The carriage turned into the neighborhood of Finsbury. The streets were cast in cold shadows. Ironmonger Row was a series of row houses. Long paned windows stretched across the ground floors with the name of the shop or pub painted above. The address in question was a narrow brick domicile. On the ground floor, shuttered windows flanked the door and a torn awning shaded the entrance. Above, two women conversed by an open window, displaying their scrawny arms and almost bare breasts to the men passing below.
He tapped for the carriage to stop. When it did, he stepped down. “How long have you been driving a hack in London?” he asked the driver.
“’Bout twenty years, sir.”
Dashiell nodded toward the women. “Has this residence always been a brothel?”
“As long as I can recall. Though it ain’t exactly a bordello. It’s a boarding house. Bawds rent rooms there.” A knowing smile spread his dry, cracked lips. “You want I should leave you here?”
“Yes.” Dashiell threw the man a thruppence. “Just circle the block and pick me up again.”
The man cocked a bushy incredulous brow. “Might you need more time, sir?”
“Oh no, it will only take me a minute,” Dashiell assured him.
The driver shook his head and clicked the reins.
“Ain’t you ’andsome!” one of the women called out. “Want to come up for a li’l company—a little sumpin’ sumpin’?” Her companion flashed a saucy smile and leaned over the sill, exposing more of her bosom.
“No, thank you,” Dashiell replied. “I’m just observing the beautiful view.” He reached into his pocket and tossed up a shilling. “But thank you for your kind offer.”
“Bless ya, sir! Bless ya!” the women cried.
Dashiell gazed up at the windows of 104. They were long and arched, like the ones in Fontaine’s portrait. He pivoted and looked south. The obelisk steeple rose over the rooftops, just as he recalled from the sketch on Fontaine’s wall. He pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose. Think, Dashiell, think. Inside his brain, a creaking, rusted door slowly opened.
“That lying blackguard,” Dashiell spat and took off in a sprint to catch the hackney cab.
“Enjoy yourself, sir?” the driver asked.
“Take me back to Teakesbury’s office. Now.”
***
Dashiell tapped on the solicitor’s door. Through the heavy glass, he could see the wavy distorted form of Albert approaching.
The clerk opened the door. “My lord, Mr. Teakesbury is not back. Would you care for a bit of tea?”
“I need to leave a message for one of his clients.” Dashiell lowered his voice. “Your employer believes she could help me with a private matter.”
“Of course.”
“Her name is Anne Whit… Whitfield… Whitacre.”
“Whitcomb?” Albert suggested.
Dashiell snapped his fingers. “That’s it, my good man, Anne Whitcomb. Are you certain she’s a client?”
“Yes, my lord, she’s always sending Mr. Teakesbury letters.”
“Would you mind retrieving her address for me?”
Albert disappeared to the back of the office, muttering “retrieve address.” Dashiell didn’t wait for him to return. He headed down the walk, his mind reeling with what he had just learned. The street was jammed with people, yet he felt very alone. Vivienne was trapped, Fontaine wouldn’t let him near the brothel, and he couldn’t trust that treacherous rogue, Robert Teakesbury.
There was only one man who could help him.
***
“Just don’t make a scene,” Dashiell warned his grandfather. Overhead, a jewel orange striped the sky in the gloaming. The tall narrow building blocked the last of the light, casting the tiny lane behind Seven Heavens into darkness. The screeching meows of two amorous cats echoed through the alley.
“Go through the front door without saying a single word,” Dashiell continued as he straightened the man’s cravat in a desperate attempt to make the earl look inconspicuous. “If anyone asks about me, tell them I’ve been disowned and you aren’t speaking to me anymore. Then when no one is looking, nonchalantly walk to the back of the house and open a window or a door for me.”
“Son, I’ve snuck in and out of more places than you could shake your cock at. And I didn’t have to have someone open a window or door. This is embarrassing.”
“I really don’t need your commentary at the moment,” Dashiell hissed through his teeth. “Did the boys fetch someone from Scotland Yard?”
