by Amanda Quick
“Partners,” she said in a perfectly neutral voice.
A woman like her could drive a man mad, he thought. But he controlled himself. “Will you give my suggestion some thought?”
“I shall give it very serious consideration.”
He pulled her close. “I shall accept that for now,” he whispered against her mouth.
She framed his face with her gloved hands. “Will you?”
“Yes. But I should warn you that I intend to do my best to convince you to give me an affirmative answer eventually.”
He untied the strings of her bonnet and set it aside. One at a time, he captured each of her hands in his and stripped off the kid gloves she wore. He brought the inside of her right wrist to his lips and kissed the soft skin.
She said his name so softly that he could barely hear it and then she wrapped her fingers in his hair. She kissed him on the mouth. He pulled her hard against him and felt her respond, vibrant and restless as the passion ignited. She nestled closer, filling him with a great, intense hunger.
He lowered himself onto the stone bench and pulled her down on top of him. He raised her skirts so he could revel in the sight of her stocking-clad legs. She untied his cravat and went to work on the fastenings of his shirt. When she flattened her warm palms against his bare chest, he took a very deep breath.
“I love the feel of you,” she said. She bent her head and kissed his shoulder. “It is most invigorating to touch you, Tobias March.”
“Lavinia.” He tore the pins from her hair and heard them scatter on the stone floor.
She nibbled on him for a while, inspiring him with the thought that perhaps, given a quill and some ink, he might actually be able to write poetry.
By the time he got the front of his trousers open, she was shivering in his arms. When he tumbled her gently off the bench onto the floor, she wrapped her elegant legs around him. He was no longer tempted to write poetry. There was, he concluded, no possible way to set down in words such a soul-stirring experience as this.
She moved against him languidly and raised her head. “Is this what you meant by doing your utmost to convince me to give you an affirmative answer to your suggestion of future partnerships?”
“Mmm, yes.” He slid his hands into the tumbled fire of her hair. “Do you think I presented a convincing argument?”
She smiled and he was suddenly swimming in the deep, seductive seas of her eyes. “What you presented was extremely convincing. As I said, I will give the matter my closest consideration.”
twenty-six
Lavinia studied her image in the fitting-room mirror with a critical eye. “Don’t you think the neckline is a bit low?”
Madame Francesca scowled. “The neckline is perfect. It is cut to hint at madam’s bosom.”
“A rather broad hint.”
“Nonsense. It is an extremely discreet nod in the right direction.” Madame Francesca tugged at a ribbon decorating the bodice. “Given that madam’s bosom is not so grand, I have designed the gown to raise questions, not to answer them.”
Lavinia toyed uncertainly with the silver pendant. “If you’re quite sure.”
“I am positive, madam. You must trust me in these matters.” Madame Francesca frowned at the young seamstress crouched on the floor beside Lavinia. “Non, non, non, Molly. You did not pay attention to the drawing I made. There is to be only one tier of ribbon flowers at the hem, not two. Two would be entirely too much for Mrs. Lake. Quite overwhelming. She is on the short side, as you can see.”
“Yes, madam,” Molly mumbled through a mouthful of pins.
“Go and fetch my sketchbook,” Madame Francesca ordered. “I will show you my design once again.”
Molly scrambled to her feet and hurried away.
Lavinia eyed herself in the mirror. “I’m too short and my bosom is less than grand. Really, Madame Francesca, I find it amazing that you are willing to spend any time on me at all.”
“I do it for the sake of Mrs. Dove, of course.” Madame Francesca put a dramatic hand to her own very expansive bosom. “She is one of my most important patrons. I would do anything to please her.” She winked. “Besides, you are a challenge to my skills, Mrs. Lake.”
Molly walked into the fitting room, the heavy volume in her hands. Madame Francesca took it from her, opened it, and began to flip through the pages.
Lavinia glimpsed a familiar green gown. “Wait. That was the dress you designed for Mrs. Dove to wear to her daughter’s engagement ball, was it not?”
