by Carrie Lofty
Viv yanked on his wrist, holding him as she would a leashed attack dog. Her restraint wouldn’t last long. “Sir, Mr. Nolan is paid exceptionally well. I know because I find that His Lordship’s generosity borders on indulgence. Why would he have reason to steal? Surely you’ve made some manner of mistake.”
Elden crossed his arms. His smirk sent a shiver up her back. “No mistake. And if you’d like to discuss how your brokerage conducts research on its competition, I’ll be more than happy to. Your choice.”
Miles had calmed, at least for the moment. His brain was a beautifully devious device. “I think we both know discretion is best for all parties involved. Unless you’d like to reveal certain . . . acquisitions.”
She released Miles’s arm and stepped nearer to their enemy as he blanched. How had she ever seen anything different in looking upon such a smug, scheming rat? “No need for that sort of talk, my lord. I’m sure Mr. Elden will be willing to come to an arrangement.”
Interest darkened his icy blue eyes. His pupils grew larger. “An arrangement? Of what sort?”
Viv wet her lips. “Let’s send everyone back to their afternoon’s activities and we’ll come to terms.”
“You don’t dictate this matter, my lady.”
Miles affected his most haughty tone. “Come now, Elden. Street-side is not the place for negotiations between gentlemen. You do believe yourself a gentleman, am I right?”
Elden’s top hat shaded much of his reaction to the jibe, but Viv felt confident that Miles would soak up every detail. After mulling his options, Elden spoke briefly to Mr. Mansfield. The constable eyed all the participants with some mix of resignation and suspicion. Viv had no doubt he was capable of being a good man, but it had yet to be seen whether he could remain one in the face of Kimberley’s rampant bribery and the free flow of diamonds.
“Very well,” Mansfield said at last. “I know my place here. Men, we’ll leave these citizens to settle their own differences. As for Nolan”—he pointed toward the front door—“he doesn’t leave town until all parties are satisfied. But the first shot fired will end my willingness to let you regulate yourselves.”
The constable and his men herded the onlookers away from Christie Brokerage. Miles said something hushed to Franc and James, who aided in keeping the citizens back and away. Only Mr. Kato remained, as did two of Elden’s bodyguards, as the interested parties entered the brokerage house. Adam was nowhere to be seen, perhaps having taken shelter in one of the upstairs rooms—or even in the crawl space filled with carbons.
But at least all weapons had been removed or holstered. At least no one would be harmed. Viv finally felt as if she could breathe, although the negotiations had just begun.
“So, my lady,” Elden said. “You’ve had your way. Now what?”
“What charges do you propose against Mr. Nolan?”
“Eustis here caught him sneaking out of my office. I want to have this building and his person searched to assure nothing of value was taken.”
Viv scoffed. “You can hardly expect us to open our doors to you for a random search of all our paperwork.”
“He’s a thief and should be jailed. And the both of you should be labeled as the worst sort of scheming competition.”
She glared at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “And what of the Opsberger Brothers’? Or Fellman’s? Or any of the other brokerages you’re quietly acquiring? What of the means you’ve used to pressure them into selling? Your reputation could suffer terribly if we reveal to the community what we know.”
A tic twitched below his left eye. She hoped very much that Miles was taking notes. “What do you propose?” he asked.
“A poker game.”
Whether or not he caught Elden’s flicker of hesitation, Miles must have understood her meaning. His bearing changed. Gone was the belligerent for whom wearing a whip seemed a natural complement to his lean physique and intimidating height. His posture turned negligent. His face softened. In his place was the man she remembered from so long ago. At that moment, Miles, Lord Bancroft, appeared as bored as if he’d spent the afternoon watching Viv’s garden sleep through the winter.
“Come on, then, old chap,” he said, his voice eerily casual. How did he manage that? “A few rounds of cards will make this much more, well, civilized.” He waved a slack hand toward Elden’s bodyguards. “Truly, is this how you conduct legal matters in the jungle or wherever this is? I cannot remember the last time we solved anything by brawl on the floor of Parliament.”
