Wicked Little Secrets (27 page)

She could hear Garth sniffing about the doorframe and growling.

“No,” he said, trying to free himself, but she held on.

“But you kissed me. You said you loved me.” She searched his face, looking for any tenderness, any soft emotion she could latch onto.

“Miss Taylor, please have some dignity.” He yanked away, causing Vivienne to lose her balance and fall to her knees on the hard floor planks.

She couldn’t go home and tell her father what happened. “I’ll do anything.” She gazed up his trousers to where his sex bulged and rested her hand on his thigh and inched closer. “Anything.”

He studied her face. His flat pale eyes now glittered. “Do you think giving yourself to me will sway my decision?” He touched her face, letting his thumb circle her cheek.

She latched onto his hand and kissed his fingers. “Anything,” she whispered again.

He leaned down until his lips touched her ear. “I couldn’t keep company with a common whore, much less marry her,” he snarled.

He may as well have kicked her in the heart. Rage burned through her. “Then you’re a liar,” she hissed. “I know what you are and where you’ve been. I know about that little ‘wedding present’ you keep at Seven Heavens.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” He reached for his hat and tugged the brim over his forehead. “Good day, Miss Taylor. I sincerely regret making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping around her as if she were rubbish in the street.

“No, I regret making
your
acquaintance,” she spat, rising to her feet. “I’m tired of putting up with your tedious conversation. I’m tired of pretending to find your infantile observations interesting. I’m tired of trying to make myself love you. You are an arrogant ignoramus. I assure you that only a lady whose father is in debt would stand for your hypocrisy and lies, you pompous, conceited arse!” She began to turn away but another thought seized her, and she whirled back around. “And one more thing. Mrs. Smith-Figgle’s book
The
Ethereal
Graces
of
the
Delicate
Witless
Ninnies
is vapid and insipid, just like your
perfect
Elise Montag.” She fled to the staircase, opening the parlor door as she passed. “Go to him, Garth.”

The last she saw was a barking blur of black and tan streak across the entrance hall as she raced upstairs and locked herself in Uncle Jeremiah’s study.

Tears flowed down her face as she pulled the old desk back with her hands, shocked at her own strength. She yanked away the fabric panel and knocked on Dashiell’s wall. Nothing.

“Oh, Dashiell,” she whispered. “Please come home. I need you.”

***

Newberry spoke well over his allotted time, so Dashiell didn’t get to the podium until just after five. He lectured for an hour while using wooden slats, rocks, thread, and glue to illustrate how Caesar’s army built a bridge over the Rhine. Then he answered questions. One gentleman asked what happened to Dashiell’s face, which caused a nervous ripple of laughter. An elderly member said his nephew was coming to town and wanted to know what clubs young bucks frequented these days. Another asked the name of Dashiell’s tailor. The men were still raising their hands as the servants were bringing in the tables for dinner.

As Dashiell was wrapping up his artifacts, and the servants were setting out the silver and pouring glasses of wine, he spied Teakesbury slipping through the massive double doors at the back of the hall. He made a beeline for Dashiell, his cane tucked under his arm.

“You look terrible,” Teakesbury said as a greeting. “You shouldn’t be out in public with that contusion.”

“You don’t think it adds to my roguish appeal?”

“Perhaps to the low sorts you consort with.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, twiddling the edge of his mustache with a fat finger. “I’ve heard Fontaine is furious about what you did to her place. Not like you to go to brothels.”

Dashiell shrugged. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”

Teakesbury tapped the table with his knuckles. “Or maybe you went to talk to Fontaine.”

Dashiell stopped in the middle of wrapping up a Roman pump lever and studied the solicitor’s face. The bemused twinkle in Teakesbury’s eyes had sharpened to something rather hard and predatory.

“What’s this to do with you?” Dashiell asked. “Have you finally connected her to the stolen paintings?”

“No. In fact, I wanted to ask you about the paintings.”

“Well, hell, you got me.” Dashiell held up his palms. “I stole them.”

“I don’t think you are very funny.” He jerked his head toward the corridor. “Meet me outside.”

Dashiell sighed. “Just give me a minute.”

