Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

  “Well, not truly, of course! He always had a kind heart. But he was mischievous! Once, he refilled one of his uncle’s empty ale casks with water and brought it back into the public house as if it had been newly delivered! To hear it told, there were some angry customers that night.”

  “Mmm.”

  The girl had warmed to her topic and hardly needed Catharine as an audience as she recounted the many fine qualities of the young James Burnham. “Or there was the time he was dispatched to paint the fence in the graveyard near the church. A terrible windstorm came up out of nowhere, and my father exhorted him to leave off and finish another day. But he wouldn’t quit. He can be very determined once he sets his mind to something.”

  “I can imagine,” Catharine murmured, only half listening. Plink, plink, plink.

  “Lady Cranbrook, I have so enjoyed talking with you. I feel that I can trust you for some reason. I’m positively bursting to tell someone that…”

  She had suddenly piqued Catharine’s interest. “Yes?”

  The girl dropped her eyes momentarily, blushing, then leaned in to whisper, “I believe Dr. Burnham and I are on the verge of an understanding.”

  Plink, plink, plink. “Are you indeed?” she managed to choke out, her heart beating inexplicably rapidly against her ribcage.

  “Well, at least that’s what my mother says. She’s become quite chummy with Dr. Burnham’s aunt. He took me for an ice this afternoon! And…” She leaned closer. “Earlier this evening Mrs. Watson was expressing to him her opinion that more women should be involved in the Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children. He said, ‘Mrs. Watson, I have very recently come to the same conclusion myself.’ And then he smiled at me!”

  “Did he?” Catharine found herself offering quite a lot of half-hearted replies this evening, but her giddy companion didn’t seem to notice.

  “I think I could be a great help to him in his work, don’t you? I could copy out his writings, organize his notes.”

  “Yes, I can picture it quite well.” And, truly, she could. James would benefit enormously from having a helpmeet, someone to share his burdens and focus his efforts. The sweet-natured Miss Andrews would provide James with a cheerful, companionable home, offering her devotion and love without complication or reservation.

  She still could not quite believe that James had been a virgin before their encounter last night. He had been too practiced, too confident. But given their discussion afterward, he seemed to have been waiting for something, saving himself in a way he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—articulate. Perhaps lying with her had merely been him exercising the freedom he was soon to lose to the bonds of matrimony.

  The idea that James could ever actually want a frivolous, careless woman like her now seemed laughably pathetic. What had she thought? That he would come to her tonight, she would seduce him, and then what? She was determined never to marry, so where could it possibly end?

  No, Catharine had nothing whatsoever to offer a man like James.

  Her mouth was dry, as if the lump that had formed in her throat had absorbed all its natural moisture. “Well, then,” she whispered, patting the girl’s hand. “I wish you very happy.”

  After the shock wore off, James enjoyed the party immensely. Mrs. Watson was a gracious hostess and dinner, an elaborate but not ostentatious affair, had been delicious. Mr. Watson had produced the finest cigars and brandy after the ladies left, and both the earl and Mr. Bailey took what seemed a genuine interest in the data collection exercise recently begun by the Society.

  And then, of course, there was Catharine. Ah, Catharine. He couldn’t think of her as Lady V any more, and yet he couldn’t quite think of her formally as Lady Cranbrook, either. Not after what they’d done together, and not now that he’d seen her sans disguise.

  His heart had wrenched—first, simply to see her unmasked, and then to see her so obviously distressed to have been discovered. The party was too small to allow for any privacy. But he was aware of her presence, knew where she was and where her attention was focused at all times. There was a delicious sort of intimacy between them even though they weren’t interacting, as if they were connected by an invisible thread. It was hard to attend to the conversation at hand with her on his mind, but he forced himself to pay attention. This truly was an opportunity for the Society.

  “Clearly, something must be done to prevent a French-style uprising,” Blackstone said as he snuffed out his cigar.

