Wicked Little Secrets

by Ives, Susanna

  “What… what are these? How did you get them?”

  “They are the work of Lawrence James.”

  “James?” Vivienne shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’ve never met the man.”

  “Ah, but he knew you,” Fontaine said. “He followed you his whole life. He was always saying what a lovely girl you were.” She paused. “He was so proud of his daughter.”

  “What? How dare you! My mother loved my father. She was a saint. She is dead and—”

  “Dead?” The madam hiked a brow. “Oh, no, no. Your mother Gertrude Bertis is very much alive and she is no saint, despite what she would have you believe.”

  Heat rushed to Vivienne’s head. “No.”

  “Twenty-three years ago, Lawrence impregnated Gertrude Collins. Lawrence was turned out of his house, and Gertrude sent away with her married sister, Cassandra, to the country. When Gertrude came back to London, she didn’t have a baby, but her sister did. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”

  “No, you are wrong!” Vivienne screamed at her. “You must be!”

  “Am I, Vivienne?” The madam regarded Vivienne for a moment, her eyes black and impenetrable. “Did you always feel like you didn’t belong in your own family? That you were never good enough for them or like them?” She stepped closer and the planks under the carpet creaked. “Lawrence would see you walking around the square at Gertrude’s for hours after the judge had punished you. You looked so forlorn. He wanted to steal you away.” She gave a small cough as if something were blocking her throat. “He loved you.”

  “No,” Vivienne murmured, shaking her head.

  “Surely you know about the masterpieces of his that were stolen. Well, two of them were of a beautiful girl with black hair and green eyes. You, my dear. You were his masterpiece.”

  Vivienne paused, letting the words sink in. “H-how did you know Lawrence James?”

  Fontaine crossed to Frederick’s cage and poked her finger inside. The bird attached himself to it and declared his usual sentiment.

  “Let me guess, you fancied yourself in love with Dashiell,” Fontaine said. “So you threw yourself at him, thinking you were different from the other women he’s had, but then, like the others, he left you. A story that grows wearisome from being told too many times.”

  Vivienne’s anger flared. She was tired of being toyed with. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, I did.” She turned. “It’s the same way I knew Lawrence, except over the course of twenty years.”

  Fontaine’s eyes focused on the empty cushion beside Vivienne, as if she were talking to an invisible person. “I recognized his talent,” she said and beat into her chest with her balled hand. “I supported him, I whispered his name in the ears of men to show his work, I fed him, I clothed him, I made him famous. I listened to him go on and on about his love for Gertrude. And do you know what he gave to me?” She was almost screaming, her eyes turning dark and glossy.

  Vivienne was too terrified to speak. She could only shake her head. She was surprised James managed to stay with this woman an hour, much less twenty years.

  “Nothing!” Fontaine cried. “He left me for one of my girls. A mere baby. He married her. He gave her all his work. It was mi—” Fontaine stopped herself.

  It was mine, Vivienne finished in her head.

  The madam let out a ragged breath. “Now, you needn’t worry about anything,” she said with a forced sweet tone, clearly changing the subject. “If you listen to me, you’ll have plenty of money to send to your father. He will be indebted to you.”

  ***

  Dashiell cursed and rubbed his head, which still ached dully from the previous evening’s indulgence. How could he have slept so long? Poor Vivienne was probably beside herself.

  He knelt on the floor of his library, staring at the family jewelry and the other antique treasures in his safe, searching for an engagement ring. He held a ruby and diamond ring to the lamplight. Something wasn’t right about it. It was too staid, too normal, not exotic or mysterious enough for Vivienne. Nonetheless, he set it in the box by his knee and dug deeper in the vault, pulling out his great-grandmother’s sapphire and diamond rings, a gold pendant of unknown origin, two Egyptian amulets, a Celtic brooch, a Roman beaded bracelet, and an emerald necklace. He dropped them in the box alongside the ruby ring. He would give them all to her when he proposed—no, pleaded—for her hand.

