Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy)

by Madeline Hunter

  Mrs. Lavender’s eyes widened. “You cannot be serious. It will not be appropriate.”

  “What is inappropriate about it? My father owns part of a brothel. Who am I to have her nose in the air about using such accommodations? I will pay for a new mattress for this bed, if you will arrange for one to be brought. I will use these stairs, and avoid interfering with your trade. And while I am here, I will study the lease and those accounts.”

  “Your father did not interfere with my business. He went his own way. That was our understanding of how it would be.”

  “I will not interfere, either, if all is in order.”

  Mrs. Lavender’s mouth flapped, but no more objections emerged. She shook her head in resignation and astonishment. “You are a strange duck. We both know where you got that, don’t we?”

  Indeed they did. The difference, as Padua saw it, was the strange daughter would not be ripe for fleecing the way the strange father probably had been. If this was the family business, so be it, until that lease ran out.

  “If Hector would bring up the valise I left in the reception hall, I will begin to get settled.”

  Mrs. Lavender left her. Padua opened the window to air out the chamber, then turned her mind to deciding what furniture to keep and what to move out.

  * * *

  Ives grew impatient. The footman, Hector, had put him in Mrs. Lavender’s office at least a half hour ago. He checked his pocket watch. No, only ten minutes had passed. Ten frustrating minutes. Hector refused to answer any questions, even the most basic one: Did a very tall Miss Belvoir call at this house this morning? If she had not, every minute he sat here was another minute wasted.

  He looked around the office. It was a little cramped, deliberately so. Mrs. Lavender could have arranged the desk differently to make more room. Placed like this in the center of a small chamber, it effectively confined visitors to a slice of floor between it and the door. The forced intimacy and close quarters, the cat sleeping on the hearth and the wool throw waiting in a basket, gave the office a cozy quality.

  The door finally opened. Mrs. Lavender walked in. Her mouth fell open in surprise when she saw him. Then she smiled. “Hector said only that a gentleman awaited me. He did not say it was you.”

  She patted him on the head, like he were a boy, then went to her desk.

  “It has been so very long,” Mrs. Lavender said. “You are as handsome a devil as ever. Did your family ever come around to your choice of life path? I see your name in the papers sometimes.”

  “My late brother, never, I am happy to say.”

  She pursed her lips. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Do not be. We muddled through, splendidly. We recovered from the shock so quickly that some found it heartless.”

  “He came here, a few months before his passing. I reminded him he was not welcomed. He created a scene. Hector almost had to throw him out. Thank goodness not. All the friends in the world will not help if a duke speaks against a business, even one like this. I reminded him there were houses better suited to his preferences.” Her eyes twinkled. “I told him to ask his brothers if he had forgotten where those houses could be found.”

  Mrs. Lavender’s house specialized in polite, romantic illusions for men who did not seek too much variation in their erotic experiences. As a young man, Ives had visited, like most of his friends. Some of them still did, he expected. Others had graduated to the more exotic tastes that Mrs. Lavender now alluded to.

  “Of course, some of my more sophisticated gentlemen return now and then. I find that heartbreaks bring them here, or other disappointments. Is that why you have come? It is early, but I am sure one of the girls—”

  “I am here about something else. Not one of your young ladies, but another woman. Did a Miss Belvoir visit today?”

  Mrs. Lavender lowered her chin and looked up at him like a vexed mother. “She did. Nothing but trouble that one will be.”

  “So it is true that her father owns this house.”

  “It and a quarter of the business was left to him by my late partner. I had come to think no relatives would be found. It was to be all mine in that event.”

  “A disappointment, I am sure.”

  “Belvoir kept out of the way, at least. I think it embarrassed him, but not so much that he would sell to me, or refuse the filthy money. Now his daughter is sounding like she will be very much in the way. She has already questioned my accounting. Can you believe it?”

  “What gall.”

  “I’ll say so. If I am not careful, she will be trying to change things to her liking. She has that look to her. Noting all the furniture and such, she was, when I showed her about the place.”

  Ives pictured Padua facing off against the formidable Mrs. Lavender. The latter normally worried about men overstepping the lines, and had Hector available when that happened. He doubted she ever tangled with the likes of Padua.

  “Do you know where she went when she left here?”

  “Left here? She hasn’t left. She is up above right now.” She leaned forward, her eyes furious. “She thinks to move in. Up with the servants.”

  “Move in? Here?” Surely Mrs. Lavender had misunderstood.

  “Here. If she is a friend of yours, I trust you will explain to her how that will not do.”

  He stood, and shook off his astonishment. “Up with the servants, you say.”

  “Turn left on the top landing, then the last door on the right at the end.”

  He strode off and mounted the stairs with firm purpose. No doubt learning the use of this house had shocked Padua and she was not herself. Disillusionment with her father had led her into some peculiar decisions. He would indeed explain to her how it would not do, although by now she had probably realized that all on her own.

  The door at the end on the right was closed. He heard her moving around inside. Refusing to treat the chamber as her home, he opened the door and let it swing wide. Padua, in the process of pushing a washstand along the wall, did not hear him.

