Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

  There was a tap at the door and Lucinda, her maid, popped a head in. “Mrs. Robert Watson for you, ma’am.”

  Speaking of neglected friends! Daisy was indeed the antidote to all this unseemly self-reflection. “Show her right in.”

  Her friend soon appeared, a pale, dark-haired girl half a dozen years Catharine’s junior. Daisy’s husband Robert Watson was an old friend of Catharine’s. He and Charles had served in the same battalion in Portugal—serving under Blackstone, then Lieutenant Woodley. Though they never spoke of what they’d been through together, it had forged a strong bond between them. The fact that his wife Daisy was a newer friend made her no less beloved. In fact, the Watsons were her only true friends—the only people she allowed to see the true version of herself—and she’d been neglecting them.

  “Catharine!” Daisy grinned and seemed as though she might burst. “I’m having a party!” A new wife, Daisy seemed to be throwing herself into her duties with her customary good cheer. “My first since we got to town. Saturday. Just a small dinner party, but I find myself nervous all the same. You must come. I need you for courage!”

  Bother, but of course she couldn’t attend a dinner party on Saturday. She had an appointment with Herr Biedermeier. “My dearest, I am so sorry, but I can’t attend. You know I would change my plans if it were at all possible. I’d much rather dine with you and Robert on Saturday.”

  “You’d much rather dine with us than…”

  Catharine loved that about Daisy. The girl had backbone. Though she looked the part of the gently bred, proper, young society wife, she had a mischievous soul that had attracted Catharine—and Robert, she supposed—from the start.

  “Than keeping an engagement I’m afraid is simply immovable.”

  Daisy scowled. Robert had done some occasional work for Blackstone—the spymaster sometimes called upon his former men-at-arms, because the trust between them was absolute. Catharine supposed that was why the earl had approached her about the assignment at Madame Cherie’s, too. Catharine and Emily never spoke about it directly, but Catharine assumed the young matron knew about the occasional forays into espionage made by her husband and the earl.

  “And does this engagement perchance involve the Earl of Blackstone?” Daisy asked. When Catharine didn’t answer, she pushed on. “Of course, I only ask because I have yet to invite him for Saturday. If he also cannot attend, it will put a horrible dent in my plans, and I shall have to reschedule.”

  “It’s possible that my engagement involves the Earl of Blackstone, yes,” Catharine said, fighting the urge not to giggle.

  Daisy threw her hands up in the air. “Botheration! How inconvenient it is when one’s closest friends are all spies.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Watson.”

  “Next week, then.” Daisy narrowed her eyes at Catharine, daring her to object. “Tuesday.”

  “Yes, Tuesday!” She was indeed free this coming Tuesday. How gratifying to think that she was no longer required at Madame’s twice a week, now that they knew who their target was.

  “Good. Now, will you compound your social transgressions by neglecting to offer me tea? It’s growing rather chilly out there, and I’m in the mood for a good coze.”

  “Of course we shall have tea!” Catharine rose and pulled the bell. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you anyway. It’s about your work with the Society.”

  “The Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children?”

  “The very same.”

  Chapter Four

  James paused at the door to the large drawing room at Madame Cherie’s. Had this been a mistake?

  At home, as he shaved and dressed, he’d told himself that one more visit to Madame Cherie’s—and this time he would keep his wits about him—would allow him to gather evidence he could use to persuade his colleagues at the Society to rethink the scope of their report. He was writing the damned thing, anyway. He could include what he liked in the first draft, backed with rational observations and objective data. Then the others would at least have to read it before striking it out.

  But now, poised at the door, he could think of several compelling reasons not to be here, not least of which was financial. Thanks to his allowance, he had ample funds to support his simple lifestyle and to pay for his rooms, but he certainly could not afford to drop eight pounds as casually as most of the men here. If he kept this up, he would be forced to go back to practicing medicine in earnest, which would defeat the whole purpose of having time to turn his attention to reform.

