Wicked Little Secrets (8 page)

Vivienne closed her eyes and felt the muscles of his chest contract beneath her cheek, hard and powerful, making a protective wall around her. She didn’t feel secure and safe in John’s arms, where she was constantly trying to make him like her, trying to be what he wanted. But with Dashiell, a man reviled by her family and all of polite society, she drifted in easy, drowsy peace. She snuggled closer, wishing she never had to go back. Just she and he, together, her head resting on his heart, the feel of his thigh gently rubbing against her as their bodies swayed together. She wished the tender quivers in her heart could continue, unabated, for the remainder of her life.

What
are
you
thinking?

She leapt away and stared at him. His chest rose with fast, shallow breaths like hers. His eyes were dark with fear and another scary emotion that she couldn’t name but tingled down to her bones. How did what was meant to be a kind embrace turn so dangerous?

“You called me your wife at the brothel.” Her voice was tense and brittle. “In olden days, we would be as good as married for that statement,” she said, trying hard to make it sound as if marrying him was as absurd as her becoming the Queen of Denmark. “I’m afraid John will be quite put out.”

He laughed nervously. “Sorry to beg off, but that’s what we rotten, no-good scoundrels do. I think you are better off with this John fellow in marriage. But I’m great at solving mysteries and setting blackmailers straight.”

Vivienne exhaled, feeling safe again, yet disappointed. Both knew a line had been crossed, waking dangerous emotions best kept dormant. Still, she wouldn’t easily forget the powerful sensation of his embrace and how it stirred her heart and senses in ways John’s touch never had.

“Come on, Garth, it’s time to go home,” she said.

***

They strode out of the main shopping streets and into the narrow lanes of residences. Garth zigzagged about their feet, sniffing the street lamps and doorways. The morning’s frantic tempo had eased, and the walks were clear but for a few servants sweeping the steps and nurses pushing baby carriages.

“So if we are to begin this investigation of the man in blue, we should start with what we know,” Dashiell said, sounding more like his old self.

“No. This is not your problem.”

“Clearly, you don’t remember the section of the Bazulo vow that claims if one party is hereto in some way connected to or the target of blackmail, it is the responsibility of the other party to make it their problem,” he said in comic severity.

She chuckled nervously, still feeling her insides prickly and excited. “I missed that section.”

“You really should know all the terms and conditions before you make such an important vow,” he said, still serious. “Now, what of your aunt? Can you think of anything that might tie her to a brothel’s madam? Any scandals in your aunt’s past that are blackmail-worthy?”

“Aunt Gertrude?” Vivienne laughed that a sentence could contain both the words “scandal” and “your aunt.” “The only scandal in her life floats over from your house.”

“What about your uncle’s death? Anything that would signal foul play?”

She thought for a moment and then shrugged. “No, after years of claiming I would send him to his grave, he ate a pigeon pie, crossed Holton Street, and promptly had a heart attack. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Any affairs that you know of? Any by-blows?”

Vivienne cringed with embarrassment just thinking of her uncle in these terms, but Dashiell didn’t seem the least bit fazed, as if it were the natural order of things that men had affairs outside their marriages. Again, she thought of John at the Royal Academy, and her belly tightened.

“I-I don’t think so,” she stammered.

“Perhaps his hand was padded to give a certain verdict,” Dashiell speculated. “Can you go through his personal effects and see what you find?”

“Of course,” she mumbled absently, for her mind was still focused on John and his early wedding present.

“Meanwhile, I’ll discreetly ask around town. Married men tend to live different lives outside their homes.”

Vivienne’s gaze shot to Dashiell’s face.

He raised a brow, anticipating a question. “Yes?”

She opened her mouth, but couldn’t form the words. How do you ask if it is acceptable for a man to keep a mistress outside of his wife or fiancée? But then, who else but Dashiell, a man who never bothered with the trivial niceties of society, would give her a straight answer. This was her chance. But she just couldn’t ask something so monstrous, so personal. “N-never mind.”

