Wicked Little Secrets (33 page)

The paths were congested, so he veered onto the wet grass, ignoring the shocked stares of the passersby. By the time he reached Fontaine’s brothel, his shirt was soaked with his sweat and his heart was flying like a racehorse. He said a brief prayer.
Dear
God, if You keep Vivienne safe, I promise I will walk the path of the righteous for the rest of my life. I won’t look at any other ladies or satisfy that itch to stray, get drunk, and embarrass myself in pubs, or spend all my money on old rubbish. I’ll be a proper, loyal husband.

Unless
I
have
to
murder
Fontaine. In which case, I will go to hell in peace.

He slammed the brass knocker. A bald-headed flashman cracked opened the door. “Lord Dashiell.” He grinned around the silver toothpick in his mouth. “Mrs. Fontaine says you’re not welcome—”

Dashiell rammed the wood with his shoulder, pushed the flashman back, and rushed inside. “Vivienne!” he wailed up the stacks of balconies. “I’ve come for you, love.”

Three muscled men gripped a rope, hoisting a massive chandelier to the ceiling. They stopped mid-heave and stared at him. As did the two workers sitting on the floor painting a silver crescent and the three more on ladders, hammering on what looked to be a large frame. Overhead, about half a dozen ladies hung about the balcony railing, yawning. Not yet dressed for the day, their hair was loose, and they wore sheer blue robes edged with ruffles.

The flashman clamped down on Dashiell’s shoulder. “Now, Mrs. Fontaine don’t want any trouble.”

“Well, she dived head first into it when she crossed me, old boy,” Dashiell spat. He recognized the poetess from the other evening. “I’m looking for a young lady who might have come here,” Dashiell told her. “She has black hair, green eyes.” He flattened his palm at his shoulder. “About this tall.”

The poetess pressed her hands to her chest. Her lids fluttering, she began to speak.

Her soul in pain, she did wander

Into these woods of hearts asunder

To forget the girl she was before

Her childish dreams are nevermore.

“Does that mean yes?” Dashiell asked.

The flashman gave a snort of a laugh. “She’s with the mistress.”

“The poor thing is distraught,” a low female voice added. Dashiell spun. Fontaine stood in the middle of the parlor doorway; her arms were raised, resting on the threshold. On her shoulder, that damned pink bird had his wings spread, tongue out, hissing. “It seems a callous scoundrel used her and left her to cry.” Fontaine shook her head, clicking her tongue. “Who would do such a horrid thing?”

“You want I should get rid of him?” the flashman asked, tightening his grip on Dashiell.

“In a moment,” Fontaine said, stepping into the hall. She tilted her head and studied Dashiell. “First I shall enjoy myself.”

“How much do you want for her?” Dashiell spat through his clenched jaw.

“Oh, I’m letting the market decide.” Fontaine flicked her wrist toward the ceiling. “A Lawrence James masterpiece in flesh and blood should surely fetch an enormous sum.”

“What are you talking about?”

She tossed back her head, laughing deep in her throat. “Vivienne is a very valuable young lady,” she purred. “You and Mr. Vandergrift should have been more careful. But now she is with someone who knows her true worth.”

Dashiell’s hands curled into fists. He had never hit a female in his life, but wanted to land Fontaine a facer. Then another. And another, until that smug smile was erased from her pasty face.

“Dashiell?” The sound of Vivienne’s voice sent a hot shiver over his body. She stood just inside the parlor, wearing the same type of robe as the other ladies. She clasped her arms about her, as if she were cold. Her large, fearful eyes sliced into his heart.

“Forgive me!” Dashiell started to rush for her, but the flashman’s arm slid around his neck, locking and squeezing him like a python.

“I’m a totty-headed numbskull,” Dashiell managed, clawing at the man’s hairy forearm. “I’ve come to take you away. I swear I’ll do nothing but make you happy for the rest of your life. I’ll take care of your family, any cousins, nieces, and nephews, and… and… pets. Just come home.”

She didn’t move, but continued to gaze at him as if he were a stranger.

“Say something, my love,” he pleaded. “Please. Talk to me.”

Fontaine laughed. “You’re a little late, my lord. You should learn to treat your ladies better.” She strolled to Vivienne and linked their arms together. The bird leaned toward Vivienne and cooed, “I love you.”

“Go back and rest, dear,” Fontaine told her. “I’ll take care of horrid Lord Dashiell for you.”

