Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  The duke studied the gold thread woven into the fabric and the jewels set within.

  “You have done well for yourself,” the duke said.

  “Yes.”

  “I admire that in a man.” Jealousy sung in his tone. He swiveled and pierced Max with a direct look. “I do not begrudge my station.”

  “Of course not, Your Grace.”

  “You do not believe me, I warrant.”

  “I do not presume.”

  “For once, Harrison.” The duke chuckled. “You do not presume, for once.”

  “I am tired, Your Grace.”

  “And I am testy,” said Wynchester.

  An understanding passed between them before the duke straightened. Wynchester attempted to regain an aristocratic air, but with his jaw disfigured, his effort proved futile.

  “I am no fool. I know my advantage, but neither is my station my choice. The title, the money, even my political views—none of them were mine. But I embrace them all, I do my duty.” The duke downed the rest of his drink. “My wife was chosen as well. I,” the duke placed great emphasis, “did my duty there.”

  The suggestion was clear—the duchess had not fulfilled her end of the bargain.

  Max placed his fingers over his lips. Had he given Wynchester too much to drink? Impossible. The duke must have started drinking before he arrived.

  “I did my duty. But Thea Marie…” His voice trailed to a sandy whisper. “She was enchanting and mysterious. She had an essence I could never capture, let alone conquer.”

  Wynchester dropped his head and his shoulders sagged—the posture of Atlas, struggling under the unforgiving weight of the earth. He’d even used the duchess’s name, speaking from the mud-drenched rapids of despair. Max had seen the duke this way only once before, on the day Max had told him that Eustace, the duke’s only brother, had died—uselessly—at the hands of a madman.

  “Was?” he asked. “You speak as if your wife has died. She has not.”

  The duke lifted his head and stared as if he led a hunt and Max was the target fox.

  “You want the duchess to return to you,” Max said.

  “She will not.”

  “Because your methods—forgive me—are inept.”

  “Pardon?” The duke’s brow angled up like a shot heaven-bound.

  “I believe the duchess could be persuaded to return.” Just before ice crystals formed on the gates of hell.

  The duke flashed a wry smile. “And you think you can help, but you want something in return.”

  “Lord Vaile was murdered last night,” Max said.

  The duke looked down his nose. “Yes, I heard. Montechurch believes Lady Vaile is guilty.”

  “I have history with Lady Vaile, and have offered my help protecting her from a warrant. The duchess wishes to help her friend as well. If you were to take an interest…”

  “I may ingratiate myself to my duchess,” the duke finished. He sucked in his wounded cheek, considering. “You’ve offered your help, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that wise?”

  No. “I have known Lady Vaile my whole life.” True. “I am certain of her innocence.” Almost.

  Oh, he knew she had not pulled the trigger, but she hid something, and he feared the worst. The Furies held profitable soirees, and Vaile, by order of coverture and her trust, had been paying her personal expenses. Lavinia had enough money to buy, well, anything.

  “You do not know my wife,” Wynchester said. “Winning her will take more than a shared purpose.”

  “A shared purpose cannot hurt,” Max pointed out.

  “I will consider. God knows, with Eustace gone, I need an heir.” Wynchester set down his glass and placed his fists on the desk. “Setting aside my duchess, I must warn you. You have influence in Commons because the other MP’s trust you. Any association with Lady Vaile will bring you harm. Others are eager to take your place.”

  “So quick to forget my loyalty, are you?”

  “A lesser man would already be gone.”

  Max bit his cheek to keep from telling the duke he could take his rotten borough straight to the devil. The door rattled under a knock.

  “Enter,” he said in unison with the duke.

  Geste opened the door. Either a devilish ghoul or an extremely irate street urchin hung from his grip.

  Max pinched his nose between his eyes and inhaled. “Let the boy speak, Geste.”

  The boy wiggled from the butler’s grasp and threw Geste a glare of unadulterated outrage. The child’s stench smothered the pleasant, lemony smell of freshly waxed furniture.

