Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

  “Dislikes what?” said a deep voice from the hallway. “A gentleman doesn’t like being discussed in his absence, you know.”

  Catharine smiled. Robert Watson, her old friend. How long ago those days on the Peninsula were. Yet when she closed her eyes, she could see him with Charles, both men dressed in their regimental colors.

  Kissing her hand warmly, he moved to stand beside his bride, who blushed prettily under his intense gaze. Though she wished her friends all the happiness in the world, she had to admit she felt the tiniest pang of envy around them. It was a life she might have had, had she not been so stupid when she was young. If she’d known how that one night would change everything…

  But now was not the time to brood. Once again, the memories were threatening to breach their nighttime boundaries. She gave them free rein under cover of night, but absolutely refused to let them invade her daytime activities. Smiling brightly, to fool herself as much as anyone else, she forced herself to attend her friends.

  “You dislike London life and society was what I was saying,” said Daisy to her husband.

  “Yes, I seem to recall that I’ve told you so repeatedly. Yet here I am, the owner of a ridiculously expensive new town house, about to host a party, for God’s sake.” He smiled at Catharine. “It’s all her fault, you know.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I know. And now she’s succumbing to nerves.” She turned back to Daisy. “You should rest easy, my dear. You’re among friends. Blackstone will be here, will he not? I can’t think who you’ve invited that will cause any trouble.”

  “Oh,” said Daisy, “you might be surprised.”

  Catharine raised her brows. “Who? Not the Duchess of Devonborough! She has been all over the scandal sheets of late.”

  “No. Nothing like that. It’s just that I have invited a few people who are not actually part of the haute ton.”

  “You can’t mean commoners!” Catharine teased.

  “And there’s Mr. Bailey,” said Robert, joining in the friendly vibes. “A merchant!”

  “You know what I mean,” Daisy said. “I have invited members of the middle class. Three of them, to be precise. But I assure you they will pass.”

  “Oh my goodness, I may swoon!” Catharine laughed and made an elaborate show of fanning herself.

  “Shall I run for some smelling salts, my lady?” Robert joked.

  Daisy swatted her husband’s arm. “Out, both of you. I want to consult with Samson before everyone arrives, and I don’t need your funning. You lot are overdue for a nice catch-up. Go have a coze in the parlor and wait for the guests to arrive. It’s very nearly seven o’clock, and I expect the first guests at any moment. I’ll follow shortly.”

  Catharine allowed Robert to steer her toward a sofa near the hearth and relaxed for the first time in a great while as the heat from the fire seeped into her bones. How wonderful to set aside, if only for one evening, her cares. No suffering children to worry about. No sinister German industrialists. No empty flirting in pursuit of French sympathizers. No young dandy on her arm, either. She felt quite free. It was as if a physical burden had been lifted from her shoulders as she anticipated an evening spent in the happy company of old friends. And, it would seem, just enough new faces to keep things interesting.

  “Robert, to whom was Daisy referring earlier? Who are your scandalous middle-class guests?”

  Just as Robert looked up to answer her, the parlor door swung open to reveal Samson, the Watsons’ butler. “Miss Andrews,” he announced in a practiced monotone. Catharine looked up to meet the gaze of a fresh-faced young woman of no more than twenty, golden curls piled atop her head. A masculine figure loomed behind her. She muffled a cry.

  “And Dr. Burnham.”

  The only thing that saved Catharine from expiring on the spot was Daisy. Their hostess hurried into the parlor at the sound of the first guests arriving. And thank God for her friend’s nerves! Flustered and pink, she drew everyone’s attention. Robert moved to stand next to her, which seemed to have a calming effect, and prompted her to perform introductions.

  “Lady Cranbrook, allow me to present to you Miss Andrews and Dr. Burnham.”

