Better to be a self-made man than slave to a keeper. With that conclusion, he flipped open the ledger on his desk and set to work calculating profits.
It was hours after dinner when Vivienne paced the carpet in the sitting room of her bedchamber. Frustration and a fair share of disappointment kept her mind awhirl. Unwilling to lie in bed when sleep evaded her, she’d risen. Experiencing a sudden chill, she glanced to the hearth to see the fire ablaze, then snatched her wrapper from the foot of the bed, tying the silk sash with a deliberate tug.
Her efforts earlier had failed. How foolish to presume a morning call would garner results. Crispin was correct. She knew little about the operations of a gaming hell and that information equalled the knowledge she possessed pertaining to men.
With wry concession she realized Crispin might be of more help than she originally considered, although if she solicited his advice in earnest he would likely become as protective as during their first conversation. Perhaps if he realized how important the issue he would seek to please her. He often favoured her ideas whenever she visited or they found themselves sharing a social event. Crispin would fetch her refreshments or strike up conversation when no one else was about. He was a makeshift brother that way.
Her stomach growled more in objection than agreement. With a shake of her head, she decided to seek a bite to eat in the kitchen and lit a hand candle from the lantern beside her bed, though upon opening the door she startled and almost dropped the light. Her stepfather stood in the hall outside her rooms.
‘Oh.’ She managed to withdraw within a hair’s width of collision and collect herself. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. I thought to get a biscuit in the kitchen. Is everything all right?’ Concern laced her words. It was unusual for him to be here for no reason, both her mother and stepfather’s bedchambers at a distance down the corridor. He too was dressed as if preparing for rest.
‘Everything is well.’ He offered a placating smile. ‘I could not sleep for thinking of something I forgot to give you. I didn’t know if you were awake at this hour but I thought to see if a light shone from under the door.’
Curious, she waited, her mind sorting through an array of responses and finding none suitable. He took the candle from her grasp and motioned that they walk, so she did for lack of a better response, uncomfortable standing still.
‘I sorted through some of your mother’s belongings earlier today and found an ornate keepsake box. I didn’t know it was in her possession nor did I attempt to open it and view the contents. The locked box had no key with it. I thought perhaps you would know of its importance.’
He stopped before his bedchamber door and emotion, unbidden and tremulous, flooded her. The mention of her mother triggered a plethora of memories, but it wasn’t that which caused her disquiet. She possessed the key to the box safely kept. Mother had given it to her once the illness proved unstoppable. Until this moment, she’d forgotten the little key tucked away inside her jewellery case. Still, why couldn’t this discussion have waited until morning?
‘Would you like to come into my sitting room? I can show you what I found.’ He touched the door and slanted it open though she took a decided step backward.
‘Why don’t you bring it down to breakfast in the morning? I’m more fatigued than I originally believed.’ Her heart hammered with alarm. It was unseemly and improper for her to enter her stepfather’s bedchamber. Still he grieved as she and likely did not realize the impropriety of what he suggested, anxious to solve the riddle of this new discovery.
‘You’re no longer hungry?’ His brows lowered with concern. ‘I can summon a servant to make you a tray.’
‘No.’ Her answer clipped his final word. ‘I wouldn’t think to wake anyone at this hour. I’ll be fine until morning.’ She retrieved the candle as he offered it forward. ‘Goodnight then, stepfather.’ She almost jumped when he placed his hand on her forearm.
‘Goodnight, dear Vivienne. Sleep well.’ He turned and entered his bedchamber, the door closing with a loud click that echoed in her ears.
The faint rays of morning yawned across the sky as Sinclair waited. Exhausted from a hectic night, he rolled his head in search of relief from tense muscles and lack of sleep. With the same predictability that labelled the seasonal population flow within London, the hell had erupted in disturbance last night. Some quick-tongued sharper with too much blunt and not enough common sense accused a regular patron of cheating. Fisticuffs followed, those who’d over-imbibed or mourned the loss of their pocket readily joined the fray and it took Cole and Luke’s additional efforts to re-establish order.
