John was a fool if he thought he could knock Dashiell to the pavement, she thought.
Dashiell was a panther of a man. Sleek, dark, and honed.
He lifted the edge of his hat. His brown eyes sparkled in the darkness, feral, almost dangerous, though she felt no fear, just the quickening of her blood with anticipation. That most private place inside her, that place where supposedly all men wanted to put their cucumber, pulsed.
“What do you want with me?” His voice was a husky whisper.
She intended to say something rational, about the diary and Jenkinson and that he probably shouldn’t look at her that way, but all that came out was some strange string of vowels. She swallowed and tried again, “You mean something illicit, don’t you?”
He leaned down until his face was near hers. She could feel the heat of his body on her skin. “That’s mostly why I meet ladies in an alley, my little butter biscuit.”
Oh Lord, she could kiss him, she had just to lean a little closer and those lips, oh those lips would be on hers, tasting her, teasing her, sating this madness and—
What are you doing? You are engaged to John! Remember him?
She took a big step backward. “Uncle Jeremiah could be the foulest, most disgusting, and vilest of men. But I’m not sure!” The words burst out of her.
“Really? I just learned he was an irreproachable stiff-rump.”
“Oh, please don’t say that word ‘rump’ or I think I will be positively sick. I found his diary in a secret locked compartment in his desk.” She pulled the volume from the wooden box. The sausage casing was stuck on the cover. “And I found this other thing. It was hidden with his diary. Maybe it means something.” She held up the casing to the dim gaslight.
“Vivienne, that’s armor.”
“Armor?” She shook her head, confused. “Like a man wears to war?”
“No, like a man wears on his… you know… when he is doing… things.”
“You are making no sense. What kind of things? Murder things? Blackmail things?”
“Lovemaking things.”
The meaning exploded in her mind. “Are you saying my Uncle Jeremiah wore this on his… his… his…” She dropped the armor and screamed. Dashiell’s lips were on hers in a twinkle of a second.
Oh!!
Oh.
Ohhhh.
The warm softness of his lips sent a hot, heady wave through her that silenced her thoughts. Everything was him. The hard contours of his chest and the tingle of her nipples as they rubbed against him, the taste of his tongue as it caressed the tip of hers, while his thigh pushed between her limbs, invading her, seeking that place inside her that throbbed, deep and wet. She was free-falling, all her muscles giving way to his touch. His hand rose up her back, pushing her against him. He filled her with his musky pine and cardamom scent mingled with brandy, cigar smoke, and something sweet, like ladies’ perfume.
Ladies’ perfume! It felt like the sun burned in her head, incinerating her brain. What was she doing?
She pushed his chest, slamming him against the wall. Her throat was so tight it hurt to breathe. “John says I’m not supposed to speak to you anymore,” she cried.
“What? You were the one who wanted to meet in the alley. Maybe I’m wrong, but I assumed that would entail speaking.” Then he laughed—that rake had the gall to laugh, a thick vicious sound. “Or maybe that wasn’t your intention. After all, you were the one with the armor.”
The roar of rushing blood filled her ears. He had said just a few words too many. Something broke inside her; some wall crashed to the ground. “Aren’t you clever? Standing there, reeking of perfume. No doubt you were in some brothel like Seven Heavens before you came here. Who knows, maybe you ran into John? Maybe you two had a little orgy of prostitutes.”
“Can you keep your voice down? I really don’t want to be arrested.”
“I think it would be an interesting little experiment to go door-to-door in the square and see how many men are actually at home with their wives—their perfect wives—and how many are with some woman under a dark bush in Hyde Park with thingies on their things.”
He pulled her back to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her, as if to subdue her. “Hush, love.”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t call me love! Don’t… don’t…” In all decency she should pull away, but his arms felt so safe and gentle, like being tucked under a layer of warm blankets as the early morning rain pattered on the window.
“Now tell me what is the matter,” he whispered, running his palm soothingly down her loose curls.
