Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance)

by Lisa Andersen

  “Not if we are fast,” Lucia said. “Only if we are slow. I can assure you one thing. We will catch him if we follow this plan.” Lucia did something strange then; she hugged him. Then she leaned back. “Now, leave us, Wilbert. Lady Lavery and I must discuss something in private.”

  Wilbert, bemused, left the room.

  But he trusted Lucia. She had never left him down before.

  She was, after all, the smart one.

  *****

  They returned to London, slept, and in the morning took a carriage back to the Lavery homestead. They arrived at the woods at about ten o’clock. Wilbert fear that the lady may already be dead. Perhaps the Viking had been lying in his note. But the Viking proved as honest as ever, and the lady admitted them with a wan smile. “I merely wished to make sure you were well, my lady,” Wilbert said. “We cannot stay here, now. We must retreat to the woods, and wait.”

  She nodded, seeming not to care either way.

  Wilbert and Lucia crouched down in the woods, looking toward the house. They were as out of sight as it was possible to see, almost buried in leaves. Lucia was close to Wilbert’s arm. He could feel her there. Her presence seemed to reach out and bring him in, drawing him toward her. There was something magnetic in Lucia, something dangerous. One found it impossible to ignore her aura. At length, Wilbert turned and regarded her, and saw that she was regarding him.

  “Is there something wrong?” Wilbert said.

  “No,” Lucia said. “Not wrong, precisely. I am at war with myself; that is the truth of it. I know I should be focusing on the case, and yet I cannot stop looking at you, Wilbert.”

  Wilbert blushed. He felt as though he had just been complemented by a goddess. A foolish thought, of course; Lucia was flesh and bone and imperfections and perfections. But his feeling was sincere. “Why is that?” Wilbert said, his voice naught more than a croak.

  “Perhaps I am looking back over our time together. We’ve had some adventures, have we not? I am looking back to that time with the cat, thought. Do you remember when you nursed that cat back to health?”

  Wilbert remembered all too well. His landlord despised cats, so Wilbert had had to hide the poor thing in his coat every time he left the house with it. Weeks of watching it sip weakly at his saucer of milk, chew halfheartedly on a little piece of bird. Try to jump upon the chair—fall back to the hard floorboards with a squeal. And eventually, the triumphant moment of its recovery. He saw it outside Lucia’s house at times, full of life and strong. It didn’t seem to recall him, but that was okay.

  “I remember,” he said. “What of it?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  Wilbert found this to be a strange question. “Why should I not do it? The cat was sick. It would have died.”

  “You see?” Lucia said. “You did it without thinking. That is what you are saying.”

  “Yes,” Wilbert said, “I suppose it is.”

  “That is the difference between you and me. You do kind things without thinking. For me, it would take a momentous effort to even consider saving that cat.” She paused, bit her lip, and then went on: “Wilbert, why do you love me? There is little love in me. Just coldness and hardness. Why not find a nice frumpy woman who will love you deeply and pack your pipe for you?”

  Lucia had never spoken so plainly to him. He found himself unable to answer for a time. He choked, coughed, laughed at his inability to act decisively, like a man. There was color in her cheeks, bright red, and her eyes were wide and awake. “Because—” It was the truth. Blast it, why was the truth so hard to speak. “Because,” he said, at length, “that woman would not be you.”

  He locked his eyes on her, forcing himself not to look away. He prayed that this was the moment when she would finally see him, finally return his affection. He reached up and touched her cheek. It was soft and gaunt and perfect. She touched his hand, held it against her face. “Wilbert, dear,” she said. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Ask me.”

  He felt half-asleep. His hand was on her face. Fire rose within him. His manhood stiffened.

  “Would you think me a complete whore if I asked you to make love to me right here?”

  *****

  The words had escaped her, had thrust themselves out of her. She expected to regret them, to quickly mutter an apology. But she did not. Instead, she just watched him, watched the effects of her words rippled through his muscular, supine body. His tilted his head at her and inspected her, tracing his eyes from her forehead down to her boots. She liked when he looked at her like that; it made her feel like prey. But not helpless, not afraid. Just alive.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “I am,” she replied, quickly. His hand was almost twice as big as hers. She gripped his fingers. “Why shouldn’t we?”