Sin touched his brow where a broken bottle had left a deep gash. He was the only one of the three who came away with an injury, but then it was he who threw himself into the fight with fervour. Cole worked to remove instigators and onlookers, herding the working girls into another room and collecting all monies left on the felt. Luke climbed atop the vingt-et-un table and cocked a pistol. That quieted the room with alacrity.
Now, acting on the message he’d received with inconvenient timing, he waited for Wilson to appear, the paid informant unusually late. With a heavy sigh, Sin leaned against the brick wall. Fatigue demanded attention. Bloody hell he was tired. Tired of too many things. Of chasing revenge. And feeling too much and by result feeling too little. Tired of the restlessness that coursed through his veins in kind to the blood that provided life. Would he always feel this way? A bastard with no ties or family, no roots from which to grow?
A young boy skittered by in a familiar scene, the lad on his way to retrieve dailies to be sold on the corner for pennies, in hope of buying food. Sinclair had money. More money than he could ever spend, but except for a wolfhound and a few friends, what else could he claim? He grunted, somewhat amused, and recalled Ace’s description of yesterday’s visitor. Vivienne. How different her life must be. High-born, established in society and nurtured by a loving family. Able to give of her heart by working for the poor.
Why had she visited him?
And what did she want?
He inhaled, the fetid scent of the docks causing him to exhale just as quickly. In his peripheral vision someone approached through the shadows to his left. His fingers curled into a fist, sore from their use last night; but no, it was Wilson aligned near the wall, a casual pose that spoke of two friends admiring daybreak rather than an informant reporting his find.
‘Morning.’
‘Aye.’ The man shifted and flitted a glance to make eye contact before returning his attention to the horizon. ‘Pimms is on the run, anxious to leave London. I’ve got no leads on his whereabouts as of yet but the talk is he’ll settle low and hide in Cheapside for a spell. I’ll find him and be on watch. He’ll surface sooner than later.’
‘He may have heard of Ludlow’s demise or perhaps his own cagey conscience is too much to tolerate.’ Sinclair punctuated the statement with a foul curse. ‘I want you to find him, that’s all. Pimms is to pay a higher price than the other two.’
‘Worse than death?’ Wilson pushed from the wall, prepared to step away.
‘That I promise.’ Sinclair’s vow could not be mistaken.
‘Tell me everything.’ Sophie grasped Vivienne’s hands and with an anxious tug pulled her into the Daventry music room. ‘And do hurry before Crispin arrives and spoils our fun.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ She settled on the chaise beside the pianoforte and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I did visit the Underworld, but the door was locked tight, the building closed.’
‘Oh, how dreadful and disappointing.’ Sophie acknowledged the news with a frown, though her expression transformed before Vivienne could reply. ‘I took it upon myself to accept an invitation for us to Lady Chutterly’s dinner party. It promises to be delightful and with Crispin as escort it will be just like old times.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you. I hope Lady Chutterly will not think poorly that you’ve included me in your r
esponse.’ Any opportunity to escape the dreary loneliness of Nettlecombe seemed a good one.
‘She dare not. I’ve attended her daughter’s appalling violin recitals for three years in a row without a word of complaint. She owes me a great deal more than a friendly favour.’
‘Sophie, bite your tongue.’ Vivienne admired her friend’s frank truthfulness though at times her candour broke all rules of etiquette. ‘Will you forever say what’s on your mind without a thought first?’
‘To you, yes.’ Sophie gave an emphatic nod. ‘I’ve always believed honesty to be the best policy.’
‘Honesty is the most noble of all qualities and I do not lie.’ Crispin entered with a broad smile aimed at Sophie then proceeded directly to Vivienne where he sketched a bow and raised her ungloved hand to his mouth in august greeting.
‘To what do I owe such grandiose welcome?’ She reclaimed her hand and looked up as Crispin answered.
‘Vivienne…’ he paused as if by saying her name all was right in his world ‘…whenever you visit Daventry House it is a day deserving of celebration.’
Vivienne’s face heated and she touched her cheek as she eyed Sophie across the room. Her friend didn’t miss the notice.