  The boy clenched his fists. “Sully told me to get me message to Harrison straight away,” the boy said in breathless puffs. “I ain’t to give no one else me message but Harrison!”

  “Your Grace, would you excuse us?” Max asked.

  “Very well. Call on me tomorrow at eleven. We will finish this discussion after we go over the latest version of Burke’s bill.”

  “Of course.” He was damn right they’d finish. “Leave the visitor, Geste. I will take care of this.”

  The boy snapped his head toward Geste and a cloud of dust scattered. “Ha.”

  “Tomorrow,” the duke said as he departed.

  Geste remained behind the urchin, arms crossed.

  “That will be all, Geste.”

  Geste sniffed as he turned, muttering to the duke about upside-down worlds where masters used mews entrances and urchins were welcomed through the hall.

  True, filth marked the boy’s progress through the entry. Islands of brown dirt dotted his ripped clothing. Sullivan must have been in a hurry if he failed to instruct his messenger to rally a stable boy and use the back entrance.

  Max waited until the click of the butler’s shoes muted, and then he knelt.

  “I am Harrison,” Max said. “You did a very good job, master… What is your name?”

  “Jem.” The boy’s black eyes narrowed. “I thank ye for the compliment, but don’t be callin’ me ‘master,’ ’cause I ain’t a nob.” Jem jutted out his grimy chin.

  “My apologies.” Max sucked away a smirk and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Now Jem, tell me exactly what Sullivan said.”

  “Sullivan?” The boy drew his brows together. “Oh, Sully ye means! I am ’ta tell ye he be takin’ the bird to Vauxhall where she’s got some sort of meetin’ but he don’t know what. He means to get it from ’ta maid, when ’ta bird flies.”

  “I see.”

  Lavinia was on her way to Vauxhall. She planned to leave her maid in Sully’s hackney. Sully could not follow her without rousing the maid’s suspicions, so he had decided to press the maid for answers.

  …At least Max thought he had correctly translated Sullivan’s message.

  Why would Lavinia go to Vauxhall again? A woman on her own in such a place was not safe and could be up to no good. She was supposed to be in the seclusion of deep mourning. If anyone saw her there…

  Hell. Randolph had seen her last night. Could she be on her way to meet him—again? Was that the reason he’d been unable to find Randolph? The beast growled.

  Jem yanked on Max’s arm. “Sully says he’s taken his rattler ’round the long way, so’s you can get there. He says to tell ye the bird was donnin’ a…”

  Jem waved his hand over his face.

  “A veil? A mask?” Max prompted.

  “Yes,” Jem said, nodding. “One of those. And she’s wearin’ a dark red cape.”

  Jem’s description did not give Max much information, nor did he have much time. He drew a shilling from his pocket and tossed it up.

  “Much obliged,” Jem said, easily grabbing the coin from the air. “I don’t do no purse pinchin’, I comes by me blunt right and proper.” He turned the coin over in his thin and dirty fingers as a triumphant grin dimpled his cheeks. “That pantler of yours was tryin’ to beef me, but I duffed the ken anyways.”

  “Yes, you were quite effective. I will be sure to t
ell Sulliv—Sully all about your persis—a-hem—pluck. If you want to avoid another run-in with my pantler, you had better leave by the back.” He pointed. “Those stairs lead to a door that opens to the stable yard. If you have another message, come that way and have a stable boy fetch me.”

  Jem nodded.

  “I seen them back dancers comin’ in.” Jem waved toward the stairs. “I thought there might be a gigger at ’ta bottom.” Jem cocked his head and squinted. “I ain’t bounced by the pantler, mind you, but I will be taking the dancers so’s I can scour.”

  “Right,” Max agreed. “The back entrance will be a faster way to leave.”

  “Me thanks for plumpin’ me rep with Sully. If ye need to send a message,” Jem said, tucking the coin into his shoe, “old Jem’s your man.”

  “I will remember,” Max promised.

  Jem scurried down the back stairs. Max shook his head as he grabbed his greatcoat. Boys like Jem knew their way around these streets better than most. He prayed he could be as effective when locating a disguised Lavinia amongst the hordes at Vauxhall.

