Wicked Little Secrets

by Ives, Susanna

  Twenty-two

  Where did his brilliant lady find the masterpiece?

  “My love,” Dashiell began in a strained voice, holding up his hand. “Let’s just talk about this in private.” With the masterpiece in Vivienne’s possession, Fontaine couldn’t do a thing to her. He just had to edge his love to the door and out the building.

  “Of course,” she cried, using those frightening sugary tones. “It’s so improper to discuss the details of such an arrangement in public.” Her gaze landed on the solicitor. “Mr. Teakesbury, would you be so kind as to represent my interests?”

  “Aren’t you clever?” Fontaine hissed. The muscles around her jaw twitched.

  Vivienne tilted her head. “Thank you,” she replied tartly. “Oh, and Mama Dellie, I searched everywhere for you, and here you are lurking in the corner. You have been so helpful in this whole affair. Would you care to join us, as I believe you had a stake in this deal?”

  “My sweetness, I would prefer it if we just walked out of here.” Dashiell gave Vivienne a hot don’t even think about what you’re thinking about look. “Right now.”

  “Come, let us all meet in the parlor,” Vivienne said pleasantly, as if he’d said nothing at all, but then she glanced over her shoulder, gazing at him from under her lovely lashes. “You too, my little butter biscuit.”

  He’d worked so hard to save her and now he might have to kill her.

  “Wait, where’s the masterpiece of flesh?” a man shouted. “I didn’t come here to see some molly in a dress.”

  Fontaine’s lips tightened. “Girls, talk to the gentlemen. There will be no auction this evening.”

  Fontaine ignored the cries of protest and stepped down from the stage, her face stony and drawn.

  Dashiell followed the party toward the parlor. Outside the door, he snatched his grandfather’s elbow. “I need a Scotland Yard officer!”

  “The boys are working on it.”

  “God dammit.” He slipped his hand through his silken robe and felt the hard heel of his gun. “If anything happens to me tonight, give all my antiquities to Vivienne. Except for the erotic Roman ones. You can keep those.”

  ***

  “Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth,” Vivienne whispered, waiting for them to assemble in the parlor. Her body was shaking, but she didn’t feel scared, only angry, and not a consuming boiling rage either, but a quickening of her mind, ready for anything.

  Teakesbury strolled in, paused for a moment to take in his surroundings, and then chose to sit on a sofa. He reached into his coat, fished out a cigar, and lit it on a lamp on the side table. Behind the haze of smoke, his features were relaxed, and a bemused smile adorned his face as if he were watching a theatrical production. Jenkinson followed behind the solicitor, her lips pursed, her frame slightly bent, and her fists balled, ready to fight.

  Meanwhile, Dashiell stalked up to Vivienne, his silken robe flowing about him, his remaining wing flopping behind his arm, and laid a strong possessive hand on her shoulder. He leaned close, his lips near her ear. “I swear, I love you with all my being, but if we make it out of here alive, I might throttle you.”

  Vivienne clung to the “I love you with all my being” part, letting those words strengthen her resolve and discarding the less than helpful ones.

  Fontaine was the last to enter. She closed the door behind her, her small eyes hot and nostrils pinched. Frederick edged back and forth on her shoulder. “For God’s sake, take those ridiculous wigs off,” she muttered as she crossed to the mantel, her gold wings creating a draft in her wake.

  “Gladly.” Dashiell ripped his off and tossed it onto the sofa opposite the one assumed by Teakesbury. The bird flew down and began plucking the black strands.

  “I’ve grown rather fond of mine,” Vivienne said coolly, refusing to be cowed by the woman. “Queen Elizabeth had red hair.”

  “I don’t care if Queen Elizabeth had fern green hair,” Fontaine spat. “Just give me the painting, and you can have this ridiculous, faithless coxcomb of yours. But when he leaves you—and he will—don’t you dare come crying about your sad papa and debtor’s prison again.”

  “Very good then, let us go, my dear,” Dashiell said, tugging Vivienne’s arm.

  But Vivienne wasn’t leaving yet. In her hands, she held a portrait of herself painted by her father whom she had never known. Her identity, her life, everything she thought she knew about herself was wrapped up in this theft and blackmail. For the last twenty years, she had been unwittingly floating along on lies and secrets. Now she wanted the truth.