‘Brother, you’re over the top.’ Sophie sent him a withering glare. ‘Your teasing and theatrics are best preserved for when some female catches your eye and you wish to steal her attention. Here your flirtatious nonsense is distracting, especially when we discuss items of importance.’
‘And what is the latest on dit? Lord Dander’s flaming defeat while playing Snapdragon last evening? Lady Thuglin’s inability to dance a quadrille without appearing a distressed chicken?’ His interest volleyed between the two ladies.
‘You’re incorrigible.’ Vivienne cupped her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle, but it proved to no avail. Laugher leaked out and Crispin’s grin widened.
‘Thank you. I accept your lovely compliment.’ He took a seat directly across from her in an overstuffed chair. ‘So what to do, ladies? I suggest we play Rhymes with Rose. The weather is dull and with our commitment to the Chutterlys later this evening, a relaxing afternoon would serve us well.’
‘I’m terrible at that game and you know it.’ Sophie sat beside Vivienne, seemingly in agreement with her brother’s suggestion of amusement despite voicing a complaint.
‘I shall endeavour to offer you the choicest lines, dear sister, and besides it is a silly game, meaningless, nothing more.’ He waved a hand as if he dismissed her objection.
Crispin may have been speaking to Sophie but Vivienne noticed how he watched her the entire time. She fidgeted under his scrutiny. ‘Then let’s begin.’ She’d start anything to break the intensity of his interest.
As he moved to the edge of the cushion he wore a thoughtful expression. Several ticks of the clock passed before he began. ‘I fell asleep last night in a heavenly doze.’
‘You were so tired you wore your evening clothes,’ Sophie added and turned to face Vivienne in wait of the next line of rhyme.
‘You relaxed on your bed in elegant repose.’
‘Well done.’ Crispin winked and she giggled despite herself. Sophie chastised them for the interruption.
‘I dreamed of a lady as pretty as a rose.’ He spoke the line with the solemnity of a poet reciting a sonnet.
‘With eyes the colour of pistachios.’ Sophie waggled a finger in Vivienne’s direction.
‘I don’t think this is how the game goes.’
Engrossed, Crispin embraced the idea. ‘And the loveliest darling upturned nose.’
‘Hair blacker than plumage on crows.’ Sophie’s grimaced with the awkward comparison.
Vivienne raised her palms in surrender. ‘There’s no stopping you now, I suppose.’
‘And in my dream, I wrote her prose.’
‘Promising dedication for all tomorrows.’ Sophie sighed.
‘Paying homage to the beauty of her fine elbows.’ Sophie let out a graceless snort and pushed gently on Vivienne’s shoulder with the line, but the jocularity of the ridiculous game was exactly why she enjoyed visiting Daventry House. How easily she forgot her concerns and became lost in jovial friendship.
When next Crispin spoke, his voice dropped low, his eyes clear as he pierced her with his gaze. ‘Wondering if his fondness truly shows.’
‘Debating the right time to disclose.’
‘Thankful for your friendship that I chose.’ Vivienne offered a gentle smile.
‘Deciding the right time to propose.’ His words were an indistinct murmur.
‘I can’t think of anything to say.’ Sophie stood in a flutter of skirts. ‘All the good rhymes are gone. Let’s play something else.’
‘If you will excuse me.’ Crispin didn’t speak again and left the room directly.
‘Sophie.’ Vivienne rose from the chaise and met Sophie near the window, their faces mirroring an expression of concern.
‘I know.’ Sophie’s shoulders fell in defeat. ‘But there’s no dissuading him.’
‘He’s wonderful.’ Vivienne took a restorative breath and asserted each word. ‘He is a wonderful brother.’
‘Do you think he could be more? I mean if you could just imagine.’ Emotion riddled Sophie’s words. ‘We would be sisters in truth. I’m so torn between protecting my dearest friend and encouraging my loyal brother.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, but I cannot command my heart to feel a certain way and expect results. If that were true so many things would be easier. I would have my life sorted and be happier by half.’ They still held hands and Vivienne gave Sophie’s a squeeze of comfort for of late she didn’t know what she was capable of feeling other than the emptiness left in her life by her mother’s death.
