena had moved to stand behind her mistress and began to comb through the long stream of curls. "I shudder to think what'd happen if he actu'lly saw a vampire… he'd prob'ly ask'm in for tea! Hmmph. Now, for yer debut here't'night, we must take care ye're lookin' yer best, my lady. An' I'm puttin' at least two stakes in your hair, just in th' case of runnin' into a vampire. Who knows if they're out 'n' about tonight."

"I haven't felt any sensation of their presence since we arrived," Victoria replied. "Not one cool breeze to the back of the neck except when it comes in from the sea. I'm beginning to wonder if the Tutela is here in Venice at all. And don't you always ensure that I look my best?" Victoria added with a fond smile.

She was in a happy mood tonight, the first time in a long time she felt like enjoying herself at a social event. Their first week in Venice had been slow and frustrating. They'd had to set up the household, announce their presence to any and all English expatriates, and wait for invitations.

In the evenings she'd been forced to sit in the house and practice her kalaripayattu in the parlor, for she didn't know the city well enough to patrol it in search of vampires. And there was the added complication that half of the streets were not streets but canals.

But at last Victoria had been asked to attend a gathering at none other than Lord Byron's home. She hadn't expected to have such success so quickly: a tea here, a dinner party there, before she made a connection with Byron. But apparently her mention of Dr. Polidori's untimely death had garnered her the entree into Byron's society she needed.

"Y' know I do m' best, my lady," Verbena said. "Not that it's a har'ship to make ye look beaut'ful. Ye've got that lovely skin, like a pret' pale rose, and them big green-brown eyes. An' all this hair! Who could find fault with this hair?"

"There have been times when I've thought of cutting it," Victoria confessed as her maid sectioned off a piece for her coiffure. "It gets in the way when I am fighting."

"Ye can't!" Verbena exclaimed, her blue eyes goggling like cornflowers in full bloom. "I willn't allow it, my lady. I'll find a way to dress't so it cannot fall int' your face. An' asides… if ye cut it, how can I put yer stakes in there? Nothin' to hold 'em up, then, if you cut it all off short! I know as some ladies are doin' it, but I won't let my mistress."

Verbena's chatter did not ease as she finished coiffing and dressing Victoria. This was lovely for her mistress, as it allowed her to sink into a quiet reverie that was pestered only by an occasional too-hard pull on her hair, or a pin stuck in too tightly, or a direction such as, "Now stand," or, "Raise your arms, my lady."

Unfortunately, her thoughts wanted to center on that last interlude with Sebastian in the carriage, and the way he'd looked at her when he'd said, I was giving you time to grieve.

Even now, remembering that look made her stomach feel like a ball of dough being kneaded. Not that she'd ever kneaded a ball of dough, but when she was young, she'd seen Landa, the cook at home in Grantworth House, do it with such verve and enthusiasm that she rather thought it must feel like her stomach.

But she would never stop grieving, not completely. The pain would ease, she would move on with her life—she already had, in a sense—but the grief would never completely go away. It would always mark her, somehow.

If she were different, perhaps she would find someone to love again. Widows did; it wasn't unheard-of. She suspected that her mother had developed a tendre for Lord Jellington, now, three years after Victoria's father's death.

But Victoria couldn't expect to do so.

Certainly, most people who lost a loved one would feel as if they never wanted to love again. Never wanted to go through that horrific pain of loss. But they could love again, when the grief eased. They would be able to.

Victoria couldn't.

Well, she could. It was possible and perhaps even likely that love would find her someday, as she was still young and attractive, and if her response to Sebastian was any indication, she appreciated being considered so by a man.

But she was a Venator. Her life was a patchwork of danger and deceit, night patrols, incessant hunting, violence, and matches with evil. A greater evil than most people would ever face.

Loving someone would endanger him—and endanger herself by dividing her concentration. The lies, the subterfuge, the lifestyle would pick away at and erode any chance of happiness she might imagine.

She couldn't allow herself to love—or, worse, truly worse, to be loved.

