The Virtuous Viscount

by Susan M. Baganz

  Marcus spun around, away from his brother. He strode to the fireplace, leaned against it, and studied the flames. Anger, fear, grief, and skepticism all vied for prominence in his heart. After several deep breaths and with tight control on his emotions, he softly asked, “Do I have time to pray about this? Does this need to be done immediately?”

  “Every moment we wait puts Miss Storm’s life at risk.”

  “You cannot detain him on what you already know?” Marcus glanced over to his brother.

  Jared’s shoulders sagged. He shook his head as he looked at his brother. “No. We need proof. If he is guilty of treason, we can move quickly. Only you can get the proof. I would rather do that than risk an attack on Miss Storm. I have your friends keeping an eye over her in case he acts.”

  Marcus sat across from his brother and buried his face in his hands before sliding those hands down enough to look at Jared through his fingers. The thought of that man accosting Josie made him physically ill. His dinner did not sit well in his stomach. He knew in his heart what he needed to do, but he grieved what he might lose in the process. He expelled a deep breath. “Is tonight soon enough?”

  “Ideal. Let me brief you on what information we are searching for.”

  The two plotted together before Marcus rose and went to his room to change for his task. He prayed all the while. Prayed for Josie’s safety. Prayed selfishly that his reputation would withstand this. What would happen if word got out amongst the beau monde? Would Josie love him enough to overlook this without an explanation? He feared she would not trust him as much as Whitehall seemed to. His heart was heavy, but duty trumped his own personal comfort. If he could protect Josie from harm, he would accept the consequences. He did not have to like it, though.

  Marcus called for a hackney to take him to the less desirable part of town. He came to the well-kept establishment, paid the driver, and walked up the stairs. A fission of fear traveled up his spine. He prayed quietly as he raised his hand to knock on the door and laughed to himself at the irony of a man asking God’s blessing before walking into a brothel.

  A burly doorman admitted him. Instead of Miss Maribel Smith, he found himself presented to Madame DuBois.

  Her receiving room was plush in red and purple velvet. Garish and gilded with gold trim. The overpowering scent of perfume almost caused him to gag. He felt tainted. He noticed the curiosity in the woman’s eyes and tried to think about how Jesus would have seen a woman like this.

  She was heavy-set with an ample bosom that was barely covered, and her gown clung to every curve, of which there were many. Her hair was a riot of blonde curls that fell down her back. He wondered if they were real or a wig. Hazel eyes gazed at him above her heavily rouged cheeks, and a fortune in jewels dripped from her ears, neck, and fingers. He doubted they were paste. She raised one questioning eyebrow at his perusal. He wondered how and why she ever chose this type of employment and quickly realized that the injustices of society often forced women into positions like this. He fought in Parliament to find solutions. The issues were complex and not the reason for his visit. He schooled his expression and greeted her as warmly as he would a Countess.

  “Very nicely done, my Lord Remington. I must say I am curious as to what would bring the ‘Virtuous Viscount’ to my doors specifically asking for one girl. The normal procedure would be for me to meet with you and ascertain your desires for your evening of entertainment so I may select the young woman who would best meet that need.”

  “I’m not here for ‘an evening of entertainment.’ I only wish to meet with Miss Smith.”

  “Miss Maribel is not available.”

  “I understand, but would she at least be willing to talk with me?”

  “Talk? You came to a brothel to talk?” She looked at him carefully, her eyes taking in everything, and Marcus struggled to stand still and meet her gaze when they came back to his face. “You promise you will not take advantage of her?”

  “I give you my word as a gentleman, although I fully recognize that my reputation as such may have suffered injury for having walked through your portal.”

  Madame smiled and laughed. “You plan to remain virtuous even if no one sees you. I like you, Lord Remington. I’m aware of the fine work you do in Parliament. Does that surprise you? I am first and foremost a woman of business and keep abreast of politics as best I am able.” She chuckled. “I think I can trust you to hold the line. It must be important if you would risk your reputation to be here.” Madame rose and indicated that he should follow her.