“I found an Adele Jenkinson in Uncle Jeremiah’s diary. They knew each other.” She pressed the diary into his chest, but couldn’t bring herself to describe what she found there.
“I can’t read it out here. Follow me.” He took her hand, squeezed it, and led her around to the back gate of his mews. “Wait,” he said and slipped inside.
The horses stared at him as he took a brass lantern from the wall. Outside, Vivienne waited, her arms wrapped tight around her. The beautiful golden light spilled into the courtyard, illuminating her face. He had the urge to draw her to him again; he wanted to feel the exhilaration of her touch, disappear in her scent and lips again.
But she must have sensed the danger, for when he stepped closer, she edged away from him and held the diary out, pinched between her two fingers, like it was fouled baby cloth, careful that her fingers did not accidentally touch his.
He opened the diary and read aloud. “Pauline was a naughty jeune fille and needed a smart spanking. I gave each cheek a good—” He burst into laughter. “Hi ho, old Bertis was a spanker! This is fine, indeed.”
“Is this normal?” Vivienne asked, her face a tense ball of angst and confusion. “Is this how men behave? Do you go around spanking women?”
“No!” That wasn’t entirely correct. “I mean, not unless they want me to.”
She shook her head. “I’m so stupid, so ignorant of a man’s world.”
“You might be shocked how very little there is to it.”
She studied him. “Why do you smell like ladies’ perfume and spirits? Where were you before you came here?”
“Do you really want to know the vile, revolting truth?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Let’s see,” he said, rubbing his chin, pretending to be serious. “I went to Christie’s and bought a painting.” He left off irrelevant details such as it was a nude by Lawrence James and the model’s eyes glittered all seductive and beautiful just like Vivienne’s in the dancing lantern light. “Then I went to a club with a solicitor where several ladies, reeking of perfume, came up to greet me. I ordered some crank and asked the solicitor about Jeremiah Bertis. Then I—and this is where it really gets depraved, you may want to cover your ears—I came home and kissed a hysterical lady in an alley to keep her quiet.”
Vivienne’s shoulders drooped. “I’m bad, aren’t I?”
“Not as bad as your uncle.”
“I’m just so confused about everything, Uncle Bertis… and… and… John.” He brushed her cheek. The feel of his skin on hers felt so lovely, yet she had to turn away. “I shouldn’t let you do that. I belong to another and you know it.”
A breeze blew down the alley. She shivered. The night was suddenly somber and colder, though nothing had radically changed in the weather.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She nodded. For a few seconds, they said nothing, just listened to the sounds of London at night: distant curses, the clomp and rattle of traffic, and an occasional nightingale.
“Is spanking normal in relations between a man and a lady?” Vivienne asked again.
“Maybe a fun pat or as a little lovemaking game, but not to the extent your uncle did. This is quite perverse and, frankly, embarrassing.”
“Do you suppose Mrs. Jenkinson has letters from him with accounts of how he spanked her? I know I would pay most dearly to keep that silent.”
“The problem is that we don’t know because we haven’t seen what is in the envelopes that your aunt receives. We can’t go to Mrs. Jenkinson and say that we know Jeremiah spanked women. Because that might have nothing to do with the blackmail—or if it even is blackmail. Then we would be giving her more material to use against your aunt and no evidence for us to prosecute her.”
“I have to get in Aunt Gertrude’s room and find the letters, which is almost impossible since she never leaves home except to go to church.”
“And if she had any sense she would burn them.” He paused. “Did you say you found this diary in a secret compartment?”
“Yes, I knew to look there because his desk is like my father’s at home.”
“So, Bertis hid his perversion, because if he were found out, he would be ridiculed in society and lose his stature as a judge. No doubt he didn’t expect to drop dead on Holborn eating a pigeon pie. He probably always assumed he had time to destroy the diary.” Dashiell slapped the book against his palm, “How many women do you think are in this book? Fifteen? How come none of them came forward before?”
“Because he held something over them!”