Her last words to Max had been to tell him he'd been right. He'd been right that she should not have married Phillip for all of the reasons that she now knew. Victoria would never finish grieving because she would never be able to forgive herself for marrying him anyway.

Yet, she missed the feel of a man's lips under hers, the steadiness of his embrace. The smell of masculinity and the broad height of shoulders, the race of her pulse when an attractive man looked at her like he wished to gobble her up whilst he was speaking of the weather or, as in Sebastian's case, about a secret society of vampire protectors.

She didn't have to marry, or even to love, to find pleasure in such a refuge from her world. She was a widow now, experienced in love and more experienced in life than most women her mother's age.

When she was lonely, she could find companionship with a man. Selectively, of course. Discreetly. Without the emotional attachment that could endanger them both.

She might be a Venator, a widow, a peer of Society. But she was still, and always would be, a woman too.

Being introduced at La Villa Foscarini was a most unusual experience for Victoria. Arriving at a small party where she knew no one, without a male escort, completely on her own, was something she could not do amongst the London haute ton without turning many heads and causing untold whispers of impropriety.

But Aunt Eustacia had explained that Italian Society was not nearly as rigid as that in England, and that their social mores were much more relaxed than what Victoria was used to. And this little clique of English expatriates that had become Lord Byron's miniature circle of Society were even more forgiving of accepted rules.

Still, it felt exceedingly odd to be announced as Mrs. Emmaline Withers and to face a small sea of faces that were unrecognizable to her.

In an effort to keep her identity as a Venator a secret, Victoria had agreed with Wayren's suggestion that she use an assumed name during her movements in Italian Society. Lilith most certainly knew who she was, and although many of the vampires she might encounter would recognize her name, they would not know her by sight. Thus, if Victoria were to penetrate the Tutela, she must take care not to be found out.

The consequences, as Eustacia said, were obvious.

"Mrs. Withers! How delighted we are that you could attend our little party." An energetic man, with dark hair even more curling and wild than John Polidori's had been, bolted from his seat and moved forward to meet her, keeping his limp as smooth as possible.

So this was Lord Byron, poet and, if all the rumors were true, lover extraordinaire.

He certainly had lovely hair. And a tall forehead. But he was rather short.

And most certainly attached to the ravishing redheaded woman who trailed after him to greet Victoria.

"Lord Byron, I am most appreciative of your kind invitation. I have been here a bit more than a week and was beginning to wonder if I should ever see another party again! How dull it has been, and what a lovely party you have here." She gave a brief curtsy, offered her hand, and smiled at the woman, waiting for Byron to make introductions.

"My love, this is Mrs. Emmaline Withers, a friend of John's. Apparently, she was unfortunate enough to be in attendance at the house party at which he died some weeks ago. Mrs. Withers, this is Teresa, Countess Guccioli. Now! Let us back to our readings!"

With what could only be described as a flourish, the poet turned back to the cluster of chairs where the other seven or eight people sat.

"He is quite loath to be interrupted when he is reading one of his works," Teresa told Victoria with a fond smile. Her English was perfect, but the syllables were lined with a lilting accent. "I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Withers. I understand you have come to visit my fair country while recovering from your husband's death. I am very sorry to hear of it. Although there are moments when one could wish to be rid of one's own spouse. Nevertheless, I am certain you will find Venezia a lovely place to celebrate being left with a handsome sum and no husband along with it. Now, come this way and let us find you a seat next to one of our handsome young men."

It was fortunate that Eustacia had warned Victoria about the Countess Guccioli, or she might have been utterly offended. Teresa and Byron had been in love and cohabiting for two years, some of the time at the Palazzo Guccioli even while the countess's husband was in attendance. That, said Eustacia, was indicative of one of the great differences between Italian and English views on marriage.

In Italy, one married for one's parents and sought lovers for oneself. One treated one's lover with the respect and fidelity most English reserved for their spouse—at least, on the surface. Thus, Teresa Guccioli was not so very different from many of her countrymen and women, but she had a brash way of expressing it.