“This one?” Madame Francesca paused to admire the sketch. “Yes. Lovely, isn’t it?”
Lavinia studied it intently. “There are two tiers of roses. Not three. This sketch has been altered. You removed one entire row of roses, didn’t you? I can see where you marked it out.”
Madame Francesca heaved a sigh. “I still maintain that with her elegant height, Mrs. Dove could have carried off all three tiers very nicely. But she was adamant that one row must be removed. What can one do when such an important client puts her foot down? One must submit. In the end, I changed the design.”
Excitement and a dreadful thrill of fear rushed through Lavinia. She whirled around. “Please help me out of this gown, Madame Francesca. I must leave at once. There is someone I must speak with immediately.”
“But, Mrs. Lake, we have not finished with the fitting.”
“Get me out of this dress.” Lavinia struggled with the fastenings of the bodice. “I shall return another time for the fitting. May I beg a sheet of paper and a pen from you? I must send a note to my, uh, associate.”
It was raining again. There were no hackneys to be had. It took nearly forty-five minutes to make her way to Half Crescent Lane.
Lavinia came to a halt outside Mrs. Vaughn’s front door and raised the knocker. She had to be certain, she thought, banging loudly. There could be no more mistakes. Before she and Tobias made another move in this treacherous business, she had to talk to the one person who had been right all along.
It seemed forever before the partially deaf housekeeper opened the door. She squinted vaguely in Lavinia’s general direction.
“Aye?”
“Is Mrs. Vaughn at home? I must speak with her immediately. It is very important.”
The housekeeper held out her hand. “You’ll have to purchase a ticket,” she said loudly.
Lavinia groaned and reached into her reticule. She found some coins and placed them in the work-worn palm. “There. Please tell Mrs. Vaughn that Lavinia Lake is here.”
“I’ll take ye to the gallery.” The housekeeper led the way down the dark hall, cackling happily. “Mrs. Vaughn will be along in a bit.”
The housekeeper stopped in front of the gallery door and opened it with a small flourish. Lavinia went quickly into the gloom-filled room. The door closed behind her. She heard another muffled cackle in the hall and then all was silent.
Lavinia hesitated, giving her eyes a chance to grow accustomed to the low lighting. A trickle of unease tingled through her. She reminded herself that this was the same disturbing sensation she had experienced the last time. She looked around, willing her pulse to slow to a more normal pace.
The chamber looked much as it had when she had come here with Tobias. The eerily realistic waxworks loomed around her, frozen in their various poses. She moved past the man with the glasses who sat reading in his chair and looked toward the piano.
There was a figure seated on the bench, peering intently at a sheet of music, hands poised above the keys. But the sculpture was that of a man in old-fashioned breeches. A waxwork, Lavinia thought, not Mrs. Vaughn posing as one of her own creations this time. Perhaps the artist liked to vary the nature of her little jokes.
“Mrs. Vaughn?” She wove a path through the figures, searching the wax faces around her. “Are you here? I know you enjoy this charade and it is quite effective. But unfortunately, I do not have time to play the game today. I wish to consult with you again on a professional matter.”
None of the waxworks moved or spoke.
“It is extremely urgent,” Lavinia continued. “A matter of life and death, I believe.”
She glanced at a statue that stood facing the hearth. A new sculpture, she thought, not remembering it from her previous visit. The waxwork was that of a woman wearing a housekeeper’s apron and a voluminous cap, the ruffles of which hid her profile. She was slightly bent at the waist, a poker in her hand, as if she were about to prod the dead embers of an unlit fire.
Not Mrs. Vaughn, Lavinia thought. Much too tall and not nearly round enough at the hips.
“Please, Mrs. Vaughn, make yourself known if you are in here. I cannot afford to linger.” Lavinia circled the corner of the sofa and came to a sudden halt when she saw the figure sprawled facedown on the rug. “Dear God.”
The utter limpness in the limbs told her at once this was no waxwork that had toppled from a standing position. A terrible dread stole Lavinia’s breath.