Elden scowled at the affront. “All right, what are the stakes?”
“For a start, you’ll pursue no further charges against Mr. Nolan.” Viv lifted her chin and looked the man up and down. “After that, you have yet to agree to the terms of our new business model. I want your full cooperation.”
This was a tremendous amount to lay on Miles’s abilities, but she took the chance. If it failed, the gossip would be so loud that they’d certainly never need to advertise again. Christie Brokerage would become notorious, just before Neil Elden bought it out from under them.
She turned to Miles. The tender lover she’d given herself to the night before was in there somewhere, behind that smirk and those vacant brown eyes. God, no wonder she’d never been able to know him. He’d never shown her. The choice had always been his, a façade to keep or discard—as much a pretender as she ever was.
“Are you game, my lord?” she asked, her brows lifted.
“For you? Always.”
“And for a few hands of cards?”
“Oh, that will do, too.”
“You, Mr. Elden? Cards? Or would you prefer to see what violence and intimidation do to your reputation?”
He pinned his narrowed gaze on Viv. That same slinking sensation crawled down her legs. Had they been on a battlefield, she would’ve ducked. Something was coming. He bared his teeth in an expression caught between disgust and desire, turning her stomach.
“I’m not the one who should be worried about reputation, Lady Bancroft.”
When Viv flinched, Miles struggled to hold onto the blasé mannerisms that had once been as much a part of him as his skeleton. Elden was slandering his wife. Even a man less observant of body language would be hard pressed to miss how the color drained from her creamy skin.
“Hardly the place for defamation,” Miles said. “Even if such low behavior would be my assumption for you.”
“You do enjoy pulling rank on us commoners, don’t you?”
He matched the man’s cold, disdainful smile. “Comes with the title. You should ask the Queen for one. Very useful. At the very least you should earn a knighthood for this grand, ugly enterprise you have going here. Quite an achievement in the name of the Empire.”
“You mock what lines your pockets?”
“Maybe that’s the difference between you and me. You need to believe in it while I . . . well, I don’t need it at all.” He clapped once. “Now then, I’m bored of all this drivel. Are we quite finished?”
Elden again turned to Viv. The pinch of her mouth had been a debonair grin only moments before. Now she seemed to be holding down a flood of bile.
“We never agreed on what I will win.” He flashed Miles a grin. “Because I will win.”
“Hardly.”
“I fancy something exotic, actually.” He leaned nearer to Viv, as if examining each and every pore. “French. A dancer, perhaps. Don’t you find that idea exciting, Bancroft? Long legs. Flexible. Shameless.”
Miles popped his knuckle. “Out with it, man.”
“What do you say, my lady? Is a whore’s daughter willing to wager herself?”
Without thought Miles hurled a quick punch. His fist connected with teeth in a satisfying crack. Elden bellowed. Blood smeared across his cheek from where he wiped his split lip. Not waiting for the man to recover, Miles threw another pair of quick punches. One to the ribs. One to the breastbone. Wheezing, Elden dropped to his knee, then slumped to the ground. His cough was
sickly wet.
A sharp blow to the skull sent Miles down, too. Viv screamed, like a high-pitched explosion within the brokerage’s close walls. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Kato holding her out of harm’s way as another cracking pain lanced across his nerves—this time a boot connecting with his left kidney. He rolled and hacked his whip across the wooden floor. The leather coiled around his opponent’s leg. With a sharp tug, Miles hauled the man to the ground, where Franc and James had already subdued Elden’s other guard.
“We can continue,” Miles said, holding back a groan as he stood once more. Viv folded against his side. Her fingers gently assessed the wound at his temple. “And let our men do what they were hired to do, namely to protect this business from violent intruders. Or we can proceed with my wife’s suggestion of a card game.”
“Your wife.” Elden spit blood. “Ask her, Bancroft. I dare you. Ask for the truth about her birth—the truth my private investigator in New York discovered. Then be willing to stake the entire brokerage and that million-dollar bonus you’re so set on winning.” He grinned, revealing red-streaked teeth. “Oh, yes. I know about that, too. I won’t settle for less. And if you touch me again, so help me God I’ll have that pompous grin shot clean off your face.”