He finished packing up his precious ancient children and made sure they were safely installed in his carriage and sent home. Then he found Teakesbury waiting in the corridor, leaning on his cane to examine the portraits of past presidents of the Imperial Society. The scent of beef and brown sauce wafted from the great hall. In the next room, Dashiell could hear the muffled chatter of men and the ring of cutlery.

Teakesbury began to speak, keeping his gaze fixed on the third honorable president. “I was contacted by the police today. Two stolen paintings floated up at a pawnshop near the Strand.”

Dashiell’s heartbeat quickened, thinking of Gertrude. “Did they ask the owner who brought in the paintings?”

“The shop owner said a large man who called himself Stephen. Probably a made-up story. You can’t crack those reptiles down there.”

“It doesn’t make sense to take the masterpieces to a pawn broker.”

“These weren’t the masterpieces,” he said. “Not all the paintings stolen were. Anyway, one painting recovered was a poor rendition of Ariadne being comforted by Dionysus.”

“Are we merely discussing art criticism, or do you have a point?”

He tilted his head and gazed at Dashiell with a bright eye. “The lady had blond hair and a turned-up nose.”

Young
Adele
Jenkinson,
Dashiell thought. “Tell me what you know about the robbery.”

“Mrs. James and her servant took her son to the park in the afternoons, which is when the thieves came in through the alley and broke into the gallery. They must have been watching her abode for some time to know her schedule. The curator and I had been getting the paintings ready to transport to the Royal Academy, so it was an easy snatch.”

“And Mrs. James didn’t witness any of it.”

Teakesbury looked down to where a beetle scuttled across the wood planks near his feet. He smashed the insect with the butt of his cane. “Mrs. James came home and found a massive oak cabinet had been shoved before the door to the stairwell, no doubt to block any entrance from the family quarters during the theft. The back gallery door was unlocked and the wood around its frame splintered. James’s paintings and sketches were scattered about the gallery floor, indicating the thieves were after something specific.

“Sketches?” Dashiell’s mind sharpened. “Were any of those stolen as well?”

Teakesbury shrugged. “We can only assume.”

“And the neighbors?”

“The street is crammed with shops, so they wouldn’t have taken notice of anyone different milling about. However, the police think more than one person was involved because of the size and weight of the cabinet that had been moved to block the door.”

“A really large, strong man could have moved it, perhaps?”

“It’s all just speculation.”

“What about in the park, anything out of the ordinary?”

Teakesbury shrugged. “Mrs. James paid a small man who danced for her son.”

From inside the hall, he could hear the clank of a spoon being beat against a glass and the president asking everyone to be seated. Dashiell fished out his pocket watch. 8:03.

“Damn,” Dashiell muttered and then turned to the solicitor. “Don’t leave without talking to me.”

The two men sat beside each other at the table. For the next two hours, they spoke politely with the other men at the table of expeditions to Egypt and Italy and the difficulty of finding competent local guides.

Dashiell’s gut clenched with anxiety. He could feel that something terrible was about to happen. He needed to get to those masterpieces before the police and hush up any unsavory business. He could weather scandal, but Vivienne and her family could not. He was glad she was getting the hell home and wished she could take her aunt with her.

After the dishes of boiled apple pudding in vanilla cream had been cleared away, the men leaned back in their chairs, making discreet belches and stretching their legs as servants brought around boxes of cigars. Dashiell rose and slapped Teakesbury on the shoulder. “I’m leaving. I’d appreciate it if you walked me out.”

Teakesbury held up the newly lit cigar between his fingers. “I’m busy.”

“I said, I would appreciate it if you walked me out.”

“You have the manners of a Hottentot, Dashiell.” The solicitor stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray in the center of the table.

In the cloakroom, Dashiell sent for their coats and turned to Teakesbury, speaking in a low tone. “I want you to introduce me to James’s widow.”

“Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to say at present.”

“Well then, I’m not at liberty to let you talk with my client.”

Two footmen emerged from a back room. One held the gentlemen’s coats over his arm, and the other carried their hats. Dashiell held out his arm as the footman slid on his coat and straightened the shoulders. “Then I’ll find her address myself and call on her,” he said, letting a dangerous smile curve his mouth. “Just me and her, a lonely widow. All alone. I’m so damn charming, anything could happen.”