“Mrs. Vaughn.”
She dropped to her knees, tore off a glove, and touched Mrs. Vaughn’s throat. Relief flowed through her when she detected the throb of life.
Mrs. Vaughn was alive but unconscious. Lavinia jumped to her feet, intent on rushing to the door to summon assistance. Her gaze went past the waxwork housekeeper bent toward the hearth. Her mouth went dry.
There was mud on the figure’s shoes.
For an instant, Lavinia could not breathe. The only path out of the long, narrow chamber would take her within striking distance of the poker. Screaming would do no good, given that the real housekeeper was half deaf. Her only hope was that Tobias had received her message and would arrive shortly. In the meantime, she must distract the killer.
“I see you got here before me,” Lavinia said quietly. “How did you manage that feat, Lady Neville?”
The figure at the hearth jerked and straightened with a sudden movement. Constance, Lady Neville, turned to face her, the heavy iron poker raised high. She smiled.
“I am not a fool. I knew you were still potentially a great problem, Mrs. Lake. I set a man to watch you.” Constance moved to block the path to the door. “He intercepted the street lad you sent to find Mr. March. He paid the boy well to give your message to him instead and came straight to me with it. Do not delude yourself with false hope, Mrs. Lake. There is no help on the way.”
Lavinia edged backward, seeking to place the sofa between herself and the other woman. She put her hand on the locket she wore beneath her fichu. “It was you all along, was it not? You are the artist. I saw your figures in Huggett’s upstairs gallery. They were most unusual.”
“Unusual?” Constance looked contemptuous. “You know nothing of art. My work is brilliant.”
Lavinia tugged hard on the locket. It came free in her hand. She held it up in front of her, letting the bright silver catch the little light in the gloomy chamber.
“Brilliant like my locket, do you mean?” she asked in a gentle, soothing voice. “Isn’t it pretty? See how it sparkles. So bright. So bright. So bright.”
Constance laughed. “Do you think you can purchase your life with that trinket? I am a very wealthy woman, Mrs. Lake. I have chests full of far more valuable jewelry. I do not want your locket.”
“It is so bright, don’t you agree?” She let the silver locket swing gently. It glittered and sparkled as it moved back and forth in an arc. “My mother gave it to me. So bright.”
Constance blinked. “I told you, I care nothing for such cheap goods.”
“As I said, your waxworks are most unusual, but in my opinion they lack the lifelike quality Mrs. Vaughn achieves.”
“You are a fool. What do you know?” Rage flashed across Constance’s handsome face. She glanced at the swinging locket and frowned as if the sparks of light annoyed her. “My waxworks are far superior to these mundane sculptures. Unlike Mrs. Vaughn, I am not afraid to capture the darkest, most extraordinary passions in my work.”
“You sent the death threat to Mrs. Dove, didn’t you? I finally realized that this afternoon when I saw the modiste’s drawing of the original version of the green gown. You based your little waxwork image on that picture, which you saw before it was changed, not on the finished garment. As a patron of Madame Francesca’s, you had an opportunity to study the design. You never saw the final version, though, because you did not attend the engagement ball. If you had, you would have known there were only two tiers of roses at the hem, not three.”
“It no longer matters. She is a slut, no better than any of his other women. She will die too.”
Constance moved closer.
Lavinia caught her breath but she kept the locket in motion, never altering the rhythm of its arc.
“It was you who arranged for Fielding Dove to die of poison, was it not?” she asked in soft, soothing tones.
Constance glanced at the locket and then looked away. As if she could not help herself, she looked at it once more, following it with her gaze. “I planned everything, each detail. I did it for Wesley, you see. I did everything for him. He needed me.”
“But Neville never truly appreciated your cleverness and your unfailing loyalty, did he? He took you for granted. He married you for your money and then went back to his other women.”
“The women he used as vessels for his lust were not important. What was important was that Wesley needed me. He understood that. We were partners.”
