He had, in fact, declined any invitations for dinner or parties since the ill-fated carriage ride during which they’d gone to view the night sky.

When Victoria had returned from her brief captivity this morning and begun to attend to matters other than Max, it had been with great skepticism and suspicion in regards to James. Either he had been fully aware and involved in her kidnapping—which would make him a vampire or, at the least, a member of the Tutela—or he had been ignorant of it, as he claimed.

According to Kritanu, James had called on her home the morning after the nighttime carriage ride, explaining that there had been an accident, he’d been knocked unconscious, and when he came to, Victoria—Mrs. Rockley, as he’d called her—was missing. According to Kritanu, the marquess had appropriately wrung his hands and paced the parlor as he accepted the blame for whatever had happened to her, begging that word should be sent to him the moment there was any news.

Victoria listened to Kritanu’s description of the man’s agitation with a skeptical ear, and decided that, instead of returning his call or sending word of her return, she would find out the truth her own way tonight. Unlike Max, Sebastian had been delighted to see her, and more than delighted to join her in the excursion.

Max she had not seen since he stalked past her, and she had no need for his company anyway. She’d kept herself busy the rest of the day, and had sent an urgent message to Wayren by pigeon. She prayed that the wise woman would have some advice or information about Lilith’s prediction.

The unobtrusive servant’s door was well oiled in preparation for late-night assignations, and Victoria led Sebastian through the narrow hallway. She’d never had occasion to traverse the backstairs area of St. Heath’s Row, but she obviously knew the layout of the portions of the house common to the marquess and marchioness.

When they came to a hallway that gave an option for right or left navigation, Victoria started off to the right . . . but a firm hand on her arm drew her back. “This way,” Sebastian whispered, close to her ear.

“How do you know?” she whispered back. “You haven’t spent as much time here as I have.” She pointed. “The stairs are to the right.”

An amused smile tipped his lips and she thought he was going to kiss her right there, to which she would have put an immediate stop. But he resisted, simply responding, “You might recall that I visited your maid in the servants’ quarters while you were still staying here. She did, in fact, sleep four floors directly above us here. To the right is the kitchen. To the left are the stairs.”

Chagrined, and reminded that Max had also had to correct her navigation more than once—she always seemed to get turned around when inside a building—she followed Sebastian as he swiftly moved down the left passage. And soon they came upon a narrow, steep staircase. He glanced down at her, but she sailed past him, nose in the air. Even Illa Gardella wasn’t perfect. Once they were on the third floor, Victoria knew her way around the bedchambers.

Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. A clock hummed, gearing itself up to toll the hour, and moments later, as they reached the third floor, Victoria heard the rolling strokes of two o’clock.

And she realized that the back of her neck was cold. She smiled in the dark.

He was here. He wouldn’t need to drink the elixir at night, unless he expected to be near her.

Which he obviously didn’t.

Stake in hand, holding it close to the loose black trousers she wore when she moved about at night, Victoria continued on her way. A myriad of thoughts ran through her mind as she, with Sebastian close enough behind that she felt the brush of his coat, eased through the rear hallway.

Of course James could be lying in wait for her, expecting such a visit. Or the undead she sensed might not be the new marquess at all. But there were ways to find out, and tonight she would do so once and for all. She knew he was in the house; the only question was what condition she might find him in.

When she and Sebastian reached the door to the marquess’s dressing room, she opened it and slipped in. Once inside the chamber filled with clothing and the smell of male grooming, Victoria turned to Sebastian and planted a hand against his chest in a clear message. She’d already told him that this was her task, and that he needed to be watching for any unforeseen problems. This was a reminder that she expected him to stay put.

In the darkness, he grasped her wrist and she thought for a moment that he was going to silently demand to go with her. Or to tell her to be careful, or to try to kiss his way into changing her mind. None of which would be effective. He drew a breath, his chest expanding under her hand, and squeezed his fingers around her skin in a quick little caress. Then he reluctantly released her.

Good. At least the man had learned something.

Victoria cracked the door from the dressing room to the bedchamber. The back of her neck was frigid, and unless James had company in his chamber, she knew she had found her daytime vampire.

