My Scandalous Viscount

by Gaelen Foley

  Carissa’s head shot up.

  “The lads would probably love it,” Daphne chuckled.

  “I carried this little one out screaming,” Mara replied.

  “Did you say French Revolution?” Carissa ventured, her heart suddenly pounding with an uneasy premonition.

  “Oh, yes.” Mara rolled her eyes. “Guillotine. Marie Antoinette . . . and a basket of the most lifelike heads.”

  Kate laughed. “Smashing!”

  “I think the artist behind the place must be quite demented,” Mara drawled.

  “Aren’t they all?” Daphne asked.

  “Well, this one certainly takes particular glee in scenes of death and destruction.”

  “Do you know the name of this artist?” Carissa pursued.

  Mara shrugged. “No idea. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” she answered cautiously.

  “Would you like to see the advertisement?” Kate offered her the magazine.

  Carissa got up and took it from her, carefully scanning the small, square advertisement for the Gala of History Wax Museum in Southwark.

  Charles Vincent, Proprietor.

  Charles . . . Southwark . . . A memory was taking shape in the back of her mind, but it wouldn’t come clear.

  Kate tilted her head. “You all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Oh, come,” Daphne teased, “don’t be a ninny. I’m sure the scenes of doom aren’t that realistic!”

  Carissa managed a rueful smile. “It does sound horrid, though. But you’re right. Our husbands would probably love it.” Even as the conversation drifted on to another topic, her mind whirled.

  The memory suddenly resurfaced at her probing. Yes! The bookshop in Russell Square, with all the radicals, artists, and intellectuals, where she had gone to hear Professor Culvert’s talk. The enigmatic conversation she had eavesdropped on after the lecture came rushing back into her mind.

  Charles, you should not be here!

  Why not? I don’t have anything to hide, do I? She remembered the weird smile Charles had given the professor. “You should come to my place in Southwark and see my latest scenes . . .”

  She hid her shock from her friends, absently rolling the ball back to Thomas.

  That had to be it. She could feel it in her bones.

  The few painters’ names she had collected from the fine-art galleries had seemed unlikely candidates for her quest. The art dealers hadn’t been much help though they had tried. Was it possible she had been looking in the entirely wrong place?

  But a wax museum . . . ?

  Could this Charles Vincent who owned the Gala of History be connected somehow to Madame Angelique’s Alan Mason? What if they’re the same man?

  Mara had just confirmed a French Revolution scene at the wax museum, and Madame Angelique had reported that was the artist’s area of interest.

  Carissa’s blood turned to ice water in her veins as a disturbing picture slowly began to emerge. For if Charles Vincent was Alan Mason, the artist whose prying questions could unnerve even Madame Angelique, then it was possible to trace a logical line from the French Revolution artist to Professor Culvert . . . back to his onetime protégé, Ezra Green. No . . .

  Could the head of the panel himself, in charge of investigating the Order, have been the one to hire Nick?

  But why?

  She forgot to breathe, staring at the floor.

  Because it’s all a setup.

  Her mouth went dry. She was shaking. Ice-cold.

  If this was true, that could mean that Ezra Green’s motives had been not to investigate but to destroy the Order from the start. Good God—Beau. I have to warn him. Bad enough he was facing this alone. Now she saw that the second Nick made his move, all their husbands would be doomed. And if Green was the one who had hired Nick, then he was in charge of when the assassination would take place.

  He was in the perfect position. Ezra Green and his cronies could paint the killing as bloody proof that the Order was corrupt and too powerful.

  All they had to do was catch Nick in the act, and if they were the ones giving him his instructions, where and when to pull the trigger, that part would be easy.

  An even more terrifying question came to her.

  Whom have they hired Nick to kill?

  From what she had heard that day at Professor Culvert’s lecture, the Radicals hated nearly everyone. There seemed to be a few choice villains in their minds: the Prime Minister, the royal family.

  What am I going to do?

  She knew in her bones that she was onto something. She had to see this place, find out more about this artist.

  No! Forget it! If you go against his orders, Beau will never forgive you. You know full well he sent you here as a test. This was your second chance, and if you fail, you might not get another.

  Very well, what if she merely wrote out her warning in a letter? she wondered.

  But that would mean admitting how she had snooped earlier at the bookshop—which she had never told her husband about—because she knew he would be furious. He’d have been shocked to hear she had dared to go checking into the old mentor of the politician who was giving him such headaches.

  After the huge quarrel they’d just had, if she confessed now to her earlier round of snooping, he would probably hand her over to the press gang.

  Anyway, even if she dared explain to Beau in a letter what she had done that day, what she had heard—though she had thought it meaningless at the time—what if her letter was intercepted by Green’s minions?

  She knew the committee had Beau under surveillance. If she wrote a letter confiding her suspicions about who the real villains were, and they themselves got hold of it, that could spell serious danger for all of them.

  No, she dared not put anything in writing. If she was going to follow up on this, she would have to do so in person. It was the safest way for her friends and their husbands—and her own.

