Vennor missed her the moment she was gone—missed her smile at the end of the table, missed the encouragement of her presence. He was too aware that all the male gazes at the table had followed her as she and the ladies departed the garden. Or maybe he was putting too much significance on that. Perhaps they’d only been watching their own wives. The doors shut, the women taken from view, and Inigo didn’t hesitate to broach the subject. ‘She’s a natural here, Ven.’ It was tastefully said as the footman brought a decanter forward for an afternoon brandy, but the implication was clear.
‘Is that the way things are headed?’ Inigo asked as Vennor passed the brandy to him. ‘The place looks much better than the last time I was here.’
‘The last time you were here, you were more interested in shooting at Manton’s and avoiding thugs on Jermyn Street. I’m surprised you noticed anything.’ Vennor took a swallow of his drink. He saw too late how things would look through Inigo’s eyes—Marianne fixing up the house, Marianne hosting his luncheon with ease, but damned if he knew how Inigo knew that much.
‘Marianne wrote to Rosenwyn and Cade and Rose had tea with Eliza up at the school,’ Eaton put in, taking mercy on him at last. That explained it.
‘What exactly did Marianne tell Rose?’ Vennor tried to ask casually.
‘That she was helping clean up the town house and that she hoped to talk you into the charity ball.’ Eaton smiled. ‘We all thought it was worth coming up to town and having a look. I think the ladies are expecting an announcement of some sort.’
‘Then I think they will be disappointed.’ Vennor was firm on this. No ball. No proposal—not from him anyway. ‘I believe Viscount Hayes has offered for Marianne’s hand.’
‘And you’ve allowed it?’ Cassian was blunt and quick in his reaction. He looked about the table. ‘Fellows, I think we’ve come just in time.’ To Vennor he said, ‘You’ve got to be crazy. Marianne is perfect for you.’
What did one say to that? A brief silence descended on the table of friends, punctuated by bees in the nearby garden. It was Inigo’s low tones, his words slow and measured, that broke in. ‘Gents, he knows.’ Another long pause and Vennor was acutely aware all eyes were on him, waiting for an explanation. Again, it was Inigo, with his deuced accurate intuition who spoke. ‘How far has it gone, Ven? You might as well give us the details, since most of them were written all over both of your faces.’
Was it that obvious? Apparently so. Still, this was no one’s business but his and Marianne’s. Vennor rose from the table. ‘I’m sorry, but a gentleman never tells. Let’s join the ladies on their tour.’ They accepted his refusal with good humour, but Inigo slid him a look that plainly indicated this was not over.
‘I’ll check out Viscount Hayes, just in case,’ he murmured. ‘He’ll be at the Russian embassy’s fête tonight.’ As would most of the ton. Alexei Grigoriev’s annual ball was highly attended, everyone eager to see the Russian acrobats and to eat the Russian desserts that populated his buffet tables. Damn, Vennor had forgotten about that. How would he manage to sneak himself and Marianne off to Blackwell if they were surrounded by people who would notice? The general crush would hardly miss two people, but Inigo would, especially after his refusal to discuss the arrangement this afternoon. It might have to be done anyway and Inigo’s curiosity could go rot.
* * *
There had been absolutely no time to speak with Vennor before everyone left Newlyn House to change for the evening. Did his friends suspect anything between them? She rather thought Inigo did. He missed nothing. She’d been looking forward to sharing her good news with Vennor, but there’d been no chance to celebrate and the news was too private for the group. The editor at Gentlemen’s Weekly had given her a whole page for the next instalment of her series on London’s working poor. Her first chance to share the excitement was at the Russian embassy, and even then, manoeuvring to get Vennor alone had been something of a challenge.
‘I have news!’ she whispered under her breath as they made their way to a private spot in the mostly deserted hall, the guests all crowded into the ballroom to see the acrobats hanging from a trapeze suspended from the ceiling. Vennor was alert, his muscles tense beneath the sleeve of his evening jacket. ‘The magazine has been receiving mail about my column and readers want more.’