  Marcus followed the abbess to a suite of rooms that was tastefully furnished.

  She bade Marcus to sit and be comfortable while she went to fetch Miss Smith.

  Marcus tapped his foot as he sat there, tense. The room looked like a normal sitting room, but his mind could not forget the purpose of this house. And he wondered…

  The door opened.

  Miss Smith entered, and Marcus was able to understand why she was not serving customers. The petite young woman was perhaps all of seventeen years of age. Her brown hair was up, and her small heart-shaped face was swollen and colored various shades of black, blue, purple, and yellow. Her arm hung in a makeshift sling. She walked slowly with a pronounced limp. Pain etched grooves in her forehead.

  Marcus’s eyes met Madame’s in question.

  “You may ask her. The client who did this is no longer welcome here.” With that, Madame DuBois left the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Miss Smith sat down across from Marcus with a suspicious look in her eyes. “Wat’s a fine gent like yoos want wit the likes o’ me?”

  “I mean you no harm, Miss Smith. I seek information, and I heard you may be able to help me.”

  “It’ll be costin’ you.”

  Marcus laid some coin on the low table that was between them, and her eyes grew wide. “I will give you this now in good faith, and more of the same when I get what I came for.”

  She eagerly grabbed at the gold with her good hand. She looked up at him and smiled.

  Marcus thought she might be quite pretty when she was not sporting bruises. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Sir Archibald Bastian.”

  She stiffened, and her eyes narrowed. “I swear if’n I’s sees ’im again I’ll kill ’im!”

  “What did he do?”

  “This!” She pointed to her arm, face, and leg. “He’s the bloody cove that did this to me.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Hez angry at some gel named Josie and swore she’d be gettin’ it soon. I feelz sorry fer her if’n this be her gent.”

  “What else can you tell me?” Marcus was sick to his stomach again.

  “He sez he is rich ’n rivals Prinny wit ’is wealth. He sez he ’as some dealin’s in free trad’ng and ’e’s too smart for dem coves in the gov’ment to find ’im out.”

  “Interesting. Did he say anything else?”

  “’e needs this Josie chit to make ’is vic’try. And ’e sympathizes with that frenchy.”

  “Napoleon?”

  She nodded. “Him and some black diamond.”

  Marcus spoke with Miss Smith for a short time longer and paid her well with strict instructions not to say a word to anyone as to why he was there. “If you must say that I came for your favors, so be it. We know the truth.”

  “You’s be a ’andsome gent, I w’ld be able to ’andle sumat your needs for you.” She flirted now.

  Marcus was shocked at how low a bodice could instantly go.

  “If’n not, I tw’ld welcome ya back ’nother time.”

  “I, um, thank you for your generous offer, Miss Smith.” Marcus gulped at the expanse of flesh exposed and her indecent proposal. His cravat choked him. “I hope you will not be too disappointed if I decline, in spite of the temptation.”

  She was definitely giving him an eyeful.

  “I have promised God I would keep myself pure until I wed.”

  “Youz a strange ge
nt. I’fn ya change yur mind…”

  Marcus rose, leaned over the petite prostitute, kissed her hand, and turned it over to place in it the extra coin. He left as quickly as he was able. He closed the door behind him, leaned against the wall, and let out a breath he had not realized he held. Lord, this had better have been worth it. He pushed off against the wall and skipped lightly down the steps, wanting only to get home and bathe the scent of this place off him.

  Madame DuBois emerged from her sitting room door as he approached. “Would you join me for a cup of tea, my lord?”

  He wanted to refuse but nodded instead. “Thank you.” He followed her into the room.

  A servant appeared with a tea tray, left, and closed the door behind her.

  Madame motioned for Marcus to have a seat in a small sitting area where the tea and cakes awaited. She sat down and served the hot beverage. “You have not been here long enough. I would forbear having you leave too early and undermine your investigation.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow as he accepted the refreshments.

