You can leave Vaile, but your sins will haunt you until death. I will haunt you until death.
A combination of fear and a bitter sense of irony fused, bubbling forth in an acerbic laugh.
“Lavinia, what is wrong with you?” Sophia asked.
Thea rang the servant’s bell. “We need hot tea,” she said to Sophia.
“Back to Iphigenia,” Sophia said in a governess-like tone. “I believe we should place this woman on our list of possibilities.”
“As she asked me herself,” Lavinia said, “why would she kill a reliable source of income?”
“You have spoken with this woman since the murder, then?” Sophia asked.
“Yes. We met at Vauxhall last night.”
“You went again?” Thea asked in exasperation.
“I pay for her silence. The experience was horrid enough without you scolding. I was mistaken for a lightskirt.” Lavinia clamped a hand over her mouth, but another mad bit of laughter escaped. “Problem number two arrived, rescued me, and then accused me of having left him broken.”
“Quite a night,” Sophia said dryly.
“Yes, it was,” Lavinia snorted.
Mrs. Clarke opened the door.
“You will bring her ladyship a hot tea, please,” Thea said.
“I am gratified to see your ladyship so merry,” Vaile’s housekeeper said. “I trust the morning’s news will contribute to your enjoyment.” She placed a tray containing the Chronicle on the table. “I will return with tea.”
“Thank you,” Thea responded for Lavinia. “That will be all.”
The housekeeper’s gaze oozed malice, but she curtseyed again and left the room. When Thea assumed duchess demeanor, few dared argue.
“Oh dear.” Lavinia hiccupped. “My housekeeper hates me.”
“Employ a new one,” Sophia suggested.
Lavinia examined Sophia though watery eyes. With the exception of Maggie, she had never had a say in the hiring of staff. But now…
“I could, couldn’t I? The solicitor confirmed the house is part of my trust. Then again, I’d just as soon burn the place to ash.”
“Did you find out about appointing a new trustee?” Sophia said.
“I am considering options,” Lavinia said. “What man can I ask? I have no brothers or male cousins. I can hardly expect Elmbrooke or Montechurch to safely steward my affairs.”
“Your mother’s family—?”
“Her grandfather was the earl of Eweing, but on his death, his title reverted to the crown. A distant male cousin already serves as the second trustee. But if she had any other living male relatives, I do not know them.”
An uneasy awareness dawned—her mother was now, as she, a widow. Who helped her steward her affairs?
“Have you considered appointing Mr. Harrison?” Sophia questioned.
Thea rolled her eyes.
“I would stay wary of Mr. Harrison,” Thea said. “Wynchester values work over all else. Mr. Harrison will not choose you over his ambition.”
If she gave Max the choice, would he choose ambition over her? She was not certain.
“I think you are wrong, Thea,” she said.
Sophia smiled. Thea scowled.
“Wonderful,” Sophia said. “You deserve someone who’ll love you. We will find the true killer, and then, after the customary mourning period, you and Mr. Harrison will wed.”
“Very efficient,” Thea said in farcical drawl.
“Wait a moment, Sophia. We were talking about appointing Max as my trustee, not of planning nuptials,” Lavinia said. “Even if we can resolve this murder, I cannot marry Max.”
“Why ever not?” Sophia asked
“Marrying me will ruin him. I may not believe he’d choose ambition over me, but I do not wish to give him that choice at the expense of all he holds dear.”
“She has a point.” Thea nodded. “Wynchester’s father, the old duke, lost influence when he married Emma, the current dowager duchess who was once a courtesan—and he already had a legitimate heir from a respectable wife. Harrison has just started to rise.”
“Lavinia is hardly a courtesan,” Sophia argued. “Notorious, yes. Irredeemable? No. Closer ties to family, for instance, would improve Lavinia’s standing. Harrison said Lavinia’s mother hired him…a reconciliation may follow.”
Lavinia decided not to reveal that Max had lied.