  Eyes narrowed, face taut, she shoved the stand along the boards. Her valise sat on the bed. She had removed her pelisse in order to free her arms for her labor.

  “Padua.”

  His voice made her freeze. She collected herself, her gaze on the washstand. Then she looked at him. A hard smile formed. She stepped into the center of the chamber and gestured widely. “What do you think? It is better than my chamber at Mrs. Ludlow’s. With a new mattress and some decent lamps, it will be comfortable and more than adequate.”

  “You are not going to do this.”

  “Oh, I am. I am going to live here for free, and make sure that woman pays as she should, and save the money, and in six months I daresay I will have what I need to go abroad. In the meantime this will be my private studiolo, where I will read and study and prepare.”

  “And your father?”

  “You mean John Hadrian Belvoir? The partner in a brothel? If by some luck he is acquitted, he can return to his chambers on Wigmore Street. He prefers it there.”

  She sounded bitter and angry. He could not blame her. She had lived her life with her father on a pedestal, only to discover his feet were covered in mud.

  “His judgment is rather abstracted, Padua. When presented with this property and its lease and the steady income, he probably could not even imagine how to fix it to be less notorious.”

  “No. No more. I am finished making excuses for him. I am done thinking of him as an addled but brilliant scholar, when in fact he is a very, very shrewd whoremonger.” The outburst had her eyes flaming. “It will come to me eventually, I assume. When it does, I will decide whether to find a more respectable use for it. Perhaps I will not. Maybe by then I will have grown accustomed to the steady income too. Now, please help me with this washstand.”

  He lent his strength to it and got it to the spot she wanted.

  “A bookcase. I need one over here. The wardrobe will do as is.” She opened her valise, and took out a garment
to put away.

  He went over and stopped her. He placed his hand in the valise, on top of hers. “You will not do this. You will regret it for certain.”

  “Who will know? I am no one, Ives. It is perfect. I will use a mail drop, not this address, and I will come and go through the garden. Look, there is a fire stairs right out here.” She took him to the corridor, and opened a door. “The servants who work here do so with the world in ignorance, and are not tainted. I will not even be visiting the lower floors.”

  “No. I will not allow it.”

  She crossed her arms. “It is not for you to allow or not, Ives.”

  “You are not thinking clearly. You will see that in a day or so, but in the meantime you must not spend one more hour under this roof.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “Do you think I will become corrupted by Mrs. Lavender?”

  “No, of course not. You would not— She would not—”

  “She would not? You know her that well, to say she would not?”

  Damnation.

  She grinned.

  He did not like being the source of her amusement. He took a deep breath. “When I was younger, much younger—”

  “You do not have to explain to me. I expect men need to practice a bit before they pursue opera singers.”

  That was a low blow. He would not engage in this ridiculous argument any longer. “You will come with me now, Padua. We will find you a chamber in a respectable house.”

  “A family’s house, you mean. Or a spinster’s. It will still be a chamber up with the servants, I suspect. I prefer this one. I would not like the women in those other houses watching me, judging me. It would be like being at Mrs. Ludlow’s again.”

  She turned and pulled a dress out of her valise, to emphasize her decision. “If you are too scandalized by my address, our friendship can end. Or, if you prefer it not, we can meet sometimes in the park.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Of course, you can come up those stairs out there, as surely as I can go down them, if you like.”

  He had been ready to drag her out, but that invitation took the wind out of his resolve. He hardened at once, like the slave to pleasure he had become. The possibilities lured him. She was correct, he could come up those stairs, unseen. The woman of the house would hardly object if she knew, considering the trade down below. Should anyone else become aware, they lived under a roof where discretion ruled. Only putting Padua in her own home would be better, and she had rejected that even before he offered it.

  She had found the perfect solution, should they want to continue the affair. He certainly did, even if it had become complicated and even dangerous.

  Temptation worked its wiles on him. His body would tolerate only one choice. He wavered badly.

  She turned and waited, lips parted, ready to take him into her arms right now. One step, that was all. One smile—

  “Absolutely not, Padua. You may choose to live above a brothel, but I will not be joining you here.” He turned away. “Please come out on these stairs, where the air is fresh. I have something to ask you. To tell you.”

  His body gave him hell as he walked out that door. He waited on the little wooden terrace, wondering if she would follow. Eventually she did.

  “Besides news of this property, did Notley speak of anything else?” he asked.

  “If you mean the charge of sedition, yes.” She speared him with a direct glare. “You knew at Merrywood, didn’t you?”

  “I did. It was in the letter I received.”

  He waited for her to upbraid him for not sharing that. Instead she sighed heavily. “A few days ago, I would have insisted that was so wrong as to be comical,” she said. “Now I do not have confidence that I know him at all.”

  “They may not have much, or anything useful. I will try to find out.”

  “It does not take much to spin a good story.”

  They were back to her concerns that the prosecutor would be more aggressive than honest. Ives wished he could reassure her, but he could not.

