“Maybelle?” Victoria missed a step and nearly trod upon George’s foot-something she hadn’t done since her first year out in Society, when she was putting all of her Venator strength behind her sharp, little heel into the toe of the obnoxious Lord Beetleton. She didn’t feel the need to do so in this case, although it was a close call. George was still ogling her cleavage.

“You aren’t perhaps speaking of Miss Maybelle Felicity-Underwood, who was rumored to have run off to Gretna Green with her fifth cousin?” she said, poking George in the back of the neck with a sharp fingernail.

“The very same,” replied George. Now he had the grace to meet her eyes, and as the music tinkled to an end, he kept his arm around her waist, drawing her off to the edge of the dance floor. “Lots of rumors as of late ’bout people running off, see? Better say that than to put about that they were lost at sea, hmm, Lady Rockley?” This was the first time he’d used her title, and it was purposeful.

Victoria kept her face devoid of emotion and allowed George to propel her toward the main foyer of the house. His reference to the story Victoria had given out to explain the death and disappearance of her husband, Phillip-that he’d died while on a ship-reminded her of the evil Bemis Goodwin. Goodwin had been a Bow Street runner and the brother of a vampire she’d slain her first year as a Venator. Goodwin had been bound and determined to turn her over to the authorities for murder, and he’d very nearly succeeded in getting her thrown into Newgate.

The problem in Goodwin’s case-and in any case involving the death of a vampire-was that there was no body to be produced. Only a dusting of smelly ash remained after an undead was staked. Thus, a story had to be created to explain the sudden disappearance of people like Phillip, and then the new (impostor) Marquess of Rockley, along with Gwendolyn Starcasset, George’s sister, and now, apparently, Miss Maybelle Felicity-Underwood.

“And so you wish me to help rid you of Miss Maybelle, who has now become undead, and who, through someone’s meddling, has dragged her fifth cousin’s presumably good name into the fray. Pray tell, George… how did that come to pass?”

She stopped at the edge of the ballroom, and glanced at the foyer beyond. Guests were still arriving, despite the fact that there were more than three dozen already here. Firmly she pulled her arm from his grip and stepped away, looking up into his pale blue eyes.

“Her fifth cousin is a swine and a fool, and is most likely at the bottom of the Thames with the fish,” replied George airily.

“I suppose that to mean Miss Maybelle partook of a generous portion of his blood before disposing of him. Or did she have you do it?”

He had the grace to look away. “He was a swine,” George repeated, petulance in his voice.

“But a man, nevertheless. I happen to know a few of those swine type of men myself.” She looked at him meaningfully. “But I’ve never gone so far as to feed them to the fishes-or the undead.” She pursed her lips, rather enjoying the moment of watching George squirm. Of course what he’d been party to wasn’t amusing at all, and if ever a man deserved a comeuppance, it was George Starcasset.

In fact, the only reason she hadn’t yet walked away from him and left him to deal with his vampire guest on his own was the very real threat that he might involve Lady Nilly.

“Did you have something to do with her being turned undead?” she asked again.

He smiled nervously, his cheeks rounding like crab apples. The softness made him look more like a boy than ever. “Mm… She was curious, and so Gwennie helped… and next thing, she had red eyes and fangs. And,” he added, swallowing, “an attachment to me.”

Victoria’s brows rose. “And what did dear Sara Regalado have to say of that attachment? The two of you seemed to be rather intimately acquainted when you were escorting her about Town.”

Sara Regalado had been a powerful member of the Tutela, often to the extent of sacrificing willing and unwilling human life. Her father, the Conte Regalado, had been the Tutela’s leader in Rome before being turned into a vampire and attempting to woo Lady Melly.

Sara was dead now, but she’d figured significantly in Victoria’s adventures in the last year, initially by befriending her in Rome and then announcing that she was engaged to Max. That engagement had turned out to be a foil Max created so he could infiltrate the Tutela.

At the beginning of the summer, Sara and George had turned up together in London. This was after disappearing in Rome, during a battle in which Max had killed the evil demon Akvan, who was also their master.

“Thought it quite amusing, if you must know,” George admitted. “Loved to watch Maybelle feed.”

Victoria nodded knowingly. Sara had been overly fond of watching the undead drink blood-from both a distance and her own participation. “On you, of course.”

He looked away, grinding his jaw so hard that his chin shifted and creaked audibly. “Finished with vampires,” he muttered, then looked back at her. “Will you help rid me of her?”

