by Amanda Quick
“I think I understand.” Lavinia stifled a shudder. “You don’t need to go into further detail. I’m not interested in renting your bucket and mop to promote that sort of business. I’m not in that line.”
“No, course not.” Peg swallowed some pie and wiped her mouth with the back of a grimy hand. “Yer a lady, ain’t ye? Yer just renting me bucket for a lark and a wager, not because yer next meal depends on it.”
Lavinia could not think of anything to say to that. Without a word, she went up the stairs and stepped out into the dingy lane.
It did not take long to walk the short distance to Huggett’s Museum on the fringes of Covent Garden. She found the alley behind the establishment. The back door was open, just as Peg had promised.
Clutching the mop and the bucket of filthy water, Lavinia took a deep breath and let herself inside. She found herself in a darkened hall. The door on the left, the one Peg said Huggett used as an office, was closed and locked.
She released the breath she had been holding. The museum proprietor did indeed appear to be gone for the afternoon.
The dimly lit ground-floor gallery was nearly empty, just as it had been the other day when she and Tobias had perused the exhibits. None of the small handful of customers so much as glanced her way.
She walked beyond the grave-robbing scene and passed the gallows with its waxwork hangman. At the far end of the room, she found the spiral staircase in the shadows.
For the first time since the notion of investigating Huggett’s mysterious upstairs gallery had occurred to her this morning, she hesitated.
From where she stood, she could not see the door at the top of the staircase that Peg had described. It was lost in the heavy gloom. A prickle of unease whispered through her.
This was no time for an attack of nerves, she thought. It was not as if there were any danger present. She was simply going to take a look inside the gallery.
What could possibly go wrong?
Annoyed with herself, she shook off the tingle of uncertainty, tightened her grip on the bucket and mop, and went briskly up the twisting stairs.
When she reached the landing, she found the solid wooden door. It was locked, just as Peg had predicted. The scrubwoman had explained that Huggett’s gentlemen customers were allowed inside only after they had paid an additional fee. Apparently no one had done so this afternoon.
That would make things easier, Lavinia assured herself.
She dug the iron ring out of one of the pockets in her apron and fitted a key into the lock. There was a harsh, grating sound as the door opened. The hinges squeaked loudly.
Hesitantly she moved into the room, allowing the door to swing closed behind her.
The displays were unlit but there was enough light coming through the high, narrow windows to allow her to make out the sign directly in front of her.
SCENES FROM A BROTHEL
The hulking shapes of five life-size waxwork tableaux loomed in the shadows around her.
She set down the bucket and mop and walked to the first display. In the gloom she could make out the muscular back of a nude male figure. He appeared to be engaged in a violent struggle with another figure.
She looked closer and saw with shock that the second figure was that of a partially clothed woman. She stared, baffled, for a few seconds. It finally dawned on her that the figures were engaged in a sexual act.
Neither figure appeared enraptured by the experience. In fact, there was an air of violence about the scene that made Lavinia’s skin prickle. It was an image of rape and lust. The man looked quite savage. The woman seemed to be in agony. Horror twisted her features.
But it was not the expressions on the faces of the figures that drew her eye. It was the fact that they were so skillfully modeled. Whoever had done these waxworks was far more talented than those who had sculpted the morbid exhibits downstairs.
This artist rivaled Mrs. Vaughn in talent.
Lavinia felt excitement explode within her.
This artist could well have crafted the waxwork death threat that had been sent to Joan Dove. No wonder Huggett had appeared startled when she and Tobias had showed him the little picture.
She must not leap to conclusions, Lavinia cautioned herself. She needed clear evidence, something that linked these works to the death threat.
She moved to the next display and stopped to study it. The scene was that of a seminaked woman kneeling in front of a nude male. The man was in the process of ravishing her brutally from the rear.
Lavinia looked away from the huge, elaborately rendered genitals of the man and searched for small clues that could confirm her growing suspicions. It was difficult, partly because of the differences in scale. The death threat was so much smaller than these life-size figures. Nevertheless, something about the lushly sculpted female figure was reminiscent of the image of the woman in the green gown lying dead on the ballroom floor.
I should have brought Mrs. Vaughn with me, Lavinia thought. With her trained eye, the artist would no doubt have found it easier to discern similarities between these figures and the one in the death threat.
If there were, indeed, similarities.
Lavinia started toward another exhibit. She must be very, very sure of her deductions before she confronted Tobias with her theory, she thought.
The muffled clang of booted feet reverberated outside the chamber. Jolted, Lavinia jerked her attention away from the display and whirled to face the door.
“No harm in seeing if it’s open,” one of the men said. His voice was muffled by the door. “Save ourselves the price of an extra ticket. The lad out front will never know.”
Lavinia hurried toward the bucket and mop. She heard a rasping, metallic sound as the knob was turned.
“What ho! We’re in luck. Someone forgot to lock up.”
The door swung open before Lavinia could reach for the bucket. Two men sauntered into the room, chuckling with anticipation.
She froze in the shadow of the nearest display.
The shorter of the two men ambled toward the nearest exhibit. “The lamps are unlit.”