  “Surely that is not a danger,” Mr. Bailey said. “What do you think, Dr. Burnham? Are our lower classes that disgruntled?”

  “I don’t think so, but staving off a revolt is not the only, or indeed the primary, reason to pursue reform.”

  Mr. Watson rose from the table. “Speaking of reform, may I be so bold as to suggest we rejoin the ladies and continue this conversation there? My wife will not like to miss it.”

  “Of course,” said James, his nerves humming as he rose to follow their host into the parlor. It was as if his body, independent of his mind, anticipated seeing Catharine again.

  She sat near the hearth, firelight glinting off her ruby, patting Miss Andrews’s hand. Botheration. He’d completely forgotten about Miss Andrews. There was so much of the evening yet to pass, including escorting her back to her inn, before he could finally make his way to Hanover Square.

  The women looked up at him as he approached. Catharine appeared pale, Miss Andrews startled. “Is everything all right, ladies?”

  “Dr. Burnham!” said Catharine, with an air of gaiety not reflected on her face. “We were just talking about you. Miss Andrews was relating some of your shared childhood adventures.”

  He looked at Miss Andrews, still unable to think of a single “adventure” they had shared—unless, of course, one counted the ruination of his acting career. The girl smiled at him expectantly. “Yes,” he said. It seemed rude to do anything but agree.

  “Dr. Burnham was explaining to us some of his views on reform,” said Mr. Watson, gesturing for the men to seat themselves among the ladies.

  Mrs. Watson turned to her neighbors, the pair of elderly sisters. “Dr. Burnham works diligently to help the poor,” she said. “He is particularly interested in education.”

  “Are individuals not responsible for their own welfare?” asked the elder Miss Olson.

  “Yes,” agreed her sister. “Too much education only serves to raise the poor above their station, does it not?”

  “On the contrary.” James was familiar with these arguments, could refute them in his sleep. “Education is a civilizing influence.”

  “Might you even say that education prevents disorder?” asked Mr. Watson. “Just now we were talking about avoiding a French-style uprising.”

  The Misses Olsons’ jaws dropped in concert.

  Mr. Watson continued. “Dr. Burnham was saying he didn’t believe that the prevention of such an uprising was—or should be—the primary motivation for reform.”

  James glanced around. These sorts of discussions were always a delicate balance. It was one thing to speak freely in front of gentlemen such as Mr. Watson and his friends. But ladies such as the pair of sisters before him—spinsters who led sheltered, comfortable lives—were easy to shock.

  He smiled at the pair, then turned to take in the rest of the room. “Yes, I know it sounds slightly exotic, but I would like to suggest that the eradication of poverty benefits us all.”

  “How so?” asked Mrs. Watson, nodding and offering an encouraging smile.

  “Poverty is the root cause of so many other social ills: crime, disease, overcrowding. Imagine a world without poverty.” The sisters looked unconvinced. “Imagine the poor rates vanishing! Imagine no need to look after the poor because everyone is well enough and educated enough to look after himself.”

  “And how might we achieve this utopia, Dr. Burnham?” asked one sister, her eyebrows raised.

  “Education,” he said firmly. “And al
though there are other interventions we can make along the way—workhouse and prison reform, for example—I firmly believe poverty is the root cause of all social ills, and education the solution.”

  “Surely you aren’t advocating universal education!” exclaimed the second sister.

  “Well…” He glanced at Mrs. Watson, wondering how far to take the debate.

  “Dr. Burnham,” said Catharine, rising. “You’re an inspiration to us all, I’m sure. Won’t you take my seat next to Miss Andrews?” Her voice was flat, as if she were speaking rehearsed lines. “I find I’m quite fatigued, and I think it is time to take my leave.” She offered her thanks to the Watsons and made her good-byes to the room.

  A little dumbfounded, he watched her depart, escorted by Samson. How could a woman whose presence was so imposing, so all-consuming, simply leave with so little fanfare? How was it possible that the room was still light after she’d left it, that they all continued to live and breathe as if nothing were any different?