“Don’t you touch my client!” Teakesbury snatched his coat from the footman, as his face reddened with anger. “Three o’clock tomorrow. I’m not free until then.”

Dashiell combed his hair with his fingers and set his hat on his head. “Until tomorrow.”

He bowed and sauntered out of the room until he was out of Teakesbury’s sight. Then he quickened his step and hurried outside. He checked his watch under the gaslight. 10:41. Dammit. Rather than try to walk back, he hailed a passing hack.

“Wickerly Square,” he told the driver and tossed him up a coin. “And make haste, man.”

Fifteen

Please, please come home early, Vivienne pleaded as she knocked on Dashiell’s panel for what must have been the fiftieth time.

At nine-thirty, Miss Banks had tapped on the door of Jeremiah’s study. Vivienne slipped into the corridor and quickly shut the door behind her. The rims of the housekeeper’s eyes were reddened and she held a bottle of
Dr. Oliver’s Elixir for Tranquil Slumber and Serene Mind
. “The mistress is asleep,” she had whispered. “Let me help you get ready for bed.”

In Vivienne’s bedchamber, the housekeeper untied Vivienne’s corset. “Now don’t you be a’frettin’ that you’ve hurt your aunt something terrible,” she said, yanking at the laces. “You’re a’goin’ home to your sisters, leaving the plague in blue at your aunt’s doorstep. But don’t you a’worry that your father and aunt will end up in the poor house, and Harold and me are on the street. You’re young and need to enjoy yerself.”

She left the room, leaving the elixir on the commode.

Vivienne pulled off her chemise, tossed a nightdress over her shoulders, and tied the drawstring at the neck. She grabbed her robe from the chair and scurried to Uncle Bertis’s study and waited, curled on the floor and clutching her stomach. For hours, her head swirled with the terrible scenario of those men beating her father, molesting her and her sisters, and her father living in the cramped, grimy rooms in debtor’s prison—all because of her. By the time the pendulum clock read eleven o’clock, the fireless room had grown cold with the fall of night. She drew her knees under the hem of her robe to cover her cold toes.

“Please Dashiell,” she whispered. “Don’t forget me. I’m so scared.”

She heard the door open on the other side of the wall, and Dashiell’s rich baritone say, “No, no, that will be all. Just put everything in my library. I’ll sort it in the morning.”

A door shut.

Vivienne bolted up. She reached to knock on Dashiell’s panel, but he had pulled it off before her hand connected with the wood.

Just seeing his warm chocolate eyes made her burst into sobs. She threw herself over the divide and into his arms. His feel, his cardamom scent, his heartbeat soothed her taut nerves.

“Oh God, Vivienne. What happened?” He ran his hand up and down her back. “You’re shaking all over.”

She couldn’t talk. Her throat was sore and tight. She buried her face in the darkness of his chest, not wanting to ever leave again.

But he gently grasped her shoulders and pulled her away, until he could see her face. “Talk to me.”

She looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “John found out about my father… and… and us. He doesn’t want to marry me anymore. H-he c-called me a… a whore.”

His fingers tightened, hurting her arm. “Goddamn, I should have killed him,” he growled.

“W-what am I going to tell my f-father?”

He put his hands on her cheeks and tilted her head up, forcing her to look at him. “Hush.”

“But—”

His kiss halted her words. She didn’t try to fight, just drifted in the soothing feel of his touch. His tongue caressed her mouth. She tangled her fingers into his curls and deepened their kiss. Holding him silenced all the chaotic thoughts in her head. Her mouth slid from his lips to the edge of his jaw, feeling its hardness and rasp, then she moved lower into the hot concave of his neck. She could smell the residual scent of musky cologne. She kissed his pulse, letting her tongue taste the slight saltiness of his skin. He moaned. “Oh, sweet lady.”

Her fingers flowed down, beneath his coat, and rested against his chest. His muscles were hard and flexed under her touch. She could hear the rush of his breath by her ear. She didn’t want to think about or consider tomorrow. She didn’t want to leave this room or Dashiell ever again. She wished she could hide here for the rest of her life.