  Listen to me. You are not allowed to leave here! her better sense insisted. Beau will kill you if you leave their protection. Besides, how could you possibly get past all these guards?

  Ah, but Sergeant Parker had just gone to great lengths to show her exactly how to escape in case of emergency.

  It had obviously never occurred to the stalwart soldier she might be daft enough to try it on her own.

  You mustn’t.

  Daphne would never do such a thing, she pointed out sternly to herself, her pulse pounding.

  Well, Kate would, her more stubborn side responded. And a man’s orders certainly wouldn’t have stopped Madame Angelique.

  She bit her lip, agonized with indecision.

  She felt damned if she did and damned if she didn’t pursue this. What if you’re wrong?—and you probably are. You could risk everything for nothing. If you slip away from here, and he finds out you disobeyed him again, Beau will probably never forgive you.

  She wished this theory had never occurred to her.

  She did not want to go. It was frightening. She did not want to lose her marriage. But what if I’m right?

  What if Beau and the rest of our men are being set up to be portrayed as criminals, and Nick is just to be used as an example?

  That would be one way for their enemies to get rid of the Order.

  Carissa stared unseeingly at the advertisement.

  The private decision before her tied her stomach up in knots, especially now that she grasped the danger any mistake on her part could bring to all her friends—to say nothing of the destruction of her marriage.

  But Sergeant Parker had said it all too well.

  Order men don’t marry namby-pambies.

  She saw she had no choice. She was not sure which was worse—if she turned out to be wrong or right. But either way, she had to know. The question was too dire to leave unanswered. If ever there was a time for a lady of information to save the day, that night had come.

  You had better be right about this.

  If she
could succeed, maybe then Beau would forgive her.

  “Time for bed, Tommy,” Mara told her son. “I mean it this time, you. Come along, say good night to your aunties.”

  Thomas ran from Kate to Daphne, giving out hugs. He had only just met Carissa that day, however, so she had not yet earned one. But he must have decided he liked her, for he came over and offered her an alphabet block.

  “Well, thank you,” she replied, summoning up a smile. She tapped him on his little nose. “Good night, Thomas,” she said, as Mara scooped him up and carried him off to his nurse.

  “I think I shall retire, too,” Carissa spoke up. “It’s been a long day.” She bade her friends good night, then took a candle and calmly walked up to her chamber, already plotting her escape.

  That night back in London, Beau wandered restlessly from room to room. The house was much too empty with Carissa gone. Her absence left a gaping hole that he had not expected. Missing her with every nerve ending, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

  He did his best not to think about her, but there was nothing else to occupy him, waiting for the gunsmith’s apprentice to return from making his rural delivery. Rather maddening, actually. He thought of writing her a letter to pass the time . . . but what was he to say?

  He was still raw from fighting with her.

  The automaton clock struck the hour of one. Beau leaned against the doorway in the dark and stared at it, wondering if he’d been too hard on her.

  He knew she was only trying to help.

  As the chimes ended, he leaned his back against the door frame, staring into space. The house seemed too big and hollow, and the thought of going to their bedroom alone made his chest ache vaguely.

  He walked slowly into his office, poured himself a brandy, and sat down to drink it by the fire.

  Just when he had started to settle his troubled mind, he heard an urgent knock at the front door.

  He heard the night footman go and answer it. The door creaked. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Message for Lord Beauchamp!”

  A courier.

  Beau rose from his chair while the footman paid the messenger. When he stepped out into the entrance hall, his servant was just locking the door. Putting ceremony aside, Beau went and took the message from his footman rather than waiting for it to be brought to him.

  He held it up to the candle; his face hardened as he recognized the hand.

  He tore it open and read the letter from Rotherstone, his pulse pounding. We have Drake. He’s not a traitor, he’s the bravest damned fool I’ve ever known. Wait till you hear what he did in Germany. We’ve landed at the coast and will be in London by tomorrow . . .

  “Sir, is something wrong?”

  Damn it, they were already in England! His warning had obviously come too late.

  “Nothing. My greatcoat.” He went and got his weapons while the servant fetched his coat. “Listen to me very carefully,” he ordered as he pulled it on. “I’ve got to leave for a while. Don’t let anyone in while I’m gone, especially Mr. Green or anyone from the government.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir. Do you require assistance?”

  “No. But thank you.” Beau paused in the doorway. “I am not sure when I will return, but I am expecting a certain caller tomorrow from Mr. Schweiber’s firm, Michael—the gunsmith’s apprentice. Do let him in. In fact, if I am not back yet when he comes, send him to me down by the river. I’m not sure exactly where I’ll be, but somewhere ’round the London docks. Tell him I said to come and find me. It is imperative that I speak to him. But don’t tell anyone else—anyone—where I’ve gone.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Then he marched out, his sole concern to reach Max and the others before Green’s soldiers did. He had to stop them from coming ashore, warn them at least to go to Scotland.

  The Order’s abbey headquarters in the Highlands would be the safest place for them, at least until he had all this nonsense with the panel sorted. If they set foot on English soil, Ezra Green had promised what would happen.