  “You won’t leave yet, will you, Dr. Burnham?” asked Mrs. Watson. “We’ve spoken in generalities, but I’m sure that Mr. Bailey and His Lordship would enjoy hearing more specifically about your work for the Society and”—she looked pointedly at Blackstone—“how Parliament could help.”

  He had to work to prevent himself from cursing. He’d spent the whole evening maddeningly near to Catharine, and yet apart. Now he’d have to make a speech on behalf of the Society. Then he would have to see Miss Andrews back to her mother at their inn, forced along the way to concoct further monologues, about which Miss Andrews would nod and agree, nod and agree, nod and agree. The time until he could go to Catharine seemed an eternity. Looking around, he caught Lord Blackstone’s eye. The Society did need a champion, someone to introduce a new bill to give the Factory Act some teeth, something that would make provisions for government inspectors to enforce the laws already enacted. Perhaps the earl could be convinced to, at the very least, give the matter some thought.

  James stifled a sigh. He was nothing if not accustomed to duty.

  It was nearly one o’clock by the time James approached the address Catharine had given him. Located on fashionable Hanover Square in the heart of Mayfair, the house was dark and the street empty. There was no moon, which was for the best—he would not be seen. Though it hardly mattered, he supposed. Surely the neighbors were accustomed to the sight of gentlemen coming and going from the home. He was given to understand that the Viscountess Cranbrook was not a woman who cared overmuch for appearances. Even he, toiling away in his little corner of London, far from the ton, had heard about the romantic exploits of the scandalous widow who flounced through high society with little concern for the damage she left in her wake. It was difficult to reconcile the Catharine he knew by reputation with the Catharine he knew.

  He wondered that she didn’t have sufficient adventure in her regular life. Why the need to masquerade around Madame Cherie’s? He hoped that, in addition to listening to whatever it was she wanted to say, he could finally convince her to give up her secret identity. It was only a matter of time before she was caught, and though the social arbiters of the ton apparently forgave her a certain amount of indiscretion, even the indefatigable Viscountess Cranbrook could not withstand the scandal that would ensue should it come out that she was posing as a courtesan, even one who offered merely conversation.

  He pulled his hooded greatcoat more securely over his head as he lifted the heavy knocker. It wouldn’t do for him to become embroiled in any scandal, either. He could see the penny press now: hypocritical reformer falls from grace. Which was exactly why, after she had left the party and he had dispensed with Miss Andrews, James had forced himself to assess the situation with a certain degree of detachment. He could not afford to let himself be distracted by Catharine. He had spent his whole life trying to distance himself from his origins, from his courtesan mother. And now he was going to take up with a bored aristocrat playacting the same part? No. He had let himself get carried away the other day when she’d come to his rooms, but she was not for him.

  Their liaison had been a mistake. But if there was one thing he knew, that women like her did not, it was that the only thing worth anything in this world is hard work. A man makes a mistake, he picks himself up and moves on. He makes it right.

  So, he would follow through on his pledge to investigate the gun works in Birmingham. He had promised, and he owed her that much. And in truth, he appreciated the opportunity. He would study the situation, devise methods of instruction, measure the outcome, and report back to the Society. No doubt his colleagues would be angered to learn that he had acted alone, but he’d worry about that when the time came. And if he had successful results to report, well, that would soften the blow. Then, perhaps, he could finally nudge the Society to embrace education as one of its causes. So perhaps something good could come of his mistake.

  The heavy oaken door swung open to reveal a middle-aged butler dressed in full livery, despite the late hour.

  “Dr. Burnham?” the man inquired.

  “Yes.” His heart sped up.

  “Milady regrets to inform you that she is unable to receive you.”

  “But she—”

  “She asked me to give you this.” A sealed piece of heavy hot-pressed paper was placed in his hand and the door unceremoniously shut in his face.