  Catharine’s body performed the requisite curtsy. The roiling of her stomach, the pounding of her pulse, and the shaking of her legs competed for her attention but ultimately lost as her mind fixated on the sensation of James’s eyes on her unmasked face. Her mask and wig were enough to protect her from the curious eyes of the men she encountered at Madame Cherie’s. But James had seen her real hair. And she was wearing her ruby on its usual short chain, so it was in full view against her throat. Even if he hadn’t had these clues, he knew her in a way none of her other clients from Madame’s did. She could only stare dumbly as Robert ushered the pair in. James sat directly next to her on the sofa, openly watching her as Daisy spoke.

  “Dr. Burnham is quite active in the Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children. Miss Andrews is an old friend of his from Surrey who happens to be visiting London. Your mother won’t be joining us, Miss Andrews?”

  “My mother regrets to inform you that she has taken a headache,” said the girl, so quietly that Catharine had to strain to hear her. Or perhaps it was just the deafening sound of her own heartbeat muffling the words.

  Miss Andrews was a perfect English rose—pink cheeks, yellow locks, rosebud mouth. And so young. What was she to James? How disconcerting to think of him having a life outside his work at the Society. She had certainly cast him as the single-minded reformer, devoted above all to science in service of his cause. Sneaking a glance at him, she startled to find his eyes on her, rather than on the polite exchange playing out among the others regarding Mrs. Andrews’s welfare. He watched her as if he were trying to memorize her features. It was as if she stood before him utterly naked. No, it was worse—she had done that before and survived. Now he truly knew who she was, and he could ruin her. She couldn’t bear it. She would have to manufacture an excuse to leave.

  As the butler announced the arrival of some other guests, James leaned over and whispered in her ear, his breath warm and familiar. “Everything is all right. This is merely a formality. I already know you. Nothing has changed.”

  It was as if he had read her thoughts, heard her fears. She looked up at him, willing herself not to cry. She was Catharine, Viscountess Cranbrook. She was a fixture of London high society. She did not cry. But she was a fixture of high society posing as a courtesan. And James Burnham was the only soul in the world, save Blackstone and Mr. Bailey, who knew her secret. Would he keep it? She searched his eyes as he continued to gaze evenly at her, then, suddenly, he flashed a smile, a small one meant just for her, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  Yes, it seemed he would.

  James had spent the better part of the day reflecting on the nature of coincidence. First, Miss Andrews—the vicar’s daughter Aunt Allie had just been praising—and her mother had happened to call upon Allie yesterday afternoon during his visit. Second, it also just so happened that the pair were London-bound for some shopping the very same morning he was set to return home. He’d seen the look shared by Allie and Mrs. Andrews as he’d offered, as duty—and his aunt—dictated, to escort Miss Andrews and her mother back to the city since it was their shared destination.

  The only true coincidence of the day occurred when, after escorting the ladies to Bond Street for their shopping, they strolled in Hyde Park, marveling at the parade of London’s fashionable set, preening like peacocks perched atop their conveyances. They had run into Mrs. Watson there. Kind lady that she was, after no more than five minutes of chatting, she’d extended an invitation to the group to join a dinner party at her home that evening. A wonderful opportunity, she’d said, to make known some of the good work of the Society. After all, the Earl of Blackstone would be in attendance. So would a dear friend of theirs named Trevor Bailey, who’d served with her husband and the earl in the war. And, she said with a knowin
g look, he’d grown terribly, terribly rich in the process.

  Mr. Bailey was gaining quite the reputation as a man of business, and of course the Earl of Blackstone was a powerful peer, even if he hadn’t taken up his seat in Lords. Mr. Phillips would never forgive him if he passed up an opportunity to evangelize the Society among the wealthy and powerful. And so James had grudgingly accepted the invitation on behalf of himself—and of the dumbstruck Mrs. and Miss Andrews, whose eyes had gone wide as saucers at the prospect of an unexpected party in London.

  “Such a pity your mother couldn’t join us,” he said in the carriage on the way to the party, not caring that his voice scarcely concealed his annoyance. The final “coincidence” of the evening—Mrs. Andrews’s sudden headache—had apparently caused him to lose his manners, but he couldn’t rouse himself to care overmuch.

