She knocked on Dashiell’s white front door, quite an unassuming entrance for the so-called Babylon. Rivers, the earl’s reed-thin, graying butler, answered and looked down at her with weary eyes, like an old man who had seen too much. Behind him was a museum of antiquity and curiosities. Japanese warrior masks, Viking helmets, and various armor from around the globe ran up the stairwell. In the hall stood an upright wooden Egyptian coffin painted with an image of the poor bloke once entombed within it.
“You lying, cruel-hearted scoundrel!” a woman screamed out from an opened door on the first-floor balcony. “You can go back to hell and crawl up the Devil’s arse where you belong!”
Vivienne’s veins pulsed with excitement. Oh no, what has Dashiell done now?
The butler didn’t react, his face as blank as ever, as if this were just another ordinary day in the Earl of Baswiche’s household.
“Good morning, Mr. Rivers.” She smiled, pretending not to hear the violent stream of curses ringing out in the high ceiling. “It’s been several months since I’ve last seen you, but I must say, you look to be in good health.”
“Thank you, Miss,” he answered in a deep monotone. “I’m afraid Lord Dashiell is engaged at the moment.”
***
“Why the hell did I come back for this?” Dashiell muttered between gritted teeth. He had been in England only a few weeks and already he was embroiled in an ugly romantic entanglement—one that might have flustered a more proper gentleman. However, after having survived being kidnapped, ransomed, robbed, drugged, and held at the point of knives, guns, and other weaponry in stinking bum holes around the globe, two cracked women on the verge of killing him or each other was just an annoyance.
“I think we all need to calm down.” He held up the palm of one hand and gripped his falling trousers with the other.
“Mad lady need to calm down,” spat his lovely French ballerina, pointing an ornate medieval executioner’s sword at the other woman’s creamy throat. Her lithe dancer’s body was clad in Dashiell’s coat, which she had snatched off the floor when Mrs. Lily Harmon rushed into his chamber—an angry flurry of gold silk and red hair—and interrupted their lovemaking.
Dashiell wasn’t concerned with Lily’s threatened throat, but the bust of his precious gray-eyed goddess Athena that Lily held over her head. “Lily, take several deep breaths and think about what you are doing. Three thousand years ago, some craftsman put his soul into creating that Athena. The soil of Greece has preserved her all this time. Her history is far greater than this tiny misunderstanding.”
“How philosophical of you,” Lily said, a wicked grin spreading over her mouth, and she dropped Athena, letting the goddess of wisdom shatter on the floor.
Dashiell emitted a gut-wrenching groan akin to the cry of a wounded wolf. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you what is wrong with me!” Lily screamed. “I waited for you all night. And the whole time, you were with… with… that dancing whore!”
“You ugly dog woman!” The ballerina threw the sword. The blade made a limp arc in the air, missing Mrs. Harmon entirely and slamming into the Roman frieze of Minerva that Dashiell had dug up in Bath. Crumbling stone showered the floor.
“Everyone just stop!” Dashiell thundered, holding up his hands, causing his trousers to fall. “Dammit!” He quickly snatched them up again.
“You assured me your husband was in Manchester with his mistress,” he told Mrs. Harmon, fumbling with the buttons on his trousers. “So I showed up at your house last night like you asked. And do you know who greeted me? Your ten-year-old son.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” Fear and uncertainty began to shade Mrs. Harmon’s eyes.
“He thought I was Sir Harry and then asked if you were going to leave his papa and run away with me.”
And it was at that moment—having to reassure a weeping son that his papa and mama would love him no matter what might happen—that what Lily had promised him would only be a “fun” flirtation turned sour. He had fled her house, running down Drury Lane, feeling as if his skin was on fire. He dove into a theater and disappeared into the crowd on the ground floor. As the ballerinas whirled on the stage in flowing white skirts, he got lost in remembrances of his parents’ famed dalliances, and then his own sordid affairs with women. From there, he continued to emotionally spiral downward, which explained the beautiful French ballerina in his bed.
“You’re lying.” Mrs. Harmon shook her head, her curls flapping about her cheeks. “My son knows nothing about you. About anyone.”
