Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Her work was useful. It wasn’t the idle plaything of a rich, bored woman who hated her class, her family, and herself. It wasn’t that at all… at least, she could pretend it wasn’t, when moments like the one involving Lord Carstairs occurred. With so much injustice in the world, she was at least playing a small part in balancing the scales.

  Yes. She was. She wasn’t running away from reality at all. Yes.

  Noting the dark direction her thoughts were taking, she forced herself to focus on the main events of the morning. Jack Swift, the man with the dangerous voice—and the mysterious stranger. She reached to ring the servant’s bell, mind racing, maintaining her composure as her lady’s maid walked into the room.

  ‘Martha?’ She smiled as the girl bobbed a curtsey. ‘I understand the gentlemen who visited us were looking for an escaped criminal. Was one of the searchers a man named Swift?’

  She was expecting a flash of recognition, but not the deep blush that spread over Martha’s face. Neither was she expecting the giggle that crept into her maid’s voice. ‘Yes, ma’am. The butler for the Laughtons. Have—have you heard of him?’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s an excellent butler.’ Lavinia spoke smilingly, grateful for her maid’s loose lips. She couldn’t precisely remember where she’d heard the Laughtons being spoken of before—an old Viper piece? ‘Perhaps we need a more professional touch here. Could an interview be arranged? Father’s so busy at the moment, and with Flint’s leg so bad I couldn’t ask him to talk to the man. I will do it.’

  ‘I… I could certainly arrange a meeting between the two of you, ma’am. My sister works at the Laughton’s—she could pass a note along. Next week, ma’am?’ Martha’s face was full of a sort of terrified glee; an emotion Lavinia couldn’t for the life of her link to the conversation they were having. ‘Is… is it urgent?’

  ‘Well. Urgent enough, I suppose.’ Lavinia raised an eyebrow as another giggle escaped Martha. ‘Is there something the matter?’

  ‘No, ma’am. No.’ Martha bit her lip, blushing harder. ‘I… I just never thought that this house would have need of Jack Swift.’

  ‘Well I don’t know if we need him yet. And with your display, perhaps it’s an unwise idea.’ Lavinia spoke more sharply than she meant to; Martha wilted, her smile disappearing. ‘A meeting as soon as possible. Arrange it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.’ With a terrified bob of a curtsey, the girl practically sprinted away. Lavinia watched her flee, more confused—and curious—than ever.

  Well. That was taken care of, at least until next week. With her street contacts out of commission, and no way to meet Swift earlier than next week without attracting suspicion… she was stuck.

  She wasn’t used to being stuck in her shadow-life. A life of newsprint, of dark alleys and suspicious characters and gossip; gossip that oiled the wheels of high society, and occasionally made a cog or two spring loose.

  Her life as the Viper was her vivid life. Her real life. One that she was jeopardising by pursuing this stranger; the man who’d appeared in her room, like something out of a dream…

  … Or a fantasy.

  ‘You kissed him.’ She shook her head, whispering it to herself wonderingly. ‘Why?’

  It wasn’t curiosity. She exercised her curiosity on paper, writing down all the most tangled intrigues of her hated class and serving them up for public consumption. It wasn’t a base, bodily desire for pleasure, either… although pleasure had been the result. More pleasure than she had ever expected, in fact.

  Perhaps—just perhaps, she told herself, not wanting to acknowledge the truth—she had kissed him because he had seen her. Seen her, Lavinia Dent, at her most unguarded, her most snappily, outrageously sarcastic… and he had smiled.

  She had been enough. In that moment, in that conversation, she had been completely herself—and for the first time in her life, she had been enough.

  That was worth a kiss. If she were honest with herself, it was worth considerably more. Who knows how much she would have done, if they hadn’t been interrupted?

  You know. Her conscience pricked at her heart. You know. And you don’t even feel guilty about it, do you?

  ‘No.’ Lavinia murmured the word, looking back at the window. ‘No, I don’t.’

  More than anything, she felt angry. Angry that she couldn’t find the man, and angry that she could conduct no independent investigation. Angry, and caged by her womanhood… as usual.