  “Mmm,” murmured Miss Andrews. “But, as Mama said, how fortunate that since we were such close friends growing up there can be no impropriety in traveling to the party together.” The girl glanced at her maid. “And of course we have Edna.”

  James refrained from pointing out that he was seven years Miss Andrews’s senior and that therefore they could hardly look back on an innocently shared childhood. His only real memory of the young Miss Andrews was the year he played Joseph in the Christmas pageant. Baby Joan had screamed through his two lines, “Let us go to Bethlehem,” and “There is no room at the inn. Lie here, dear Mary.” Days of practice in front of Allie’s glass and his dream of a renowned theatrical career had come to naught. He’d been exceedingly, if only fleetingly, bitter.

  Indeed, though Miss Andrews no longer wailed, her company was about as exciting as that of a small child. Oh, he felt terribly ungracious for even thinking such an unkind thought, but honestly, she had spent the entire morning silent, letting her mother talk. And talk, and talk, and talk.

  Alone in the carriage, lacking a maternal buffer, her sole conversational strategy seemed to be agreement.

  “How is your father’s parish?” he asked.

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  He tried again with a more specific question. “The congregation must be aging. At least it seemed so when I was last in attendance with my aunt.”

  “Indeed, I think you are right.”

  Perhaps she needed a tad more help. “An elderly flock must present unique challenges.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  Frustrated, he turned to trying to shock an independent thought out of her. “My, but you cried a great deal during that Christmas pageant all those years ago.”

  “I’m afraid you’re correct, Dr. Burnham.”

  “Miss Andrews, may I speak freely with you about something?”

  “Please do.”

  “Frankly, I find it unconscionable that we should be traveling along in a warm, well-sprung carriage on our way to a dinner party when so many of our fellow men want for so much. London is full of vice, you know. Thieves, beggars, prostitutes. All kinds of lost souls in need of our help.”

  Her eyes widened a little then, but she recovered quickly and smiled. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Burnham.”

  The woman was too bloody agreeable. He would have rather made conversation with her silent maid, who sat pressed so far into one corner of the carriage that she practically disappeared into the shadows. Thank goodness they’d arrived at their destination. James would have to pawn Joan off on someone else for at least a portion of the evening in order to do some good on behalf of the Society. Then she and her mother would be off tomorrow, and he could depart for Birmingham.

  He stifled a sigh as he helped her descend the carriage, pretending not to notice when she “stumbled” and fell against his chest as he righted her.

  Yes, he’d had quite enough “coincidences” for the time being. Thankfully, there should be no more surprises this evening.

  The butler led them through a marble foyer, rapped on the door ahead of them, and James stepped into the room.

  And looked into the unmasked face of Lady V.

  “I see you two are already getting acquainted.” Daisy settled herself on a chair near Catharine a few minutes after James arrived. Catharine had been concentrating very hard on breathing calmly and regularly as she tried to think what to do. It didn’t seem that James planned to expose her—at least not at the moment—but somehow, her lungs hadn’t gotten the reassuring message.

  “Lady Cranbrook is quite interested in children’s welfare, Dr. Burnham,” their hostess went on, oblivious to the fact that Catharine was drowning. “I’m sure she’ll tell you all about how she supports Mr. Coram’s foundling hospital, as well as a similar institution on the Continent. No doubt you two will find quite a lot to talk about.”

  Catharine could only smile weakly. It seemed that no secret was safe from James. Now she was going to have to tell him some more about herself—her real self. Not everything, of course, nothing about the real reason for her stint at Madame Cherie’s.

  “I must speak with you,” she whispered, hurrying to catch him as they walked into dinner. She glanced ahead at Miss Andrews, who was being escorted by Blackstone. On the earl’s other arm was one of two elderly sisters—the Misses Olson—who resided next door to the Watsons. Lifting herself up onto her toes, she had aimed to whisper in his ear, but the sudden, familiar smell of him hit her with shocking force that stole her breath. It was a full body memory, and she wanted to curl into his chest again so he could stroke her back as he had in his bed just days ago.