“Now don’t you worry. The boys are all concerned, seeing how you have to get your fiancée out of the bawdy house. We’ll save Trudie’s niece.”
The earl turned to leave. Dashiell’s blood rushed as the panic he had been struggling to keep pushed down surged forth. He grabbed his grandfather’s arm. “There’s something you need to know. Vivienne isn’t Gertrude’s niece, she’s her daughter.”
“What?”
“Vivienne is the daughter of Gertrude and Lawrence James. It was hushed up. The picture in my room that looks like Vivienne, some of the paintings at the Royal Academy—”
“The nude ones!”
“They are of young Gertrude.”
His grandfather’s lips parted as he gazed heavenward, his eyes glowing with a beautiful light. “She’s my soul mate. I knew the day I first spied her. I could see below the drab and truly scary surface to the naked seductress within. Had I known! Oh, son, I’ve been hiding my love all these years.”
“And you’re going to have to keep hiding it unless you save her daughter.”
He raised his arm and called out, “Trudie, I’ll save her for you!” like a battle cry and broke into a trot down the alley, his hair streaming behind him.
“It’s not the bloody crusades,” Dashiell hissed after him. “And don’t make a scene.” But his grandfather had already rounded the corner.
Dashiell ran his palm, now reeking of the earl’s cologne, across his face. What was he doing bringing his grandfather here? This was a stupid, hopeless idea, born of desperation.
He rested his hand on his Paterson. If all else failed, he would shoot five .34-caliber bullets into Fontaine with ease. And he would swing from a rope, knowing Vivienne was free.
***
“Now, put on the halo,” Fontaine commanded a gawky female servant.
Vivienne stood barefoot in the jungle room, staring at the mirrored walls where painted tigers peered from the brush. A servant set the large halo, a great circle of jutting rays, on Vivienne’s head, securing it by jamming pins in her scalp. Fontaine and Vivienne both wore great feathered wings stretching from their shoulders. But while Fontaine’s feathers were the same gold color as her dress, Vivienne’s were pristine white. They matched her silk robe, which was also trimmed in feathers and opened in the front, exposing a feathery corset that pushed up her breasts. Her hair had been tortured with a hot round iron to land in perfect curls around her shoulders. White powder had been applied to her pale skin and her lips stained a vivid red. The servant had drawn tiny black circles under Vivienne’s lashes. Vivienne wanted to grab the kohl and extend the lines off the edges of her eyes like an ancient Egyptian lady’s.
I am Cleopatra, she told herself.
No, you’re not, a voice echoed in her head. You’re a very odd angel bird.
Through the door, Vivienne could hear the low rumble of men’s chatter and the strings of a small chamber ensemble rising from the hall. “Are there many people here?” she asked. It felt as if a red hot butterfly was flitting around her insides. She glanced to the bed where she had hastily concealed her lock pick that she had been fashioning all afternoon.
“By the time you float down, there won’t be any room for them to move.” The madam smiled. “Remember, when you get off the swing, you take a few tiny steps on your toes—always on your toes, men love when ladies walk on their toes, it gives the body a better line—and then lie across the sofa, elegantly, as if you were silk.” She flourished her hand b
efore her, batting away the bed netting hanging from the bed posters. “Drape yourself.” Fontaine demonstrated the technique on the mattress, causing Vivienne’s throat to catch. The madam was not half an inch from the tiny bulge of Vivienne’s pick.
“You’re a beautiful painting to be gazed upon,” the madam continued. She leaned forward, her elbow practically on the pick. She raised a brow, pursing her thin mouth into a coy smile. “Then you open your robe a little to taunt the men. Maybe glance at them, demurely, teasingly, from below your luscious lashes. Are you paying attention?” Fontaine demanded.
“Taunt,” Vivienne squeaked as Fontaine eased closer to her pick. “Tease.”
“Then I’ll cue the girls to stop singing and begin the auction.” Fontaine slid onto the pick and then flinched, touching her side. “Ouch. What the hell is under here?”
“I’m so scared!” Vivienne cried. “I can’t go on!” She covered her face and pretended to weep.