‘Marianne, that’s wonderful.’ Vennor smiled, but she sensed an air of distraction about him. His eyes glanced about the hall.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ She looked about, too, trying to deduce what had caught his attention.
Vennor took her by the arm, drawing her back into an alcove, surprising her with a sudden kiss, fierce and hard. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that all day.’
She wound her arms around his neck. If that was the reason for his distraction, she’d forgive him. ‘Me, too. I hadn’t realised how disruptive having your friends around would be.’ She laughed gaily. She loved Eaton and Cassian and Inigo like brothers, but, like brothers, they could be annoying, too. ‘I think Inigo suspects.’
‘He definitely does.’ Vennor’s hands settled at her waist, his thumb idly drawing circles in the fabric at her hips. It wasn’t just the kiss. It was something more, Marianne thought.
‘Last night, when I...when the Vigilante went out, there was a note left on the post,’ he said. ‘It was buried beneath the broadsheets. There’s a woman who’s asked for help. She believes she is in danger. I need you to come out with me, Marianne.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I shouldn’t even be asking, shouldn’t even be thinking of exposing you to her company, but I think the Vigilante will intimidate her. She needs to talk to another woman. Will you come with me?’
‘When?’ Her mind was a riot of questions and elation. Vennor had asked her to come. He saw her as a partner in this. He needed her, as a lover, as a co-conspirator against crime. He wanted her involved in his life. The request touched her deep at her core.
‘Tonight, as soon as we can sneak out of here.’
‘Let’s go now while everyone is ogling the acrobats.’ Marianne slipped her hand into Vennor’s and in that instant she knew she’d walk out into the unknown on a moment’s notice with him any time he asked.
Chapter Eighteen
He should not have brought her here. Vennor regretted it immediately. Delilah’s was hardly a place for a lady, as exhibited by the rather obvious display of a couple in flagrante delicto on a tatty divan in the parlour, the woman’s head between the man’s knees. He’d thought...well, it hardly mattered what he’d thought would happen, but it hadn’t. Vennor, mask in place, steered Marianne away from the couple. He caught sight of Delilah in her customary red dress. She smiled at the sight of the Vigilante and came forward. ‘Let me take you upstairs.’ She frowned at Marianne. ‘What is this?’
‘Support, comfort,’ he replied tersely, brooking no complaint from the madam. ‘For the woman. It might be easier for her to talk with another female.’
Delilah ran a hand down his arm in overt invitation. ‘Would you like some entertainment while they talk? Waiting can be tedious.’ She was all solicitous concern.
Vennor removed her hand. ‘No, thank you, you know I don’t indulge.’ He was quite aware that Delilah had set it as a personal challenge over the last several years to bed the Vigilante. She would have to remain disappointed.
She laughed, a deep throaty sound. ‘When you are tired of playing the monk, you let me know. I find celibate men very erotic.’ He was thankful he could not see Marianne’s face within the folds of her cloak. She’d either be beet-red with embarrassment at the frank talk or she’d be shuddering with laughter. ‘Here’s Elise’s room.’ Delilah turned to him. ‘You’re in luck; it’s a room with peepholes if you care to listen without being seen. There is a secret chamber here to the left.’
She opened a small door revealing a narrow space. There would be no room to fight, no way to escape if he was discovered, or ambu
shed by those who’d taken offence at his efforts. ‘You will be safe, Vigilante.’ Her voice was low and her touch, this time, reassuring. ‘No one will know you’re here. You will not be interrupted. I will not forget what you did for me. It is a debt that cannot be repaid, although I will always try.’ She flashed him a surprisingly soft smile.
He slipped inside with a final nod to Marianne and the door shut behind him. Barring any security concerns, the room was ideal. He could hear Marianne’s interview and be on hand in case anything happened. He found the peepholes and looked through them to see the woman in question sitting on the bed, nervously pleating her shift between her fingers and darting glances at the door, her anxiety palpable even at a distance. Vennor settled in to watch, to wait—two things he was not extremely good at. He liked action; he liked being the Vigilante. He’d long ago acknowledged that being the Vigilante gave him control in a world that usually offered so little of it.