  There was also the not-insignificant matter of his reputation. A social reformer caught in a house of ill repute would cause a scandal. It would jeopardize years of hard work. If anyone here recognized him, his reputation would be ruined.

  Just like hers. The irony was not lost on him.

  The footman stationed at the door cleared his throat. Clearly, he’d been hesitating too long. There was no way to gracefully retreat now.

  “Dr. Burnham!” Madame Cherie, clad in a silver gown that matched the streaks in her hair, glided to his side and gave him her hand, over which he dutifully bowed. “I confess I am somewhat surprised at your appearance here this evening. You left so quickly last time you visited us!” She paused, a moment he used to try to summon an explanation for why he’d spent eight pounds on fifteen minutes of conversation with an anonymous lady in a mask. It was something he’d been trying to work out himself all week. Before he could answer, she continued. “I trust Lady V did not disappoint, then?”

  “No, indeed. I simply remembered something I needed to attend to rather urgently that evening. Lady V did not disappoint at all. In fact, I hope to make amends to her for running off so unceremoniously.”

  Madame’s painted lips narrowed to a thin line, so thin they almost disappeared. “Lady V’s price has gone up. She costs ten pounds this evening.”

  He didn’t have ten pounds. Hell, he didn’t have eight pounds. His allowance came quarterly, and he’d have to live like a pauper until the next installment.

  “But…” she purred, taking his arm, “for the house’s favorite gentlemen, the original rates still apply.”

  “Thank you.” He didn’t know what the woman’s motives were, but he needed to assert himself here, if only to satisfy his pride. “That’s kind of you. I do hope to speak to Lady V at the gathering. As I said, I must apologize for taking my leave of her so prematurely last week. But I’m not entirely sure the direction my appetites will take me this evening.” He paused for effect. “Sometimes a gentleman needs something more than conversation.”

  She smiled at him, genuinely, it seemed, as if he’d passed an invisible test. “Yes, indeed, Dr. Burnham. Well, wherever your appetites take you this evening, when you’re ready to make your arrangements, you’ve only to tell my stewards that I’ve deemed you a special friend of the house.” She slipped a small red bead into his hand. “Give them this. They’ll apply a discount.”

  She nodded at a footman who opened the door, launching them into the din of the drawing room. James took a deep breath. It felt like jumping into a pool of water, so dramatic was the transformation from the dim hallway he’d stood in a mere moment ago. The laughter, the battling perfumes worn by the ladies, the ample feminine flesh on display: it was an assault on the senses.

  It took only a moment, though, for him to adjust and to become aware of her. She stood in the far corner of the room, conversing with a trio of gentlemen, including the young fair-haired boy who’d been so persistent last time. He could almost imagine she was in a respectable Mayfair drawing room, a viscountess, entertaining a flock of young admirers.

  Well, perhaps not exactly. Clad this time in a deep-scarlet gown trimmed with black lace, Catharine carried a black beaded reticule on an arm clad in black gloves that extended past her elbows. Large ruby teardrops dangled from her ears and she wore the same gold chain around her neck. The shade of the dress should
have clashed with the orange of her wig, but somehow it did not. A fire goddess among mere mortals, she was as magnificent as he remembered.

  Something one of the gentlemen said must have tickled her fancy, because she threw back her head and laughed, causing the chain to shift upward, rubbing against the hollow at the base of her throat formed by the notch where her collarbones met. A buzzing sensation took hold in his hand. What dangled from the bottom of that chain? He wanted to slide his fingers into the “V” of her cleavage and lift the golden links to find out.

  When her laughter died and she righted her head, she didn’t return her attention to her companions. Instead, her eyes latched directly onto his, as if there were an invisible thread between them pulling her attention away from her tight circle of companions. Smile fading, her hand sought out the chain, patting it back into place. Could she read his thoughts?

