Wicked Little Secrets

by Ives, Susanna

  “Because I was a scared little boy who—you see, my mother abandoned me when I was a small child and I’m not sure what that has to do with my problems, but I’m just afraid to be vulnerable and—”

  “Enough, Lord Dashiell,” Fontaine said. “Nobody cares. Men, you may get rid of him now.”

  Dashiell jammed his heel back, hitting the flashman’s shin. The man groaned, and Dashiell spun from his hold, to find himself staring down his nose at the poised hammers, wrenches, wet paintbrushes, and balled fists of the workers. Two men had abandoned the chandelier, leaving one poor chap to dangle from the rope to keep it from crashing down.

  Dashiell held up his palms. “I’ll give you fifty-five pounds,” he told Fontaine. “And I’ll walk out with Vivienne.”

  “Fifty-five pounds?” Fontaine echoed. “Is that all you have?” She broke into laughter, the workers joining in.

  “I can give you an early Persian tablet,” Dashiell said, mentally cursing himself. He had spent his entire life collecting useless baubles. “Two Egyptian mummies, Roman coins, some Greek statues, er, bits of mosaics—”

  The madam gestured about her. “Does this look like the British Museum to you?” Again the men thought she was hilarious. Even that amorous bird was shaking his feathers. “What would I do with a mummy?”

  She released Vivienne’s arm and sashayed toward him. “You insult my sweet little cherub. Some of the wealthiest merchants in London are coming here tonight to preview her. Very important men who are willing to expend far, far more than fifty-five pounds.” She stopped just a foot from his face. He could smell the sweet brandy on her breath. “No, my lord, the bidding starts at one hundred for a night. If a man wants to take her as his mistress, well, the talks begin in the thousands. As you know, Vivienne has a family to take care of and a mere fifty-five will hardly do.”

  “I’ll get the money,” Dashiell promised. “Whatever amount. You have my word.”

  “Your word?” Fontaine’s neck jerked back with a chortle. “Your word means nothing to me or any lady in London.” Her bemused smile tightened to a snarl. “Now get out,” she growled and turned back to Vivienne. “Dearest, come away. Don’t let Lord Dashiell upset you.”

  “Goddammit, woman!” he shouted. He felt the restraining hands of the flashman and the cold blunt edge of the wrench pressed under his ear and a hammer not three inches from his nose. “I know about those paintings,” he blurted, hearing the desperation in his own voice. He would say anything to keep Vivienne from leaving his sight.

  Fontaine looked over her shoulder at him. “And what paintings do you mean?”

  “Your ex-lover’s—the ones you stole,” he said, reaching for anything he could use.

  The madam spun slowly around. “I don’t know what you are talking about. However, if—”

  “You’re lying,” Dashiell goaded.

  “—you find the paintings,” she continued, “perhaps we can make an arrangement: Vivienne for the paintings.” She lifted the edge of her lip. “Oh, never mind, I don’t want the blasted things. I’ll keep Vivienne—his precious little daughter.”

  “What?”

  Vivienne clutched her robe and stared at the floor. “She said that—that I was the bastard child of my Aunt Gertrude and Lawrence James. And I was given to my mother to raise.”

  “Bloody hell,” Dashiell whispered. Years of memories, broken fragments, flashed through his mind, suddenly falling into place.

  Fontaine tilted her head, triumph bright in her eyes.

  “And you think by humiliating Vivienne, you’ll get back at James for casting you aside,” Dashiell spat. “You’re a cold whore.”

  “How dare you come to my place and disrespect me after what you did to Vivienne!” Fontaine hissed. “You humiliated her, not I. I’m trying to help.”

  “Oh, now you’re Saint Fontaine!” Dashiell spat.

  “Go back to your easy actresses and courtesans, your Eastern harems, your oriental concubines,” Fontaine said. “I’m sure you’ll quickly forget about Vivienne just as you did all the others.” She hiked a brow. “Men, Lord Dashiell desires to leave. Show him to the door.”

  The flashman shoved Dashiell toward the door. Dashiell pretended to cooperate for two steps, then spun around, snatching the hammer that had previously been pressed into his jaw and slamming it into the flashman’s oncoming fist. The crunch of bone and a howl echoed in the room. One of the workers flew at Dashiell to tackle him. Again, Dashiell pivoted, knocking the man’s shoulder, sending him sailing in another direction as Dashiell raced for the stairs, slashing his hammer before him like the Nordic god, Thor.