  Chapter Nine

  Lavinia clutched her cloak at her throat and glanced up. No clouds marred the gray-white moon, but the air of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens felt stretched and tense, as if ready for a thunderous crack.

  Last night had been much warmer while she’d waited for Vaile’s madam at the prearranged meeting spot, just inside one of the smaller walks off Grand Cross. Iphigenia, of course, had never arrived, though the madam had given instructions for such an occasion: should she fail to appear, Lavinia was to return every night at the proper time until the payment was made. If, on the other hand, Lavinia failed to appear, Iphigenia would go straight to the Morning Chronicle.

  Lavinia pulled her jeweled watch from inside her cloak, tilting its face toward an oil lamp’s faint light. Too soon.

  No chance the madam would arrive early. Every night, precisely at nine, Vauxhall’s walks and lanes emptied as people drew together to watch a cascade: a large painting with a series of mechanical parts. When the parts were in motion, they created the illusion of running water. Just last season, the owners had changed the backdrop. Visitors were eager to see the spectacle in its modern state, and during the event there was less chance they’d be observed.

  As usual, Maggie had arranged for a hackney. This time, one arrived far faster than usual. Even though the jarvey had stopped once and had taken a circuitous route, they had crossed Westminster Bridge before the clock chimed eight.

  Maggie stayed with the jarvey, ensuring he would not catch another fare. The last thing Lavinia needed was a desperate search for transportation. The fewer people she interacted with, the better. If Lord Randolph had testified honestly, then he had seen and known her last night. Tonight, remaining incognita was essential.

  Lavinia slipped the timepiece back into her pocket and adjusted her cloak. The reticule of coin, now pinned beneath her skirts, was concealed by a modest pannier and only accessible through a slit. She hugged herself, brusquely rubbing her upper arms.

  Though she was no longer welcome at the fashionable supper boxes she had graced when first married, on occasion, the Furies still attended Vauxhall for pleasure.

  When with friends, Vauxhall was a great joke—a place where normal rules could be, if not suspended, then bent beyond recognition. Diplomats and dukes mixed with doxies and dandies and anyone else who could pay the entrance fee. On those nights, she loved to ride a barge across the Thames to Vauxhall. She loved the swish of the waves against the paddles and the jolly banter of the oarsmen who rowed with unified strokes. What she loved best, however, was striding up the stairs, knowing no one could bar her from attendance, one triumph which could not be stolen by high-and-mighty matrons with swift and merciless judgment.

  When she was alone, however, Vauxhall became sinister. Every time she came to meet the madam, dread, not happy excitement, gathered in her stomach. And dread proved particularly potent tonight.

  Another barge arrived at Vauxhall Stairs. Whooping laughter filled the night air as two gentlemen attempted to leap to the landing but instead hit the water with a splash. A lady on the boat cried out and threw herself into the arms of a third man.

  Lavinia blinked and turned away. The scene of playful frivolity stood in painful contrast to her present circumstance.

  Ahead, moonlight framed the faint forms of two drunken dandies as they shouted vile taunts at a group of older ladies. The ladies clung together and rushed past, heads down. One of the men slapped the other’s back, and they bent over, roaring with laughter.

  The men staggered, drawing close. Lavinia tucked her veil around her hood and headed toward Grand Cross. No, she did not wish to be recognized. On the other hand, safety lay in numbers.

  “Hello there, gentle lady. How about a discount for two?”

  “Give us a kiss, will you? A sampling before we buy?”

  From the sound of their voices, they were only steps behind. She prepared for the inevitable, repeating the sequence of protective actions she’d learned from Maggie—swivel, grab his shoulders, kick.

  She stumbled over a boot.

  “I say, Bolton, I have been nicked by a canary.” The buck snickered.

  “Well then,” his friend replied, “I’ll make sure she don’t scour while you check your pockets. This one looks quick with her fingers.”

  Arms like iron bands clamped her from behind and lifted her from the ground. He had rendered her powerless—anticipation burned in her heart—powerless, for the moment. The man’s breath was so thick with drink, she could practically taste the gin. Her opportunity would come.