  No, more likely she’d merely felt the intensity of his gaze. He’d been openly staring, and there was no use hiding it. He winked and dipped his head in acknowledgment, teasing a bemused smile from her. But, he reminded himself, she wasn’t the reason he was here. He needed data, and for that he would have to talk to a real lightskirt, someone who made her living at the house of ill repute. He turned and made his way to a young woman sitting alone on a settee. She had a friendly, open face and, patting the seat next to her, she introduced herself as Jessica. After engaging in a few minutes of polite conversation, he risked a glance at Lady V, who was still entertaining her group of admirers.

  “You’ve come for Lady V then, have you?” His companion had not missed the moment of inattention.

  “No, of course not. Forgive me, I was merely distracted for a moment.”

  “It’s all right. Everyone is captivated by her.” She glanced at the redhead and gave a little sigh. “It’s understandable.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “No, sir. Truly, no one does. Not even Madame, supposedly, though I doubt that. In fact, I doubt the whole story.”

  “You mean that she’s a highborn lady of the ton?”

  “It’s too incredible, isn’t it? Why would a lady who has everything be here?”

  Why indeed? He supposed the paradox was part of Lady V’s appeal. “Besides,” Jessica continued, “she’s too friendly.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She chats with us as if she really were one of us. Asks about our lives. In fact, the other night she asked if I was here because I had to be or because I wanted to be. Can you imagine? What an odd question!”

  “And what did you say?”

  “A little of both.”

  James pondered her response and gazed at Lady V. If she was asking the others his questions, perhaps their encounter had been as memorable for her as it had for him. And perhaps she could help him after all.

  “Madame Cherie is a brilliant businesswoman,” Jessica said, drawing him back to their conversation. “I’ll wager that the highborn Lady V, who offers nothing but conversation, is neither highborn, nor as strict about her rules as she pretends to be.” She took a sip of her champagne. “It’s a stroke of genius, really. Make each gentleman think he’s the exception, that he’s the special one for whom Lady V has broken the rules. Create a captive audience and then the price goes up.”

  “You don’t say?” She had told him she was flexible. How vexing to think that almost-chaste kiss had been an act. Had she merely been giving him what she thought he wanted?

  “It’s exactly the kind of scheme Madame would dream up,” Jessica said, oblivious to his irritation. “She’s excellent at making a gentleman feel he’s apart from the rest. Did she give you a small bead?”

  James almost choked on his drink. “She did.”

  “Yes, it was meant to signify that you’re a favorite of the house, to garner a discount, correct?”

  He nodded.

  Gesturing around the room, she said, “We collect scores of those beads every night. They don’t mean anything. They merely help create the illusion of privilege.” She pulled her eyes back to him. “I have said too much.” A white-gloved hand darted out and patted his arm. “Besides, perhaps you’re different, after all. Perhaps you really are an exception.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She’s been sneaking glances at you since you sat down.”

  Startled, James looked over to Lady V, who was watching him as if she’d been waiting for him to return his attention to her. She hitched her head slightly. The gesture seemed very much like a summons. Perhaps it was time to find out how strict Lady V’s rules were, how much was real and how much was artifice.

  “Ah,” laughed his companion. “You’d best go. I wouldn’t keep Lady V waiting if I were you.”

  Finally! It was only after resorting to outright staring that she managed to dislodge Dr. Burnham from the company of Jessica. Catharine thought he was never going to approach her. In fact, she’d begun to wonder if he was here this evening looking for someone else. Perhaps he wanted to speak to a real prostitute for his blasted study. Or perhaps he was in search of more than conversation. Indeed, the passionate lips that had kissed her with such fire suggested a man for whom mere conversation would never suffice. Even so, Jessica, who was a lovely girl, simply wasn’t right for the intelligent, brooding Dr. Burnham. No, none of the women here were. He needed someone who could match him wit for wit.

  She watched him approach, his eyes never leaving hers as he wove through the crowded room. Ignoring the gentlemen who surrounded her, he bowed more deeply than was called for and kissed her hand. A shiver traveled from the point of contact made by his mouth, through her glove, clear up to her shoulder. Why had she not noticed the strands of white in his hair, on the sides, near his hairline? Why had she not noticed how large his hands were? It was as if she were meeting him again for the first time.