Vivienne fell quiet, and that little crease of worry appeared again between her brows. Dashiell could feel anxiety radiating from her, causing his nerves to tense. Some worrisome thought was circling in her head like wasps around their nest. He knew she wasn’t going to leave this mystery alone; she was too much like him. But unlike him, she was naïve and innocent. He couldn’t very well tie her down while he looked into the matter, although this option had its appeal in his illicit imagination. So he was going to force his way into her problems. Be vigilant that nothing happened to her until that blissful wedding day when he gave his beautiful friend to someone else.

Overhead, he could see the smoky chimney tops of his home rising above the roofs as they entered the street running behind their square, where the ivy grew pell-mell over the walls. They continued around the corner into the shadows of the narrow alley beside Dashiell’s home.

“Well, good-bye,” she said and then reached up and gingerly brushed his bruise. “I’m sorry I caused you such trouble.” Even over the tender skin, her touch felt like a feather and sent some tingles of pleasure through him.

“It’s nothing.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “What else was I going to do today, anyway?”

She didn’t leave but stood there, biting down on the edge of her lip.

“Out with it, Vivienne. I can feel your brain buzzing away in there.”

She took a deep breath. “Yesterday at the Royal Academy, I stumbled upon the Lawrence James exhibit.”

He smiled to himself, thinking he knew where this conversation was heading. Poor innocent and infinitely curious Vivienne. “Did you enjoy it?”

She flashed him a hot look, and he stifled his laugh. “I overheard some gentlemen—
married
gentlemen—talking about having women tucked away at a place called Seven Heavens? Is it a brothel?”

Maybe he didn’t know where this was going, after all. “Yes,” he said, slowly and carefully. Seven Heavens was a flashy bordello that had moved into Mayfair five years ago and had threatened the upscale conservative brothels that had long served the upper echelons of British society. The place was a gaudy circus, taking in beautiful ladies from around the globe. The services had themes like African Safari, Japanese Tea, or Wild American Frontiers.

“Have you been there?”

“Of course not!” Which wasn’t exactly true. God, she had such a trusting face; he couldn’t lie to her. He slicked his hands down his face. “Fine, once, a year or two ago, but not to… you know. My grandfather hurt his back there. Look, I told you I don’t pay for pleasure. I’m not—”

“Is it like that brothel we just saw?” she swallowed. “Because Willie—that’s the little man’s name—said that I didn’t belong there. That they could sell me to a Mrs. Fontaine. That it would be a great honor or such. Do you know this woman?”

What was Vivienne not telling him? Something about Judge Bertis? “She is the madam of Seven Heavens,” he said, gazing at Vivienne’s angst-ridden eyes. “Look, it’s entirely possible that your uncle had a little—”

“It was my fiancé John I overheard talking about Seven Heavens.” Her words burst forth. “Do most married men have mistresses? Please tell me, I don’t know—”

“Jilt this John right now.” Dashiell felt his fists ball as black anger gripped him. He was going to kill John. And not the modern way of a quick painless bullet, but a slow, torturous medieval disembowelment. Granted, most every married man of means in London kept a hidden mistress or visited brothels. But Vivienne’s husband sure as hell wouldn’t. “I’ll lend you money, whatever you need.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you understand the extent of my father’s debt. Besides, how could I explain it to Papa? He despises you as much as my aunt does.”

He opened his mouth to say something vile about John, but her distraught face arrested the nasty words. “Do you love John?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she said, then looked down to where Garth’s leash was wrapped around her hand. “I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” She blew a sharp, frustrated breath, lifting the tiny wisps of hair about her forehead, and tugged Garth. “Let’s go.”

She took a step onto the square. The dog released a low, teeth-baring growl. She suddenly whirled around and pressed her palms on Dashiell’s chest, pushing him back into the alley.

“What the hell?” he cried, slamming the wall. “Is the man in the
yellow
coat here now?”

“It’s John!” she cried, her face turning porcelain white. “He’s come for a call.”

Five

Vivienne clutched the squirming Garth to her bosom and pressed her back against the alley wall. “If John sees us together, he’ll be so upset.” She could hear the quiver of panic in her whisper. “I’m supposed to be… well… perfect.”

“What? You
are
perfect. You know who isn’t perfect? That John arse. But I’m about to change that. Tell me, do you have any reservations about adopting children?”