  “You look handsome, son,” he heard his grandfather say. He stood just inside the doorway, a somber expression on his face. He wore a black suit with a striped gray and white waistcoat. His hair looked different. It wasn’t tangled wildly about his head as usual. “I’m proud of you… well, proud that you’re getting married, not that you deflowered Vivienne and then cried about it to that minister. I thought that was a bit excessive.”

  “Let’s just leave that all in the past and not mention it again.”

  “Pardon, my lords,” Rivers said. He stood in the corridor outside the door. “Mrs. Bertis is here.”

  “Oh, hell,” Dashiell blurted. “I’m going to get a righteous earful.”

  “Don’t worry, son. I don’t recall Adam and Eve having a wedding before they made those sons of theirs. They were just walking about the garden naked and feeling no shame.”

  Dashiell looked at him askew. “Been reading the Bible, have you?”

  “I figure since Trudie and I are going to be in-laws, we ought to have something we can talk about over the dinner table.”

  “Tell her we’ll be down directly,” Dashiell told the butler.

  Rivers cleared his voice. “She’s in your bedchamber, my lord.”

  “What in hell!” Dashiell dashed from the room, his grandfather jogging behind him.

  They found Gertrude pacing about his room, using her cane to open the clothespress and tap the drawers. The panel on the wall was removed and the bedside table overturned. Garth was sniffing about the Persian carpet, not far from a round wet spot.

  “I wager you thought you were clever,” she hissed. “Well, I guessed your dirty secret.” Dashiell looked at Gertrude with her expansive bosom and figure roped in by her tight corset and then the hole in the wall. How did she manage it? On the other hand, Gertrude’s tubby housekeeper seemed subject to the laws of nature and couldn’t do more than poke her head through.

  Dashiell’s eyes flicked to the Italian Gertrude, formerly Vivienne, hanging on his wall, relieved to find it still concealed behind a blanket.

  “Where is she?” Gertrude demanded, waving her staff in the air. “You will not corrupt her. You will not tease her, tempt her, make her show you her… her nether regions.” She whacked his statue of naked Aphrodite with her cane, knocking off the grapes the goddess dangled from her fingers.

  “Stop!” Dashiell cried.

  “My little Vivvie!” she cried, unconcerned for the damage she had wrought on antiquity. “Where are you? I’ve come to rescue you from this Babylon, from this temple of Baal.”

  Dashiell took a deep breath and launched into his rehearsed speech. “Mrs. Bertis, I want you to know that I adore your niece. And—Ow! Put that cane down.” He rubbed his calf where she had struck him.

  “Be quiet, you foot soldier of Satan,” Gertrude spat and lifted the edge of his bed covers to peer beneath the bed. “Produce her immediately. You will not keep her in your shameful den of flesh.”

  “She’s not here,” Dashiell said.

  “What do you mean, she’s not here?”

  He paused and then answered slowly, “She’s not physically present in my Babylon, my temple of Baal, my den of flesh. Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t believe you!” Gertrude shrieked. “You have her. I know you do. Ever since she’s been here, you’ve wanted to see her neat little ankles, her lacy drawers. You dream of her lacy drawers, don’t you?”

  “That may be true,” Dashiell said, worry beginning to settle in his chest. “But she’s not here. Is she missing?”

&nb
sp; “No, she’s not missing,” Gertrude answered. “I’ve… I’ve merely misplaced her.” The woman’s nostrils contracted with quick sharp sniffs and her lips quivered. “She’s supposed to go home today to her papa. The ladies from the church have been searching about the square for nearly an hour.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “My poor child.” She pressed her palm to her face. “Banks, I need my medicine.”

  “Don’t you be a’worryin’, but I’m a bit stuck.” Miss Banks took a large breath and yanked herself free, tumbling back into her home.

  “Now Trudie, don’t you upset yourself.” His grandfather took Gertrude’s arm. “You don’t need any of those tonics or elixirs. What you need is a good man to take care of you.” He led her to the mattress, sitting her down on the edge. The woman was too upset to fight. “You just rest here and let my grandson find her. I’m sure she is a bit distraught after he bedded—”

  “I don’t think we need to discuss that at the present,” Dashiell said and gave his grandfather a swat with the back of his hand.