“I think you would be shocked to learn what a child knows about his parents’ infidelities.” Dashiell took a deep breath, bracing himself for the impending violence. “You said it would be an uncomplicated affair. No emotions involved. But I think you were wrong, and we shouldn’t continue this… whatever this is.”
She was silent for a beat, the shock setting in. Then hurt and rage contorted her face. “You hateful duddering rake!” She snatched up a vase and scurried out the door.
“Bloody hell!” He chased after her. “That’s a canopic jar with Pharaoh Cheops’s liver in it. I paid twenty camels for that!”
Lily gave a bark of hysterical laughter and tossed the relic over the banister as she rushed down the stairs. Shattering pottery rang in the air.
“Noooo!” screamed a new female voice.
Dear God, not another one! Priesthood in some remote monastery in the Swiss Alps seemed very appealing at the moment. He jolted to a halt on the top stair.
Vivienne Taylor stood by the door, cradling a clay tablet in her arms like a jealous mama. Her shiny black hair had grown longer since last he had seen her and curled in tame spirals by her cheeks. Her high cheekbones were flushed a beautiful pink and her eyes glittered like pale emeralds in firelight. His heart felt like it dove out of his skin. He kept forgetting she wasn’t a roly-poly, mischievous, innocent girl any more, but this ravishing, mischievous, innocent lady.
“Not this one,” Vivienne told Mrs. Harmon, clutching the tablet to her breasts. “It’s Persian and very, very old. Why don’t you throw something else, like that frie—” She stopped mid-word. He saw her eyes light on his naked torso and a dark erotic wave of heat rushed over his skin.
Dammit, she’s your little sister. Get a hold of yourself.
He snatched a black and white spotted Zulu shield from the stairwell and covered himself. “I… I didn’t know you were coming.” He tried to sound casual.
Meanwhile, Lily had seized a porcelain clock from the Chinese writing desk and hurled it at his temple. He raised his shield, and the timepiece bounced off cowhide and smashed on the railing, raining tiny metal parts onto the floor.
“I hope one day someone breaks your heart into as many pieces,” the lady spat.
“No one will be able to break my heart if you kill me first,” he pointed out. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Taylor, but would you mind returning at another time? I’m being murdered at the present.”
“Let her stay,” he heard his little French dancer say. “Be good lesson for her.” She stood at the top of the balcony, his coat barely covering her female regions.
He peeked at Vivienne. What must she be thinking?
Vivienne’s bright gaze darted from him, to the ballerina, to Lily, and she burst out in laughter.
“Do you find watching someone have their heart broken amusing?” Lily cried, approaching Vivienne with a rather deadly swagger in her hips, ready to unleash her fury.
“Lily, leave her alone.” Dashiell leaped over the stairwell, and his foot landed on a shard of broken glass. “Damnation!” He grabbed his toe and yelped in pain, but no one paid him any attention.
“You are quite an exquisite creature,” Lily purred, running her finger down Vivienne’s cheek. “I wager you think that your beautiful face will hold some sway on this scoundrel. But let me save you some grief, my love. This rogue cares more about that precious Persian clay tablet in your arms than
his own mother. Soon he will destroy your heart and bring tears to your pretty little eyes, just as he did all the countless ladies before you.”
Vivienne regarded Lily for a moment. Then she tilted her head and said, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think Lord Dashiell can break my heart. For I am engaged.”
“Engaged?” Dashiell echoed sharply.
A lovely, joyous smile graced her lips that made her dimples come out of hiding. His heart dropped like a dead bird from a branch.
“Yes,” she gushed.
He had never seen her gush. He didn’t like it. He wanted little Vivienne back—the one who idolized him.
“I know, you feel sorry for the poor gentleman, don’t you?” she said.
“No. It’s just… just…” He swallowed. He always knew he would lose his little sister to another. She deserved to fall in love with someone who would be faithful and bring her a lifetime of happiness. The kind of man Dashiell could never be. But instead of congratulating her, he stood swaying on his bloody feet, clutching his Zulu shield to his heart, bereft, while Lily laughed at him from deep in her throat.
