The Rest Falls Away

Chapter Twenty-Three In Which the Truth Corned Out

Max would not let Victoria see to his wounds. He snarled at her when she tried to pull his jacket off to look at them, so she gave up and settled onto the threadbare seat of the hackney they'd been forced to hire to get them home.

The edge of the horizon had just begun to color with the faintest gray-yellow of approaching dawn. Victoria couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. No more vampires to deal with until the night.

Now all she had to handle was her husband.

Despite the fact that he was growing gray and breathing more shallowly, Max insisted that the hackney drop Victoria off at St. Heath's Row before taking him home. And he wouldn't even consider coming into her house to have his wounds—whatever they were—attended to. Thus, when she climbed down from the hackney, she told the driver where to take him—not to his house, but to Aunt Eustacia's—and gave him an extra shilling to make certain he got Max inside and into her aunt's care.

It wasn't until she walked up the steps to the entrance of St. Heath's Row that Victoria realized she was still garbed in men's clothing, and that what was left of her gown was still in Max's carriage. It wouldn't seem so odd to Lettender, the butler, that she would arrive home at dawn in a hired hackney… but to arrive dressed as she was would certainly be cause for some comment and curious looks.

However, she was the marchioness, and though the austere butler might look at her askance, he surely would not dare to ask any questions.

The biggest concern Victoria had at that moment was whether Phillip was home. She rapped on the door, knowing that the household was already up, although perhaps Lettender was still snoring in his back room. One of the underbutlers opened the door, and from the bored look on his face Victoria knew that she had arrived home before Phillip.

Thank God.

She walked past the young man as if it were an everyday occurrence that she should leave in a ball gown and arrive home in men's clothing, and hurried up the stairs to her chamber. Verbena stumbled to her feet when she walked in, her springy hair smashed flat on the same side of her face that had sleep marks.

"My lady! You are home! How is your arm?"

"I am fine. Thank you for sending this clothing for me," Victoria said. "But quickly, now, I must get dressed in my nightclothes. The marquess should be arriving home shortly, and I do not want to him to see me dressed thus."

They worked quickly, and none too soon, for just as the sun began to show its glowing edge against the rooftops of London, Max's carriage pulled up in front of the estate.

Victoria flung on a cloak and dashed back down the stairs, skirts and hems held high.

Kritanu's nephew Briyani, a short, narrow-faced man with large muscles and the same bronze skin color of his uncle, was helping Phillip out of the carriage.

"Thank you for taking care of him," Victoria murmured to Max's driver. "Has he been awake?"

"Not so much, just as we were arriving home." He handed Verbena a bundle of frothy material—her ball gown, now crumpled and soiled beyond repair, but at least it would not remain in the carriage.

"Max is at your uncle's home, and he is injured quite badly," Victoria told him.

He nodded and climbed back into his perch, starting the carriage off. "I will go and see how he is."

"Victoria!"

Phillip was standing at the door of the house, looking bedraggled and exhausted. His eyes, always at half-mast, looked particularly weary.

"Darling! You are home at last." Victoria said brightly, slipping her arm around his.

"Max came to my club; he said you called for me to come home. And then there was some great altercation there—I left in the midst of it." He shook his head as if to clear it, and Victoria felt a renewed stab of guilt. "I must have fallen asleep on the way home."

Lies and more lies. Subterfuge and deceit. Phillip was an innocent bystander who just wanted to live a normal, happy life with the wife he loved… and he was caught up in a mess that he could not comprehend. And he didn't even know it.

How long could she continue to expend energy in making certain he didn't know? Making certain he was safe? Living a dual life?

Victoria drew him into her arms right there on the stoop of St. Heath's Row, just beyond the stone walls that separated their estate from the streets of London.

"I am fine. I am afraid there was no urgency for you to return home; I merely told Max, when I saw him at the Guilderstons' dinner dance, that if he should see you to let you know that I would be home early and would like to speak with you."

Perhaps another wife would have asked about his evening, about the altercation that apparently he faintly remembered at Bridge and Stokes, but Victoria could not take the charade that far.

"Come, you look exhausted. Why do you not take a rest?"

He slid his arm around her waist and propelled her with surprising strength into the house. "I will if you will join me, my lovely wife."

"That I will." Could he sense the relief in her voice? Could he tell that the tension had slipped from her as he appeared to accept so easily what had happened?

Victoria wasn't certain whether she should be relieved or disappointed that Phillip was too tired to make love to her, as he'd certainly intended. She curled up next to him and tried to sleep, knowing that something had to change before she went mad.

Her dreams were filled with the images and smells of the scene at Bridge and Stokes, of shredded flesh and pools of blood, vacant eyes and mouths sagging open in shocked and ecstatic screams… of red eyes and gleaming fangs and the whir of a metal blade, slicing and slicing and slicing…

When she awoke it was from a restless movement, and she was looking into the clear blue eyes of her husband. He was not smiling.