  When his hand came to the small of her back, she jumped away as if burned, taking a moment to recover herself before she could speak. “Please can you call on me at number ten Hanover Square?” she asked, her voice so low she worried he hadn’t heard.

  He stared at her as if the mask wasn’t the only thing he’d seen through that evening. But then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Dr. Burnham!” Miss Andrews had found her place setting. “We’re seated across from each other! How wonderful!”

  Catharine risked one more word. “Tonight?”

  Another nod.

  With that, James made his way over to the elder Miss Olson, who was seated beside him, and held her chair before seating himself. Watching him was an odd experience. He was the perfect gentleman, distributing his attention among those seated around him. Miss Andrews laughed a great deal at things James said, and he smiled in return, at times making animated gestures with his hands. To think she’d been intimate with him, yet she’d never seen him in a social setting. Although she would freely admit she had been liberal with her affections since Charles’s death, she’d always met her paramours in society, conducting the early stages of flirtation via stolen moments at parties and balls—sometimes under the very noses of London’s most proper hostesses.

  Somehow she managed to make conversation with Mr. Bailey through the soup course, though her nerves were humming. Turning to Blackstone on her other side when the lamb was served meant that James was completely out of her line of vision.

  “I understand that a mutual friend of ours will be coming to town next week.” Blackstone spoke so softly that Catharine had to strain to hear him.

  “Oh? Who is that?” She chewed mechanically, wondering if a quick glimpse over her shoulder would be too terribly obvious.

  “Our German friend.”

  “Oh!” Dear Lord, she’d all but forgotten about that. How disconcerting.

  “Catharine, we need more information. It is of the utmost importance. You’ve got to watch him closely. We need to talk. I’ll come to you at home, later.”

  “No!” she interrupted in a whisper, feeling her cheeks heat.

  Blackstone cocked his head. “You have a previous engagement?”

  Though the earl knew her reputation—everyone knew her reputation—she was unaccountably embarrassed. Attempting to cover it, she fixed him with her most regal stare and remained silent.

  “Very well. I prefer to meet in society, anyway. It’s
better that there be no reason to connect us outside of innocent social occasions. Will you attend the Carlyles’ ball tomorrow evening?”

  “If you like.”

  “And I trust you will be able tear yourself away from your latest cicisbeo long enough to discuss matters of state?”

  Of course she could. Especially because there would be no paramour at the ball. And, truly, she did understand the importance of the mission. “Yes. Now eat your dinner, Blackstone.”

  The meal passed excruciatingly slowly. When the sweet course of pineapple cream had finally been consumed, the ladies followed Daisy back to the parlor. Perhaps now she could relax for a bit without James nearby—and without Blackstone to remind her of her other identity, the one that was beginning to feel like a yoke around her neck. And soon enough it would be time to go home and wait for James. Her stomach gave a little flop at the prospect of receiving him in her home at night.

  “I saw you talking to Dr. Burnham earlier,” said Miss Andrews, sitting quite close to Catharine, who had ensconced herself back on the settee for the trial that would be the rest of the evening until the party broke up. “Are you previously acquainted?”

  Catharine studied the girl, so young and innocent, smiling so earnestly. Oh, but wouldn’t she be scandalized to learn the extent of Catharine’s acquaintance with James? For the first time all evening, she felt rather like laughing.

  But of course she would not be so cruel. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Burnham before, but I gather you have?”

  “Oh yes.” The girl’s smile broadened. “We grew up together. My father is the vicar at St. Peter’s in Guildford, and of course Dr. Burnham’s family ran the public house. He was always a little bit wicked!”

  “Wicked? How can that be? I’m led to believe that Dr. Burnham is a devoted reformer. I can’t imagine him doing anything wicked!” Plink, plink, plink. She thought back to the sound of her hairpins hitting the floor in his room.