  She moved to him, and stretched up to kiss him. “Not only a criminal, but a whoremonger and perhaps a man involved in a seditious plot. You became entangled with the daughter of a man sure to make the newspapers happy.”

  “You are not him.”

  “No one will remember that once this becomes the talk of the town. I had a moment of weakness inside, when I tried to tempt you. A desperate, hopeful moment. I think perhaps you should leave us to our own devices, and look for a mistress to entertain you in the future.”

  He found it hard to believe she had said that. “No.”

  “I love how you say that. No. It is as if you assume the world will conform to your preferences. Your birth and position give you that confidence. If you want to preserve the privileges both bestow, you will agree I am correct.”

  “Only this is not my preference. I do not want this.”

  She laid her hand against his face. Her eyes sparkled up into his. “I do want it. We both knew how it would be.” She kissed him again, then went into the house.

  He stood there a moment. Then he walked down the stairs. Only at the bottom did he accept what had just happened.

  Padua Belvoir had thrown him over, totally and completely.

  * * *

  Padua returned to the bedchamber. She stood in the middle, hands on her hips, enumerating the things she would do to make a home here. Yes, a bookcase, good sized, right over there. A decent set of bedclothes, too, so it did not remind her of Mrs. Ludlow’s too much. She would tell Hector to bring someone in to check the fireplace. She did not want the room full of soot the first time—

  She ran to the door to the stairs and looked out. Ives was just leaving by the garden portal. Her heart knew relief that he had heard her words, and it was over. It also began breaking.

  She hurried back to the chamber and closed the door before her effort to hold in the tears failed. As soon as the latch clicked, the flood started. The pain inside built until she thought it would suffocate her. She gasped for air as she wept, doubled over. Her strength left her and she slid down until she sat on the floor, sobbing into her hands, trying to smother the sound.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ives firmly believed that when a lover said it was over, it was over. Not for him the humiliation of cajoling and begging. Not only would that be undignified but it would also be hopeless. His experience had been that women know their own minds very clearly on the question of whom they wanted to be naked with.

  Rarely had he been thrown over, but it had happened. He knew what to do. First, a night of drinking with friends—male friends—to balance out too much time spent in feminine company. Second, renewed energy to matters of the mind—his cases, reading, and intellectual pursuits. Third, the very prescription Padua had given him—find a mistress.

  The steps did not have to be taken in order, or even one at a time. And so it was that two nights later, he found himself deep in his cups at Damian’s gaming hall, commiserating with Belleterre about the complications women brought to one’s life.

  Belleterre had his own problems, far more colorful than Ives’s. A well-known courtesan had pursued him last season, finally running him to ground at the very end of the festivities. She had then discarded discretion and all sense, and fallen in love. All summer long high drama built, until even Belleterre’s wife became aware of the affair. Not a woman to suffer whores gladly, she had four days ago confronted him and issued her terms. The mistress, or her. He had dutifully broken with his paramour, who now went around town announcing she would kill herself due to a broken heart.

  “She has broken all the rules,” Belleterre complained. “Miranda has never minded before, when it was kept quiet. This might as well have been a theater show listed in the papers. Now should anything happen to Charlene, it is my fault. Don’t tell me I won’t be blamed. I am sure to be, and all I did was take a bite out of an apple that fell onto my head.”

  “It will pass. She won’t kill herse
lf. You aren’t that fascinating, and you sure as hell are not irreplaceable. None of us are.”

  “Hell of a thing anyway. It is all backward.” Belleterre gulped more of the whiskey they shared.

  “I can tell you about backward, but—” He pantomimed at locking his lips.

  “Have you been busy? A secret affair? Who is she? Do I know her?”

  Ives shook his head and locked his lips again. “The important thing is we must get back on the horses again. And ride.”

  Belleterre cackled into his glass. Ives realized that had sounded more bawdy than he intended, but laughed too.

  “You should call on Mrs. Dantoine. My situation with Charlene need not stop you. Mrs. Dantoine was most interested in you, as I said. She is sweet. If it did not mean sailing too close to the rocks already battering my ship, I would set my course there myself.”

  Ives idly wondered if Mrs. Dantoine would fit any of the qualities on that list he had made. Not that the list existed anymore. He had burned it last night when it fell out of the book he was moving. Why have such a list if the woman who fit every adjective did not want you?

  “What ho, are you going to drink all of that yourself? I could use a few fingers.”

  The voice hailing them came from Strickland. He dangled a fat, heavy gambling purse from his hand. Ives gestured for him to sit beside him. He pointed at the purse.

  “Winning again?”

  Strickland patted the purse and smiled like a contented cat. He helped himself to some whiskey. “Good to see you are back in town. Word was you had left for parts unknown.”

  “Were you out of town?” Belleterre asked. “No wonder you did not know about my sorry plight.”

  “I went down to Merrywood. My brother Gareth returned from the Continent.”

  “Your half brother, you mean,” Belleterre said with a smirk.

  Belleterre could be an ass when he drank. Ives had forgotten how much of one.

  “It is good you are back, now that things are coming to a head with that case,” Strickland said.