But Vivienne didn’t budge, keeping her eyes latched on Dashiell. “Why did you leave me?” she asked him.

“Because I was a scared little boy who—you see, my mother abandoned me when I was a small child and I’m not sure what that has to do with my problems, but I’m just afraid to be vulnerable and—”

“Enough, Lord Dashiell,” Fontaine said. “Nobody cares. Men, you may get rid of him now.”

Dashiell jammed his heel back, hitting the flashman’s shin. The man groaned, and Dashiell spun from his hold, to find himself staring down his nose at the poised hammers, wrenches, wet paintbrushes, and balled fists of the workers. Two men had abandoned the chandelier, leaving one poor chap to dangle from the rope to keep it from crashing down.

Dashiell held up his palms. “I’ll give you fifty-five pounds,” he told Fontaine. “And I’ll walk out with Vivienne.”

“Fifty-five pounds?” Fontaine echoed. “Is that all you have?” She broke into laughter, the workers joining in.

“I can give you an early Persian tablet,” Dashiell said, mentally cursing himself. He had spent his entire life collecting useless baubles. “Two Egyptian mummies, Roman coins, some Greek statues, er, bits of mosaics—”

The madam gestured about her. “Does this look like the British Museum to you?” Again the men thought she was hilarious. Even that amorous bird was shaking his feathers. “What would I do with a mummy?”

She released Vivienne’s arm and sashayed toward him. “You insult my sweet little cherub. Some of the wealthiest merchants in London are coming here tonight to preview her. Very important men who are willing to expend far, far more than fifty-five pounds.” She stopped just a foot from his face. He could smell the sweet brandy on her breath. “No, my lord, the bidding starts at one hundred for a night. If a man wants to take her as his mistress, well, the talks begin in the thousands. As you know, Vivienne has a family to take care of and a mere fifty-five will hardly do.”

“I’ll get the money,” Dashiell promised. “Whatever amount. You have my word.”

“Your word?” Fontaine’s neck jerked back with a chortle. “Your word means nothing to me or any lady in London.” Her bemused smile tightened to a snarl. “Now get out,” she growled and turned back to Vivienne. “Dearest, come away. Don’t let Lord Dashiell upset you.”

“Goddammit, woman!” he shouted. He felt the restraining hands of the flashman and the cold blunt edge of the wrench pressed under his ear and a hammer not three inches from his nose. “I know about those paintings,” he blurted, hearing the desperation in his own voice. He would say anything to keep Vivienne from leaving his sight.

Fontaine looked over her shoulder at him. “And what paintings do you mean?”

“Your ex-lover’s—the ones you stole,” he said, reaching for anything he could use.

The madam spun slowly around. “I don’t know what you are talking about. However, if—”

“You’re lying,” Dashiell goaded.

“—you find the paintings,” she continued, “perhaps we can make an arrangement: Vivienne for the paintings.” She lifted the edge of her lip. “Oh, never mind, I don’t want the blasted things. I’ll keep Vivienne—his precious little daughter.”

“What?”

Vivienne clutched her robe and stared at the floor. “She said that—that I was the bastard child of my Aunt Gertrude and Lawrence James. And I was given to my mother to raise.”

“Bloody hell,” Dashiell whispered. Years of memories, broken fragments, flashed through his mind, suddenly falling into place.

Fontaine tilted her head, triumph bright in her eyes.

“And you think by humiliating Vivienne, you’ll get back at James for casting you aside,” Dashiell spat. “You’re a cold whore.”

“How dare you come to my place and disrespect me after what you did to Vivienne!” Fontaine hissed. “You humiliated her, not I. I’m trying to help.”

“Oh, now you’re Saint Fontaine!” Dashiell spat.

“Go back to your easy actresses and courtesans, your Eastern harems, your oriental concubines,” Fontaine said. “I’m sure you’ll quickly forget about Vivienne just as you did all the others.” She hiked a brow. “Men, Lord Dashiell desires to leave. Show him to the door.”

The flashman shoved Dashiell toward the door. Dashiell pretended to cooperate for two steps, then spun around, snatching the hammer that had previously been pressed into his jaw and slamming it into the flashman’s oncoming fist. The crunch of bone and a howl echoed in the room. One of the workers flew at Dashiell to tackle him. Again, Dashiell pivoted, knocking the man’s shoulder, sending him sailing in another direction as Dashiell raced for the stairs, slashing his hammer before him like the Nordic god, Thor.