For a short time, and for a few souls, he could make the world a better place. He’d made life better for people like Delilah and Mrs Broadham who’d been at the mercy of insurance men. There was lingering hope in that, but more often his help was the help of the moment, like the young man on the docks the other night, attacked for his pay. Those efforts kept people safe, but they did not bring lasting change, and he was starting to see that. Those efforts were just another version of charity baskets. It had taken working with Marianne, talking to her about what he did here, to see the limitations of the Vigilante. Always, there’d been the limitation of being only one man. He’d seen that from the start. But there were other limitations as well. What would happen when he left the city?
The door to the other room opened and those thoughts had to be put aside as Marianne entered and was introduced by Delilah. The girl nodded and bobbed, more nerves on display. Whatever it was the girl wanted to say, she felt very certain it was dangerous information. That made Vennor all the more curious. Her note had been brief and lacking in details, as the notes usually were, but it had come from Delilah’s so he’d responded. There was little trouble there these days, which had made the note stand out all the more.
The girl rose, but Marianne went to her and sat on the bed. ‘No, please, don’t move. We can talk right here.’ Marianne was all reassurance as Delilah left the room. Marianne pushed back her hood, another gesture designed to put the girl at ease, but the girl, already slight and pale, paled further and leapt off the bed with a scream that had Vennor’s hand going reflexively to his dagger. What was happening? He strained through the peepholes to see, but there was nothing amiss, only Marianne moving towards the girl, a hand outstretched in reassurance.
‘Did he send you? Is this a test of my loyalty?’ The girl was moving furtively around the room, trying to keep the table between her and Marianne as she edged towards the door. Dear heavens, she intended to make a run for it! Vennor tensed, prepared to dart into the hall if need be.
Marianne was working hard to put the girl at ease. ‘Please, don’t be afraid. The Vigilante sent me. I have your note.’ Marianne’s voice was soft and soothing. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small sheet of paper. ‘What’s wrong?’ Marianne reached a hand to her curls. ‘Is it my hair? My gown?’ The girl nodded. Marianne smiled kindly. ‘Can you tell me why?’ The girl shook her head, the mad desire to flee still in her eyes. ‘Would you like to see the Vigilante?’ Marianne offered softly. ‘Would that be proof enough that you are safe?’
That was his cue. Vennor slipped out of the viewing room and into the chamber. Immediately, the girl’s nerves lessened. ‘Forgive me, I thought perhaps he’d found the note.’ Her voice trembled and Vennor’s anger rose that someone could strike such fear into another person. Whoever was tormenting this girl had done it well. Close up, he could see traces of rice powder on her skin. That explained the paleness. There was a fading mark at her throat, perhaps an indication that there were marks elsewhere. She clutched the neck of her shift to her, aware of his scrutiny or perhaps anticipating his questions. Scrutiny was common enough in her line of work. Questions less so, but Marianne was ready with hers.
‘What was it about my hair that startled you?’ Marianne took her by the hand and led her back to the bed, but the girl pulled away, making a gesture to wait as she went to retrieve something from behind the dressing screen.
‘One of my customers makes me wear this.’ She held up a rather luxurious long red wig, complete with waves and curls, a fair approximation of Marianne’s own hair.
‘Who is he?’ If the sight of the wig had startled Marianne, she gave no sign of it. Vennor settled against the table, content to let Marianne work with the girl.
‘I don’t know. He never gives his name. I call him milord—it’s what he prefers. Perhaps he’s a lord in truth; he did mention once that he had to attend a ball.’ A lord who liked to go slumming. A certain picture was starting to form in Vennor’s mind. He knew the sort of men who indulged in such things, men who didn’t want to be held accountable for their actions so they preyed on the weak.
The two women sat on the bed, the wig between them. ‘How long has he been a customer?’ Marianne’s tone was gentle. One would think she discussed the careers of prostitutes on a daily basis given her ease with the subject matter. Vennor was impressed. She was exactly what the situation needed—a firm, gentle, but guiding hand. He would have been too impatient.