  “I must find her.” Gertrude picked up Dashiell’s bed cover and blotted her eyes. “My little Vivvie is lost.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Dashiell asked.

  “Last evening when Mr. Vandergrift came to call,” she replied. “How that man deceived me. He’s the very devil, I tell you. All men are wolves in sheeps’ clothes.” She sniffed and raised her head. “Except for Mr. Bertis. What a fine ram he was,” she said in reverent tones.

  “No, he wasn’t,” the earl said. “He was the worst wolf of the lot, leaving his wonderful wife at home to wither while he went raking about the town.”

  “Raking?” Her jaw dropped with her sharp intake of breath. “How dare you! Mr. Bertis would never touch a woman. He… he never touched me,” she wailed.

  “He was a lecherous spanker. A regular Pontius Pilate on the bench. And it’s high time you knew it. You ought to give my grandson and me more respect. We ain’t like the others. We’re the Lord’s sheep in wolf’s clothes.”

  Gertrude’s brows furrowed in confusion upon hearing the word “Lord” uttered from the earl’s lips and no bolt of lightning coming down to strike him dead.

  “Have you… have you felt the Savior's redeeming grace?”

  A beautiful light entered her eyes, like the one in her portrait on his wall. “I’m feeling something,” the earl replied.

  “Oh, hello, there you are,” a sweet elderly female voice said. A woman with pure white hair and an elfish smile poked her head through the panel. “Why, isn’t this convenient? Mind if I come in and look about? I’ve always wanted to see a real rake’s bedchamber.”

  Gertrude straightened her back, resuming her usual stoic countenance. “Have you found her, Mrs. Lacey?”

  The woman teetered in, her bright eyes taking in all the wall hangings and furnishings. “It’s downright savage,” she said. “I’ll have to tell Mr. Lacey.” Her gaze settled on Gertrude. “A young man arrived with a letter. The ladies thought it might be about little Vivienne, so I said I would bring it to you.”

  Dashiell snatched the envelope from the lady’s fingers and studied the address written in a fast, flowing hand that could have been Vivienne’s. He flipped the letter over. On the back was a silvery seal with angel wings pressed into the wax. The wings on the doorplate at Seven Heavens. His heart quickened.

  He ripped the seal and pulled out the letter.

  “That is mine!” Gertrude barked. “Give it here!”

  He ignored her as his eyes scanned the lines.

  Dearest Aunt Gertrude,

  I regret that I must leave without saying good-bye. Please do not worry about me and know that I am well. Take comfort in the assurance that the situations which have caused you great distress have been resolved. I will always hold the love you gave me in my heart and hope that I can amend for the pain I have brought upon you and my family.

  “Oh God, she’s sold herself!” he cried before he could stop himself.

  “What?” Gertrude struggled to rise to her feet. “Give me that letter.”

  Dashiell crumpled the missive and shoved it inside his coat pocket. “Vivienne is in trouble. I need you to stay here.” He started for the door.

  “Where is she?” Gertrude demanded. “What do you know?”

  “I know that I love your niece,” he said. “I know that she is the most precious person in the world to me. And that I’m a fat-headed coxcomb of a sinner.” Then he turned on his heel and rushed into the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the street.

  Nineteen

  Dashiell sprinted through the city to Green Park, all the while cursing himself.

  Why the hell did you leave your bed? You could have made love through the night, in between resting in each other’s arms, envisioning your future together. Instead you ran away like a frightened little boy afraid of the scary monster hiding in the clothespress. But now he was truly terrified. He and Vivienne may not have a future at all, except a brief kiss before they strung him up outside Newgate for killing Fontaine.

  The paths were congested, so he veered onto the wet grass, ignoring the shocked stares of the passersby. By the time he reached Fontaine’s brothel, his shirt was soaked with his sweat and his heart was flying like a racehorse. He said a brief prayer. Dear God, if You keep Vivienne safe, I promise I will walk the path of the righteous for the rest of my life. I won’t look at any other ladies or satisfy that itch to stray, get drunk, and embarrass myself in pubs, or spend all my money on old rubbish. I’ll be a proper, loyal husband.