“Most likely. Did Jeremiah keep copies of The Proceedings for the years he was a judge?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Dammit, I’ll have to go down to Old Bailey and check the records.”
“No, no, not you. You have done enough. This is not your problem.”
“Vivienne, you can’t go to Old Bailey alone,” he said in a weary voice. “It’s a dangerous place for an unescorted lady. The trials are on, people milling about drunk and bloodthirsty to see hangings.”
“But I’m not supposed to sp—”
“—speak to me,” Dashiell finished. “Yes, I know. So why don’t you ask John to escort you?” He asked it innocently, yet sarcasm boiled beneath his words. “Perhaps he would like to beat up a ruffian for you too?”
“You know I can’t,” she cried. “You-you saw what he is like.”
Dashiell opened his hands, palms up. “I’m your Charon between the worlds, love. You want to put yourself in the most dangerous places in London, then you’re going have to get on my boat and let me carry you or, preferably, let me handle it alone.”
She groaned and flung up her arm. “I’ll tell Aunt Gertrude I’m going to a lecture or something. But after that, we can never meet again. This time, I mean it.”
***
The next morning, Dashiell’s eyes shot open, his heart racing. The dim, coal-laden light of early morning peeked through the tops of his windows.
Vivienne had left him last evening after making him agree to “accidently” run into her at two in the afternoon by the gates of Old Bailey. After they parted, Dashiell’s emotions were crumpled in a tight wad and his nerves were jumpy with pent-up energy. He downed two glasses of brandy but couldn’t quench his thirst. Her kiss, her taste, her smell had unleashed a primal hunger and now he couldn’t get her out of his mind… or his sex.
He had resolved to go out and find some green-eyed, raven-haired beauty to relieve him of his frustration, so that when he met Vivienne today, every ounce of that pesky desire would be drained from his body. Yet the hearth coals in his chamber had wafted their drowsy lulling heat, and his down mattress felt so comforting, and the Italian Vivienne had stared seductively at him from where he had temporarily propped her by his bed. He shut his eyes, determined to nap for a few minutes, but the soothing tide of excellent brandy swept him back to the feel of Vivienne’s lips, and he sank into dream land, where his rational mind couldn’t venture and stop him from feeling her bare, silky smooth skin below his as he moved inside her. How she shut those glittery eyes, and her thighs trembled as she cried out in pleasure.
Then somewhere in the early morning, the sensual dream had turned to nightmare, and he had woken up with a start, his heart pounding, his body bathed in sweat. Oh god, I’ve bedded her! Terror like the twenty-four hours he’d spent as a hostage down in a dried well in Persia assailed him. He had to run, to get away from here. Then he saw Italian Vivienne still staring at him at her place by his bed. It was a dream, he realized, gasping air as if he had just finished running a race. A dream.
He fumbled for the pocket watch he left on the table and squinted, trying to make out the hands.
Six twenty. Bloody hell. He was usually just wandering home at this ungodly hour.
He groaned, kicked off the covers, and sat on the edge of his bed. “This is your fault,” he accused the Italian Vivienne. He pulled his banyan off an obliging stone goddess in the corner and headed down to the water closet.
It was after nine when his grandfather sauntered home. Dashiell, now barbered and wearing a somber gray coat and trousers, was preoccupied with hanging Italian Vivienne. Not an easy project, as it meant finding space on his already cluttered wall, and he didn’t trust his servants to move his precious archeological babies. He stood high on a ladder, holding a brass picture hook, the painting dangling from a wire. Below, Rivers and two footmen were debating how much more to the left the painting needed to move.
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to marry Vivienne and put her in your bed?” his grandfather quipped, surveying the slabs of hieroglyphics, broken pieces of frescoes and friezes, and various paintings set about the floor awaiting new homes.
The footmen’s lips trembled with repressed laughter.