  They’d be walking right into a trap.

  Chapter 23

  The next morning, Carissa stood outside the odd establishment in Southwark, looking up dubiously at the sign. THE GALA OF HISTORY—A WAXWORKS MUSEUM.

  She could still barely believe, herself, that she had come. It seemed like madness by the sane light of morning. Why would the owner of a waxworks museum want to hire an assassin, after all? Nevertheless, here she was.

  Too late to turn back now.

  She just hoped Sergeant Parker and his men did not get in trouble for failing to prevent her escape.

  It really wasn’t their fault. She had been as sneaky as she knew how last night. It had been difficult keeping her mouth shut—she had a feeling Kate probably would have loved to help—but she had not told the others where she was going.

  She did not want her friends to be blamed for her decision if there were consequences. Nor did she think herself capable, frankly, of resisting all three of them together if they had opposed her plan, united.

  So, resigned to go it alone, she had sought to buy herself more time, taking to bed as early as little Thomas had last night with complaints of the headache.

  She had told Margaret to let her sleep in late the next morning, as she could use the rest after all of the strain of her tearful argument with Beau. She hoped the others would not be angry at her when they discovered her deception. It pained her to do it, but she had no choice.

  Indeed, she was doing this for their own good and their husbands’.

  When the house had gone silent, Carissa had risen from her bed and set out alone, creeping out exactly as Sergeant Parker had explained—a viscountess in disguise, sans jewelry. Dressed in a plain walking dress, sturdy half boots, a simple pelisse, and the most ordinary bonnet that she owned, she had walked through the dark woods to the coaching inn, where she had bought a ticket on the stagecoach back to Town. She had arrived within five hours.

  It was only nine o’clock in the morning. She figured she had plenty of time to see the waxworks, then sneak back to the country estate the same way she had left, and wander back into the house in time for the midday meal.

  She had already planned her excuse: that she had gone out on a long constitutional and had wandered off the property by accident. She had a book with her that she could claim she had sat down to read and dozed off.

  Sergeant Parker might find her story odd, but he was tasked with keeping intruders out. The security he had put in place was not designed for locking his charges in.

  At any rate, the moment of truth was at hand. She braced herself, opened the door, and went in.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside a grubby receiving room, she recalled that many times, her cousins had wanted to come here, but Miss Trent, their governess, had said the place was vulgar. No doubt Miss Trent was right.

  Morning sunlight coming through the dirty front window did no more than cast a rectangular glare of brightness on the floor. It could not touch the general heaviness of the place. An old woman greeted her, coming into the chamber with her broom.

  “Are you open yet? I know it’s early—”

  “Oh, yes, come in, dearie. I’ll never turn away a customer,” she added with a toothless grin.

  “Thank you.” Carissa smiled back and went over to the desk to buy a ticket.

  “Right through that door. Enjoy your visit!”

  “Thank you.” Carissa took her ticket from the old woman and stepped through the doorway into a maze of dimly lit corridors housing the wax historical displays.

  Spooky place, she thought. It was clearly meant to inspire the visitor with tingling Gothic dread.

  She saw the scenes Mara had mentioned . . . the Coliseum, with two rather mangy lions closing in on some early Christian martyrs. The animals looked like real ones that had been stuffed and mounted after being felled by some hunter’s rifle, but the human figures wer
e of wax.

  The Inquisition made her wince.

  The Gala of History had certainly not spared on the fake blood. Some of the figures even moved stiffly with various tricks of marionette strings and clockwork mechanisms. She shook her head. It really was a marvel of the macabre. The accused witch in the Inquisition scene was so lifelike that Carissa stared, half expecting to see the figure breathing.

  She moved on through the hush, still the only visitor, since the place had just opened for the day.

  There was much more to see. Anne Boleyn and her executioner. In the next scene, King Charles I was also preparing to put his royal head down on the chopping block, surrounded by Cromwell and his unsmiling Roundheads.

  Another tableau featured fearsome Mohican warriors from the American wilderness trading pelts for guns with British soldiers. The trees in the scene looked as solid as any in the woods she had hurried through last night.

  Each wax figure was carefully painted, rendered in life size, exquisitely costumed. You could almost hear the birds in the trees chirping and the babble of the artificial brook that wound past their feet.

  Honestly, this required real artistry, she mused. Perhaps the talent behind the scenes was someone who had built sets for the theater.

  At last, she came to the scene that had been the whole object of her visit here today—the Paris mob scene that Mara had told her about, with the guillotine. She gulped slightly, staring at the gleaming blade.

  Her gaze traveled over the elaborate tableau. Lord, those really are lifelike heads. She looked more closely at them. Egads. The gory spectacle was meant to shock and cause the viewer to look away, glossing over details. But when Carissa forced herself to look more closely, good heavens, she recognized some of the faces of people in Society! Aristocrats. Royals. I could swear that one’s supposed to be Queen Charlotte . . . and the Regent’s large head lying next to it in the basket. How horrid!