  Unless I have to murder Fontaine. In which case, I will go to hell in peace.

  He slammed the brass knocker. A bald-headed flashman cracked opened the door. “Lord Dashiell.” He grinned around the silver toothpick in his mouth. “Mrs. Fontaine says you’re not welcome—”

  Dashiell rammed the wood with his shoulder, pushed the flashman back, and rushed inside. “Vivienne!” he wailed up the stacks of balconies. “I’ve come for you, love.”

  Three muscled men gripped a rope, hoisting a massive chandelier to the ceiling. They stopped mid-heave and stared at him. As did the two workers sitting on the floor painting a silver crescent and the three more on ladders, hammering on what looked to be a large frame. Overhead, about half a dozen ladies hung about the balcony railing, yawning. Not yet dressed for the day, their hair was loose, and they wore sheer blue robes edged with ruffles.

  The flashman clamped down on Dashiell’s shoulder. “Now, Mrs. Fontaine don’t want any trouble.”

  “Well, she dived head first into it when she crossed me, old boy,” Dashiell spat. He recognized the poetess from the other evening. “I’m looking for a young lady who might have come here,” Dashiell told her. “She has black hair, green eyes.” He flattened his palm at his shoulder. “About this tall.”

  The poetess pressed her hands to her chest. Her lids fluttering, she began to speak.

  Her soul in pain, she did wander

  Into these woods of hearts asunder

  To forget the girl she was before

  Her childish dreams are nevermore.

  “Does that mean yes?” Dashiell asked.

  The flashman gave a snort of a laugh. “She’s with the mistress.”

  “The poor thing is distraught,” a low female voice added. Dashiell spun. Fontaine stood in the middle of the parlor doorway; her arms were raised, resting on the threshold. On her shoulder, that damned pink bird had his wings spread, tongue out, hissing. “It seems a callous scoundrel used her and left her to cry.” Fontaine shook her head, clicking her tongue. “Who would do such a horrid thing?”

  “You want I should get rid of him?” the flashman asked, tightening his grip on Dashiell.

  “In a moment,” Fontaine said, stepping into the hall. She tilted her head and studied Dashiell. “First I shall enjoy myself.”

  “How much do you want for her?” Dashiell spat through his clenched jaw.

  “Oh, I’m lett
ing the market decide.” Fontaine flicked her wrist toward the ceiling. “A Lawrence James masterpiece in flesh and blood should surely fetch an enormous sum.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She tossed back her head, laughing deep in her throat. “Vivienne is a very valuable young lady,” she purred. “You and Mr. Vandergrift should have been more careful. But now she is with someone who knows her true worth.”

  Dashiell’s hands curled into fists. He had never hit a female in his life, but wanted to land Fontaine a facer. Then another. And another, until that smug smile was erased from her pasty face.

  “Dashiell?” The sound of Vivienne’s voice sent a hot shiver over his body. She stood just inside the parlor, wearing the same type of robe as the other ladies. She clasped her arms about her, as if she were cold. Her large, fearful eyes sliced into his heart.

  “Forgive me!” Dashiell started to rush for her, but the flashman’s arm slid around his neck, locking and squeezing him like a python.

  “I’m a totty-headed numbskull,” Dashiell managed, clawing at the man’s hairy forearm. “I’ve come to take you away. I swear I’ll do nothing but make you happy for the rest of your life. I’ll take care of your family, any cousins, nieces, and nephews, and… and… pets. Just come home.”

  She didn’t move, but continued to gaze at him as if he were a stranger.

  “Say something, my love,” he pleaded. “Please. Talk to me.”

  Fontaine laughed. “You’re a little late, my lord. You should learn to treat your ladies better.” She strolled to Vivienne and linked their arms together. The bird leaned toward Vivienne and cooed, “I love you.”

  “Go back and rest, dear,” Fontaine told her. “I’ll take care of horrid Lord Dashiell for you.”

  But Vivienne didn’t budge, keeping her eyes latched on Dashiell. “Why did you leave me?” she asked him.