"You were there last night. At the club. At my club."

She was so taken by surprise, Victoria could do nothing but move her mouth, trying to speak, but her lips would not form words.

"You were with your cousin. Is he really your cousin?" He was propped on one elbow, half sitting. The sheet had fallen from his bare chest and showed the curve of his arm and the dip of his elbow.

"No, I mean, yes, he is my cousin," she stammered, pulling herself up to sit. Too late, she remembered the scar on her left arm... In their haste the night before, Verbena had dressed her in a gown that had no sleeves. The gash on her arm, though healing quickly, was long and red and impossible not to notice.

Phillip did notice it, and he reached for her arm, pulling her off balance. "What is this? When did this happen?"

Victoria pulled away hard and broke his grip with little effort. She hadn't taken off her vis bulla the night before. "A few days ago. It was an accident in the stables—I cut myself on one of the farrier's tools."

"That is a very deep cut," Phillip replied, his voice neutral. "When did you say it happened?"

Victoria swallowed. The last time he had seen her nude and with bare arms was when they made love after returning from the theater—just before she drugged him, only two nights ago. "I believe it was yesterday morning, after you left to go to your club."

He looked at her. "Yesterday? It appears to have healed quite rapidly."

Her heart was pounding rampantly. "Yes, I am quite surprised. My aunt gave me some particularly effective salve."

Phillip threw back the blankets so hard they whipped over her face, falling on her head then slipping down into her lap. He moved off the bed, naked and beautiful, and very, very angry.

He stalked over to look out of the window that spanned the height of the wall from ceiling to floor, crossing his arms in front of him. As he had done before, he spoke to the wall, not to her… though the words were for her.

"Victoria, I want to know why you were at my club last night dressed in men's clothing with that Italian man you claim is your cousin. And I want to know the truth of how you received such a dangerous injury that has healed so quickly."

She drew in a deep breath. She had wanted something to change. This would be it.

"I was at the club because we—Max and I, and yes, he is my distant cousin—learned that there was going to be an attack there. I wanted to be certain you were safe."

"You wanted to be certain I was safe?" He spun from the window, and the yellow sunshine cast a beautiful golden shadow over his skin and hair. Unfortunately she was in no position to appreciate it. "What kind of nonsense are you speaking, Victoria? What could you do besides put yourself in danger?" He gestured to her arm. "It appears you already have!"

She was angry at the derision in his voice, and exhausted, and over the top with stress. She should have ended the conversation there, told him nothing else. Let him be angry.

But she didn't.

"I work with Max. It is part of our family legacy."

"You work with Max? Marchionesses don't work."

"I do." She swallowed. "I hunt vampires."

He stared at her. And stared.

And stared.

And then he said in a terrible voice, "You are mad."

"I am not mad, Phillip. It's true."

"You are mad."

Her temper snapped. She vaulted off the bed and marched over to him, stopping so close that the hem of her night rail brushed against his bare legs. "Give me your hands."

When he reluctantly offered them, she grabbed his wrists and said, "Try to break my grip."

He tried, and he couldn't. She forced his arms down to his sides, watching the expression on his face turn from anger to shock to incomprehension.

She released him. "I am a vampire hunter. It is my family legacy. I have no choice; it is what I must do."

Phillip stepped away from her, bumping into the window behind him. "I don't believe in vampires."

"That is quite foolish of you, as one nearly bit you last night… just before you saw me. Max dispatched him whilst you were talking to me."

He shook his head. "Whether they exist or not, you cannot hunt vampires, Victoria. You are a marchioness. You are a pillar of Society. I forbid it. As your husband, I forbid it."

"Phillip, it is not something you can forbid. It is in my… my blood. It is my destiny."

"You may believe that. You may think you have no choice, but if you do not leave the house to hunt vampires, you are making the choice not to follow your destiny."

"And I should just ignore it when I learn that there are to be vampire attacks… at places such as Bridge and Stokes? Let people die? You escaped, Phillip, because Max told you a lie to get you to leave. But you did not see the carnage that was left behind… of some of your friends. It was beyond horrible."

"I forbid it, Victoria."

"I'll not stand by and let people die that way."

He pushed away from the window and stalked past her into his dressing room, bellowing for his valet. "Franks!" Phillip paused at the door that adjoined the two rooms, holding the edge and looking down at the floor. "You should have confessed this before we were married, Victoria. It is unforgivable that you did not."

And he shut the door. Softly. But ever so loudly.

"They have been home from their wedding trip only two days, Nilly," said Melly complaisantly, "but I am sure I can prevail upon the ton's newest fashionable couple to attend your niece's ball."