Victoria looked down at her magnificent gown. Since she’d become a Venator, fashion had been low on her list of priorities… but the frock was new. And the loveliest gown, after her wedding dress, she’d ever owned. And Verbena would scold. She’d hate to tear it, or get it stained. Yet… it had been two weeks since she’d seen a vampire. Her stake fingers were beginning to itch. Not to mention the fact that the whole situation with Max had left her in a constant state of frustration.

It would be a simple task. Perhaps she could even stake Maybelle, then return to the dance before anyone knew she’d gone.

“There will be conditions,” she told George sternly.

His eyes sprang round and hopeful. “You’ll do it, then?”

She nodded once, then began to tick off her requirements. “We will take my carriage. You shall alight from it at your residence and draw Maybelle out to me in my vehicle. Tell her whatever you wish: that you’ve someone to feed on or whatnot. Once she’s safely in the carriage, I will dispatch her for you. And then,” she said, glaring at him, “you’ll stay away from the Tutela, and the undead. If I find that you’ve become involved with them again-even thought about going about in the moonlight-I will kill you.”

He was nodding emphatically. “Of course, of course.”

She looked at him long and hard, and saw only sincerity and hopefulness there. At least for now, he was good for his word. “And if I choose to, I’ll collect on this favor at any time, and in any manner.”

“Agreed.” His moment of begging over, George allowed his attention to slip down toward her bosom once again.

Victoria sighed. “Then let us get on our way.”

“Tonight? You’ll do it tonight?” He looked as though she’d offered to tear off her gown right there.

“Of course. Do you think I shall stand for you to bring any other people for her to feed on?” She started for the entrance, and he trotted after like an earnest pup.

Max scanned the guests in the ballroom beyond, taking care to remain at the edge of the grand foyer of the duchess’s home. The last thing he needed was one of those mercenary Society mamas to get him in her sights as a potential husband for her skinny, pale, spotted, or talkative daughter-despite the fact that he wasn’t a member of the ton or even the Italian peerage. It seemed as though any unmarried, ambulatory male (and even some who weren’t) who had access to Society gatherings was considered a potential husband.

He would have preferred to stay in tonight, knowing that Victoria was out and unlikely to disturb him in the kalari , the room set aside for martial arts training. He’d thought to ask Kritanu to work with him, hoping to take the man’s mind off his grief-but then he’d had to attend to this.

Blast it. Where the hell was she?

It wasn’t as if that bloody red dress-what there was of it-wouldn’t stand out, especially among the washed-out pinks, blues, greens, and yellows that clustered around the room. Christ.

Good God. What was the duchess wearing? It was shockingly… orange. And the soup of eau de toilette scents was strong enough from here… what would it be like in the thick of things?

He was going to have to skirt the side of the dance floor and make his way out to the patio in search of Victoria.

Just as he was about to move, he caught a few words of conversation behind him: “… in that red dress.”

Max turned and pinpointed two men who were chuckling lasciviously together, shoulder to shoulder. One of them was the butler, whom Max had refused to allow to announce him, and the other appeared to be a groom or footman.

“Lucky gent t’ave that in ’is ’ands,” said the footman, who, based solely on the appearance of his full, glistening lips, Max decided was the more vulgar of the two. “Looked ripe f’the pickin’.”

Max stepped toward them, and the two men straightened from their not-quite-muttered conversation.

“May I help you, my lord?” asked the butler.

Max was not a lord, per se, but he forbore to correct the man. The higher his perceived position, the better his chances of getting the information he required. Of course, there was always the option of slamming their two heads together. “Were you speaking of Lady Rockley?”

The butler drew himself up taller-even taller than Max, but several stone lighter and certainly not as quick on his feet. His Adam’s apple bobbed above the high collar of his shirt. “What of Lady Rockley?”

“I’m in search of her.” The two men remained silent, the footman looking slightly ill at ease; truly, he was little more than a boy. But when Max had been that age-sixteen, perhaps seventeen-he’d already been hunting vampires for more than a year. On his own and without the grace of a vis bulla.

“I’m not certain-”

Max stepped closer. “I suggest,” he said, pleasantness oozing from his voice, “that you desist in prevaricating and tell me where she is. And,” he added, his tone dropping low enough to make the footman’s eyelashes flicker, “I suggest you also cease from speaking about the marchioness in such unflattering terms.”