Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

“Exactly,” he said. “We’ve been trailing everyone who comes and goes from Madame’s with any regularity, and, given this recent tip, it’s too convenient that a Birmingham gunmaker is among them.”

  “And I was starting to think you wouldn’t find any traitors there, that perhaps the French sympathizers you sought were as fictional as the actual Frenchness of the entire establishment. In fact, I was almost beginning to hope so.”

  Blackstone glanced at her sharply. “I told you this wasn’t going to be glamorous. Spying never is. It’s dirty, thankless work.”

  “Then why do you do it?” The question was out before she could think better of it.

  “Because someone has to.”

  She met his eyes, surprised at the direct answer. Normally, she would never have the courage to question Blackstone so openly. Spymaster, lieutenant, earl: the man wielded enormous power, and wasn’t afraid to use it. It made him an intimidating sort, and it generally took a great deal to unsettle her.

  “You’re tiring of it,” he said.

  It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “Honestly, Blackstone, when you asked me to do this, it wasn’t that I thought it would be glamorous, so much as I thought it would be exciting. Something different.”

  “And it’s not?”

  “It’s remarkably the same as every drawing room or ballroom I’ve ever been in. Dull conversation, superficial people. The only difference is that people’s desires are closer to the surface at Madame Cherie’s, or at least the gentlemen’s are. In that sense, perhaps it’s more honest than the beau monde.” His brow furrowed at her assertion. She could say a lot of things about Blackstone—he was cold, calculating, a master manipulator when the situation called for it. But she suspected that underneath it all, he cared about the people who worked for him, even if he didn’t realize it himself. Just like he cared about the soldiers he’d commanded before his injury had forced him to sell out. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for a confession. “It makes me feel more alone than ever.”

  He crossed the carriage and sat beside her. “You’re not alone.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw kindness. Such an outright expression of sympathy was unusual coming from him. “I am, though. I’ve been alone since the day Charles died.” She fingered the ruby.

  “Do you miss him terribly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Catharine, will you allow me the liberty to speak freely?”

  She smiled. “We seem to be doing so already.”

  “It’s a situation of your own making. You surround yourself with people, yet you hold yourself apart. Lovers, friends, you cast them off like yesterday’s fashions. It’s as if you’re living down to your own reputation. If you’re alone, it’s because you choose to be.”

  “You chose to be alone, too.”

  He blinked, and when his eyes reopened he looked like a different man. She had said too much. The kind eyes had been replaced with the spymaster’s usual impenetrable expression.

  “Let’s talk about Herr Biedermeier,” he said. The personal conversation was over. She could only nod her assent. “If his past pattern holds,” the earl continued, “and we have no reason to believe it won’t, he’ll visit Madame’s next week on Saturday.”

  “Yes. I’ll see about changing to Saturdays.” She glanced at him. “But I won’t have relations with him. I’ll hold you to our agreement there.”

  “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. But from what we’ve been able to glean, he’s not the type to pay for conversation alone. How many of the other women are likely to respond favorably to bribery? Who among them will give up information, given the right incentive?”

  “Most of them, I’d say. I’ve grown friendly with a few. There’s one lady, Amelia—she goes by the name Amélie—who has made it clear she doesn’t like me. I think she resents my presence. She used to be the most expensive lady in the place.”

  “Then we shall have to hope that our German friend’s tastes do not turn toward Mademoiselle Amélie, because we need to find out what he says when his guard is down.”

  “Do you know whom he has seen on past visits? Most men tend to find a girl and remain faithful to her.” Blackstone raised his brows and Catharine had to laugh. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I don’t know. Watch him next week. I’ll come, too. Notice whom he chooses; see if it looks like they’ve developed a rapport. Think about what her vulnerabilities are. Our best hope is that he’s chosen someone we can get on our side.”

  “And if he chooses Amélie?”

  “We’ll have to figure out some other way to get to him, then. But I hope for a swift end to this mission. I’d like to wrap things up sooner rather than later.” The carriage came to a stop in front of Catharine’s Hanover Square town house. “As I gather you would, too.”

  Catharine shrugged as Blackstone alit. He offered her an arm and he bent to kiss her hand as she stepped down.

  In truth, the mission had finally become rather interesting.

  Chapter Three

  The Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children was extremely non-hierarchical. On this blustery October day, two hours into a mind-numbingly long meeting of the Society’s executive committee, James would even venture to say it was maddeningly non-hierarchical. Its founder and president, Mr. Alan Phillips, insisted that all matters of consequence be debated until every man had his say and then decided by a simple majority vote. He went so far as to allow his colleagues to overturn his own wishes when he was outvoted.

  James had to admit that this tendency had worked in his favor before. Indeed, the “and the Betterment of Their Children” clause in the Society’s name had been proposed by James, who, given his background, had always taken an interest in the welfare of children. Mr. Phillips had objected vociferously, arguing that the fledgling organization should concentrate exclusively on the reform of the Poor Law and the abolishment of workhouses and not risk losing focus by having too broad a mandate.