  He stared at the earth. “I just—I have never—”

  “Neither have I,” she said. “Oh, Wilbert, I thought you had – you know how men are – but I am glad that you haven’t. It will be nice, won’t it, if we do it together for the first time?”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  The more they talked about it, the more Lucia wanted it to happen. A metamorphosis had come over her. All because of that look in his eyes, that slightly boyish, speculative, half-afraid look. He didn’t say anything else. He rolled over so they were close, and then kissed her upon the lips. She opened her mouth and thrust her tongue toward him. His tongue caught hers and they danced. His hands were on her, grabbing her breasts, moving down her body to her womanhood.

  She moaned as he undressed her.

  *****

  Afterwards, they lay half-clothed in silence for a time. Then their eyes met, and they began to giggle. Lucia hadn’t known what to expect. The pleasure of the body had always been oblique to her. What she had experienced had been painful at first, and then slowly, slowly, pleasurable. They would do it again. Of that Lucia was sure. But now that case was on, and they had to focus. It was around two o’clock in the afternoon. The Viking would be here soon.

  “That was—unexpected,” Wilbert breathed, as he pulled his shirt on.

  “I know,” Lucia smiled, pulling her boots on. “We’ll do it again, when this Viking fellow is caught.”

  “Yes?”

  Lucia touched his nose. “Yes.”

  “Let’s hope he hasn’t sneaked by whilst we were—busy.”

  “He hasn’t,” Lucia said. “I would’ve sensed it.”

  Wilbert didn’t dispute her. He had done, when they first started working together, all those years ago. But she had proven herself to him time and time again. It had gotten to the point where her self-regard was contingent upon his absolute confidence in her abilities. And he rarely doubted her, which meant she rarely doubted herself. If Wilbert would gone, she would be extremely sad indeed.

  “Wilbert, my love,” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  She swallowed. She was not, she reflect, a lady at all. “What would you say if I suggested we become husband and wife? Oh, let us push away all sentimental considerations for a moment. We would be quite the team, I think. Mr. and Mrs. Underwood, crime-fighters extraordinaire!”

  Wilbert smiled and squeezed her hand. “That would make me the happiest man alive.”

  “Good,” Lucia said, sitting up. “We’ll do that, then.”

  “I love you, Lucia,” Wilbert said.

  “I know you do, Wilbert dear,” she replied, smiling warmly. “I know you do.”

  That was as far as she could go. Her mind was not yield so easily to her body, to her heart. But perhaps the two could coexist. Whatever the case, it would be night soon. Wilbert unpacked a lunch of bread, meat, cheese, and ale. They ate and drank whilst watching the house, and when they were done they resumed their positions and waited.<
br />
  Lucia did not once get bored. Lying about in the leaves and mud waiting for a killer was infinitely more enjoyable and interesting that lying about on a divan waiting for a suitor. When she thought about the thousands of women whose sole occupation was to be ladies, she almost laughed. What they were missing!

  Soon, the sun began to set and a round, bright, full moon dominated the sky. Lucia and Wilbert looked up at it together. “He’ll be here soon,” Lucia said.

  “Yes,” Wilbert said. “Let’s hope we’re fast enough.”

  Lucia nodded. But she knew the truth. Their speed had nothing to do with it. It was all up to Lady Lavery now. Lucia hope the lady had it in her to do the right thing. Poor Malcom, it would be a shame—but it had to be done. His life did not justify his actions.

  Lady Lavery must see that, or she would’ve live to see the morn.

  *****

  The Viking had somehow sneaked to the house without them seeing. There came a loud bang from the house. Wilbert jumped to his feet and sprinted across the field with Lucia panting at his side. “Damnable dresses,” she breathed. “What monstrous man invented these intolerable things! How is one supposed to run in them!”

  “Stop complaining,” Wilbert retorted. “Keep running.”