“Glad you kept from claiming you’d shoot me yourself, because I could never take such a threat seriously. How did such a coward get to where you are today?”
“By taking down the likes of you, by any means necessary. You disgust me. Born to all the advantages in the world, yet you come down here to meddle where working men deserve to make their fortunes. I was here first.”
“Mr. Kato would probably disagree with that rather strongly.” Miles was shocked by the vehemence of Elden’s vitriol, but not by its presence. Much of his own past behavior had the potential to turn his stomach if he lingered there too long. But at present, he was not the man spitting up blood and cringing at the prospect of more. “Threatening a peer, however, is not the cleverest move. I politely suggest you get out of our building.”
“Noon tomorrow at the Kimberley Club.”
“Agreed.”
“But don’t bring your wife, no matter that our stakes bear her family name.” Elden pushed to his feet, righting his coat and scrambled hair. His ascot and stained shirtfront were lost causes. “We don’t make exceptions even for women of good society, let alone the likes of her.”
Miles restrained his violence—not because of any particular strength, or out of respect for a downed opponent making his retreat. No, it was because of Viv. She held his gaze so steadily, chin lifted only a shade. No blushing or fuming. Her eyes held no emotion other than fear. She looked like a woman who expected the very worst.
Fear. When she should have been furious at Elden’s insinuations.
James and Franc earned their keep, prodding Elden and his men back outside. Mr. Kato quietly asked, “Should I bring the carriage around, my lord?”
“Yes, please do. And find where Adam hid himself. If rumors of all this nonsense make it to Chloe before he does, she’ll take it none too well.”
Viv’s expression remained a strange combination of blank and imploring. “You’re bleeding.”
“Yes, and I have no idea why.” Miles took her arm and tugged her discretely against his side. “Tell me what the bloody hell is going on.”
“Please.” She cleared her throat and blinked rapidly. “Let me wait until we get home. Not . . . not here. Please, Miles.”
She smelled of roses, as always. She was still Vivie. His Vivie. But her unfathomable exchange with Elden made him doubt that claim.
A headache pounded across his brow, but he felt ready to do violence all over again.
Twenty long, tense minutes later, the carriage delivered them to the manor. Chloe happily greeted Adam with a hug that clearly signaled their intentions as a couple. Only at that moment, when his own confusion was a bright burn in his mind, did Miles realize how well the girl had adapted to life here. She had a roof over her head, a steady wage, and a man who cared for her deeply. Did the rest have to be so complicated?
Chloe’s expression, however, turned cloudy as she caught the mood of their small party. Quickly glancing toward Miles and back to her mistress, she only bobbed a curtsy before dragging Adam indoors. Jamie arrived to help Mr. Kato with the horses, which only left Miles and his wife.
Like a man condemned, but uncertain of the crime for which he’d been convicted, he trudged upstairs and followed Viv to her chambers.
With even the balcony shut to keep out the strengthening cold, the closed bedroom door sealed them in together. Miles felt dusty and unclean among her lovely furnishings. His knuckles ached. His temple banged out a ragged pulse, and a twinge of fire licked up his lower back. A distinct tug in his right bicep and shoulder was testament to the beating he had delivered, as was the raging rush in his veins.
Perhaps that was just dread.
As Viv slipped off her bonnet, she revealed the hair he’d so delightedly tangled in the upper floor of the brokerage. Only an hour earlier they had been prepared to make love over a desk strewn with ledgers and papers. But that moment seemed long ago. Or maybe he was reminded of years past, when their marriage had always been this cold. The woman he had made love to for weeks now—glorious weeks that promised a future—was nowhere to be found. She simply hung up the bonnet as if his heart weren’t being pulled apart by silence.
He grabbed the nearest cloth from her washing stand and held it to his temple. “Tell me.” Just two words, sticky and difficult to voice.