The other workers gave chase, except for the poor bloke still hanging by the chandelier rope. Dashiell dashed across the first floor balcony, the ladies screaming and jumping out of his way. He leaped onto the railing and pushed off into the air.

“No,” he heard Fontaine scream as he grabbed the chandelier chain, his feet crunching down on the gaslights. The rope slipped from the poor chap’s grasp, and the massive creation descended to the floor with Dashiell riding atop.

The room exploded with bright, shattering crystals. Fontaine’s girls were screaming, and the pink bird began flying in circles above the wreckage, squawking.

But inside Dashiell’s mind all was silent except for one thought:
Get
Vivienne.

He turned to find himself once again staring at the eye of Fontaine’s pistol. She clutched it in her right hand, her left gripping Vivienne’s arm.

“Get out!” the madam screamed. “You bloody scoundrel.”

“Not without Vivienne.”

She jerked the barrel toward the door. “I said, get out!”

“Do you think I’m afraid of your gun? Woman, I’ve had a kris, zhanmadao, blunderbuss, basilisk, scimitar, and 24-barrel Belgian mariette pointed at me. Go ahead, shoot. I want to see you try.”

Fontaine’s nostrils were dilated, and her lips trembled as she considered. She slowly moved the gun and pressed it against Vivienne’s temple. A collective intake of breath resounded around the room. “Care to see me try?” she asked.

“Dear God,” Vivienne cried. “Dashiell!”

At that moment, any previous ideas he had about fear and helplessness fled away, seeing the pistol pressed against Vivienne’s head. Nothing mattered anymore, just the metal against that beautiful skin he had kissed. Her eyes, large and pleading, seeking his.

“Just put the gun down,” he begged. “Vivienne has done nothing. Go ahead and shoot me if it will make you feel better, but let her go.”

“If you really care about her, you will leave,” Fontaine retorted.

Dashiell held up his hands and slowly unfurled his palms. “You win, Fontaine. Just… just put the damn gun down.”

“Walk calmly out of here,” she said.

He obeyed and began edging to the entrance, keeping his gaze locked on Vivienne’s.

“Let me come back tonight,” he said. “Let me try to win her. Please.”

“You have some nerve, wrecking my place—not once but twice—and then begging to come back. No, you’ve lost Vivienne forever.” She looked at the flashman. “I never want to see him again.”

The flashman rammed his uninjured fist into Dashiell’s gut and another man opened the door.

Vivienne cried out. Fontaine pressed the gun barrel against her temple.

Dashiell doubled over and spat on the floor. “I love you,” he choked, clutching his belly. “I love you.” The flashman hunched his large shoulders and rammed Dashiell, pushing him over the entranceway.

“The Bazulo vow!” he cried and then hit the iron railing. The flashman slammed the door shut.

***

The hall was quiet. Vivienne could feel everyone’s stares on her skin, as well as the cold barrel on her forehead.

“Clean this mess up,” Fontaine ordered. “Hang Dashiell! That man will not alter my plans. I have made promises to some of the most influential men in the city. Put some damn candelabras out. And take whatever crystals aren’t broken and hang them on the backdrop as stars.”

The madam removed the gun from Vivienne’s head and replaced it in some secret pocket in her skirts.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, my little sweet cherub,” she said, her voice turning saccharine. “You have to understand I did that for your own good. I know you have feelings for him, but he’s a faithless liar. He only wants one thing, and when he tires of it, he wanders off again.” She caressed Vivienne’s cheek. “No, no, my dear, I have very wealthy and powerful gentleman who are dying to meet you. Men who could take good care of you and your family, unlike Dashiell.”

Vivienne only uttered a dull, stupid “Oh.” But inside, her mind was coming back to life as if she were surfacing from being deep under water. In this mire of lies and secrets, one thing became very clear: Dashiell hadn’t deceived her when everyone else had. He told her he was bad when her uncle, her aunt, John, her father, almost everyone she knew lied, claiming they were virtuous and good, making her feel unworthy. Dashiell left her just as he had warned her he would. But he came back like he had promised in the Bazulo vow years ago.

She had seen the terror and fear in his deep chocolate eyes. Yes, he was a rogue, a scoundrel—but he was no coward, no liar. He truly loved her.

Vivienne studied Fontaine’s severe face containing those small agate eyes. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to see the madam swinging from a rope.