Silent as a spirit, sticking to the shadows, she moved across the floor. The thin soles of her black slippers slid across polished wood, and then found the cushier texture of a fringed rug. When she stood at the side of James’s bed and heard his even breathing, she had a moment of doubt.

What vampire would be sleeping soundly during the night?

She’d at least expected to find him awake, watching her with those red eyes.

But he was actually snoring.

Victoria looked down at him, adjusting the stake in her grip. She could shove it into his chest with a quick thrust, and it would be all over. If she wasn’t mistaken.

But why should she be? The last time she’d tried to stake someone who wasn’t a vampire—not counting the time Sebastian had inserted himself between her and Beauregard—had been more than two years ago, when she’d mistaken Max for an undead. It had been her first time, and she’d been misled by the stereotypical description of a vampire that came from Polidori’s novel.

Victoria raised the stake.

Then she pulled it back. If she was wrong, the stab would kill a mortal James.

She sighed. There was no help for it. She’d have to awaken the man.

Fumbling in the deep pocket of the tunic she wore over her trousers, she pulled out a small vial of holy water. This was as good a way to awaken him as any.

The splash on his forehead sent up a soft sizzle and a curl of steam, and his eyes flew open—wide and red.

“Good evening, James,” Victoria said calmly. She had placed her hand around the front of his throat, using her weight to hold him down. She held the stake fisted directly over his chest. “I do hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You.” He growled in a voice that sounded deeper and more guttural than the one she was accustomed to. His fangs shot out, pale in the darkness.

“Before I drill this into your heart and send you to your fate, I do hope you’ll answer one question for me.” He didn’t respond, and she tightened her hand around his throat. He coughed, but an undead couldn’t be strangled, so it was merely a discomfort, not a threat. “Are you really James Lacy, Kentuckian?”

He smiled and shifted suddenly. She allowed him to throw off her hold, to let him think he might have a chance to escape. He’d probably tell her more if he did. They eyed each other; he had risen onto his knees on the bed, and she’d stepped back as if cowed. “What do you think?” he replied.

“I think not. You were much too gullible.” She glanced at his nightshirt and her lip curled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting an undead dressed for bed.”

His smile widened, and those fangs poked into his lower lip. “If I had known you were coming, I wouldn’t have bothered. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”

He lunged, and yanked her onto the bed next to him. She sprawled for a moment, then rolled onto her back, keeping the stake behind her hip. “No thank you. What did you do to the real James Lacy?”

The undead reached for her tunic, grabbing a good handful of the material, and jerked her up as if she were a doll. Victoria sagged, yet she was ready beneath her feigned weakness. It was a game, now. How much information could she get before he became suspicious or bored?

“It was our plan from the beginning—caught him when he got off the ship from America. Insisted that he take a ride, and relieved him of his papers and clothing. Then we fed on him.” He laughed. “In fact, I’m feeling a bit hungry at the moment, Victoria Gardella. Did you think you could sneak in here and get away without me knowing?”

She rolled her eyes. “You were snoring. I could have turned you to ash before you even awoke.”

“Is that so?” His eyes burned bloodred, and his fangs gleamed sharply.

She pulled her arm from beneath and met him as he lunged, shoving the stake into the center of his chest. “Yes, indeed,” she told him as he froze, and then poofed into dust.

There was movement behind her, and she whirled to find Sebastian standing there. His stake was at the ready.

Victoria frowned. “I told you to stay back.”

“I did. Mostly.” He smiled, and her anger could do nothing but sap away. This was Sebastian, and either he wasn’t as confident in her abilities as Max was . . . or he cared more.

She thought she knew which one it was.

“Should we clean up the ash?” he asked. “It stinks.”

Victoria nodded. “Let’s. And then there will be another strange disappearance of the Marquess of Rockley.”

They brushed the dust onto a pillowcase. Then he poured it into the cold fireplace.

Victoria was waiting when he finished. The back of her neck was normal; there were no other vampires in the vicinity. The daytime vampire—at least, one of them— was dead. And so was the real Marquess of Rockley.

The hackney was parked at the prearranged location, and they made their way back to the vehicle without incident. No sooner had Victoria clambered in and settled in her seat, the door closing firmly behind Sebastian, than Barth started them off with a great leap.