  The other workers gave chase, except for the poor bloke still hanging by the chandelier rope. Dashiell dashed across the first floor balcony, the ladies screaming and jumping out of his way. He leaped onto the railing and pushed off into the air.

  “No,” he heard Fontaine scream as he grabbed the chandelier chain, his feet crunching down on the gaslights. The rope slipped from the poor chap’s grasp, and the massive creation descended to the floor with Dashiell riding atop.

  The room exploded with bright, shattering crystals. Fontaine’s girls were screaming, and the pink bird began flying in circles above the wreckage, squawking.

  But inside Dashiell’s mind all was silent except for one thought: Get Vivienne.

  He turned to find himself once again staring at the eye of Fontaine’s pistol. She clutched it in her right hand, her left gripping Vivienne’s arm.

  “Get out!” the madam screamed. “You bloody scoundrel.”

  “Not without Vivienne.”

  She jerked the barrel toward the door. “I said, get out!”

  “Do you think I’m afraid of your gun? Woman, I’ve had a kris, zhanmadao, blunderbuss, basilisk, scimitar, and 24-barrel Belgian mariette pointed at me. Go ahead, shoot. I want to see you try.”

  Fontaine’s nostrils were dilated, and her lips trembled as she considered. She slowly moved the gun and pressed it against Vivienne’s temple. A collective intake of breath resounded around the room. “Care to see me try?” she asked.

  “Dear God,” Vivienne cried. “Dashiell!”

  At that moment, any previous ideas he had about fear and helplessness fled away, seeing the pistol pressed against Vivienne’s head. Nothing mattered anymore, just the metal against that beautiful skin he had kissed. Her eyes, large and pleading, seeking his.

  “Just put the gun down,” he begged. “Vivienne has done nothing. Go ahead and shoot me if it will make you feel better, but let her go.”

  “If you really care about her, you will leave,” Fontaine retorted.

  Dashiell held up his hands and slowly unfurled his palms. “You win, Fontaine. Just… just put the damn gun down.”

  “Walk calmly out of here,” she said.

  He obeyed and began edging to the entrance, keeping his gaze locked on Vivienne’s.

  “Let me come back tonight,” he said. “Let me try to win her. Please.”

  “You have some nerve, wrecking my place—not once but twice—and then begging to come back. No, you’ve lost Vivienne forever.” She looked at the flashman. “I never want to see him again.”

  The flashman rammed his uninjured fist into Dashiell’s gut and another man opened the door.

  Vivienne cried out. Fontaine pressed the gun barrel against her temple.

  Dashiell doubled over and spat on the floor. “I love you,” he choked, clutching his belly. “I love you.” The flashman hunched his large shoulders and rammed Dashiell, pushing him over the entranceway.

  “The Bazulo vow!” he cried and then hit the iron railing. The flashman slammed the door shut.

  ***

  The hall was quiet. Vivienne could feel everyone’s stares on her skin, as well as the cold barrel on her forehead.

  “Clean this mess up,” Fontaine ordered. “Hang Dashiell! That man will not alter my plans. I have made promises to some of the most influential men in the city. Put some damn can
delabras out. And take whatever crystals aren’t broken and hang them on the backdrop as stars.”

  The madam removed the gun from Vivienne’s head and replaced it in some secret pocket in her skirts.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, my little sweet cherub,” she said, her voice turning saccharine. “You have to understand I did that for your own good. I know you have feelings for him, but he’s a faithless liar. He only wants one thing, and when he tires of it, he wanders off again.” She caressed Vivienne’s cheek. “No, no, my dear, I have very wealthy and powerful gentleman who are dying to meet you. Men who could take good care of you and your family, unlike Dashiell.”

  Vivienne only uttered a dull, stupid “Oh.” But inside, her mind was coming back to life as if she were surfacing from being deep under water. In this mire of lies and secrets, one thing became very clear: Dashiell hadn’t deceived her when everyone else had. He told her he was bad when her uncle, her aunt, John, her father, almost everyone she knew lied, claiming they were virtuous and good, making her feel unworthy. Dashiell left her just as he had warned her he would. But he came back like he had promised in the Bazulo vow years ago.