Sophie embraced her and then pulled back with a slight shrug. ‘I understand. I do.’
‘I know you do. We are sisters in every other way. Just don’t encourage Crispin, please. I fear the moment when it must be confronted. I would never wish to hurt his feelings.’ She whispered the words, afraid to evoke the reality by saying them aloud.
‘Do not worry.’ Sophie viewed her with sympathy in her eyes. ‘Crispin is the most valiant gentleman I know. He will accept the news when the time comes. He will do what’s right.’
Chapter Six
Dinner at the Chutterlys’ proved pleasant. As a small gathering it offered an ideal opportunity to reintroduce Vivienne to the brisk round of social functions sure to proceed as the season gained momentum. The three friends shared the carriage ride home, replete from a fine meal and congenial evening.
‘Crispin, what I mentioned earlier couldn’t be truer.’ Vivienne watched as he slitted his eyes, his head leaning against the opposite bolster. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘One look at you across the room and I knew you were up to no good,’ Sophie confirmed.
‘Me? I’m taken aback. I thought you’d appreciate an introduction to Lord Dander.’ He laid his palm across the breast of his coat. ‘It was well done of both of you not to mention his singed eyebrows.’
They shared another laugh and the carriage rolled to a stop shortly after.
‘Shall I accompany you, Vivienne? It’s late and I’m not comfortable with you travelling home alone.’ He flipped his pocket watch open and held it near the brass lantern fixed to the wall. ‘It is late. Half ten. Lord Huntley may be concerned. I should see you home.’
She heard Sophie’s sharp intake of breath though her friend provided no rescue. ‘No, thank you. My stepfather turns in early. Our house is rather quiet these days and I have the family carriage and an additional footman to ride with the driver. Besides, he scarcely knows when I come and go these days.’ She didn’t add that his disinterest was a blessing. ‘As usual you are very thoughtful.’ She smiled, an ache in her chest abloom. Someday her refusal would break Crispin’s heart. She didn’t want to be the cause of his pain.
‘Very well.’ He looked
to Sophie who nodded her head in agreement. ‘I have enjoyed this evening, ladies.’ He disembarked and waited outside to hand them down.
‘I’m sorry, Sophie,’ Vivienne whispered across the coach. There wasn’t time to say more, still her dearest friend understood without further explanation.
Vivienne travelled two blocks before she knocked on the ceiling and gave the driver an alternative direction. Under the guise that she intended to see a show on Drury Lane, she allowed the carriage to take her within walking distance of the Underworld. She pulled her wrap around her shoulders, tucked her chin, and fixed her eyes on her slippers as she moved briskly across the cobbles towards St James Square. A solitary lamplighter passed her with a nod while a few couples hurried on their way to unknown destinations, the streets somewhat isolated.
How foolish of her to take the risk. Despite the better neighbourhood, crime lurked in all corners of London and perhaps the affluent show goers offered temptation to thieves and pickpockets rather than a deterrent. A skitter of apprehension akin to reckless disquiet chided her decision to seek out the gaming hell. So much more than simple curiosity prompted the choice. She’d become buried in grief, lost beneath her solemnity and this, wildly throwing caution to the wind and daring to breach a forbidden world, caused her to feel vibrant and alive. Her pulse raced with the idea of it all.
She approached the building, quiet as it stood yesterday morning, but when she reached the stoop she sensed a current of energy emanating from the hell’s interior. It thrived with activity and her pulse kicked up in tempo, her heart quickening as she climbed the stairs. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she straightened her posture and dropped the knocker.
Nothing happened.
Again she tried—convinced behind the panel an entire other world lived, thrived, with Mr Sinclair at the centre, overseer of goings-on and sorely in need of reform. A woman’s laughter reached through the glass of the downstairs window but when she leaned to peer inside nothing could be seen for the thick velvet drapery pulled tight.
The Den of Iniquity Page 5