‘Four years, since I started working here. I thought he was gone for good a couple of years ago, but he turned up last month.’ It didn’t sound as if his reappearance had pleased her. ‘That’s when he started asking me to wear the wig.’ Vennor would bet money the man was a role player, a fantasiser. If he was slumming, then his fantasies ran deep and dark.
‘Do you have any idea why he wants you to wear the wig? Does he like redheads?’ Marianne probed carefully. Vennor hoped she didn’t get more than she bargained for with the answer.
‘I think there’s a woman he aspires to have who has red hair, but she does not return his affections.’ She twisted the bed sheets in her hands, apparently not used to having her opinion regarded with interest.
‘Why do you think she doesn’t return his affections?’ Marianne asked, having quickly picked up on the conjecture. Conjecture wasn’t evidence, but Vennor knew it was often useful to know what caused someone to think a certain way. Still, they would have to leave off with this line of interesting questioning and get to the real reason for the visit—the note. They couldn’t linger here for long.
‘He beats me because he can’t beat her.’ Her gaze slid to an item propped in the corner and Vennor saw Marianne’s eyes go wide at the sight of the crop. ‘I think she might be a real lady. I hope he doesn’t win her. I hope she sees what he really is before it’s too late for her. He comes here to hide, I know it. I’ve seen men like him before.’ So had Vennor and they disgusted him. Men who exerted their power by exploiting those who could not fight back. He’d like to track this man down and give him a taste of his own medicine.
Vennor cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry, miss. But we need to know about your note. What danger are you referring to?’ Perhaps there would be something he could do for her personal situation later.
She took a moment, her face suddenly clearing with recognition. ‘My client is the danger. Oh, not for myself, I understand the risks of my trade,’ she rushed on. ‘It’s what he plans to do. He’s asked me to find him men to do odd jobs. I don’t know what the jobs are, but the men have to be discreet.’ Vennor could imagine the type of tasks they’d be set to—perhaps following someone or threatening someone, something the man in question couldn’t do on his own because he’d be recognised. ‘He pays them very well, but on his last visit, he asked if the men might be up for something a little bloodier, a little more violent. That was when I sent the note.’
‘Why did you decide to act then?’ Marianne asked.
Vennor exchanged a
look with Marianne. He understood what Marianne’s question implied: what had prompted the girl to act now instead of earlier? It might be that she was trying to protect herself, wanting to set herself apart from being an accomplice now that the man’s actions might have blood attached to them. He thought it was more than that, though. She was genuinely frightened.
‘He’s done it before. Right before he went away the first time, he recruited two men to kill someone.’ She was starting to cry now, overcome by her situation. Marianne had an arm about her, her questions for the girl coming in a soft barrage, but there was a limit to what the girl knew. She did not know who the target had been or why. She’d not said anything because she had no proof, because there was no one to believe her, because she had no name, and then he was gone, vanished for two years.
Vennor shifted uneasily where he leaned against the table, clues starting to come together. So far he’d concentrated on the girl, on reading her body language for the truth, but he hadn’t connected the pieces of her story. Perhaps he was reading too much into it because of his own perspective—two men, a murder, no trail to any suspects because the man who orchestrated it had fled.
‘What does he look like?’ Marianne passed the girl her handkerchief.
‘Tall, blond, slender in build, but stronger than you might think. He has blue eyes.’ The girl shrugged in apology. ‘I am sorry, it’s not much to go on.’
‘No discerning marks?’ Marianne asked delicately. ‘A scar? A freckle, a birthmark, um, somewhere?’
‘Not that I’ve ever noticed.’ The girl hiccupped.
Vennor shot a furtive look towards the door. The clock was running and he wanted Marianne safely away, he wanted to be alone with her and his thoughts before he jumped to any more rampant conclusions. ‘We have to go, but we thank you for your information. If there’s anything else that might be of use, please send word. I will be watching.’
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 15