  They crashed through the front door and made their way to the drawing-room, from whence the sound had come. Wilbert swung the door open and then stopped, looking down at the huge mass of killer they lay motionless upon the carpet. Lady Lavery looked down at her hands, her whole body shaking. “What happened?” Wilbert said, crouching beside the Viking. With an effort, he managed to turn the killer over. Drool fell from the side of his mouth, and his eyes were half-closed. Wilbert placed a hand on his chest: no breath, no heartbeat. “Dead,” Wilbert said, and felt a profound relief. At least he could soothe the landlady’s heart, if only a little. “But how?”

  “Sorry, Wilbert, dear,” Lucia said, sitting casually in an armchair and crossing her legs. “I didn’t think you’d agree. You remember when I wanted to talk to Lady Lavery about ‘lady’s business’? Ha, men, mention lady’s business and they ask no questions! And you remember I hugged you beforehand? Well, I may have lifted that poison-filled pipe and given it to the sweet lady. You never would have agreed, would you, my love?”

  Wilbert shook his head. “It would have been too risky.”

  “Yes, I knew it!” Lucia cried. “I told Lady Lavery to throw the poison into the man’s mouth, and—” She waved a hand over the corpse. “Here he is.”

  Lady Lavery looked down at the corpse. “Poor boy!” she wept. “Poor, poor boy!”

  “Lucia,” Wilbert said, rising to his feet. He tried to scorn her, but he could not. It had happened before, and it would happen again. Her plans rarely failed, and this had been a success. The child-killer was dead; that was all that mattered. “You are impossible!” he exclaimed, unable to hide his mirth.

  Then he remembered Lady Lavery. He knelt before her. “I will send a telegram to Scotland Yard immediately, my lady. You will have all the assistance you require. You need not fear. This was self-defense. I will make sure – personally – that there is no fuss about this. Nobody will know Malcolm’s connection to you. You have my word.”

  “Thank. You,” Lady Lavery sniffled.

  “Is there a footman about I could borrow, my lady?” Wilbert said.

  There was, the telegram was sent, and soon the estate was swarming with Scotland Yarders.

  Wilbert and Lucia left them to their work and sat on the balcony, looking out upon the night.

  *****

  Lucia cast a look into the house. Nobody was watching. She walked across to Wilbert and kissed him on the lips. “Are you angry with me?” she said.

  He laughed. “Angry? How could I be angry? It was brilliant!”

  “When will we marry?”

  “On the morrow, you mad, brilliant woman! On the morrow!”

  “And we’ll have many more adventures, as husband and wife? We won’t grow stale?”

  “I do not believe you, my sweet Lucia, could ever grow stale.”

  They kissed again, and then the Scotland Yarders commanded their attention. Great work. What an investigation. Something to reassure the public. Jack the Ripper is still out there, but the Viking is finally caught! A very good team, the two of you make. Yes, yes, a very good team.

  The Brigadier’s Wallflower

  Miss Eve Somerset was a wallflower. She knew this, and yet it didn’t make it any easier. She was constantly referred to as a wallflower by her mother, Mrs. Mary Somerset, and her aunt, Miss Alice Wilton. Both women were desperate for Eve to marry and yet were constantly and consistently terrible about the whole affair. On her first season, Auntie Alice had trundled over like a four-horse carriage – she was a momentous woman, with huge hands and a thick neck – and proceeded to talk at length about the relevance of revolution. Revolution! At a social gathering! Revolution at a social gathering where the main topic of conversation was tulips over roses, and all that sort of thing! Auntie Alice was also keen on evaluating men, which would have been fine if this wasn’t in front of the men. She would stomp over, look at the man down her pudgy nose, and then sneer with barely constrained distaste and say something like, “So, sir, how does a man of business make a living these days, anyhow?” This interpolated into a conversation about poetry.

  Of course, Mother was always at Eve’s side at any social function. Mother wouldn’t dream of allowing Eve to talk to a man alone, but she always did her best to give Eve and a possible suitor as much room as possible, mainly by turning and pretending to inspect the wallpaper. But invariably Mother would grow tired with this distraction, and then she too, would pile into the conversation.