The taller man closed the door and stood gazing into the gloom-filled chamber. “As I recall, there’s a lamp at each waxwork.”
“Here we go.” The short man stooped to strike a light.
The flaring lamp danced on the bucket and caught the trailing edge of Lavinia’s apron and skirts. She tried to slink deeper into the shadows, but it was too late.
“Well, now, what do you think we have here, Danner?” In the glow of the lamp, the tall man’s leer was plain to see. “A waxwork come to life, mayhap.”
“Looks more like a lively little baggage to me. You did say you had met some very obliging charwomen working in this particular gallery.” The short man eyed Lavinia with growing interest. “Hard to see what she looks like in those clothes.”
“Then we must persuade her to remove them.” The tall man jingled some coins. “What do you say, sweetheart? How much do you charge for a bit of sport?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sirs, I must be off now.” Lavinia edged toward the door. “I’m finished with the floors, ye see.”
“Don’t rush off, wench.” The tall one jangled his coins more loudly in what he no doubt assumed was an enticing manner. “My friend and I can offer you more interesting and more lucrative employment.”
“No thank you.” Lavinia seized the mop by the handle and held it in front of herself as though it were a sword. “I’m not in that line, so I’ll leave you two fine gentlemen to enjoy the displays.”
“I really don’t think we can allow you to depart so soon.” Danner’s voice held an unmistakable threat. “My friend here tells me that the nature of these sculptures is such that they are more appreciated when one has a pretty wench conveniently at hand.”
“Show us your face, wench. Take off that cap and scarf and let’s have a look at you.”
“Who cares how pretty she is? Lift your skirts for us, lass, that�
�s a good girl.”
Lavinia groped for the doorknob. “Don’t touch me.”
His lust clearly whetted by the chase, Danner started forward. “You’re not leaving until we’ve sampled your wares.”
“Never fear.” The tall one tossed one of the coins in Lavinia’s direction. “We’re prepared to make it worth your while.”
Her fingers closed around the iron doorknob.
“I do believe she intends to run off,” the tall one said. “Must be something about you that offends her delicate sensibilities, Danner.”
“A cheap little light-skirt like her hasn’t got any business having delicate sensibilities. I’ll teach her to turn her nose up at me.”
Danner launched himself at Lavinia. She jabbed the dirty, wet end of the mop at his midsection.
“Stupid little whore.” Danner scrambled to a halt and stepped out of range. “How dare you try to attack your betters?”
“What the devil’s the matter with you, lass?” The tall man sounded as if he were losing patience. “We’re willing to pay for your services.”
Lavinia said nothing. She kept the mop pointed at him while she opened the door.
“Come back here.” Danner moved in on her again, eyeing her makeshift weapon warily.
She stabbed the mop in his direction one last time, causing him to swear viciously and dance backward.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” the tall one growled. Nevertheless, he elected to remain out of reach of the mop.
Seizing the opportunity, Lavinia dropped the mop and dashed through the doorway toward the spiral staircase. She grabbed the railing as she vaulted down the twisted steps.
Behind her, Danner snarled furiously at the top of the staircase.
“Bitch! Who do you think you are?”
“Let her go,” his companion advised. “There are plenty of other whores in the neighborhood. We’ll find you a more willing lass after we’ve viewed the displays.”
Lavinia did not pause when she reached the groundfloor gallery. She rushed along the rear hall, yanked open the back door, and ran out into the alley.
It started to rain just as she went up the steps of Number Seven, Claremont Lane. The last straw, she thought. A fitting end to an extremely trying afternoon.
She used her key to let herself into the front hall. The perfume of roses was so strong she nearly choked.
“What in heaven’s name is going on here?” She glanced around as she untied the woolen scarf. Baskets and vases of freshly cut flowers were arranged on the table. A small plate filled with white calling cards sat nearby.
Mrs. Chilton appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She chuckled. “They started arriving soon after you left, ma’am. Appears Miss Emeline attracted some notice after all.”
Lavinia was distracted by that heartening news. “These are from her admirers?”
“Aye.”
“But that is wonderful.”
“Miss Emeline does not seem to be impressed,” Mrs. Chilton observed. “The only gentleman she talks about is Mr. Sinclair.”
“Yes, well, that is neither here nor there.” Lavinia tossed the scarf aside. “The point is, that dreadful scene in Lady Wortham’s box obviously did not ruin my plans after all.”
“So it seems.” Mrs. Chilton surveyed Lavinia’s clothing, frowning in disapproval. “I hope no one saw you come through the front door, ma’am. My, but you look a fright.”
Lavinia winced. “I suppose I should have gone around to the kitchen door. The thing is, I had a most unpleasant afternoon and then, on the way home, it started to rain, and by the time I got here, all I could think about was getting into my nice, warm study and pouring myself a large glass of sherry.”
Mrs. Chilton’s eyes widened. “You’ll be wanting to go upstairs and change first, ma’am.”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Only the cloak and scarf are wet. The rest of my clothes are dry, fortunately. A medicinal dose of sherry is vastly more important at the moment.”
“But, ma’am—”
Foosteps sounded overhead.