  Still. At least she had a way of exorcising her rage. Her article was due in the Morning Herald; just a few more biting observations needed to be added, and it could be sent to the editor. With readership so markedly increased since the first Viper column, Mr. Sanderson never probed as to the identity of his star writer… and if he did, well, Lavinia had collected enough information on what brothels he frequented to make sure her name never came out.

  She turned back to her desk with a thrill of anticipation. There was always joy to be found in words; an escape from her circumstances, surprising as they were. All she had to do was pick up her pen, draw the paper to her, and…

  … Where was the paper? The galley proof?

  That kiss the man had given her just before he’d left… a kiss so dazzling, it had distracted her from whatever he’d been doing with his hands…

  He’d stolen it. The bastard had stolen it. She wasn’t just caged, now; she was trapped. Trapped, and at his mercy.

  She reached back, mentally picking through the vast array of unsayable words she knew, until one that Masher had taught her came to mind.

  ‘Balls! Dratted—blazing—balls!’

  ‘Balls.’ Robert muttered the word to himself some hours later, as a clouded sky darkened over London. He folded his arms under the Kings Head pub sign, looking at the street urchin in front of him with as much gravity as he could muster.

  ‘No information about the lady at all, Quince? Her house? Not even the name of the family who live there?’

  ‘You can find that out from anyone, Rob. But not from us.’ Quince, a small boy with chapped lips, sniffed as he rubbed his hands together in the evening cold. ‘Not as much as a weasel from any of us.’

  ‘But… oh.’ Robert smiled. ‘How much is she paying you?’

  ‘A damn sight more than anyone else does.’ Quince sniffed again, shrugging. ‘She’s the only reason any of us have got clothes on our backs and a roof over our head. And she’s bloody nasty to anyone who crosses her—so I’ll be keeping my trap shut, and you’ll be sodding off out until the air’s clear again. Swift won’t give up just yet.’

  ‘You don’t need to give me a name, Quince.’ Robert realised how ridiculous he sounded, how plaintive, before swallowing what remained of his pride with a frown. ‘Just a place she likes to go. A place she has to be.’

  ‘She likes being at her desk. She’s not the going-out sort.’ Quince shifted, clearly in agony at being asked to choose between two loyalties. ‘She… she might be going to the Mimsmere ball next Thursday. There’ll be gossip for her to write about.’

  ‘The Mimsmeres.’ Robert mulled over the name. ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘They’re not real quality, but the second daughter bagged a marquess who spends a lot of time in molly houses. And in his valet’s trousers.’ Quince grinned. ‘I think the newspapers would love it.’

  ‘Well it’s a good thing you told me, Quince, because now there’s a night in it for us.’ Robert slapped the wooden post that held the pub sign, his mind racing as he pieced together the plot. ‘We’re going to the Mimsmere ball. Free grub, and all the loose coins you can filch from the coats of all the grand ladies and gentlemen. All we need is—’

  ‘—The leopard-skin, the treasure-box, and Todge needs to hold your things. And Harry needs to write a letter on that fancy notepaper with all the seals done right. And I need to paint myself with that horrible gold stuff, but leave the fingers bare for proper filching.’ Quince grimaced. ‘They’d better have bloody good stuff, Rob. She d
oesn’t like us nicking things.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll have wonderful stuff. You’ll buy enough meat pies and mulled wine to last the month. And don’t worry about about my mysterious lady’s wrath—I’ll bear the brunt of it. She can’t be all that angry at the Prince of Ethiopia.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Quince looked balefully at Robert. ‘She can get angry with anyone. You’re slippery, Rob, but I don’t reckon you could escape her.’

  ‘Oh, Quince. I don’t want to.’ Robert sighed theatrically. ‘No sensible man would.’

  ‘No-one ever said you were sensible, Rob.’ Quince scratched his head with the weary air of a much older child. ‘All the other things in the world, yes. Sensible, no.’

  Seven days later, as stars shone over a busy London night, the small but genteel Mimsmere residence lay open to guests. The ballroom was as polished and glittering as Robert had expected, the looks of surprise and fascination on the faces of the guests the same as every other time Prince Amha Ras Yohannes had made an appearance… but there were no familiar faces in the crowd.

  He swept through the room with his best air of remote arrogance, moth-eaten leopardskin flung over one shoulder as he sipped chilled champagne, the lady of the house struggling to keep up with him as she giggled and trilled her compliments.