Lavinia winced and almost lost the rhythm of the swinging locket. Concentrate, you fool. Your life depends on this. “I see.” The locket continued in its gentle arc. “Partners. But you were the clever one.”
“Yes. Yes. I’m the one who realized Fielding Dove was investigating Wesley’s activities during the war. I saw that Dove was growing old and weak. I knew it was time to act. Once Dove was dead, nothing stood in Wesley’s path. Just a few loose ends to tie up. I have always taken care of that sort of thing for him.”
“How many of his mistresses did you murder?”
“Two years ago I finally realized the necessity of getting rid of those cheap whores.” Constance glared at the moving locket. “I began to track them down. It wasn’t easy. I have taken care of five of them so far.”
“You created those waxwork statues in Huggett’s upstairs gallery to celebrate your achievements as a murderess, did you not?”
“I had to show the world the truth about those women. I used my talent to demonstrate that in the end there is only pain and anguish for women who become whores. There is no passion, no poetry, no pleasure for them. Only pain.”
“But the last one got away, didn’t she?” Lavinia asked. “How did that happen? Did you make a mistake?”
“I made no mistake,” Constance shouted. “Some fool of a scrubwoman left a bucket of soapy water near the door. I slipped and fell and the whore escaped me. But I will get her sooner or later.”
“Who is the model for the man in your sculptures, Constance?” Lavinia asked evenly.
Constance looked confused. “The man?”
Lavinia swung the locket. “The face of the man in all of the sculptures is the same. Who is he, Constance?”
“Papa.” Constance dashed the poker at the locket as if trying to bat it out of the air. “Papa is the man who gives the whores so much pain.” She slapped at the locket with the tip of the poker. “He gave me pain. Do you understand? He gave me so much pain.”
Lavinia had to duck the poker twice. This was not going well. She managed to keep the locket moving but she knew it was time to change the subject. “Things were going well until Holton Felix got his hands on the diary and began to send out his little blackmail notes,” she said.
“Felix learned from the diary that Wesley was a member of the Blue Chamber.” Constance was more calm now. Her eyes followed the locket. “I had to kill him. It was easy enough. He was a fool. I found him within days of getting the note.”
“You killed him and took the diary.”
“I did it to protect Wesley
. I did everything for him. ”
Without warning, Constance swung the poker in a vicious arc. Lavinia threw herself backward, barely avoiding the blow. The hooked iron rod thudded into the skull of a nearby waxwork. The sculpture toppled to the carpet, its head in ruins.
Lavinia hastily stood behind the figure of the coy woman holding a fan, putting it between herself and Constance. She extended her arm to the side and started to swing the locket again.
Constance glanced at the flashing silver metal with obvious irritation. She looked away but her gaze returned to it again and again. She was not in a complete trance, Lavinia realized, but the locket had managed to distract her.
“It was only after you read the diary that you discovered Mrs. Dove and your husband had once been lovers, wasn’t it? That changed everything as far as you were concerned. You could ignore his other women, but you could not forgive him for that affair.”
“The others did not matter.” Constance advanced on her, face knotted. “They were cheap whores. He took them out of the brothels, amused himself for a while, and then he sent them back to the streets. But Joan Dove is different.”
“Because she was married to the master of the Blue Chamber?”
“Yes. She is not like the others. She is wealthy and powerful and she knows everything that Azure knew. When I read the diary, I understood at once that Wesley would not need me when he assumed Azure’s position as the master of the Blue Chamber.”
“You thought that he would want Joan?”
“She could give him everything that was Azure’s, couldn’t she? His contacts, his connections, the details of how he ran his financial affairs, and the Blue Chamber itself.” Constance’s voice rose to a keening wail of despair. “What could I offer to compare? In addition, Wesley had once lusted after her as he had never lusted after me.”
“So you decided that she had to die too.”
“If he had her, he would no longer need me, would he?”
Constance swung the poker again. But she seemed to aim at the swinging locket this time. Lavinia shoved the sculpture of the woman with the fan at her. The iron struck it, squashing the head, and the figure crashed to the floor.