Sophia continued, “And, for argument’s sake, if I were to marry a peer with strong social connections, our soirees would, over time, come to be viewed as eccentric rather than notorious. The same would apply if you, Thea, were to someday reunite with the du—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Sophia,” Thea interrupted.
Lavinia imagined the outrageous suggestion that she could somehow regain a measure of, well, if not respectability, then accepted eccentricity. How would it feel to stroll in Hyde Park on Max’s arm? Even in fantasy, proper ladies turned their backs and swept aside their skirts.
“If I decide I want to be with him, it can only be as his mistress.”
“Pardon?” Thea gasped.
Sophia leaned forward. “You mean in secret, right?”
Infrequent meetings would leave her in a constant state of bewildered want. “If I decide to be with him—with extra emphasis on if—I would consider openly being his mistress.”
“Oh no, you can’t,” Sophia said. “Parties and gambling are one thing, but openly declaring yourself fallen? Oh, Lavinia. Think clearly.”
“Of course I want marriage, but I am damaged, Sophia. I will not be the cause of his ruin. I cannot be to him what Vaile was to me.”
Thea grasped the table’s edge with whitened fingers. “Between pristine ladies and the demimonde, we’ve carved our own place. You do not want to ruin Max, but have you considered what your choice would do to Sophia and me?”
Thea stood quickly and something wedged between the pages of the paper wafted to the floor. She swept it up. She glanced at the page, frowned, and crumpled the parchment.
“What was that?” Lavinia demanded.
“Something that should not have been there,” Thea said.
“Let me see.” Lavinia reached for the paper.
“No.” In her haste to conceal the print, Thea knocked Sophia with her elbow.
Sophia scowled, holding out her hand. Thea glanced to Lavinia and then handed over the crumpled sheet. Sophia placed the paper on the table and smoothed the edges. She groaned.
The print was the kind that hung in print shops along Grub Street and people gathered around, hoping to be roused by the antics of the rich to laughter or rage. The Furies—as Decadence, Scandal and Vice—occasionally appeared in the prints, usually when one of their guests was being pilloried.
“Is it another print of Decadence, Scandal and Vice?” Lavinia asked.
Thea and Sophia exchanged a grim glance.
“This one contains only Lady Vice,” Thea said darkly.
Lavinia could not read the caption upside down. She placed her fingers on the edge of the paper and swung it around.
“Unrepentant Fury Takes a Life,” she read the title aloud.
The sketch depicted the distinctive ironwork in front of Vaile House. In the center of the drawing was a carriage with a man’s legs sprawling from the door. The Vaile crest adorned the carriage. She stood in the foreground, complete with wings and dark garments—a Fury of Grecian myth. Clasped in her hand was a smoking flintlock, and in a bubble above her head were the words, “Who dares to punish the punisher?”
“Oh, for the love of God.” Her mad laughter began again. “The artist has it all wrong—Vaile was killed in his bed!”
“It appears your fears were well-founded, Lavinia,” Thea said. “Someone wishes to cast suspicion on you and they wish to do so in public, not court. Randolph’s testimony won’t make a difference there.”
Sophia came round the table and knelt by Lavinia’s chair. “Is there anything you have left out? Who would want to ha
rm you this way?”
Lavinia recognized the hand that drew the picture. “Only Monte.”
“Lord Montechurch?” Sophia frowned. “He seemed convinced you were to blame when he came to my home, but why stoke public anger?”
“I defied him once. Perhaps Vaile did the same. Kill him. Blame me. Rid himself of both of us in one neat parcel.”
The housekeeper pushed open the parted door and entered, carrying a tea tray. A swell of sudden noise filtered in from the front rooms.
“What is happening outside?”
“Outcry, ma’am.” the housekeeper answered.
Something about the gleam in the housekeeper’s eye sent a ripple of fear through Lavinia’s stomach.
“A few people may have gathered in the square.” The housekeeper placed her tray on the table and pointed to the print. “Some of them are holding that.”
Sophia grabbed Lavinia’s hand.