“Pardon us,” Dashiell barked at the servants, then regretted it. Vivienne was fraying his nerves. The men scurried out, their faces tensed with worry. After all, if Dashiell let them go, they would have to find work in a “normal” home, which might actually keep account of the amount of wine they drank, insist on no relations with female servants, and demand that they serve meals other than breakfast.
“This does not look at all like Vivienne,” Dashiell said, stepping down from the ladder. “Stop talking like that. And don’t go about telling everyone that I love her.”
“Love isn’t something to be ashamed of,” the earl stated. “It’s the subject of art and poetry and all those damn plays Shakespeare foisted on us. How is it the French get that amusing Molière chap and we get Shakespeare?”
“This is not a contemplation of art or theater,” Dashiell said. “If you say that I love her again, I’m not reading any more parliamentary bills or writing speeches for you. Nor will I talk sense into the next jealous lover who wants to put a bullet through your head. Have I made myself clear?”
The earl shrugged, showing no indication of concern. Instead, he walked over to the commode, poured a brandy, and swished it around in his mouth. “So why were you talking with Teakesbury last night?” he asked. “I didn’t think you two were friends.”
“We’re not.” Dashiell hesitated, choosing his next words carefully, as his grandfather had a propensity to hear things that Dashiell had never uttered. “We were just talking about Teakesbury’s law business. I didn’t know he had such an extensive career. He even worked on some cases that were brought before Judge Bertis.” Dashiell tried to sound humdrum, as if he could have as easily talked about the Queen’s Cabinet appointments or the price of wheat.
“Is that so?” his grandfather asked, not taking his grandson’s bait.
So Dashiell needed to be more direct. “What do you remember about Bertis?”
“Is this because you’re in love with his niece?”
“Look, I warned you. The next man who wants to fight you, I will just give him my gun.”
The earl examined the refraction of sunlight on his glass. “He was an arse. The day we moved in, I passed him in the square. I bowed and introduced myself, being the neighborly sort. I told him about the fire at our Berkeley Square home, and how we were going to live here for a while until we could rebuild. He just said, ‘I’m glad it’s of a temporary nature.’ No ‘Welcome to the square,’ or ‘Have you met my wife?’ Hell, it was a least a month after I arrived that I first saw Gertrude. The poor girl looked nearly as worn
out and broken as she does today.”
“Did you ever hear of Judge Bertis being involved with other women in some perhaps deviant manner—say, like spanking.”
The earl’s eyes widened. “Jeremiah was a spanker?”
Dashiell held up his palm. “I didn’t say that. I just asked if you knew of him involved in suspect behavior with perhaps equally suspect women.”
The earl began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. His nostrils flared with his hard breathing. “I knew something wasn’t right with him by the way he treated Trudie.”
“What do you mean? Did he abuse her? Beat her?”
“I would say he didn’t touch her. I felt sorry for her. She was unhappy in bed.”
Dashiell studied his grandfather. In his pale gray eyes, he saw something, a tender emotion. “Tell me, why didn’t you move back to Berkeley Square after you rebuilt our home there? Have you and Gertrude—”
“I’ve never touched Gertrude!” his grandfather shouted, as if Dashiell had questioned his honor as a gentleman. “It’s nice here, you know.” The earl tugged at his cravat, his eyes averted from his grandson’s. “Quiet. Look, there is something you need to know,” the earl said finally, with a deep reverence in his voice.
For a moment, Dashiell thought he was going to impart some terrible family secret involving Gertrude. That she was his lost sister or something. Dashiell wouldn’t be surprised. He always suspected he was related to half of England.
“Son, I’m a seer into the feminine soul.”
“A what?” Dashiell should have known his grandfather was incapable of a serious discussion. He could gain greater insight conversing with a hyena about the reasons for the collapse of the Roman Empire.
“It’s a family gift,” his grandfather admitted. “You’ve got it too.”
Dashiell rubbed his forehead. “Well then, I should make myself a little sign and go sell my clairvoyant powers in Covent Garden. I’m sure my man of business will be thrilled with the additional income.”
Wicked Little Secrets Page 9