“Your cosmetics!” Fontaine shrieked, and both she and the servant leaped forward, pulling Vivienne’s hands away.
“You may leave,” the madam barked at the servant, and the girl skittered out.
Fontaine cupped Vivienne’s chin in her palm. “Now listen, it will be like it was with Dashiell, only much better, because instead of heartbreak, you’ll get money,” she said in a voice that strained to sound comforting. “You simply begin by telling the gentleman a few compliments—men are very simple creatures, really. Then you just lie there, thinking of all the pounds you’ll give your father and how grateful he’ll be that you saved him from prison.” She crossed to the door. “Now practice walking on your toes and draping yourself, but don’t upset your face or hair. I’ll come get you when I’m ready.”
“When will that be?”
“Half an hour. We need to open a few more bottles of wine to get our clients in the proper mood.” Fontaine slipped out of the room.
Vivienne heard the lock click, rushed across the chamber, and pulled back the covers.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Her little pick was mangled. For a moment, she thought she really would break down into tears.
Would this tiny obstacle stop Queen Elizabeth?
She bent it back in shape, muttering to herself that she doubted Queen Elizabeth ever found herself captive in a brothel.
Vivienne crossed to the door and carefully slid the pick into the keyhole. She paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and remembered Dashiell holding her to his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. Please work, please work! She turned the pick and the lock popped with no resistance.
She squatted down and inched to the balcony. She peered over the railing, wishing she’d had the good sense to remove the enormous halo with its beams of light shooting out from her head. In the matter of a few hours, workers had managed to make Fontaine’s vision manifest, sans the chandelier Dashiell destroyed.
A stage had been constructed behind a massive picture frame. Nestled about ferns and candelabras was a velvet sofa which Vivienne assumed she was to tiptoe to and drape upon. A lady clad only in angel wings like Vivienne’s soared above the crowd in a swing decorated with a large crescent moon. On each of the stairs leading from the ground floor were more ladies wearing wings and holding candles in their hands. A sea of men in dark evening clothes thronged the hall, but she couldn’t see Fontaine’s gold splendor anymore.
That burning butterfly in her stomach fluttered its wings at the thought of any man touching her the way Dashiell had, putting his part in… Stop thinking about that!
Just then, a man with wild gray hair turned and looked up, his glittery, wild eyes catching hers. Lord Baswiche! His bushy brows raised in recognition, and he began pointing wildly at himself and mouthing something. She panicked and rushed down the corridor, away from the balcony. Dashiell had better have sent his grandfather to bid on her for him; otherwise the idea of the earl wandering in on his own free will was disgusting in so many aspects.
She pushed the thought to the nether reaches of her mind where waited the mounds of other scary thoughts she refused to think about, else she would become overwhelmed and paralyzed. “Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, Cleopatra,” she whispered.
When she reached the end of the corridor, her heart was pounding.
She inserted the pick into Fontaine’s door, her fingers shaking and slick with perspiration. The lock clicked and turned as easily as the way her body had risen to Dashiell’s touch. She slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind her.
“I love you,” Frederick called from the corner and began jumping excitedly about his cage.
“Shhh!” she hissed and hurried across the room into Fontaine’s chamber, closing herself in. Through the wall, she could still hear Frederick squawking his admiration.
In the corner, a coal fire flickered in an iron grate. She picked up a length of rolled newspaper from a basket, held it over the flame until it caught, and then lit a red glass lamp. An oak vanity with an oval mirror stood opposite the bed. Lace was draped from the sides of the mirror. Porcelain figurines of ladies, cosmetic jars, nail files, and perfume bottles were scattered about the surface.