Thea rushed to the side windows and began slamming and barring the shutters.
“I will be going out now.” The housekeeper curtsied and backed from the room.
Lavinia ripped her hand from Sophia’s, lifted her skirts, and headed for the shuttered sitting room.
“Lavinia, be careful,” Sophia called. “Do not open the shutters facing the square.”
Heedless, Lavinia shoved open the door between the dining room and the sitting room. She marched to the window amid growing clamor. She placed a shaking hand on the latch. The hinge moaned. The opening was little more than a crack, but it was enough.
Lavinia gasped at the sight. A crowd—maybe one hundred people or more and growing—filled the street.
“There she is, in the window!” a woman shouted. “Murderess!”
The crowd looked up in unison.
“Close the shutter, Lavinia,” Sophia urged from behind.
“Murderess!”
The sun shone too bright. The crowd blurred into a mess of color and shape. One thing she could not mistake, however, was the anger in their raised voices. She jumped as a rock hit the jamb.
Thea barreled against the shutter and shoved down the latch.
“They will not allow us to leave peacefully, will they?” Lavinia asked.
“No,” Sophia replied.
Lavinia remembered the day a riot had erupted among her father’s brewery workers. Her father had addressed the crowd and, after some negotiation, had diminished the mob’s anger. The shouts outside were growing louder. What should she do to calm them? Where could she go for help?
Lavinia grasped the only solution that came to mind. “I must get a message to Mr. Harrison.”
“Maggie can slip through the back and deliver a message,” Sophia suggested.
“She’ll be hurt,” Lavinia said.
“Presumably, your housekeeper left. They aren’t likely to harm a servant.” Thea’s tone was dark. “They want you.”
Sophia squeezed Lavinia’s hand. “I will find her.”
Lavinia nodded.
Thea looked at the clock. “Mr. Harrison will be with my husband,” Thea said, rolling her eyes in response to Sophia’s shocked expression. “Wynchester’s housekeeper sends me his schedule, to prevent the scandal of an accidental public meeting.”
“We will need more than just Mr. Harrison,” Sophia said.
“Wynchester can call the militia,” Thea replied.
Sophia nodded and left.
Lavinia closed her eyes. “I cannot believe a single print drew this much attention.”
“If you are right, then Montechurch could have hired people to rouse anger. There has not been a riot in months. They were just waiting for an excuse,” Thea said. “Come away from the window.”
“They would not dare enter a private home.” Even to her ears, the argument sounded weak.
“You cannot count on a crowd to behave with decorum.” Thea bit her lower lip and then let it slide from beneath her teeth. Her cheeks looked scoured—from heat or fear, Lavinia could not tell.
“I think…” Thea began. “…I think we should leave with Maggie through the mews.” Her calm was swallowed by thickening fear. She looked through the door to the stair, as if by looking she could will herself beyond the reach of the groundless hate in the voices of the enraged.
“You go,” Lavinia urged. “As you said, they want me.”
Outside, Lavinia heard the sound of shattering glass. Thea turned back and placed her thumb between her eyes. She lowered her face while clutching her elbow to her stomach.
Lavinia forgot her own fear. “Thea, are you well?”
“The room is terribly hot.” Thea’s breath was fast, and bumps appeared on her forearm’s skin.
“Stay calm, Thea.”
“You cannot understand. You were not in London during the Gordon Riots.”
Lavinia’s eyes went wide. The duchess had gone to live with Sophia just after the Gordon Riots. Good Lord, the duke’s home had been damaged. Had Thea been inside?
“Thea, you must sit.” She wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist and helped her to a chair. “Maggie will get word to Max.”
“You do not understand. Crowds can kill.”
“Thea!” Lavinia held her friend’s face. “Breathe.” Her heart thumped in her chest.
“They burned…” Thea gasped. “They burned the house. Wynchester was supposed to be home. He was not there. He did not come. And still, I cannot look at him without remembering my terror and my loss.”