Victoria took a seat on a brocade cassock and proceeded to listen with the others for well over thirty minutes while Byron finished the reading of his latest stanzas. She wasn't much for listening to poetry for long periods of time, any more than she was for listening to music and doing nothing, but she managed to sit and appear to be enjoying herself. It wasn't that the stanzas were awkward or uninteresting; it was just that Victoria had a task to complete, and she certainly couldn't go about trying to learn if Byron was a member of the Tutela whilst he was reading about setting suns and the flowing skirts of goddesses.

At last the reading portion of the party ended, and if the rest of the group was as delighted as she was, they did not show it. Everyone stood and began to cluster off into little groups as drinks and lovely little antipasti were served.

Victoria chatted briefly with Teresa before the woman was called away to look at an amateurish drawing by one of her friends. Victoria saw Lord Byron walking out of the room, a definite hitch in his step, and she eased herself toward the entrance.

Where one exited, one must reenter.

And so he did, shortly thereafter, and when he did Victoria caught his eyes.

"Mrs. Withers, I hope you are having a fine time of it here. A bit less stuffy than the ton, do you say?"

"Indeed, there is much frivolity here. I'm having a lovely time."

"I hope you do not mind if I ask you how my friend John was when you last saw him. I was devastated to hear of his horrid passing."

The sparkle in his eyes and the way he gestured with his glass of Chianti belied his sentiment, but Victoria was more than happy to go along. After all, she had a role to play as well. "Dr. Polidori was hale and hearty when I saw him last. We were at a house party at Claythorne, and… well, you heard about the accident. I do not wish to talk about that, for it was quite horrible. But we had a lovely conversation about vampires." She dropped her voice to a near whisper on that last word, leaning closer to him and purposely giving him a view down her low décolletage.

He noticed and, closing his fingers gently around her wrist, stepped backward, his gaze fastened down at her bosom, which, she knew from previous experience, was quite appreciated by the opposite sex. Victoria noticed that behind him was a small curtained alcove. She allowed him to tug her gently behind the curtains as she discreetly whisked away the fichu Verbena had tucked into her neckline. Whatever would help her cause.

She just hoped Countess Guccioli didn't notice. Dealing with vampires was one thing; having a jealous Italian contessa flying at her was another situation altogether.

"It was so fascinating," Victoria continued, widening her eyes and gently pulling her wrist away. "Vampires! I do believe," she whispered again, forcing him to move closer to hear her, "that Dr. Polidori was quite convinced that they really exist. Imagine that!"

"Indeed," Byron replied. Victoria had never been as grateful for low-cut fashions as she was now. The man was half in his cups and quite distracted by the amount of flesh she was showing since she'd removed the fichu. This, then, was one of the benefits of being a widow as opposed to being an innocent maid.

She was certain she could ask him any question and he would answer.

"It must have been a great annoyance to you when The Vampyre was published and everyone thought that you had written it."

"It was nothing. I soon set it right. Although the story idea was mine, I did not care that John made a hash of it. Patterning Lord Ruthven after me!" He chuckled, stumbling toward her—whether it was purposeful or not, she didn't know—and catching a brief handful of breast.

Victoria closed her fingers over his hand and gently removed it, but kept a tight grip on him, flattening his hand against the bare flesh of her shoulder and upper chest. A much safer area, one designed to keep him from getting too distracted yet not a complete rebuff. It felt odd to have a man's hand on her skin, particularly a man whom she did not know.

But she did not think about it. No one would see, and if it helped her to get the information she needed, she would suffer it.

"I should think you would make a lovely vampire," she told him, giggling in a manner more suited to a new debutante than a vampire-killing widow. "All dark and dangerous… Surely you are not about to spring fangs and bite me in the neck, are you, my lord?"

He grinned lasciviously at her, a thick mop of unruly black hair flopping onto his forehead, mingling with eyebrows and dancing into his eyes. He looked not the least bit dangerous; rather, a bit silly, with his fair skin and too-feminine lips. "And if I were, would you scream and run away… or would you let me?"

"I would let you."

His pupils widened, became black as night, and his fingers convulsed on her bare skin. "Mrs. Withers… you tempt me so."