  “Yes. I eavesdropped, as I have at other times. Secret passages and peepholes can be convenient…and entertaining.” She winked at him. “I have shocked you. Come, let us be honest with one another. You want information on Bastian. He is not allowed here anymore. If you know this Josie chit, you had best warn her of how dangerous he is. The man is a brute and should be stopped.”

  Marcus frowned, relief now replaced with anxiety for Josie’s welfare. He nodded to his hostess.

  “It may surprise you that I am a patriot of England. I do not admire the Little Emperor and refuse to have any dealings with those who do. What Miss Smith does not know is that Sir Bastian has spent time in here bragging to me. Having French origins, he believed I would sympathize. I thought maybe my report to Whitehall had been overlooked. Who would think that a madame would take on the role of a spy? I am glad they have sent you, Lord Remington. I do not know that I would have trusted any other man entering this building to be true and worthy of these confidences. I suspect some of my patrons at Whitehall knew that.”

  Madame DuBois handed over an envelope with some handwritten pages on it. “These were left here by Sir Bastian in his haste to depart.” She grinned. “He was unwillingly escorted off the premises before he was able to gather his belongings.” She pointed to the envelope. “There should be enough evidence against him in there. You should know that there is someone higher in the peerage involved. He goes by the name ‘Black Diamond.’ I have been unable to ferret out his identity, but not for lack of trying.”

  Marcus nodded. “Miss Smith mentioned a black diamond. I had not realized it was a person.” He tucked the envelope into an interior pocket of his coat. “I will ask that you do not convey to anyone the nature of my business here. I appreciate what you have done to aid our country, and Miss Storm. If you think my visit has been of sufficient duration, I beg that you would let me leave as I have much work to be accomplished post haste.” He leaned forward to set down his cup and saucer and rose to leave.

  Madame also stood. “You have stayed a sufficient amount of time. My Maribel was right, though. Any one of my ladies would be more than willing to initiate you into the pleasures of the flesh should you be interested.” She sidled up to him and trailed a finger down his chest. She maintained her eye contact with him as she purred. “I include myself in their number.”

  Marcus reached for her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. “Thank you for your offer. My hope is that I will soon be wed and my wife will assume that role.”

  “If you ever change your mind, you are always welcome here.”

  Marcus gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and departed. Upon exiting the building, he flagged a hackney and returned home to find Jared dozing in front of the fireplace in the study. Marcus shook him.

  Jared yawned, stretched, looked at his brother and then at the clock. “You are home. Were you successful?”

  Marcus nodded. “I am fearful for Josie’s safety.”

  “I have her covered. Relax, pour yourself a brandy, and tell me what you learned.”

  22

  That same evening, Josie engaged in the typical and exhausting whirlwind of ton parties. She was at her third ball and had finished her dance with Sir Tidley. Josie was about to accept the hand of another admirer when Sir Bastian shoved him aside and grabbed her arm.

  “Come with me. Now.” Sir Bastian’s voice was low and guttural.

  It sent shivers up Josie’s spine. She struggled to get free of his grasp, but Sir Bastian was stronger than he appeared. “You are hurting me,” she hissed as she stomped her foot on his only to find that satin dancing slippers didn’t do much damage.

  “If you want to avoid a scandal, you will come with me and smile as you do.” Sir Bastian sneered through clenched teeth.

  Josie looked around the room for any hope of escape as he dragged her toward an exit.

  “Your Lord Remington is not here tonight to come to your rescue, nor is his meddling friend, Lord Westcombe. You are mine, and I will not be thwarted again.” He jerked her arm, and pain exploded in her shoulder.

  Fear and anger overtook her. She stomped down with her heel on his foot, harder this time, and his grip loosened. She tried to move away, but the crowd hemmed her in.

  Did anyone witness what was happening? Would scandal truly be worse than what this man had planned?

  Sir Bastian recovered and jerked her close to his sweaty body that reeked of cigar smoke and alcohol.

  Josie cringed and yelped from the pain. “Let me go! You are hurting me!” She yelled as loudly as she could, repeatedly, until the music stopped and the dancers stared at them.