  “Lady V.” The low hum of his voice as he said her name echoed in her ears. How lovely it would be to hear him say her true name. A pity she never would.

  She smiled, coolly nodding at him in a way that belied the fluttering in her chest.

  “I believe we have an arrangement?”

  She had to admire his nerve. How bold of him to imply premeditation where there had been none, and how uncharacteristic of her to agree. “I believe we do.”

  He took her elbow and extracted her from the group, pressing his other hand into the small of her back as he steered her toward one of Madame’s stewards. It wasn’t until he had settled her on a nearby chair while he made the arrangements that she realized neither of them had bothered to take their leave of the other gentlemen who’d been attending her. Indeed, he had not so much as acknowledged their existence.

  Soon they were making their way up the stairs to her room. What an evening this was turning out to be. Dr. Burnham here, now, and she expected Trevor Bailey and the infamous Herr Biedermeier at the midnight gathering. Her heart was beating fast—she’d taken the stairs too quickly, no doubt. It wouldn’t do to appear out of breath, so she slowed her pace as they mounted the final flight.

  Dr. Burnham followed closely without speaking. Her senses heightened, she was aware of every step he took. She paused outside her door and opened her reticule to fish for the key. Glancing back at him, she was met with a single arched eyebrow.

  “Switched techniques, have we?”

  She inserted the key into the lock but did not open the door. Deliberately repeating her actions from the other night, she reached down for an armful of scarlet silk and bared a single leg, almost to the top of the thigh.

  She was trying to agitate him a little, she would freely admit. James Burnham struck her as an intriguing mixture of passion and intellect, with a dash of priggishness thrown in.

  To his credit, he didn’t even blink. “You aren’t wearing any stockings.”

  “No, and therefore no garters. Making it, I’m sure you can appreciate, difficult to transport a key on one’s person.” In her attempts to get to know some of the o
ther ladies, Catharine had picked up a few tricks of the trade. Amelia in particular was a proponent of the no stockings approach. She’d been right. Dispensing with stockings was not only practical—one stayed immeasurably cooler in the overheated drawing room during the gatherings—it also delivered a deliciously transgressive feeling. The sensation of silk swishing against her bare legs, for she’d also dispensed with petticoats, certainly went a long way toward putting a lady in the mood for work. Not that Catharine herself did any work here at Madame Cherie’s. Not that sort of work, anyway.

  “Yes, I can imagine,” he said. “Though I suppose…” His gaze rose from her leg to her chest. “One could transport a key in one’s décolletage.” Before she could recover from her shock at the impertinent remark, he joined her on the top step, though the stairwell really was too narrow to support two abreast. A hand floated out and she thought he was going to touch her necklace, but at the last minute it made a detour, and his middle finger traced a lazy circle in the hollow of her collarbone.

  She could only stare, focused on the heat radiating from his finger. One last circle and he lifted it, along with that damnable eyebrow again.

  “Shall we go inside?” She fumbled for the key in her reticule.

  “You’ve already inserted the key into the lock.”

  “Yes, of course.” She turned away from him to open the door, thankful that her mask covered her heated cheeks. She needed to regain control. Maintaining command was key to survival here, to making sure her rules were respected, and, more to the point, to remembering her greater purpose. The next while spent with Dr. Burnham would be an entertaining distraction, a way of passing the time until midnight. Pushing the door open, she swept inside ahead of him and made straight for the sideboard. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having, viscountess.” He bolted the door, covered the length of the room, and was by her side in a few strides.

  Telling him about her title had been a mistake. She couldn’t think what had possessed her. He was a determined social reformer, clearly here on a mission of some sort. Just a few minutes ago she’d thought of him as somewhat shy, prudish even. And indeed, the James Burnham of a few nights ago had seemed a little uneasy, as if certain parts of himself were at war with others. Now, though, that man was nowhere in evidence, having been replaced by an emerald-eyed hunter. But what was he hunting?