  ‘So lovely to receive the letter from the ambassador, Your Highness, explaining your interest in our little gathering tonight. We were honoured to make up another place at the table.’ She fluttered her fan, her eyes moving from his face to the leopard-skin as if she’d never seen anything quite so exciting. ‘Our house may not be quite as grand as Lord Haverbrooke’s, or Lord Laughton’s, but we do our best.’

  ‘Madam, your house is a delight.’ Robert gently lowered his head, setting off another shower of giggles. The fact that Lord and Lady Mimsmere were considered somewhat unfashionable, not to mention a touch less wealthy than the Haverbrookes or Laughtons, meant he was safer here than in a grander house.

  He’d also already made the… acquaintance… of both Lady Haverbrooke, and Lady Laughton. With their husbands watching. Even if his mysterious woman didn’t appear tonight, he could at least enjoy an evening without being treated like a totem of sexual potency.

  God, but he hoped she’d appear. It had been a week of hiding, planning, waiting; dreaming, whenever he managed to close his eyes, of her. Jack Swift had contacts in every titled house in London—it would only take one to finish the night. Along with, very possibly, his life.

  It was ridiculous to think this would work. Ridiculous that it had ever worked—that he had gained entrance to the gilded halls of power with nothing more than a forged letter, a charming smile and a couple of mute, scowling, gold-painted ‘servants’. But people saw what they wanted to see; a prince they could patronise, who they could use to make themselves look magnanimous in the eyes of their equals and betters. Oh, I had to give that chap a line of credit at Willoughby’s… what a bloody country—so poor their princes can’t get about properly…

  ‘London must be such a fascinating change for you. So many people—and the horses!’ Lady Mimsmere batted him coquettishly with her fan. ‘No doubt you choose between elephants and lions to ride on, Your Highness!’

  Robert smiled weakly as his soul screamed. Not for the first time, he reflected that an actor could leave the character behind as soon as they stepped off the stage. Ignorant comments like that one, however—really there was information on Ethiopia in so many books, did no-one read?—would follow him all the way home to bed.

  Follow him, that is, unless he were distracted. Unless the woman who’d been plaguing his thoughts for the past week came to him…

  … And there she was. As if his thoughts had summoned her up, there she was. Robert stopped in his tracks, dry-mouthed, half-convinced that she was a mirage—but otto of roses hung in the air, faint and wickedly intimate.

  It was her, in the flesh, dressed in ice blue silk. Her spectacles shone on her face.

  It didn’t even occur to Robert to hide. Yes, she held the key to his safety—or at least his continuing presence at the dance. But how could anyone move of their own accord, with her close by? Why wasn’t everyone looking at her like worshippers towards an idol, humbly awaiting commands?

  He forgot Swift. He forgot the danger he was putting himself in. He forgot everything except the quick, painful beating of his heart as she turned, her face averted, her eyes behind her spectacles full of a melancholy that Robert ached to erase.

  And it did erase, when she saw him. Vanished completely, and replaced with shock…

  … And happiness. She was happy to see him; the man he was, under the disguise. When was the last time he’d experienced such a gift? Even if the happiness was, upon closer exception, a predatory one. The joy of a snake with its jaws clenched around a rabbit, or a wolf spying a wounded traveller.

  Robert smiled. He’d never been so happy to be prey.

  ‘Ah, look who has just arrived!’ Lady Mimsmere ushered Robert over, her silks rustling like leaves as she excitedly fluttered her fan. ‘I must introduce you. May I introduce you?’

  Robert watched as the woman gave a meek, silent nod. The flash of pleasure he’d seen in her eyes had completely vanished; for a disturbing moment, he wondered if he’d imagined it.

  ‘Miss Lavinia Dent—His Highness Prince Amha Ras Yohannes of Ethiopia. Your Highness—Miss Lavinia Dent.’ Lady Mimsmere’s wide smile faded a little as a pink-faced man bustled over. ‘And her father, Mr. Eustace Dent.’

  ‘Lavinia, your skirt almost snagged on the step. Pay more attention in future.’ The man performed a bow so cursory it was almost rude. ‘Amelia, where are the spirits? Champagne is for women and small dogs.’