“It’s better left unsaid. Believe me, Miles. You don’t want to know.”
“Don’t you dare assume what I want.” He stalked toward her, combating his worry with anger. “Or maybe you would rather I learn from Elden? Snake that he is, he would be glad to rub my nose in whatever dirt you’re hiding. Call me a traditionalist, but I’d rather hear personal matters in private. That means from you, my dear. Straight from that pretty, exasperating mouth of yours. Now tell me who you are.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll be the one leaving. For good.”
She stilled, her expression devastated. “You’d end this?”
“Not because I want to. God knows I don’t—and now I’m telling you, too. But I refuse to endure a marriage where we cannot trust each other, where we keep secrets that inflict quiet harm. That was our downfall the first time we tried. Not anymore.” He cupped her face with one bruised hand and kissed her as softly as he knew how. “Please, Vivienne. Trust me.”
Twenty-six
Dark emotions bound her as firmly as Miles’s strong hands. Terror led the parade. Her past would no longer be a secret. Fear of the consequences skittered down to her numb fingers and cold toes. Their tenuous marriage had survived so much, almost in spite of their worst efforts. She had no doubt this moment would herald its end. Limbs weak and shaking, she looked upon his desperate, stricken face. He would leave.
What could the truth possibly do to make it worse?
“I have my father’s eyes,” she whispered.
“Your father’s . . . ?”
A deep breath didn’t relieve her nausea, but she found the strength to speak. “William Christie was my father. My real father. The next time you see my siblings and I together—we inherited our eyes from him.”
“Why the ruse? The adoption?” An a-ha expression moved over his tired features. “You were illegitimate.”
“Yes.”
He lifted her chin and would not let her look away. “Such a distinct hazel, my dear. I’d never noticed. But then, who would? You were supposed to be adopted. And who better to adopt you than the man who’d sired you?”
Viv sank onto the foot of the bed and spoke to the swirling rose motif in the carpeting. “My mother was a Parisian actress, a singer, dancer. She was beautiful. Lauded. She always believed he loved her. This was just after the death of his first wife. Alex was but two years old. My father was still young. He
left Alex in London with family and went to Paris. To drink. Perhaps to forget.”
“In your mother’s arms.”
She nodded, dimly aware that he’d given up standing in favor of a place next to her on the bed. He lowered the cloth from his temple; the bleeding had stopped. Her stomach clenched at visible proof of his pain, just when she thought she couldn’t hurt any worse.
“Four months later, he was done forgetting. He left without a kiss goodbye. She never knew why. She was pregnant, stubborn, and prideful.” Wiping tears from her cheeks, she said, “If I could ask one question of her now, it would be why she never told him. Knowing she bore part of the blame was the only way I could forgive his leaving. He hadn’t known—not until the end.”
“Those were the years you didn’t want to discuss.”
“Yes. That’s how I grew up. A bastard daughter of a woman who turned to prostitution. Her . . . patrons came to the flat. I became quite familiar with the nuances of her trade. The sounds. The smells.”
“Christ, Vivie.”
“Mother became sick. She had the consumption. I believe she must’ve written to my father before . . . before . . . it.”
“It?”
“I was asleep.” She clamped her eyes shut, but the horror of that night, of her dream, followed her into the dark. Miles stroked the unbound hair at her nape and she flinched. But his touch seeped through the blackness, not erasing the quivering fear but holding it at bay. “He must have waited until she went to relieve herself or wash. He crept behind my curtain and kissed me.”
“One of your mother’s customers?”
“Yes,” she said, the tears thick in her throat. “That was my nightmare, you see. He would kiss me, hold me down. Mother attacked him with a pipe. Beat him. And he died.”
“She killed him to save you.”
Viv nodded stiffly. “The police came, of course, and they offered to take care of the situation if my mother serviced them both . . . while I watched. She refused and was arrested.”
His arms circled her shoulders. The warm cotton shirt that clung to his broad shoulders smelled of dust, sweat, and a faintly metallic tinge of blood. “What happened to you?”