  James was confused. Why would she invite him, nay, exhort him, to come to her and then refuse him entry? At the party, she had clearly been overcome with an urgent need to tell him something. He cast his mind back over the events of the evening. She had looked pale and drawn when she’d been talking to Miss Andrews after dinner. Had she fallen ill?

  Or was she merely playing again? The restless viscountess regarding the world, and its inhabitants, as her personal chessboard?

  Descending the steps, he tilted his head back and looked up at the house. He thought he detected a rustling of curtains on the third floor, but further study revealed nothing. Turning away, he tore open the letter.

  Dr. Burnham,

  Forgive me. Since you are entertaining friends from home I never should have presumed to invite you to call. You should be focusing your attention on Miss Andrews and her mother, whom I hope is recovered from her illness. If you still see fit to visit Birmingham as we discussed, I will be most grateful and will look forward to hearing about your findings at a later date.

  Cordially,

  Lady Cranbrook

  Cordially? How could this formal, impersonal note be from the very woman who had sat astride him a mere two days ago, flushed and moaning her pleasure? Though he himself had resolved, not a minute ago, to distance himself from the viscountess, her dismissal of him stung. And that made him ashamed. This was what was wrong with casual sexual relations. They sullied you. They left you mired in useless emotions.

  Beginning the long trudge toward home, he told himself it was for the best. There was no point in trying to puzzle through her games. Now he was free to do exactly as he’d planned: travel to Birmingham and try to be of some use. Just because the project had originated with her didn’t mean it wasn’t of value. Besides, there was nothing like a good social-scientific problem to focus the attention, cool the nerves—and make him forget this entire ill-conceived episode.

  Chapter Eight

  The Marquess and Marchioness of Carlyle’s autumn ball was legendary. Though most of society decamped to the country after Parliament adjourned in July or August, many of them were drawn back for the extravagant party. The Marchioness made no pretense about her dislike of rusticating. Though she had her pick among three estates scattered across the realm, she avoided the bucolic life as much as possible, preferring to stay in London even after the Season ended.

  Each year her October ball was more lavish than the last. Catharine nearly had to shield her eyes against the light as she entered the din of the ballroom. A dozen enormous blazing chandeliers had heated the space almost beyond bearing. Late roses adorn
ed every available surface, and they were twined through chair backs and around bannisters. The heat had turned what was no doubt meant to have been the light, pleasant scent of the blooms into a cloyingly oppressive aroma of decay.

  Still, Catharine resolved to have a good time. She was committed to an evening of carefree enjoyment, something that had been missing from her life for far too long. Goodness, she’d become positively maudlin of late. Last night, as she watched James walk away from her house, she’d been taken back to the other time a man had deserted her. At least this time she had been the one to send him away. Trying to put him out of her mind had only caused her thoughts to turn to the children in Birmingham. Thinking of them—and of another child, one from so long ago—kept her up most of the night.

  There truly was no escape, though. Trying to distract herself from the topic of James Burnham and the Birmingham children only brought to mind the beastly Mr. Biedermeier and her duty at Madame Cherie’s. What had once seemed an opportunity for intrigue had come to disgust her. Her obligations in the whorehouse had become an oppressive burden.

  The antidote to all this dread and unease, however, was the Marchioness of Carlyle’s famous ball. If this party couldn’t draw her out of her malaise, nothing could. She would be obliged to speak to Blackstone, but she planned to dispatch the duty as quickly as she could. Then she would stay as far away as possible from the spymaster. She would dance and drink champagne and flirt. Most importantly, she would get her old self back, if only for one night, by setting aside all matters related to espionage—and reform.

  As if on cue, she was approached by several gentlemen eager to make their marks on her dance card. Well, James Burnham was not the only man in London. Perhaps it was time she reminded herself of that fact.

  “Lady Cranbrook,” said one, a young buck with whom she had flirted in the past. “You have not been much about in society these recent weeks.”