  Lady Mimsmere’s brittle laughter only served to intensify the air of embarrassment. ‘Parker will be preparing brandy, but I had rather hoped to keep it until after dinner when us ladies will—’

  ‘I’m going to find it. Make sure Lavinia doesn’t make a complete spectacle of herself.’ He looked at Robert with the annoyance of a man forced to treat as superior someone he believes is inferior. ‘Good Lord.’

  Without another word, he walked away. Lady Mimsmere looked from Lavinia to Robert, a blush clearly visible through her powder.

  ‘I… I fear people are arriving with no-one to greet them.’ She batted her fan frenetically. ‘I don’t—my goodness, what shall I—’

  ‘Perhaps His Highness would like to see the cabinet of curiosities in the library. The shell collection is particularly edifying.’ Lavinia spoke so quietly, Robert had trouble hearing her. ‘If you wish, Lady Mimsmere, I could explain the taxonomy of the more interesting nautilus examples to him.’

  ‘Oh, Lavinia. How good you are. No doubt His Highness has never seen good English shells.’ Lady Mimsmere patted Lavinia’s arm, as one would pat an obedient dog. ‘Thank you. Your Highness, please excuse me.’

  She hurried away, glancing back at Lavinia with grateful eyes. Robert barely had time to register what was happening before Lavinia—this new, quiet, mouse-like Lavinia—began silently walking towards the corridor that led away from the ballroom.

  He had questions. How could he not? But he also had a body, and a heart, and a soul quite overcome with the shape and sound of the woman he’d been chasing through his fantasies.

  A woman he no longer needed to chase. A woman who was leading the way.

  As soon as no-one else could see them, Lavinia changed. Robert watched her shoulders straighten, her neck reaching the queenly height he remembered as her walk slowed. The demure miss of the ton fell away, replaced with the stark, mysterious creature he’d interrupted in her bedroom.

  He’d watched many a performance by Beatrice Tanner, undisputed queen of the Garrick Theatre—but he’d never seen Beatrice inhabit a role as completely as Lavinia had. His stolen kiss, his afternoon delight, managed to both erase herself in company and flower before him in private.

  She brushed past him, the hem of her dress l
iquid and shining as her scent tugged at his heart. Opening the nearest door, for all the world as if she owned the house and everything in it, she swept into the room without so much as glancing back at him.

  Robert heard the command anyway. Follow me. Smiling to himself, trying to control the energy that leapt in him at the thought of being alone with her, he followed her into the room.

  It was a drawing room, not a library. Or a bedroom. Robert found himself obscurely disappointed; Lavinia Dent’s presence demanded a bedroom. A palace of bedrooms, decorated and perfumed to her liking—and an eternity or two, to guide her through each one. A drawing room, even a prettily finished one, was a step backward… even if there were a scattering of chairs and chaise-longues, perfect for reclining. Perfect for laying her down on, and kissing every part of her he could reach.

  But that wouldn’t happen. That couldn’t happen. Just as kissing a stranger couldn’t happen… just as losing your heart to someone you barely knew couldn’t happen.

  And yet, here she was. Here he was, closing the door.

  ‘So. Your Highness.’ Lavinia’s clear eyes were alive with smug pleasure as she turned to him, idly running her fingers along the arm of an overstuffed chair. ‘Or is there another honorific I should be using? Be a sport, sir, and tell me exactly how I should address a man of your rank. Or point to Ethiopia on a map. Either one will satisfy.’

  ‘And why will it satisfy, Miss Dent? To what end?’ Robert briefly produced the folded piece of newsprint, tucking it away as soon as Lavinia’s eyes flashed with recognition. ‘Is it idle entertainment for a bored society miss, or something important enough for the Viper to write about?’

  ‘I see. Mutually assured ruin.’ Lavinia took a step closer; Robert felt the rustle of her dress shiver through him. ‘You’re barely entertainment, sir. My readers enjoy discussing the sins of the titled.’

  ‘Like that poor marquis, who only wants to be left alone with his valet?’

  ‘What, Timothy?’ Lavinia rolled her eyes. ‘Of course I’m not going to write about him. His wife knows exactly what happens in those molly houses, and has shown no inclination to divorce. I only write about grievous sins, for the most part committed by rude people.’