  Today, as he so often did, James found himself on the losing side of an argument. This one centered on what should be included in the Society’s planned report, “On the Types and Nature of the Poor and Destitute.” Everyone had agreed that the group’s various pamphlets and their campaigns among members of Parliament had drawn attention to their causes, but that what was needed now was an objective measure of the problem—a census of sorts.

  “Tell me, Dr. Burnham, how exactly can you justify the inclusion of a chapter on prostitution?” said Mr. Angus Atleigh, the Society’s vice-president. “At least the kind of prostitution you’re talking about. Certainly the unfortunate streetwalkers of Covent Garden we’ll have to include somewhere. But expensive courtesans?” A quiet sort, Atleigh rarely spoke, so his question drew everyone’s attention.

  James sighed. They’d been over this before. “All I am trying to say is that no woman chooses to sell herself, if she is truly free to choose.” At least, that’s what he hoped.

  Mr. Phillips joined in. “Say that’s the case—though I’m not sure I agree—the result is not that these women live in poverty. They aren’t poor by any stretch of the imagination. Hence, they’re by definition excluded from the report.”

  “Even if their so-called choice of occupation is the only thing standing between them and destitution?” James asked. “Even if they’re forced to give up their children?” He bit his tongue. He was making this too personal.

  “And are they?” Mr. Phillips asked. “Or do they merely prevent them from being born in the first place?”

  James wanted to holler in frustration, but the truth was, he didn’t know. He hadn’t learned anything on his trip to Madame Cherie’s. His mistake had been choosing to spend his time—and money—on a lady who wasn’t a genuine lightskirt.

  He couldn’t regret their meeting, though. Indeed, he couldn’t stop thinking about the encounter. But his personal feelings were not relevant in deciding the ques
tion at hand. He’d begun this endeavor with a righteous certainty that the women at a place like Madame Cherie’s needed help, but Lady V had muddled things up in his mind.

  Before he could compose a reasonable answer to the president’s question, the man set his hands on the table and leaned toward James, eyes narrowed. “If this is about their children, Dr. Burnham, this isn’t the forum. We’ve debated your proposals about setting up schools, and concluded—numerous times—that they’re beyond the scope of our mandate. Leave it to the British and National Societies to come to blows over the matter. Leave it to Miss More. There are plenty of talented and dedicated men and women focusing on educational reform.”

  After a momentary silent standoff, one of the other men piped up. “And what about those who are compensated in exchange for their exclusive affections? Kept women? Mistresses? Are we to count them among the poor?”

  The group grew quiet. It was an open secret that Mr. Phillips had left the priesthood when an affair with a married member of the aristocracy came to light. Today, the man lived in a comfortable town house on a street that, though not among the most fashionable, was highly respectable, and he seemed to have access to money enough for printing the Society’s pamphlets and funding its data collection exercises. He was seen coming and going rather frequently from the grand home of the Marquess and Marchioness of Haverly. What remained unclear to James was which of the couple was Mr. Phillips’s beloved. He suspected the former, though no one ever spoke of the matter.

  Their president seized the opportunity. “Since it seems no one has any more to say on the matter, let’s call a vote and get on with our work. All in favor of including a chapter on high-class prostitution in the report, raise your hands.”

  James was joined by one other fellow, a baronet he suspected was voting “aye” because he hoped to engage in some research on the matter. All in the name of science and social reform, of course.

  “Opposed?” Mr. Phillips raised his brows in James’s direction as hands around the table shot up. “Motion fails. Now, the last item on our agenda is Mrs. Watson’s assertion that we should allow her, or another lady of our choosing, to sit on the executive committee. She apparently feels, and I quote, ‘that although our sentiments are noble and worthy of continued support, and our results encouraging, at the end of the day, we’re a group of comfortable men presuming to know what life is like for those less fortunate than us and therefore emboldened to make paternalistic prescriptions as to their fate.’” He cleared his throat and glared at a gentleman down the table who had begun to protest. “Given that it is well past time for luncheon, I suggest we postpone our patroness’s suggestion until our next meeting, when we can give it due consideration. Is any man opposed?” The room was still but for a few eye rolls. “Thank you. You all have your assignments, so I bid you good afternoon.”

  As usual, James’s assignment was to use his rhetorical skills to weave the group’s findings into a compelling narrative, which meant there wouldn’t be much for him to do until data started arriving in a month or so. He had studied science and medicine and practiced as a physician for several years—he still did some occasional doctoring at some of London’s foundling houses—and was therefore capable of undertaking all sorts of measurements and observations, be they biologic or social-scientific. But here, among this group, he’d been branded the writer. Probably because of the runaway success of his first attempt, a pamphlet aimed at improving hygiene—and therefore health—in workhouses and prisons. As a result of his efforts, Parliament had consented to open another fever institution in the city. He was a victim of his own success.

  It was a pity. He could use some distraction. Now all that was left to do was to make his way to his small rooms on Chancery Lane, summon the image of a pair of pale blue eyes flashing behind a feathered mask, and brood.

  Catharine would have thought she’d be better at this by now. She certainly didn’t lack experience. And yet, here she was, perched on a settee in her morning room, tentatively patting the back of a sniffling young man whose heart she’d just broken.

