“He should not be tackling them alone,” de Wynter said. “If there are such men in the Royal Society, we have to deal with them. Do you feel well enough to tell Brookshire and myself about these rebels? Describe them, tell us what happened. Then we can hunt them. Althea will be there. I know speaking of such things can be emotional and horrific, especially after the ordeal you experienced.”
“No, I want this done. I want it to all end,” she declared.
De Wynter elegantly offered his arm. With his fair hair, darkly lashed silver-blue eyes, tall and well-built form, he was a most handsome man. But his looks did not affect her. All she could think of was a dark-haired man who had walked away from her. Who believed he could not have her, when all she wanted to do was give herself to him.
A wild holler of joy sounded down the corridor. Harry! He sounded as he had when he’d been a young boy. Footsteps raced, and he charged around the corner.
She knew what answer he’d received even before he yelled, “She said yes!”
“Congratulations,” de Wynter said warmly.
Harry was so happy, and she was so happy for him. But her heart felt empty without Raven. Her brother had been afraid, but he had faced his fears and captured love.
She had to make Raven see that was possible.
Or was he going to try to throw his life away again?
In a drawing room decorated with turquoise watered silk walls, soaring marble columns, and dainty plasterwork of white, Althea and Brookshire waited. Althea patted the settee at her side, and the earl bowed and handed Ophelia a restorative sherry. De Wynter sprawled elegantly in a wing chair. She told them everything about the attack by the men in the street the night Raven rescued her and the laboratory, the doctor, and the men. She described everything she could remember, and did it quickly, filled with worry about Raven.
The earl seemed aware of her anxiousness. “Sebastian, you and I will convene a meeting of the men we know we can trust.” He stood, bowed again. “Do not worry, Lady Ophelia. We will deal with these men.”
She stood. “You do not think Ravenhunt would go after these men alone, do you?”
Brookshire exchanged a glance with his brother. “I am afraid he might, Lady Ophelia.”
“He would,” she said, seeing the answer for herself. “He was a soldier, then he became an assassin. He used fighting and violence to keep his mind occupied so he couldn’t think. Now he has vowed not to be an assassin anymore. He’s refused to turn me. I see now—he doesn’t intend to live alone, existing as a vampire in the world as you do. He needs escape, and he wanted that escape to be destruction. He still wants it.”
“Very astute,” de Wynter said. “But we will ensure it doesn’t happen.”
“But he will just try it again.” Love for her wasn’t enough to stop him. That realization struck like a blow and she sank back on the chair.
Brookshire and de Wynter bowed and left.
She turned to Althea. “What am I going to do?” She quickly told her friend what she had guessed about Raven. “He’s hell-bent on destroying himself.”
“First, you should go home and see your sister. Then we will decide what to do with Ravenhunt,” Althea said firmly.
This was her home. A large mansion marched along part of Brook Street. Dozens of paned windows reflected the pink promise of morning.
Ophelia tilted her head back to drink in the stone front with the beautiful carved window details she’d always admired. She had to close her eyes.
Home—when she’d been a prisoner of Mrs. Darkwell, it was all she’d dreamed of. This should be the most wonderful moment of her life. Her dream sat right in front of her. Her dream of returning home. But she felt empty inside.
The door opened and a footman in livery stepped out. He squawked in surprise as a dervish exploded from the shadowy doorway and shot past him. Her sister rushed down the steps. “Ophelia! We thought you were gone, too! I can’t believe you’re here!”
Tears gathered and fell before she met Lydia halfway across the drive. Lydia had been just a child the last time Ophelia had seen her. Now she was tall, willowy, with her blond hair pinned up. “Lydia, you are so grown-up!” She had no idea what to say—she wanted to be light and happy about this reunion, and not have to tell Lydia about her power or vampires.
Harry had told her he’d kept his vampire slaying a secret from Lydia.
“I’m so sorry you thought I was dead.”
Lydia’s eyes, a remarkable blue-green, searched hers, glittering with tears. “Harry said you were very ill, and you were taken away so you could not make us sick. He said we were told you’d died because we could never see you again.”
She hugged her baby sister tighter. “I’m cured now. I won’t hurt you.”
“Of course you won’t!”
How much loss her family had suffered: their parents and the oldest son. Before that, she had lost Harry and Lydia and they had lost her. Yet despite all the horror and grief, Lydia could hug her tightly and shed tears of happiness. Harry had done an amazing job of ensuring Lydia grew into a normal young woman.
Lydia drew back. “You must come in. There’s tea. It won’t be long until breakfast. Harry says they didn’t look after you well at this place, but you survived in spite of them.”
That much was true. “Don’t fret, Lydia.” She smiled at the young girl’s wide turquoise eyes. Lydia looked so much like Mama. “I will be very happy with anything. I’m just so happy to be home and to see you again.”
Lydia frowned, looking to the drive, which was now a bluish color as the sun crept higher. “Where are your things?”
“I don’t have any things. All I have is what is on my back.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter, Lydia. Things don’t matter.” They were at Darkwell’s and therefore lost forever. And she didn’t care. Her few dresses and vanity items represented her life as a prisoner.
“Come see your bedroom. We didn’t touch it at all. Father and Mother wouldn’t allow it.”
Her parents had died a year after she had been sent to Mrs. Darkwell’s. Then Simon had become earl and had run the household until his death. Harry had been only seventeen when he had become earl. It was at the same time he became a vampire slayer.
Harry had been forced to grow up so quickly.
All because of her power. She knew how Simon had really died, but her power must have killed their parents. Guilt bit into her. She had robbed Lydia of parents. How could she be happy and normal with her sister knowing that?
How did one fight this horrible guilt? She wanted Ravenhunt to fight it, yet she didn’t know how. She could not just forget it. It was real and it was a pain that wouldn’t go away.
Guilt made the rest of her morning with Lydia strange and awkward. She tried to behave naturally, but inside self-reproach gnawed away at her stomach.
Finally she begged the need to lie down. She went up to the attics.
Years ago, in the old nursery, she had made a small studio for sculpting. Everything remained in place. Wooden-handled sculpting tools sat on a cloth on a small table. Partly finished carvings sat in the light of the windows. There were her clay pieces. They had never been fired; they had just dried out with time. Some had crumbled.
She picked up one of the tools. She’d spent hours using it. Banished away from people because of her supposed illness (really her power), she had come up here. The sculptures acquired by Father over his Grand Tour days had inspired her.
Father had agreed to provide her with tools and materials, even though this was a shocking occupation for a girl.
Ophelia set down the carving tool. She didn’t want to sculpt anything.
Well, what she really wanted to mold and shape was her own future. She wanted to cut away Raven’s guilt, exposing a man who could be happy.