“Max will come,” Lavinia said with certainty.
Whether he would get there before someone broke down the door was another question.
Chapter Thirteen
Max followed the sound of Wynchester’s breath over distant clinks and rattles. He should be with Lavinia, not debating a bill in the duke’s massive house with its roving army of servants.
“Harrison, would you pay attention?” The duke’s voice was more wry than angry. “You, of all people, should apply yourself to the fate of the East India Company. If this bill cannot hold your attention, there’s no hope for you.”
Max trilled his fingers on the duke’s desk. Had the beast within consumed every vestige of the gentleman he was raised to be? Was he so far gone he could no longer honor his commitments? He had sworn to Lord Eustace he’d stand by his brother.
“Of course you are right, Your Grace.”
The duke rubbed his purple jaw and shook his head. “I daresay after the beating you gave me last evening, you should call me Wynchester.”
Well, that got his attention. “Earned your respect, did I?”
The duke puckered his lips and shrugged. “My respect earned you a place in Parliament. Your beating warned me it would be wise to keep you close.”
The duke lacked full disclosure. Max knew the duke had chosen him, not out of respect, but loyalty. Max had cared for the duke’s brother during his final months, and had carried news back from India of the younger Wynchester son’s death.
Max shuttered unwelcome memories. “You threatened to replace me,” he said.
“My respect for you is one thing. Your useful influence is another.” The duke tapped the papers sprawling across his desk. “Your mind is not here, and I need it here. Political vultures do not cease to circle merely because you have a woman on your mind.”
“You should know.”
“What was that?”
Max coughed. “Nothing, Your Grace.”
The duke sighed. “You want to know what is going on with the inquest, and you shall, Harrison, you shall,” he said. “You’ve obtained permission from the lord chancellor to have a servant transcribe the events. By day’s end, you will know more than the jurors themselves can remember. And that surgeon you paid, is he not to testify today?”
“Yes.” Max could not argue, still, his limbs seethed with the impulse to fight. He frowned and snatched up a copy of the bill. He squeezed his eyes shut—gentleman, not ravaging beast—and then he opened them wide.
The harder he
focused, the faster the neatly scripted letters on the page danced. Lavinia, Lavinia, Lavinia. His mind trotted like a horse along a narrow path.
Angrily, he thrust away the page. “It is useless.”
“Harrison, you have covered all the ground you can cover with the information you have. Let the solicitor you hired to look into Vaile’s debts complete his business.”
Every point the duke made, Max could have made on his own. Still, he could not shake the fear wrapping its prickly fingers around his throat. Inaction strummed against instincts in full vigilance.
“Is there anything more I can do to help you concentrate?” the duke asked.
It was not the friendliest of questions. Max detected a warning edge in Wynchester’s tone.
“No,” he answered honestly. He curled his fingernails into his palms. “I will not be able to fully concentrate until she is safe.”
The duke’s eyes grew dark. He dropped his lids half-mast, cloaking his thoughts’ direction. With a kick, he balanced his weight on his chair’s back two legs.
“And when will she be safe, Harrison?” he asked. “The coroner’s court may not issue a warrant but, unless they find the real killer, she is at risk. Even if someone else is charged and convicted, the ton will expect her to observe a period of mourning. If you wish to maintain any place in society, or allow her to regain hers, you must accept you cannot be by her side.” He narrowed his eyes. “People will not forget.”
Max shifted uneasily—restless, caged. The duke’s office stifled. His cravat chafed against his neck and his vest was sewn too tight.
“You mean you will not forget.”
“Harrison, you have what you have because of my patronage. Should your judgment be called into question, you will no longer be able to sway votes.”
“So you have already said.”
Which was more important—a vow to a dead man or loyalty to the living?
Madness, his love.
An image of the mountains of Cumbria shimmered like a watery reflection before his eyes.
A mad love, yes. Mad, yet genuine and enduring. Lavinia’s proper place was as she had been last night. Secure in his arms, yielding, trusting, and open.
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