"That would be divine!" gushed Petronilla, eyeing the platter of orange-cinnamon finger cakes. They smelled delicious, but it was that odd carroty hue that put her off. Perhaps she would have a talk with Freda about toning down the color. At least the lime biscuits weren't the nasty green shade they had been the last time Freda had made them. Now they looked rather appetizing, even with the thin veneer of white icing.

"Where is Winnie? I thought she wanted to hear all of the details of the wedding trip," Melly complained. She had none of her friend's hesitation; she snatched up two of the cakes and began to nibble on a third.

"I am here!" As if on cue, the parlor door opened and in sailed the Duchess of Farnham. She jingled and clunked.

"What on earth is that?" asked Melly, staring in askance at the large crucifix that hung from her waist like a chatelaine's ring of keys would have done in medieval times. Only the crucifix was much larger than any ring of keys. "And that?"

"It's her stake, of course," Petronilla explained as if Melly had lost her mind… when, in fact, it appeared to Lady Grantworth that it was her two dearest friends who had done so. "Winnie, I do hope you haven't any thought of using such a thing! That would be so cruel!"

Winifred plopped down in her favorite seat in Petronilla's parlor, somehow managing to slide four finger cakes and three lime biscuits onto a plate and pour herself a cup of tea in the process. "I am not foolish enough to be prancing about without protection, and you two ladies would be wise to do the same!"

"No, no, no, no!… Winnie, do not tell me you are still afraid that a vampire is going to jump out of the shadows at you some night!" Melly stuffed the rest of the orange finger cake into her mouth and swallowed a gulp of tea, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

"I should say so!" Winifred poured a generous amount of cream into her tea, disdaining the sugar, and stirred with gentle, elegant strokes to disperse it. "You did hear about the incident at that gentleman's club last night, Bridge and Stokes, did you not? When I heard about that, I went right out to one of the footmen and demanded that he take one of the duke's old walking sticks and make it into a stake for me. I'm going nowhere without it!"

"Incident at Bridge and Stokes?" echoed Petronilla, her pale blue eyes wide with interest. "Whatever are you talking about? Were there vampires there? Did anyone get bitten?" There was a breathy note to her voice at this last.

"Those were not vampires, Winnie!" Melly shook her head and smoothed her skirts. "I know the incident you are talking about—and it was not vampires. How many times must I tell you that they simply don't exist? They are the product of Polidori's imagination, fueled by legend and ghost tales."

"What happened at Bridge and Stokes?" asked Petronilla again.

"How can you not have heard about it? It has been roaring through the servant gossip mill faster than a fire in a dry field!" Melly replied archly.

"I have been indisposed all morning," Petronilla replied delicately.

Melly snorted, but Winnie deigned, at last, to explain. "Five men were found dead after some passersby reported to the Runners that there had been a loud altercation there early this morning. No gunshots were reported, and from what I have heard, the bodies were found quite destroyed, torn up, even. Very messy." She reached for another biscuit, thought better of it, and set it back on her plate. Apparently there were some things that affected her appetite.

"Lord Jellington, my cousin, called on me first thing this morning," Melly interceded. "Because the marquess belongs to the club in question, and had, in fact, been there last night. But apparently he left before the incident occurred, and Jellington wished to assure me that he was not involved."

"Knowing Jellington, I am quite sure that was not all he wished to accomplish by calling on his attractive third cousin," Petronilla commented slyly.

"Oh, do go on! Jellington has never looked twice… well, perhaps twice, but definitely not thrice… at me in that fashion," Melly replied, burying her face in a cup of tea.

"It was vampires that did it." Winnie steered the conversation back on track. "That's why there were no gunshots! They don't need guns to get what they want."

Melly was shaking her head. "No, Jellington says it was likely one or two people with knives who attacked the members of the club. Perhaps in some sort of vigilante manner; for all of the ones found dead—except one, who may have been an accidental casualty—were quite in debt and owed much money to some of those nasty moneylenders they speak of from St. Giles. The Runners believe it was an attempt to collect funds due them, or to make an example of those men for not paying back their debts." She sniffed and set down her teacup.

It was Winnie's turn to snort. "That is what the Runners are saying. But I don't believe them. They don't want there to be a mass panic from everyone in London believing that there are vampires running about."

"If there are vampires causing all of this," Melly returned, "why has no one reported seeing one?"

"They are very careful… they sneak about in the dead of night," Winnie replied. "Make certain your bedroom windows are closed and bolted."

"I shall ensure that mine are locked up tightly," Petronilla replied a bit too earnestly. "They do sneak around in the dead of night, don't they? But I heard they can change into mist or fog and slip through the crack of your window… and then turn themselves back into men. Right in your bedroom! Oh, dear, and Mr. Fen worth sleeps in his own chamber across the hall! I will be quite alone and unprotected!" Her voice was pitched loud, as though to make certain any vampires lurking about might hear.