“Best wishes for you and the lucky gentleman,” he finally managed.
“Thank you.” She swept forward and handed him his treasured Persian tablet. “I came to tell you that your grandfather is in my aunt’s garden and insists on disturbing our Bible lessons on being a virtuous wife. Did you know such a wife is expected to rise before dawn, go out to the merchant ships to buy foods from afar, purchase fields, and plant crops? And if that isn’t enough, she must also sew tapestries, spin linen, flax, and wool, and then sell them. I think that is a bit excessive. You would wonder what her virtuous husband is doing, wouldn’t you?”
The room fell silent as the other ladies stared at Vivienne, baffled. But Dashiell, who always found her odd observations endearing, struggled to keep a straight face.
“Anyway, I should go. My Aunt Gertrude thinks I’ll get corrupted here.” Vivienne performed an abrupt bob of a curtsy and turned to leave. At the door jamb, she glanced over her shoulder, a devilish spark rallied in her eyes. “Oh, I should mention that your grandfather has no clothes on.”
“What?” Dashiell yelled. The precious clay tablet slipped from his grasp. He dropped the shield and caught the relic at the same moment the shield slammed his already injured toe. His howling curse was concealed by the raucous laughter ringing through the hall.
The earl sauntered upon the scene, his robe loose, his percy hanging free.
“You should have seen old Trudie.” He cackled. “I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. You can tell she ain’t seen a man in a long time.”
Dashiell slicked his hand down his face and wondered if the morning could get any worse.
***
Vivienne quickly closed the door, but not before hearing another colorful snatch of Dashiell’s profanity. She put her palm over her mouth, trying to stem the flow of laughter that gurgled up. Her nerves still crackled from the sight of Dashiell’s bare chest, stripped all the way down his torso. He put to shame all those illustrations of naked men she had found in the medical journals at the library.
“Miss Taylor! What in God’s name are you doing coming out of Lord Dashiell’s home?”
Vivienne’s laughter disappeared with a gasp. John Vandergrift waited by her aunt’s front step, holding a package that was tied with large looping pink ribbons. Under his neat mustache, his mouth dropped open in shock and his chiseled features pinched in disapproval. In contrast to Dashiell’s tousled appearance—even when completely clothed—John was fastidious in his dress and manner. His sage coat molded to his well-formed shoulders without a single wrinkle. His reddish-blond hair curled neatly below the brim of his high hat. “Come away this instant before anyone sees you!” he hissed.
“Oh God,” Vivienne muttered. She had made another stupid mistake, and after she promised her father she wouldn’t.
Just three weeks before, two men in coats with the seams straining around their bulging muscles had arrived at their door in Birmingham. Their blank reptilian eyes had raked over the house and then Vivienne and her sisters, twin smirks cutting the corners of their lips.
“Nice place ’ere, wouldn’t be thinking this bloke don’t have a tanner,” one of them had said and then jerked his head toward Vivienne. “Tell you wat, if he don’t pay, we kin share this pretty ’un. But he can have them ugly girls with ’im in debtor’s prison.”
Papa had no choice but to welcome the filthy scoundrels into his library. Outside the door, Vivienne could hear the crash of chairs being toppled over and ugly threats from the men about how they were going to hurt him. After they left, she found him slumped over his desk, his bruised face buried in his hands.
“When you go to the Vandergrifts’ party… you remember to give his son some pretty smiles,” he had said in a weak voice.
Vivienne went to the party. Her lips hurt from smiling for so long, but a week later, a miracle occurred on the magnitude of burning bushes and parting seas. John proposed. That night, her father made her kneel before him. He clutched her hands in his and the perspiration on his red forehead glistened in the lamplight.
“Vivienne, promise me you’ll make him a perfect wife, that you won’t cause any more trouble.”
She kissed his fingers. “I promise, Papa.”
“And for God’s sake, don’t tell him about our financial troubles. Understand? I just need enough work to make a payment. Then we can get on our feet.”