  She didn’t budge an inch, even when Dashiell hissed under his breath. “Vivienne, dear, give her the painting and let me get you out of here.”

  “Wot do you mean, letting ’er go,” Jenkinson cried. “Where’s my money?”

  “For God’s sake, just shut your mouth, Adele!” Fontaine exploded.

  “Ah, you must be Mrs. Jenkinson.” Teakesbury sucked from his cigar, then released a curling stream of smoke. “You live in St. Giles with your son Willie and a massive lover named Sidney.”

  “Aye, so wot of it?” Jenkinson retorted, as she plucked a porcelain peacock from the mantel and shoved it down the front of her dress.

  “And I would advise you to be careful,” Teakesbury said. “You wouldn’t want to go back to Australia, would you?”

  “How do you know about me and Australia?”

  “I’m Robert Teakesbury, solicitor,” he replied, as smooth as satin, but Vivienne noticed how tightly his hand gripped his cane. Between his whitened knuckles glittered the tiny glass eyes of a golden creature. He was playing at something, but she couldn’t figure out what.

  “I’ve had my clerks watch you,” he continued. “You stole sketches and paintings from my client, Mrs. Lawrence James.”

  “Wot? I didn’t steal nothing.” She yanked the peacock from her gown. “And I—I was just looking at this. Pretty like.”

  “Come now.” Teakesbury gave Dashiell a patronizing, knowing smile as if they were privy to a private joke. “We spoke about Jenkinson just yesterday.”

  “I don’t remember,” Dashiell said slowly, though Vivienne knew how his steel trap of a mind worked and wagered he remembered every detail of that conversation. “Remind me.”

  The solicitor complied. “Scotland Yard determined that the Lawrence James robbery was carried out by a strong person or persons, capable of moving about an enormous cabinet. Meanwhile, as Mrs. James walked her child in the park, she was entertained, or should I say detained, by a little man in a blue coat. A few days later, a painting of young Mrs. Jenkinson here surfaced in a pawn shop near the Strand.”

  “I didn’t steal nothing!” Adele spat.

  “Mr. Teakesbury, you are so clever,” Vivienne said, flashing him the dimpled smile that Dashiell had once instructed her to use in order to get what she wanted. She watched the solicitor shift in his seat under her spell.

  She stepped forward, but Dashiell immediately reined her back to him. “Oh, stop.” She giggled and jerked herself free. “I just want to see Mr. Teakesbury’s sweet little cane. Do keep this, my dearest.” She thrust the painting at Dashiell and then crossed to the sofa. She put her hand on top of Mr. Teakesbury’s and watched his Adam’s apple lift, the bemused glow on his face faltering for a moment.

  “Isn’t this simply darling!” she cried and drew the cane from the solicitor’s grasp. She waved the creature’s face at Dashiell. “It’s an Indian mongoose. Such a precious creature.”

  She grinned at Teakesbury again, dimples in full force, refusing to acknowledge Dashiell’s scowl and the way he jerked his head toward the door.

  “I adore how they eat mean old scorpions and venomous cobras.” Vivienne wrinkled her nose. “I think it’s a shame that Cleopatra didn’t have one.” The man reached for his stick, but she kept it in her hand, turning to Jenkinson. “So, Mr. Teakesbury, you’re saying that Mrs. Jenkinson stole the masterpieces, but that doesn’t explain how they ended
up in the secret room behind Mrs. Fontaine’s closet.”

  The wealthy madam’s eyes narrowed, the heat of her hatred burrowing into Vivienne’s skin.

  “What?” Dashiell asked.

  “There’s a secret latch on the mirrored wall in Mrs. Fontaine’s closet, my sugar cake,” Vivienne explained to him. “I found it after you left, else I would have told you.”

  His mouth opened, his face assuming a slack-jawed look. “I—I love you. I’m taking you to the Valley of the Kings. We’re going to find some tombs.”

  The bird looked up from dining on its wig. “I love you,” it repeated.

  “Damn you, Frederick, be quiet!” its owner yelled.

  Head low, the shamed bird edged to the other side of the sofa, emitted a low sad “I love you” and then flew over to land on Dashiell’s shoulder.

  “Hey there, lad,” Dashiell said, scratching the side of Frederick’s face. “I know how you feel about me.”

  “I believe we were trying to ascertain how Mrs. Fontaine ended up with the masterpieces,” Vivienne said.