  Lord Westcombe, Sir Tidley, and Lord Harrow appeared out of nowhere, and the crowd watched avidly at the tableau playing out before them.

  Lord Westcombe bowed to Josie. “My darling, Miss Storm, is this man inconveniencing you?”

  Josie nodded.

  Sir Bastian blustered. “Stand aside and let us pass. Miss Storm is my affianced bride, and I am taking her with me. Now!” A growl emanated from her captor.

  Josie had no doubt of the brutality that awaited her if he succeeded in leaving with her.

  Suddenly, Sir Bastian’s grip loosened, and she turned to see Sir Tidley, although somewhat shorter than Sir Bastian, twisting her attacker’s free arm from behind. “I suggest you let the lady go,” Michael growled.

  Sir Bastian gasped in pain and released Josie, who ran to find Lady Grey as tears streamed down her face.

  “I will call you out for this!” Her attacker yelled above the murmurs of the crowd as they parted like the Red Sea so she might pass through.

  Josie heard no more of what happened.

  Lady Grey clucked over her as they escaped the ball. In the carriage, Josie wept on Lady Grey’s shoulder while the older woman remained silent. “I’m ruined.” Sniff. Hiccup. “I want to go home.” Body-shaking sobs overtook her. “I cannot stay in London.”

  Lady Grey’s hand caressed and patted her back. The shudders subsided, and Josie was able to breathe and sit upright. By the time the carriage reached home, she was able to exit with dignity. Upon entering, she ran up the stairs to her room and fell onto her bed with a fresh paroxysm of tears. Josie shook inside.

  She longed for Marcus to comfort her. Where had he been? How would he react to what happened? Would he even want her anymore? Her season in London was certainly over. There would be no way to overcome the scandal of what happened tonight. She dreaded tomorrow and having to face the harshness of the beau monde when on the prowl, salivating over fresh meat to chew up and spit out for the sake of their entertainment. Tomorrow she would be the main course.

  Josie struggled to get ready for bed without Molly’s help. She wanted to be alone with her heartbreak. She sipped a glass of brandy to relax. The liquor burned in her throat before it warmed her. Soon she was able to fall asleep and dreamt of Marcus coming to her rescue from the fate that await
ed her.

  The next morning, Lady Grey summoned Josie.

  Josie knew her eyes were puffy from crying. Although Molly had done her best to make her presentable, she thought she looked pale and scared when she glanced in the mirror.

  Lady Grey rose to greet her and walked her to the chairs on one side of the room. “I know you want nothing more than to go home, but we must brave the gossip this morning.”

  Josie recoiled inside. “Please. Do not make me go.”

  “This will prove your character and grace. If you can stare this down and weather this irritation, you will be able to handle anything that comes your way as Lady Remington.”

  Josie’s gaze instantly rose to look at the older woman and noticed that her mentor looked tired and worn out. “Do you think so?”

  “I am certain. It may be rough, but we can do this. I am not saying that this will blow over. It may last until some new tidbit tickles the ears of the elite. Until that time, we shall hold our heads up with dignity. Nothing that happened last night was your fault. Sir Bastian was arrested, and I received notice from Lord Westcombe that your tormentor has been placed in the tower and will be brought up on charges of treason.”

  “If he was wanted on charges of treason, why did they wait until he attacked me in public to arrest him?”

  “They awaited proof, but someone thought you might be in danger and placed a guard around you until they had what they needed to arrest him. Someone watched out for you.” Lady Grey raised her eyebrows.

  “Lord Remington?” Josie couldn’t help the rise of hope that perhaps he had been behind her rescue after all.

  “I do not know. I have not heard from Marcus for several days.”

  “Oh.” Josie frowned. “Where has he been? I thought he would be courting me here in London.”

  “You will have to ask him when next you see him. I do hope he will show up soon. His presence would give you prestige.”

  “If only he would bend enough to allow his attentions to be public.”

  “Trust him, my dear. He is worthy of that.”

  “I know. I should be more grateful for all he has done for me.”