“Stop, Dashiell, I probably just misunderstood him, and it’s all nothing. Now just wait here until we are inside.”

He tilted his head at a rakish angle. “Perhaps,” was his cool response.

Why did she feel like she was asking the ravenous lion not to eat the lost and injured gazelle?

She set down Garth, smoothed her cloak, and again stepped out onto the square with a bright, stiff smile on her face.

“Why, John, when did you arrive?” she said in a cheery voice, as if nothing were out of the ordinary—just a casual, relaxed stroll with Garth, whose eyes were bulging as he growled and pulled on his leash to get at her fiancé.

John did not answer her in kind. In fact, he was quite angry. “Where have you been? The servant has been combing the streets, looking for you. Your aunt is so upset. She had to take a special elixir. I came out here to search for you.”

Oh
Lord!

“I-I was just walking Garth.” She tried to sound innocent. Garth leaped for John’s cuff. Vivienne yanked him back and trapped him under her skirt.

“For two hours!”

“Has it been that long?” A hot flush crawled up her neck. Garth hissed and flailed in the layers of her petticoats. “I guess I lost track of the time, thinking about our wedding and planning my trousseau.”

“I was worried to death about you. You’re far too trusting and naïve of worldly ways. When we are married, I shall employ a proper companion to watch over you. Not all men are gentlemen.”

“Haaalllllo, Miss Taylor,” Dashiell’s voice echoed in the square. He rounded the corner, weaving about, unstable, as if he’d managed to get wildly drunk in the last two minutes.
What
the
hell
is
he
doing?

“Who is that?” John asked.

“Probably just some vagrant.” She grabbed John’s arm and tried wheeling him toward the door without tripping over Garth. “Let’s go inside.”

“Don’t hurry off!” Dashiell called out. “It’s me. Your neighbor.”

He ambled up the walk with a lopsided grin on his battered face.

He performed a low bow, nearly falling over and then righting himself on the iron railing that ran in front of the houses. “I’m Lord Dashiell. And you must be—”

“This is my fiancé, Mr. John Vandergrift,” Vivienne intervened. Her smile felt as rigid as steel.

“You look pretty bad there, your lordship,” John remarked.

Dashiell leaned close to her fiancé. “Got in a fight at a bawdy house,” he confided with a wicked glitter in his eyes.

Vivienne gasped. She dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from putting matching nail marks on the other side of the blackguard’s face.

“My lord, that is hardly appropriate for Miss Taylor’s ears,” John admonished him.

Dashiell burped. “I do apologize. I realize Miss Taylor is the
perfect
proper lady and all.” He stumbled closer to her fiancé, putting his face barely an inch from John’s. “You, sir, are a lucky man. Remember that.” He lost his drunken slur, enunciating his next words with crystalline precision. “With a lady like Miss Taylor, I doubt you would even consider taking a glimpse at another lady. Good day to you.” He stepped forward and slammed into John’s shoulder, sending him against the iron railing. Garth poked his head from underneath Vivienne’s skirt and barked.

John grabbed his shoulder in pain.

“A thousand apologies, my good man,” Dashiell said. “I’m rather dangerous”—he paused, his eyes turning black and vicious, the edge of his teeth glinting below his snarled lip—“when I’ve had too much to drink.”

He let out a maniacal laugh, worthy of a maddened, bloodthirsty Nero or Caligula. It echoed behind him as he sauntered to his door. There he glanced back, his gaze catching hers for the briefest second. He winked.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Vivienne sat beside her aunt on the parlor sofa. Her nerves were edgy, as if she had drunk a bucketful of black tea. Meanwhile, her aunt was oddly calm given the recent events. A small, uncharacteristic Mona Lisa smile curved her mouth as if da Vinci had painted it there, and she slowly swayed like a tree in the breeze.

At her feet, Garth sat at attention, his lips back, teeth bared, round eyes keen on John’s every movement.

“Dashiell is lucky I’m a gentleman, else I would have darkened his daylights,” John said as he paced before the marble fireplace, grinding his fist into his palm. “Had you not been there, Vivienne, he would be flat on the ground for his impudence.”