  Fontaine didn’t answer, but kept her eyes fixed on Vivienne, except for a flicker in Teakesbury’s direction. When she finally spoke, her words came out haughty and cold. “Adele brought the paintings to me. She knew I would pay to keep them safe. And naturally, someone in my position can’t simply go to Scotland Yard.”

  “Well, that explains everything perfectly,” Vivienne said. “Clearly, Mrs. Jenkinson has spent the last fifteen years in Australia studying art and readily knew which pieces were the most valuable, stole them, and then sold them to you.”

  “Huh?” Jenkinson said. “I ain’t studied no art!”

  “Are you suggesting that I asked Adele to steal those paintings?” Fontaine laughed, slow and measured, from deep in her throat. She approached the other madam.

  Although a good three inches taller than Fontaine, Jenkinson cowered, slumping her shoulders.

  “Adele, answer very, very carefully.” Fontaine enunciated each syllable with crystalline precision. “Did I tell you about the painting in Lord Dashiell’s hands? Did I ask you to steal it?”

  “No. I didn’t steal nothin’! I didn’t know nothin’ about no masterpieces.”

  Fontaine’s lips curled in triumph.

  “But you told her about the sketches of my aunt.” Vivienne wagged the mongoose before Fontaine’s face. “And you knew Mrs. Jenkinson desperately wanted revenge on my uncle. And you knew she would be willing to steal to get it. Why shouldn’t she conveniently pick up a painting or two after she had gone to all the trouble of breaking in?” She shook her head. “It’s just I find it exceedingly odd that she would know to take the most valuable pieces.”

  “I didn’t take no masterpieces!” Jenkinson spat. Her mouth hung open, exposing the stubs of her black teeth. “Just some paintings lying about. One of me that Lawrence did when I was pretty. And I was pretty. Prettier than you.” She pointed her finger at Vivienne and then at the painting in Dashiell’s possession. “But I didn’t take that there painting. I never saw it before today.”

  “She’s a lying thief,” Teakesbury said, tapping the glowing red end of his cigar on the rim of a pewter bowl. “I deal with these low sorts every day. Lord Dashiell, your Miss Taylor shouldn’t be exposed to this degradation any longer. You take her along and let me handle the situation. And, miss, do return my cane.”

  Vivienne didn’t comply, but pressed the mongoose to her bosom. She arched a brow at Dashiell. “Well, I actually believe Jenkinson when she says she didn’t take no masterpieces.”

  Dashiell hiked a corresponding brow, their gazes latched together.

  “Because they weren’t there to take,” Dashiell whispered as the revelation dawned in his brain. My God, Vivvie’s brilliant! He continued, the words rolling out, “Teakesbury had already put them in a safe place that only his client Angelica Fontaine would find. Presumably, her closet.”

  Teakesbury broke into laughter, clutching his belly.

  “Wot?” Jenkinson spat.

  “You were set up,” Vivienne explained to the simpleton madam. “They knew you were going to steal those sketches and whatever paintings were about. The whole time, you were being manipulated to take the blame for a greater theft.”

  Jenkinson whipped around to Fontaine. “You took the best paintings for yourself and didn’t leave me nothin’ but rubbish.” She released a low growl and snatched up the porcelain peacock again, jamming it into her dress. “You did me wrong every time, Annie.”

  Tears of mirth streamed down Teakesbury’s face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I say, Dashiell, you’ve found a truly remarkable girl, but I have no ties with Angelica Fontaine beyond coming here tonight on your behalf.”

  “Such carefully chosen words, sir,” Vivienne countered. “You said, ‘I have no ties with Angelica Fontaine,’” she repeated, slightly puckering her beautiful lips that Dashiell wanted to kiss. “Adele, answer very, very carefully: is Angelica Fontaine Annie’s real name?”

  The lowly madam tossed her head in a derisive snort as she shoved a beaded box from a side table into her now bursting bodice. “It’s plain Anne Whitcomb. She ain’t French. She was always putting on airs she don’t ’ave. Her ma was an Irish laundress and whore.”

  “And, according to your clerk, Albert,” Dashiell told Teakesbury, “Anne Whitcomb is very much your client.”

  Teakesbury turned silent. He reached for his cane but it wasn’t there.