  “Hello there, honey,” he murmured. “Why so stiff?”

  “Bring her here and I’ll show her some stiffness!”

  Her heart thundered over their laughter. She calmed herself with a deep breath and forced her body to loosen, just as Maggie had instructed.

  The dandy’s hold slackened. Her heel hit dirt and she swiveled, jabbing her fingers into his eyes. Something ripped. Her stays? Heedless, she took hold of his shoulders and shoved her knee between his legs.

  The man wailed and crumpled into the gravel, just as Maggie had said he would.

  “What the devil?” the friend shouted. “A trollop who thinks she’s a bloody bruiser! Why, I’ll teach you—”

  The buck dove, but she skirted his strike. He could barely stand, let alone fight. Her velvet cape tangled with her petticoats and she stumbled.

  “Apologize to my friend,” a new voice boomed through the darkness.

  She froze and her heart dropped to her belly. Fight three men? Impossible.

  “You heard me, you sorry excuse for a man. Apologize.”

  Max. Relief mopped her sweaty skin like a cool towel. She lifted her face. Max loomed over the men with the deadly intent of an Elizabethan executioner.

  “She’s the one should apologize,” the dandy said incoherently.

  Max grabbed the man by his shirt. “I will not ask again.”

  “I…I…apologize…ma’am.”

  She nodded without speaking, placing a protective hand over her concealed reticule. Had Max recognized her? Impossible.

  Max shoved the one called Bolton with his boot. “You as well.”

  “I apologize,” Bolton wheezed.

  “If you bother this lady again, or any other, I will send you both to a surgeon. Now go!”

  The dandy helped Bolton stand and the two disappeared down the pathway.

  She tried to affect the accent of a Covent Garden light skirt. “I thank you, sir. But I must be goin’…”

  Max grabbed ahold of her elbow, and she stumbled into the folds of his greatcoat.

  Through the veil, he lifted her chin. “Are you hurt?”

  Max looked different. The planes of his face had wired into a mask both hard and lethal.

  “For God’s sake, Vinia, as if I would not recognize you.”

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked,
her heart dancing a frantic reel.

  “No word of thanks, then?”

  “I wager you are proud of dispatching those men.”

  “I daresay you accomplished the difficult part.” He shook his head in slow, furious disbelief. “Where did you learn…that?”

  “Maggie,” she answered truthfully.

  “Maggie?” he asked, surprised. “Your little slip of a maid?”

  “Not just a maid, my abigail.”

  “An odd sort of thing for an abigail to teach her mistress.”

  What would he think if she told him about Maggie’s past? Suddenly, she wanted desperately to know. Lavinia’s situation after leaving Vaile would have been the same, but for a fortunate accident of birth and Sophia’s offer of shelter.

  “Maggie is different. I took her into my service from the Magdalene Hospital.”

  “Where they reform street women? Wait—Maggie is a prostitute?”

  “Was a prostitute.” What did she hear in his tone? Shock? Disapproval? She bristled. “Maggie did as she had to, until the hospital provided an alternative.”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “I have caused offense I did not intend.”

  “Yes, well, I understand a man like you would disapprove.”

  “Not at all. Taking her in was admirable. You are recovered enough to walk, I see. Come.”

  He fixed her hand to his arm, holding her fingers against his muscle in an intractable grip. Her heart beat so loud, she was certain he could hear its thud above the din. Silently, she vowed she would make an excuse as soon as the three-quarter hour bell chimed.

  Their strides fell together with absurdly pleasing ease.

  Taking her in was admirable…

  His words had fanned a deeply mistrusted spark of hope.

  She peeked at his face, shrouded in shadow and then lit by a hanging oil lamp. His hair, tied with a black ribbon, curled onto a back broad enough to hoist a standing stone. She’d been dazzled by the handsome perfection of Max the boy but, after what she’d just witnessed, she had to admit that Max-the-man had merit. Strong, solid, commanding, his honor sped her heart.