"If they sneak around in the dead of night, then that is most definitely an indication that vampires—if they do exist—weren't responsible for the attack at Bridge and Stokes." Melly leaned forward to drop a small lump of sugar in her tea.

"And what about that incident at Vauxhall Gardens the night before last?" Winnie commented. "Did Jellington tell you anything about that?"

"No."

"There was some sort of altercation there, but no one was hurt or injured."

Melly raised her eyebrows. "No one was hurt, injured, or—heaven forbid!—bitten… and you ascribe the incident—whatever it was—to nonexistent vampires? Winnie, my dear, you really are taking those gothic novels too seriously. Everything violent or unexpected that happens in this city cannot be attributed to creatures like vampires. There is enough evil perpetrated by man that we don't need to invent paranormal beings to blame it on.

"Now, let us dispense with this nonsense and talk about something much more interesting… such as how soon we might have a little marquess on our hands!"

His wife was mad. She had to be mad, for the alternative was terrifying.

For the first time he could remember, Phillip de Lacy, Marquess of Rockley, did not know what to do.

He left St. Heath's Row and drove his curricle into town. He stopped at White's, another of the clubs he frequented, and sat at a table by himself. He had several glasses of whiskey, a large hunk of beef that tasted like sawdust, and a slab of bread that could have carried weevils for all he noticed.

After White's, he felt restless and left to visit another gentleman's club, although he did not wish to be sociable at all. At Bertrand's he avoided his friends and sat in an empty room, ignoring the buzz about the unfortunates who had perished at Bridge and Stokes last night.

Perhaps that was the reason he did not wish to talk with anyone.

He did not want to know whether Victoria was right or wrong. He did not want to have to think about what it meant if she was right… or if she was wrong.

When Phillip had not returned to St. Heath's Row the next morning, Victoria could stand it no longer. She called for the carriage to come around and took herself off to Aunt Eustacia's home.

Her aunt took one look at her and understood. "He knows."

Victoria sank into a chair, angry that her hands were trembling and that tears threatened her eyes. She nodded. "He's forbidden me to continue to hunt."

Eustacia waited. She knew the power of silence. The sound of the clock ticking marked the minutes, paring away at the hope she'd placed in Victoria.

"I told him I could not stand by and let people die."

Eustacia nodded. That was good.

"He became angry and left. He hasn't been home since we quarreled yesterday morning."

"He saw you at his club?" Max had told Eustacia about the attack at Bridge and Stokes while she was tending to his wounds. It had been his attempt to keep her from lecturing him about taking better care of his injuries; she saw through it, and let him think he'd had his way. Then after he was finished, she chastised him roundly. Even Venators had to care for their wounds, she reminded him.

"Yes, he recognized me. I told him the truth; I couldn't hide it any longer, Aunt. I couldn't live the lie, keep feeding him salvi."

"Of course you couldn't, cara. It is not in your nature to be deceitful. I realized it was a possibility that you would have to tell him at some time. I did not expect it to be so soon, and in the midst of this very precarious time—"

"What do you mean?"

"You and Max have had to stop two raids in the last three nights; perhaps there was even one last night that we weren't aware of. Lilith is gathering her forces. She is ready to make her move against you in retaliation for your besting her. She wants the book back, and she's put some plan in place to get it." She rubbed the knuckles on her left hand, where the sharp sting of arthritis jolted her.

"Max is in no condition to be out, but he has been at the Silver Chalice since yesterday, trying to learn what is going on." He'd suspected that Rockley would have recognized Victoria and that they would have had a confrontation, so he'd refused to let Eustacia get Victoria involved, insisting he'd handle it alone while she tended her home fires, as he put it so cynically.

"I knew he was badly injured, but he would not let me tend to them."

"I know. He confessed it to me." Eustacia sighed. She had other suspicions about Max's motivations, but now was not the time to air them. Instead she said, "He doesn't like to be coddled."

"Aunt Eustacia, did I do the wrong thing in telling Phillip?"

"I don't know how you could have done otherwise; but I do believe there will be consequences. They may be as simple as the marquess trying to prevent you from leaving when we need you; or they may be more severe. You must impress upon him that this is not something he can be involved in, as much as he might want to protect you. He cannot. You must make it clear to him; or send him to me, and I will do it."

Victoria nodded. She would do that—if he ever came back to St. Heath's Row.

"Now, cara, you must go home and get some rest. Your husband loves you; he will return in his own time, when he has come to terms with your confession. And we need you. Max cannot do this alone."

Victoria nodded… but for the first time she truly regretted her decision to accept the Legacy. She wished she had turned it down and had her mind cleared.

She wished for ignorance. And a normal life.