  “Oh, to be young!” she would exclaim. “Oh, to be young again! The love and the life and the smell of youth! Oh, how I wish Harold were here!”

  Father had died of consumption – it was a family disgrace – and its chief result was that Eve had no dowry to speak of.

  Wallflower: the girl who nobody wants to dance with at the party; three seasons and no husband; three-and-twenty and not even engaged. Mother grew less and less optimistic each year, and started to talk about how Eve could help her in her old age. Eve had seen women like this before, women of three-and-five who had never found a husband, and so whose sole purpose in life had been the care of their elder relatives. They walk about with a sort of despondent regret, as though they’d finally realized that they would never attain anything they truly ever wanted. They would look at Eve with wide, jealous eyes. Eve could almost hear them: You must make something of yourself child, before it is too late. Before you become like us!

  The problem was, Eve was not the most sociable person. Oh, she had tried. She sometimes even tried hard. But she would get talking with a man, and minutes later she would become unaccountably and rudely bored. She would look at the gentleman, and think about what he had done and who he was, and find nothing at all to interest her. It was almost impudent of her. Here was a girl of three-and-twenty with a dowry that consisted of some hidden jewelry Mother had spirited away from Father, and she was allowing herself to become bored with potential suitors!

  But Eve didn’t simply want to fall into a life of emotional numbness. If that was what she longed for, she could simply stay with Auntie and Mother. No, Eve wanted something more. She wanted, for once in her life, to feel something.

  It was at a ball hosted by the Duke of Somerset – a man whom Mother would insist time and time again she was related to by third or fourth cousins – that Eve first saw Captain Charles Appleyard.

  *****

  Eve entered the ballroom with Auntie and Mother. The girls of eighteen were twirling and prancing in graceful circles, causing the lords to tilt their heads and admire them with warm smiles. Nobody noticed Eve’s entrance. She had entered society
three seasons ago and she was not yet married. She was, for all intents and purposes, a wallflower, to be glanced at and quickly dismissed. There were three other wallflowers at the party. They were all nearing five-and-twenty, and were dressed in exceptionally fine dresses, having taken extra care to hide their position. It was hard to say what was wrong with these women – or Eve herself – without looking returning again and again to money. This wallflower’s Father had lost his mind, that wallflower’s Father had taken to gambling, this one’s Father was a poor businessman, that wallflower’s Father lived beyond his means. Few men were willing to marry for love alone, and a woman without a dowry was a poor prospect indeed.

  Mother took Eve’s arm and escorted her to the circle of wallflowers, all of whom sat with stern-faced older women who gazed around the party like hungry wolves waiting for scraps. All of them were waiting for some dashing lord to ask their daughter to dance, and then the epic romance between their daughter and the lord would commence, wherein their daughter would be proved to be lovely enough to redeem the family, both financially and socially. But reality was nothing like French novels, and the wallflowers sat largely ignored.

  Eve seated herself, tucked her ankles under her seat and placed her gloved hands upon her lap. She was the perfect picture of beauty and femininity. Her hair was jet-black and bound up in tight ringlets. Her eyes were blue and sparked with life and intellect. Her skin was cloud-white, and her mouth was small and pursed. She would have looked cynical and supercilious, had her eyes not been kind as well as intellectual.

  Mother and Auntie sat either side of her, looking around the party like the other hungry, older women. Eve conversed with the other wallflowers about topics appropriate to a ballroom setting for young ladies looking for husbands, but not wishing to appear too eager. They talked of garb, flowers, housekeeping, children - all topics that bored Eve greatly. She had been taken in by this fellow Napoleon, and the war that had been spreading across Europe. She thought him awfully dreadful and was glad he had finally been beaten and Britain’s men restored to her. But though it was dreadful, it was also wonderfully fascinating. But she knew so little of it; she only knew about it at all by eavesdropping when the vicar visited Mother at home, something he had done twice a week since Father’s death. “Waterloo… Awful business… So many of God’s children taken…”