“Lavinia.” Emeline leaned over the upstairs balcony. “Thank heavens you’re back. I was starting to worry. Was your scheme successful?”
“Yes and no.” Lavinia slung the tattered cloak on a hook. “What is going on with all of these posies?”
Emeline made a face. “Apparently, Priscilla and I are mildly fashionable today. Lady Wortham sent a message an hour ago. I collect that all is forgiven. She invited me to accompany her and Priscilla to a musicale this evening.”
“That is excellent news.” Lavinia paused, thinking quickly. “We must consider which gown you will wear.”
“It is not as if I have a great choice to make. Madame Francesca designed only one that would be suitable.” Emeline picked up her skirts and started quickly down the stairs. “Never mind my gown. Tell me what happened at the museum.”
Lavinia snorted softly. “I shall tell you the whole of it, but you must swear to me that you will never, under any circumstances, repeat any of it to Mr. March.”
“Oh dear.” Emeline came to a halt at the foot of the steps. “Something went wrong, did it not?”
Lavinia stalked down the hall toward her study. “Let’s just say that things did not proceed according to plan.”
Alarm flashed across Mrs. Chilton’s face. “Ma’am, please, you’ll want to change before you go into your study.”
“I need that glass of sherry more than I need a change of clothing, Mrs. Chilton.”
“But—”
“She’s right, Lavinia,” Emeline said, hurrying to follow. “You really must go upstairs first.”
“I regret that my costume offends both of you, but this is my house and I will bloody well wear what I wish in my own study. Do you want to hear my tale or not?”
“Of course I want to hear it,” Emeline said. “Are you certain you are all right?”
“It was a near thing, but I am happy to report that I got away unscathed.”
“Unscathed?” Emeline’s voice rose in mounting concern. “Good heavens. Lavinia, what happened?”
“An unanticipated problem presented itself.” Lavinia swept through the doorway of her study and headed directly toward the sherry cabinet. “As I said, you must not breathe a word of the tale to Mr. March. I shall never hear the end of it.”
Tobias looked up from the book he was perusing near the window. “This promises to be an interesting story indeed.”
Lavinia halted a step away from the sherry cabinet. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” He closed the book and glanced at the clock. “I arrived twenty minutes ago and was told you were out.”
“That is precisely where I was.” She jerked open the cabinet door, seized the decanter, and poured herself a large glass of sherry. “Out.”
He gave her attire a leisurely appraisal. “Attending a masquerade ball perhaps?”
She sputtered on the mouthful of sherry. “Of course not.”
“Have you decided to augment your income by taking a position as a scrubwoman?”
“Not enough money in it.” She took another swallow of sherry, savoring the warmth. “Not unless one is willing to polish something other than floors.”
Emeline gave her a troubled look. “Please do not keep us in suspense. What happened when you went to Huggett’s Museum?”
Tobias crossed his arms and leaned against the bookcase. “You went back to Huggett’s? Dressed in that odd costume?”
“Yes.” Lavinia carried her glass across the room and dropped into a chair. She stretched her legs out in front of her and examined the thick stockings. “It occurred to me that it might be informative to discover what sort of waxworks were displayed in the upstairs gallery. Huggett seemed quite secretive about them, I thought.”
“He was secretive because of the artistic theme of the displays.” Tobias’s voice was edged with impatience. “For
obvious reasons, he did not care to explain to a lady that he had a gallery full of erotic waxworks upstairs.”
“Erotic waxworks?” Emeline looked intrigued. “How unusual.”
Tobias shot a frown in her direction. “Forgive me, Miss Emeline. I should not have mentioned the subject. It is not the sort of thing one discusses around unmarried young ladies.”
“Think nothing of it,” Emeline said blithely. “Lavinia and I both learned a great deal about such matters during our sojourn in Rome. Mrs. Underwood was very much a woman of the world, you know.”
“Yes,” Tobias said a bit too evenly. “I know. Everyone in Rome was aware of her proclivities.”
“We stray from the topic,” Lavinia said crisply. “It was not just Huggett’s reaction when I asked him about the waxworks in his upstairs gallery that struck me as unusual. You and I both believed he recognized something about the death threat, if you will recall. This morning I woke up wondering if it was because he had some of the same modeler’s sculptures on display in the locked chamber.”
Tobias stilled. “You went to Huggett’s to view those sculptures?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She moved the hand in which she held the glass in a vague motion. “I just told you. I wanted to examine the quality of the modeling. I paid the regular scrubwoman to let me use her keys, and I entered the chamber in this disguise.”
“Well, then? Obviously you saw the sculptures. Do you believe the statues you saw were modeled by the same artist who crafted the death threat?”
“To be frank, I could not say for certain.”
“In other words, this nonsense of a masquerade was a complete waste of time, was it not?” Tobias shook his head. “I could have told you that if you had bothered to ask my opinion on your scheme before you carried it out.”
“I didn’t say it was a complete waste of time.” She met his eyes over the rim of the glass. “Huggett’s figures are life-size. The difference in scale made it difficult for me to be sure of my conclusions. But I think there were some similarities.”