  She had seen the terror and fear in his deep chocolate eyes. Yes, he was a rogue, a scoundrel—but he was no coward, no liar. He truly loved her.

  Vivienne studied Fontaine’s severe face containing those small agate eyes. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to see the madam swinging from a rope.

  What would Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Queen Elizabeth do to exact revenge on a hideous brothel owner?

  Vivienne’s gaze drifted up to the floor with Fontaine’s parlor. Just where were those stolen masterpieces?

  ***

  Fontaine escorted Vivienne back to the Jungle Room where she had previously changed into the robe. The walls were deep green and lined with mirrors painted with trees, vines, and wild jungle cats.

  “Rest, my cherub,” the madam told her. “Dream of the money you will make tonight. I’ll come back to have you dressed in a few hours. I have a wonderful costume planned. You’ll adore it.” Fontaine closed the door. Vivienne heard the lock turn.

  She crossed to the bed, where beneath the netting, her reticule and gloves waited. Her cloak, dress, and gown had been removed. She opened her reticule and dumped the contents on the leopard fur covers. She took the sketches of her aunt she had gotten from Jenkinson over to the grate and watched as the flames flared up and consumed them. Then, returning to bed, she picked through her candies, nail file, farthings, and notebook until she found what she wanted: four hair pins. She was going to need a strong lock pick.

  Twenty

  Dashiell’s mind was a raging tangle of thoughts as he sprinted to Teakesbury’s office. He tried to force himself to think of ways to get Vivienne free, but he wasn’t rational; everything circled back to killing Fontaine in the most primeval ways.

  Teakesbury’s dull-witted clerk, Albert, opened the door and inquired if he needed assistance. Dashiell stormed past him, heading to the solicitor’s office.

  He found the man at his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, a notebook open before him. Across from him, in leather wing chairs, sat an elderly couple.

  “And for my young nephew,” the woman was saying, “I would like to bequeath my grandmother’s doilies. I’m sure a young man would appreciate those.”

  “Teakesbury, you’ve got to help me,” Dashiell cut in. “I need to have that damned abbess arrested, or I will bloody well commit murder.”

  The woman gasped as her husband bolted from his chair. “There is a lady present! Watch your language, you… you miscreant!”

  Behind Dashiell’s back, Albert was jumping about, waving his large hands, trying to get his attention. “Er, excuse me, my lord. If you please, Mr. Teakesbury is engaged at the moment.”

  “Yes, with me,” Dashiell spat.

  The solicitor tossed down his glasses, ran his hands down his face, and then rose. “Please wait in the parlor, my lord,” he said in a pleasant voice that could sharpen flint. “I will see you momentarily.” He took the doorknob and began to shut the door.

  Dashiell stuck out his hand. “But I’ve got to kill someone.”

  “Momentarily,” the solicitor hissed, giving the door a hard shove, sending Dashiell back into the parlor.

  Albert stood, staring at him. “Would you like a bit of tea?” he asked.

  Tea? Dashiell wanted poison. Something that he could slip into Fontaine’s glass. “How about some hemlock or belladonna?”

  “W-we only have oolong or pekoe.”

  “Never mind.”

  Dashiell began to pace about Teakesbury’s glass cabinets, trying to connect lines. Jenkinson blackmailed Vivienne’s aunt. Fontaine knew Vivienne’s aunt was actually her mother. Both women knew Gertrude Bertis was James’s lover. He kept arranging the pieces in his head. Could Fontaine have been instrumental in the theft? He pressed the heels of his palms into his temples. “Think, damn you!” he muttered. But he couldn’t. His eyes kept drifting to the Roman javelin on Teakesbury’s shelf. He imagined throwing it, a swift smooth flight into Fontaine’s throat, and if that didn’t do her in, a deep jab of the well-preserved gladius could finish the job nicely.

  Fifteen minutes of this mental torture passed. Where was Teakesbury? “To hell with this,” he spat. “Can you give me Mrs. James’s address?” he asked Albert. “I desire to speak to her. It’s pressing.”

  Before the clerk could answer, there was a knock at the front door. Albert walked in his clumsy gait over and opened it. A courier handed the clerk a letter. “Urgent from Miss Whitcomb,” he said and ran off.