  “You said Fontaine holds secrets on all the officials in London,” Dashiell reminded him. “Why do I suspect she has been whispering them in your ears all these years? She gets to move without impunity into Mayfair, and you move from being a lowly solicitor fresh from India to one of the most powerful solicitors in the city.”

  “You all are going to Newgate,” Vivienne said.

  “My little cherub, you are swimming in waters over your head.” Fontaine squeezed her kohl-lined eyes to mere slits. “I suggest you back down now, or I will make your life hell on earth.”

  Dashiell watched as a dead calm washed over Vivienne’s features, but her eyes were glittery wild things.

  “You had to make everyone suffer because James scorned you,” she said, gripping the head of Teakesbury’s cane to her chest. “You had to steal from James’s widow because James left you for her. You knew Mrs. Jenkinson would use those sketches to hurt my aunt, but you didn’t care. You hated my aunt because James loved her and not you.”

  “You watch yourself,” Fontaine hissed. Dashiell slipped his hand inside his robe, extracting his revolver and concealing it behind the portrait of Vivienne. He edged to the left, to get a clear shot of the madam.

  “And you were going to disgrace me, because James was proud of me.” Vivienne’s voice began breaking up. “Because I am…” She choked, tears swelling in her eyes. “Because I am a masterpiece, and you are nothing. Nothing!” she screamed like her lungs were coming out.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me that way! You are nothing, not me!” Fontaine swiped the air. “I made all this by myself.”

  “You made this on the backs of other women,” Vivienne retorted. “And I’m taking it all away.”

  “Just you try.” Fontaine’s hand swept toward the folds at the side of her skirt.

  “Vivienne!” Dashiell shouted as a gleam of light flashed in his eye. He dropped the painting, revealing his aimed gun. A few feet away, Vivienne held a long shiny blade that extended from the mongoose’s neck under Fontaine’s chin. The remainder of the sword cane had fallen on the carpet. Fontaine hadn’t had time to fully retrieve her muff pistol. The ivory heel protruded from her dress, the barrel aimed at her own leg.

  “Hand me the gun,” Vivienne ordered her.

  She’s amazing!

  Fontaine kept her fingers around the trigger.

  “Joan of Arc found her sword on the altar in the church of Saint Catherine,” Vivienne said. “She swore she would never
use it to kill anyone.”

  “You are the most peculiar, irritating girl ever,” Fontaine spat. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not Joan of Arc.” Vivienne pressed the blade into Fontaine’s skin, and a drop of blood rolled down the shiny steel. “Hand me the gun.”

  Fontaine released the weapon, letting it thud on the rug.

  The room was silent except for the rise of chatter from the adjoining room.

  Keeping her blade trained on the madam, Vivienne kicked the pistol and then reached down, lifting it. “Dashiell, my butter biscuit, um… now what do we do?”

  “One moment.” He backed to the door, switching his aim between Teakesbury and Mrs. Jenkinson, who had stopped mid-theft, clutching a statue of a boy with grapes. He cracked the parlor door and called out, “Grandfather!”

  The earl hurried in, his palms up. “Son, the boys couldn’t round up an officer that Fontaine ain’t got something on.”

  The powerful madam released a purring laugh.

  “What!” Dashiell shouted, his mind already doing the calculations: two guns, a sword, seventy men, and ten feet to the door.

  “Well, the boys’ spirits were awfully low, seeing how they couldn’t help you,” his grandfather continued. “So they stopped into the club for a dram and found him.”

  “Him?”

  A handsome young man with a prominent forehead and sporting a tiny mustache and whiskers strolled into the parlor.

  “Prince Albert!” Vivienne gasped and curtsied, all the while keeping her sword pointed at Fontaine.

  “Lord Dashiell, I heard that you were in quite a predicament,” the prince said. His gaze raked Dashiell up and down. “I say, nice dress.”

  ***

  The prince sent his footman for the Chief Magistrate. Vivienne was willing to wait for the man to arrive, but Dashiell was beside himself to get her out of the brothel. He ripped off his robe and remaining wing, then gave the painting, sword cane, and Fontaine’s pistol to the prince. Using his own gun, he corralled Teakesbury, Fontaine, and Jenkinson onto a sofa and handed the weapon to his grandfather, instructing him to stand guard. The revolver dangled from the earl’s fingers in the general direction of the suspects, as his grandfather was more interested in making friends with the hissing Frederick. “Be a nice birdie, be a nice birdie. I always wanted a birdie.”