A few feet from the fireplace was another door. Its lock resisted when she tried to turn the knob. She used her pick again to reveal a closet. On the rod hung garish dresses decorated with excessive amounts of feathers, beads, tassels, ribbons, and fake flowers. A coal slipped on the fire, and flames roared up. The light flashed on the mirrored wall at the back of the tiny room. On the right side, hat boxes without lids were stacked on shelves. She pulled out one and peeked inside to find it filled with wigs—blonde, red, and black. Others contained gemmed masks, red silk sashes, and leather whips coiled like snakes. Why would Fontaine keep such things in her closet? She slid out the bottom box, praying the sketches or paintings were inside. Glass glinted in the lamplight. She reached inside and held up a sculpture of a man’s… cucumber! She gasped and dropped it in its container. The ringing of breaking glass echoed around the room.
“I love you!” Frederick called from the other room.
Where are those sketches?
Vivienne felt around the closet floor, feeling nothing but ladies’ boots and cold planks. She backed into the bedchamber and began pulling out drawers, digging through stockings, chemises, corsets, petticoats. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Hang it!
The evil woman was impenetrable. Desperate, Vivienne knelt and tried to peer under the bed, but her ridiculous wings got in the way. Then she heard a heavy footfall, and Frederick began hissing. She shot across the room, into the closet, and pulled the knob behind her. She turned, getting her wings and halo tangled in the gowns, and snatched one of the leather whips.
Her breath was roaring through her nostrils. The chamber lock clicked and then footsteps thudded on the carpet, approaching the closet. The knob turned, and the door creaked open. She threw her arm forward, and the whip slashed the air, popping the intruder’s upper arm.
Dashiell blinked and jerked his head back. “Did… did you just whip me?”
For a moment, she was too stunned to speak, and then she raised the whip again. “Yes!” she cried and slashed, this time harder than before. “And that’s for leaving me!”
He shielded his face with his arm. “Ouch! Where did you learn to use that?”
“I didn’t get any sleep. I cried the entire night. I almost killed myself. And now I’m here.” She snapped the leather. “Say you’re sorry. Say it!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry as hell. Just… just don’t hurt me.”
She dropped the whip and flung her arms around his neck. “I love you.”
He lifted her from the floor as she opened her mouth and let his tongue inside to taste her. His musky scent, tinged with perspiration, filled her nose. She kissed him frantically, pressed herself against him, unable to get close enough because of her stupid wings. She wished she could burrow beneath his skin and hide herself inside him.
“I didn’t mean those terrible words I said.” His usual smooth baritone was brittle and shaken. His lips brushed hers. “I was scared out of my mind. Can you ever come close to forgiving me?”
“You’ll have to take me with you to Egypt and Greece and—”
“Arabia, Africa, India, Siam. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I’ll—”
Her kiss halted his words. Dashiell had been out of his mind, almost homicidal, for the entire day. And now, even as he held Vivienne in a vile madam’s chamber, she brought peace to his mind. He closed his eyes and slid his tongue along hers, his hand running up and down her arm. “I’m never letting you get away from me again.”
Vivienne pulled back. “How did you find me?”
“My grandfather saw you and snuck me in.” He chuckled softly, smoothing a curl from her face. “I know you are as reckless and dangerous as I am, so I figured you were heading to Fontaine’s chamber to find something to hold against her.”
“She has pictures of me sketched by Lawrence James.” She shook her head, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “He knew me, loved me. All my life I was trying to please a man who wasn’t my father and to my real father I was a masterpiece, but he never acknowledged me or helped raise me.”
“I’ll take care of all of this. I just need to make sure you’re safe first.”
“Everyone is connected,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I came here thinking that Jenkinson had been behind the blackmail. But now I’m not so sure. This is much bigger than I thought.”
“Here’s another little surprise for you.” He related what he had learned thanks to Teakesbury’s incompetent clerk.
“It would have been very beneficial if those elusive masterpieces had floated up,” Vivienne said. “Fontaine is the central figure connecting everyone, yet we can’t pin her down. We need to get her, Jenkinson, and Teakesbury in a room and then press each to betray the other.” She rubbed her lips together. “Is Teakesbury here?”
“No, no, I don’t like what you’re contemplating,” he said, wagging a finger. “Now you’re coming with me. Scotland Yard will figure it out later once you’re safe.” He seized her hands.
Wicked Little Secrets Page 27