  She always tried not to let things progress so far that heartbreak resulted. Yet she’d obviously miscalculated this time. This one had clearly been more invested in their relationship than she’d realized.

  This one. She was a little bit disgusted with herself. She enjoyed the freedoms widowhood bestowed, to be sure, but it was no call to forget her manners. He did have a name. It was Alistair Withing, the third son of the Duke of Pembrokton. Twenty years old and wickedly smart, he had a glorious future ahead of him. She liked to think she left her young men better than she found them, even going so far as to imagine she was doing a service for their future wives. Some of them came away with quite a useful set of new skills.

  She liked Alistair. He was charming and funny. And he had pursued her, which had been an amusing twist. Apparently, her reputation preceded her these days. So much so that he’d walked right up to her at a ball without an introduction and asked her to dance. He knew what he was getting into, so she’d thought they were both aware of what went unspoken between them: that their liaison was temporary. She was rather surprised, all things considered, to find him upset by the news she’d just delivered.

  “I thought we were going to meet up in Bath next month,” Alistair said.

  “I know, dear, but I can’t possibly. I’m too busy.” It was true, though not for the reasons he thought. She watched him slump a little. “My dearest, be realistic. We’ve had a grand time, haven’t we? But I’m six years your elder. You’ll want children. You’ll want so much more than I can give you. It isn’t meant to be. And it’s better we part now, while parting still hurts a little, isn’t it?”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “The alternative is to stay too long. We tire of each other, become quarrelsome and petty. It’s just like overstaying one’s welcome at a party. Would you rather stay too long, trying desperately to wring every last drop of merriment out of the proceedings, or would you prefer to make a grand entrance, an equally grand exit, and remember the party as one of the gayest you ever attended?”

  Alistair smiled a little. “The latter, I suppose, when you put it like that. But, Catharine, how will I ever marry if those are the two alternatives?”

  “It’s simple. Some day you will find yourself at a party that you cannot bear to leave. It simply won’t be an option. The hostess won’t let you.” Catharine cringed. The metaphor didn’t hold up very well. She wanted to laugh at the image her words conjured: a sweet, fresh-faced society miss, physically barring Alistair from leaving her home.

  But the awkward analogy seemed to have done the trick. Alistair squeezed her hand and bussed her cheek. “Thank you. I shall miss you.”

  She saw him to the door. “And I shall miss you, too.” Moving from the vestibule back into the morning room, she stood at the window, watching Alistair make his way down the street, wondering why she didn’t seem to be able to convince herself that she would miss him. Usually she felt something when she sent one of her young men away. At least she used to. She plopped down on a chair and gazed at the fire.

  She was tired, and it wasn’t just the late nights at Madame Cherie’s. Her reputation in society had taken on a life of its own, and keeping up could be fatiguing. She had deliberately reinvented herself after Charles’s death, adopting four guiding principles: she would be the mistress of her own fate; she would never, ever cower before the ton’s powerful hostesses; she would not see her parents; and, most important, she would never marry again. Charles had given her many things when he had offered her marriage when she’d been so desperate, but perhaps the greatest among them had been the freedom that came with being his widow.

  After she had pledged herself to her principles, setting herself up in London had been shockingly easy. Charles’s solicitor helped her find a house. Charles had kept only a suite of rooms in town, since he’d been a bachelor when he’d last lived in London, and his mothe
r had always preferred to rusticate on her brother’s Devon estate. And there the dowager remained, after Catharine’s return, ignoring her daughter by marriage entirely. As for Catharine, invitations began to arrive, and she began to accept them. When someone asked her a question, she answered it honestly, protected by rank, widowhood, and wealth. Shocked by the truth, they laughed, enjoying the hint of scandal that seemed to attach itself to her. But they asked her back, again and again, and in no time she had more invitations than she knew what to do with. The hostesses of Mayfair couldn’t get enough of her.

  Neither, it seemed, could their sons. Well, to be fair, their brothers and husbands, too, but she made it clear to those sorts that she wasn’t interested in anything serious. And by “serious” she meant not only marriage, but also any kind of exclusive, long-term arrangement. So the older ones fell away, and she found herself surrounded by lovely, enthusiastic young men.

  The great joke was that everyone thought she was so experienced in the bedroom. She became so, but only by practicing on her young men. Charles had been kind and attentive, helping her gain confidence and comfort with intimate relations. But when he died, she initially assumed widowhood would mean a life of celibacy. So she’d been buoyed to find that she actually enjoyed physical intimacy with her young men in a way, that, if she were being honest with herself, she never had with Charles. She had loved Charles. He was her greatest friend and champion, and she would have been faithful—in body and spirit—until her dying day. But there had never been any great passion, at least on her part.

  Once he was gone, and she learned to separate emotion from intimate relations, she enjoyed herself immensely. But now that she’d committed to working for Blackstone, it was becoming difficult to manage everything. Balancing Madame Cherie’s, her social obligations, and her young men was too much, and was no doubt at least partly to blame for the ennui that gripped her today. Better to dispense with the young men, at least for now, until Blackstone no longer needed her at Madame’s.