She searched her father’s face, crinkled with lines of worry. “H-have I made you proud, Papa?”
His lips twitched. “Yes,” he conceded for the first time in her life.
Well, he certainly wouldn’t be proud of her at this moment. She rushed down the walk to John. “I can explain. You see, Lord Dashiell’s grandfather was in Aunt Gertrude’s garden. He had no clo—I mean, he was acting most peculiar. I hurried over and spoke to their butler regarding the matter. Lord Dashiell had guests, so I really didn’t converse with him, except to exchange a few words like ‘Hello,’ ‘How are you,’ ‘What a fascinating mummy tomb.’ The usual things.” She gave a hollow, false laugh, trying to make a joke of the moment.
John didn’t laugh. His eyes were like hot blue flames. “Did he touch you?” He spoke in the same stern tone her father used when he wasn’t pleased with something she had done… which until recently covered all her activities aside from breathing, eating, and sleeping.
“Of course not,” she said feebly, even as she remembered touching Dashiell’s fingers when she gave him back the Persian tablet and how the feel of his skin sent a current of hot electricity through her body.
“Vivienne, you’re going to be the wife of a consequential man. Your behavior reflects on me. You can’t just pop harem-scarem into bachelors’ homes… and certainly not Lord Dashiell’s. What were you thinking?”
She couldn’t say she was dying to see her old friend whom she had been secretly meeting for the last ten years.
“I-I made a mistake,” she said, and latched onto his free arm. “That is all.”
He studied her face. “You are a most beautiful creature. Tell me my father isn’t right, that I haven’t acted rashly by asking for your hand.”
Oh, Lord! If John jilted her, well, she wouldn’t be able to go home. She couldn’t tell her father that she had ruined him. “I said I made a mistake!” she cried. “I-I love you!”
A smile broke across his handsome face. “Say those last words again.”
She let out a long breath. “I love you.”
He peeked at either side of the street, checking to make sure the square was empty, and then brushed her cheek with his lips, a pleasant tickling sensation that caused her to giggle.
“I brought you something, my pet.” He handed her the package.
In their few weeks together, she had learned that he didn’t hesitate to lay down large sums at tailors, carriage makers, or wine merchants. “Only buy the
finest,” he had told her with a sparkle in his eyes, as if his words were a compliment to her. Vivienne’s belly squirmed in the knowledge that she had to conceal from him for her family’s sake—she wasn’t the finest; in fact, she was a desperate bargain.
“You are too good to me,” she said. She pulled the pink ribbon loose and the paper unfolded around a beautiful leather volume. The Ethereal Graces of the Delicate Sex: Being a handbook on the proper conduct of young ladies upon entering society and consequentially marriage, by Mrs. Beatrice Smith-Figgle.
“Oh no…” she muttered, before she could stop herself.
John’s brows creased.
“I mean, oh yes!” she cried. “Oh yes! What a lovely gift!”
“I thought of you when I saw it.” He took the book from her hands and opened it. There were small pieces of paper with his handwriting in the creases. “I’ve even marked the sections to which you should pay special attention.”
She swallowed the sour taste in her throat. “Thank you. I shall endeavor to memorize every word.” In truth, she already knew it by heart. Her former headmistress had made her stand before the class and recite long passages from the book after she had sewed hieroglyphs into her sampler and turned in her French assignment in the misshapen Greek that she had tried to teach herself.
“Now, let’s go inside. Maybe your aunt will give us a moment alone.”
“I should warn you that Aunt Gertrude is conducting her Bible lesson.” She gave him a gentle nudge in his ribs. “Those ladies are going to fawn all over you.”
A teasing smile played on his lips. “I have no objection to ladies fawning over me.”
She gave a soft laugh as she wrapped a proprietary hand around his elbow and led him to her aunt’s door. In the corner of her eye, she saw the red-headed woman rush out from Dashiell’s house, clutching a yellow and black Greek vase. Blood rushed to her face. She yanked John inside and slammed the door just as the lady threw the ancient vase on the pavement and screamed, “You lying blackguard!”
Wicked Little Secrets Page 2