"But," she said, deftly removing his hand and setting him back gently, shaking her head, "there are no such things as vampires… are there? More's the pity, for I think they are terribly romantic."

"Romantic?" He looked befuddled, as if he wasn't sure how he'd come from being so close to his prey to being set back with nary a bump or a struggle.

"I should love to meet one. A vampire. Do tell me… have you ever met one? Because I am sure, after speaking with Dr. Polidori, that they really exist."

He looked at her, his eyes a bit clearer now. "You would be dearly frightened if you met one, Mrs. Withers, I am certain."

"No, indeed, for why should I? They wish only to survive, and they cannot help that they must live on fresh blood. It is the way they are made." She curved her lips into a promising smile. "I think that it should be quite… erotic… to have two fangs sinking into my neck."

Byron had taken a step back and removed his hands from any proximity to her. He looked as if he expected her to sprout fangs at any moment. "To be honest with you, my dear Mrs. Withers, I would not be surprised if they did exist. But I, unfortunately, have never seen one." He coughed. "I do believe, however, that you are right. John Polidori believed in them too, and I am almost certain that he did meet them. But, I am afraid, I do not know for certain."

Blast. She thought she had made progress!

"Thank you for your poetry readings tonight, my lord," she told him, ready to release him before he reached for her again. "I think I have taken quite a thirst. May I excuse myself to find some more tea?"

"Of course, Mrs. Withers. I would be happy to escort you."

The Countess Guccioli looked none too happy when they emerged from the curtained alcove, but she did not bear down upon them as Victoria expected her to, ready to snatch her lover from a poaching woman's hands.

Instead, she did something utterly unexpected. She turned all of her charm and beauty and coquettishness onto the two gentlemen sitting next to her, and flicked not an eyelash nor the twitch of a nose at her lover. She ignored him.

Victoria watched her in fascination. She had not had very much experience in the womanly arts of flirtation and, apparently Countess Guccioli was a master at it. Poor Byron. He was fairly miserable by the time Victoria was ready to leave… which was two hours later.

She had called for Oliver and the carriage and was stepping out of the villa's door, ready to draw in a deep breath of night air, when she felt a presence behind her.

"Do you leave us so soon, signora?"

"Count Alvisi, is it not a lovely night, with the stars out? And, yes, I am sorry, but I am feeling rather fatigued. I had a gorgeous time this evening."

He was the same height as she, with the same swarthy Italian coloring that Max had. But his eyes glittered just a bit too much, and his lips curled in a most dismaying manner. And he smelled ridiculously, hideously, of lavender water.

Either he had bathed in it, or he'd gotten much too close to a woman who'd bathed in it.

At any rate, Victoria was near the end of her patience and was prepared to set him down quickly and thoroughly should he become friendly. And friendly was what he had in mind, if the direction of his gaze was any indication.

"But you did not get what you came for, did you?"

She looked sharply at him. He nodded delicately and smoothed a hand down the front of his shirtwaist. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I had the pleasure of overhearing a portion of your conversation with our wonderful host."

"Indeed?"

"How you wished to meet a real vampire." He stepped closer, bringing lavender and… was that lemon?… with him.

"I should think it would be fascinating. Do you think they truly exist?"

"I know that they do. I have seen them."

She widened her eyes and brought a girlish squeal from her lips. "Truly? Where have you seen them? Are they dangerous? Have you been bitten?" She dropped her voice.

"I have. Would you like to see my scars?" He showed her, and true enough, there were four little marks on his neck. Rather recent, in fact.

"How? Where?"

"We have a little… group. We see the vampires and we spend time with them—only a few of them, mind you. Because we understand them, you see. They are the most misunderstood creatures I have ever met."

"I can only imagine! People for years have thought of them as beasts. But they aren't, are they? Are they as romantic and dangerous as I have dreamed?"

"They are. And if you like, I can arrange for you to join us some evening."

"I should be most grateful, Count Alvisi."

He slipped something hard and flat into her hand. "This will be your token of admittance. I shall notify you of the date and place."

She looked down, already knowing what she would see. A Tutela amulet.

Most grateful indeed.