  Clearly, Miss Whitcomb’s burning problem trumped Dashiell’s, because Albert broke into a jog, muttering “Whitcomb urgent.” He dashed into his employer’s office.

  Dashiell gave Teakesbury a few more seconds and then stalked toward the door, giving up on the man. He would find Mrs. James’s address himself, but first he wanted to get his .34 pocket Paterson revolver—a clever little invention designed by an American named Samuel Colt that Dashiell had won in a card game with a member of the Texas legislation in London.

  “My lord, why do you care to commit murder?”

  Dashiell turned. Teakesbury stood alone in his parlor, his hands stacked on the top of his mongoose cane.

  “I need to speak to Mrs. James,” Dashiell said. “Vivienne’s in trouble. Fontaine has her.”

  “Good God. How did that happen?”

  “There’s no point in going into that. I, well, acted like a scoundrel. But—”

  “Dashiell, can’t you keep your instrument in your trousers?”

  “—I think Vivienne probably tried to settle things with Jenkinson and ended up at Fontaine’s. She’s getting debuted tonight.”

  Teakesbury released a low breath and shook his head. “Let me go over and speak with her.”

  “Be careful. The woman is mad! She held a gun at Vivienne’s head to get me to leave.”

  “She what?” He spiked his cane on the floor. “I’ll talk to her and make her see reason.”

  “I don’t want her to see reason. I want her to see the hanging rope. Give me Mrs. James’s address,” Dashiell said, grabbing the man’s arm.

  “Why?” The solicitor brushed Dashiell off as if he were a piece of lint on his coat. “What has she to do with anything?”

  “I want the exact details of the robbery. I’m going to put Fontaine in prison. I don’t think Jenkinson acted alone. She hasn’t the brains. Mrs. James might tell me more on the subject.”

  “Listen to me, you want revenge on Fontaine so badly you’re drawing connections where there are none. And even if we did have a damn shred of evidence, she is one of the most powerful people in the city. She’s not going to crumble in a few hours. Have some sense.”

  “Very well, I’ll just murder her.”

  “Stop that talk! What you need now is money.”

  Dashiell balled his fists in the air. “You don
’t understand, she’s not going to let me win. She’s full of bitterness and wants to watch me suffer because she sees me as Lawrence James.” He slicked his hand down his face. “I’m scared I can’t save Vivienne.”

  “I am going to do everything in my power to help you,” he said. “Albert! Bring my coat and hat.” He pointed at Dashiell. “Get some money and meet me at Seven Heavens.”

  “I don’t have enough.”

  “Then find a moneylender!” Teakesbury thundered. “For once, use your brains instead of your tallywag, my good man.”

  ***

  Dashiell sat back in a hackney on the way to his man of business and stared out the window. His muscles were taut. His fingers drummed his kneecap. He felt like a bug trapped in Fontaine’s web, her spidery fangs about to sink into him. Teakesbury had better come through for him. Because if another man touched a hair on Vivienne’s head, Dashiell would make what the Romans did at Carthage look like child’s play.

  Outside, the stately buildings of the west side of London gave way to the tarnished, narrow domiciles of older London to the east. The afternoon sun glinted over the rooftops, seeming to set the towers of St. Paul’s Cathedral ablaze. Dashiell closed his eyes. Behind his lids, the image of the great dome and towers still burned.

  A thought like a clean sword blade pierced his mind: young Fontaine’s image in front of the obelisk steeple in Finsbury, the court case in The Proceedings against Adele Jenkinson involving an Anne Whitcomb also in Finsbury, a Miss Whitcomb sending an urgent letter to Teakesbury.

  Dashiell pounded on the roof. “Stop! Stop!” He swung open the door before the carriage had halted.

  “Swing north to Finsbury,” he shouted to the driver.

  “I thought we were going to—”

  “Forget that. I need to go to…” Dashiell ran his bottom lip under his teeth as he tried to summon up the details of the case. But his mind was a jumbled wreck: were Angelica Fontaine and Anne Whitcomb one and the same, was Teakesbury a damned crooked lecher, get Vivienne, kill Fontaine and maybe Teakesbury.

  Then the address arose from some recess in his addled memory. “Ironmonger Row 104! Hurry.”