That was it. It had to be Lilith’s plan: to invade the coronation of the king, where all of the most powerful men in England, the most powerful country in the world, would be gathered at one time.
But why?
Twenty-One:
Wherein Our Heroine Takes a Swim
If Lady Melly found the evaporation of Victoria’s reluctance to attend the coronation odd, she was too well-bred to say anything in regards to the change of heart. Most likely she assumed her sage motherly advice had achieved the appropriate influence. Moreover, her attention was taken up by the equally sudden disappearance of her favorite candidate for son by law.
Victoria, of course, remained mum on the topic of James Lacy, except to promise her mother that if the man attended the coronation, she would allow Lady Melly to finagle a seat for her in the presence of the marquess. And that she would be her most charming.
She felt that was a safe promise to make.
While Melly and her cronies dithered and dressed, gossiped and coiffed, Victoria was making plans.
She’d seen no sign of Max this last week, and although she almost missed his arrogant, all-knowing comments related to her plans, she realized she didn’t need him there at all. Her feelings were bruised and raw, but there was little she could do but focus on now, and then the future. She reminded herself that, although Max had walked away from her and the Venators in the past, he had done so only temporarily. He’d always returned.
But this time, she suspected he would not. He had no reason to; he was no longer a Venator. And he’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Victoria in any respect. And apparently, with Kritanu and Wayren’s blessings-if their reticence in discussing the subject was any indication.
Wayren, Sebastian, and Kritanu had talked with Victoria about their suspicions and what the threat could be, and how it might be carried out. They’d all agreed it was likely not so much a plan to control members of the crиme de la crиme of England, as to kill some or all of them. Queen Caroline (who, Victoria suspected, based on her interaction with George, was either a member of the Tutela or a vampire herself) certainly hated her husband enough to do so. Perhaps the queen had offered Lilith protection. After all, that was the purpose of the Tutela, was it not? To protect, and serve, vampires.
But nothing was certain, so all they could do was be in attendance at the festivities, and be prepared for anything.
The day of the coronation was a hot, sticky one, as is common in July.
Victoria abhorred the fact that she was expected to dress as befit her station instead of in something more comfortable for fighting vampires or other threats. At least she wasn’t counted among the king’s closest advisers and compatriots, for they were required to follow his majesty’s example and dress in the style of his predecessors, the Tudors. They would be wearing heavy brocaded and laced ensembles with sleeves slashed to show different fabric beneath, neck ruffs, and abominably wide and stiff farthingaled skirts. Not for the first time, Victoria wondered how her ancestor, Lady Catherine Gardella, could ever have been an effective Venator with such fussy and heavy gowns.
Yet Victoria’s own dress had to be not only fitting to her wealth and title, but also serviceable in the event that she had to be more active. In this case, Verbena had come to her aid by supervising the creation of a frock that had a skirt split into wide trousers. The trouser legs were full enough to be mistaken for the bell of her skirt, and there were two flaps of fabric in the front and the back that fell like aprons over the split of the gown. They looked like embroidered decorations, they blended so cunningly with the rest of the dress. If necessary, Victoria could remove them to give her greater freedom.
“It’s a shame that Brim and Michalas haven’t yet arrived-Wayren expects them any day now-but I don’t expect anything to happen at the coronation itself,” Victoria said to Sebastian and Kritanu in the foyer of the town house. She pulled on her gloves and checked to make certain the several stakes were arranged on her person. Her kadhara knife she slipped into its sheath under her skirt. They were waiting for the carriage, which would take them to Westminster Abbey. “But it’s best if we’re prepared in any case.” She glanced at the crossbow Kritanu carried, and counted more than a dozen wooden bolts in the quiver he would wear under a cloak.
“Of course not,” said a peremptory voice. “The vampires won’t be able to enter the holy space of the abbey.”
Victoria’s stomach flipped and she felt, to her great mortification, warmth flush over her cheeks. But one look at Max, who’d materialized from the back hallway near the servants’ quarters, served to destroy her surprise and delight.
Although he was dressed appropriately for attending the coronation-in a splendid ruby-and-garnet brocade waistcoat, with a crisp white shirt and black neck cloth, and a coat that rivaled Sebastian’s perfectly tailored attire-he didn’t acknowledge her presence by even a supercilious glance down his long, straight nose. Instead, he directed his comment to Wayren, who, to Victoria’s surprise, had appeared along with him.
“Normally, I would agree with you, Max,” she said coolly, determined to force his attention to her. “But with the use of the special elixir, the vampires have been able to do many other things that they normally cannot. I prefer to make no assumptions in this case.”
He looked down at her then, his expression carefully blank-even his eyes. They remained flat and dark, without even the hint of anger from before. His mouth was hard and thin. It felt odd-as though they were the only two in the space, as though some subtle struggle was happening… something that she couldn’t quite identify.
“I hardly think that Lilith has allowed her entire army to partake of that dangerous serum,” Max replied loftily. “It would rather be like cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face. But, nevertheless, to the abbey we will go. And, after that, to Westminster Hall where the feast shall be held.”
He turned as though by some magical means he’d sensed the arrival of the carriage. Or perhaps he simply faced the door, whose glass sidelights exposed the sight of the vehicle.
To Victoria’s surprise, Wayren joined them in the carriage. “I am not able to fight,” she told Victoria. “But I will ride there to learn the direction and survey the area, and then return to the house in the event that Brim and Michalas should arrive.”
Not for the first time, Victoria wondered about the ageless woman, but now was not the time to allow her mind to be clogged by questions she’d never have answered. Instead, she and Wayren sat across from Sebastian and Max, while Kritanu insisted on riding on the exterior jump seat, serving as footman. Because of the potential threat, Barth had been asked to play coachman today, which was evidenced by the abrupt launch of the vehicle.
Sebastian had been uncharacteristically quiet, and Victoria felt his attention settle on her, lift, and then return. He looked magnificent, with his rich golden neck cloth tied in a ridiculously intricate knot and a bronze-and-copper waistcoat beneath a chocolate coat, and dark trousers. Rich leonine curls, tighter in the sticky heat, contrasted with the dark squabs of the interior of the coach, gleaming like honey on the window side, and lush brown on the other. He looked like a burnished topaz statue, but the mischievous smile that usually lit his eyes and tweaked his full lips was gone.
Victoria glanced at Max, who was glaring out the window. Taller in the seat than his companion-though just as broad of shoulder-he was a dark foil, with his sharper features, swarthy skin, and slash of dark brows. He’d pulled his hair back in that unfashionable club, rather than letting it fall in thick, unruly waves; perhaps it was too long for him to let it hang free. His jaw appeared hard and set as usual, but he’d relaxed his mouth since their exchange in the foyer. Victoria felt a little shiver run through her belly at the sudden, unexpected reminder of the one time he’d kissed her, against the cold, wet stone wall. He’d barely looked at her since, and certainly hadn’t tried to repeat it.