Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance)

by Lisa Andersen

  Copyright 2016 by Lisa Andersen - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

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  A Vicious Affair

  By: Lisa Andersen

  Table of Contents

  A Vicious Affair

  The Brigadier’s Wallflower

  The Duke of Ice

  The Duke’s Match

  The Brigadier’s Mouse

  My Lady’s Honor

  The Duke of Hearts

  The Devil’s Dance

  The Duke of Fire, the Lady of Lust

  As Bad as You

  A Swift Marriage

  A Dangerous Reunion

  Princess’s Secret

  His Grace’s Wallflower

  Fate’s Ploy

  Bound by Pleasure

  The Duke’s Nephew

  Scarred Lovers

  In Bed with a Duke (by Sarah Thorn)

  A Lady’s Love (by Sarah Thorn)

  A Duchess in Distress (by Sarah Thorn)

  A Game of Love (by Sarah Thorn)

  A Lady’s Reward (by Sarah Thorn)

  Rescued from a Rake (by Sarah Thorn)

  Amish Bonus Stories

  Amish: An Unexpected Gift

  Amish: A Hard Choice

  Mail Order Bride Stories

  The Ride of a Lifetime

  The Yellow Rose

  The Expectation of Love

  MariAnne’s Escape

  A Bay for the Bride (by Mary Miller)

  A Bride’s Heart (by Mary Miller)

  A Bride’s Hope (by Mary Miller)

  A Heart in the West (by Mary Miller)

  An Italian in the West (by Mary Miller)

  A Sheriff’s Heart (by Mary Miller)

  The Mountain Bride (by Mary Miller)

  A Vicious Affair

  Wilbert Underwood had a strong stomach. He’d had to develop one. You did not see as many killings as he had and stay sane without developing a strong stomach. But when he looked upon the scene something within him recoiled. This was pure depravity, unflinching sadism. He laid his pipe upon the table and stared at the mutilated boy. It looked as though the boy had been torn apart by a lion. Upon the wallwere the words Hello Detective.

  The boy had worked for the landlady. His parents were dead. He had narrowly escaped the workhouse. Wilbert descended the stairs and found the woman, crying in the drawing-room. She rose when Wilbert entered. She was a huge woman, with fat hands and a gravity that commanded the room. It was not difficult to imagine her around a fireplace, entertaining. But the joviality was not in her today, only http://www.mann-ivanov-ferber.ru/books/iskusstvo-strategii/ “Miss Allen,” Wilbert said, as he entered the drawing-room. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Had she seen anyone suspicious?

  No.

  How many guests did she have at present?

  Four.

  He would need to talk to them.

  Okay.

  Did she hear anything in the night?

  No, she was a deep sleeper.

  Wilbert spoke to each of the guests. Three were ladies of the night who claimed to be weavers. The fourth was a young lad of about one-and-four who worked in a nearby factory. “The boss is gonna give it to me now, sir,” the lad said, creasing his forehead. “Went right up to him, I did, and says I found somebody else that can work in the factory. Meaning the boy. And when I get back, here he is, stone-cold dead. Now I have to find someone else. The boss was mighty excited about a new worker, you know.”

  “Of course,” Wilbert said impassively. “Where would one find a young, desperate lad in London?”

  The lad nodded vigorously. Sarcasm was clearly a language he did not speak. “Exactly!” he cried. “Exactly!”

  Wilbert told the landlady that nobody was to enter the scene of the crime, and that none of the guests were to leave. He was bringing an expert in to examine the crimescene. His heart skipped when he thought of Lucia Skiffins. Lucia—a genius if there had ever been one. She had helped him solve more crimes than he could count. And she was beautiful. And funny. And she could even be kind, when she willed it.

  Wilbert was quite in love with her. She did not feel the same way, not even a little bit.

  He had gotten quite drunk one day, and professed his love as they stood beside the Thames. It was winter, and the river had frozen over. “You must understand,” Lucia said, “that it is not for any personal reason that I reject your love, Mr. Underwood. I am simply not built for relations of that sort. What intellectual stimulation would a love affair offer me? And marriage! Ha!”

  Wilbert had nodded meekly. He had embarrassed himself enough already.

  He caught a hansom and directed the driver to the flat Lucia Skiffins rented above a bookshop. He had not seen her in a month. God knows what she did when she was not helping Scotland Yard solve crimes. Not that Scotland Yard knew about Lucia. His superiors would be furious if they learnt that a woman had solved over a dozen cases over the last ten years. But Wilbert thought they were stuck in the past. Jack the Ripper was on the loose at present; perhaps if Scotland Yard swallowed its pride and allowed women to help, the man would be finally be captured.

  But let his colleagues worry about Jack. Wilbert had a case of his own.

  Hello Detective.

  Could it be him?

  *****

  Lucia was awfully bored. Sometimes it seemed as though the world conspired to make her bored. There was nothing to do. Water and ale were boring. Smoking was boring. The food was boring. Walking was boring. Breathing, even, was boring. She paced up and down the apartment. She held the sword she had won in a game of cards with a returning soldier. It was a fine blade. She slashed the air. “Ha-ha!” she cried, slashing again, cutting down imaginary foes. “Stand before my blade and lose your life! I am Lucia, captain of the Resistance, and you will taste my steel!”

  She ran up and down the apartment, lost in this vision. But after two minutes it lost its novelty. She threw herself upon the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Mrs. White entered, carrying a tray of bread and meat and milk. She walked over to the sofa and stared down at Lucia. Old Versie White—she was like an aged nightingale, sweet and beautiful and thin and taut. Her skin was like old leather.

  “Hmm?” Lucia said, leaning up. “Can you not see, sweet lady, that I am hard at work? I have been working for two weeks, and now you interrupt me when I finally catch my rhythm! What is the meaning of this!”

  Mrs. White shook her head. “You have not been working,” she said, laying the tray upon the table. “I’ve stuck my head in a few times this past week. Pacing up and down, smoking – a lady, smoking – and, who knows what else. Why don’t you find yourself a nice husband?”

  “This question has always tired me,” Lucia said. “You know that, and yet you ask it incessantly. I can only surmise, my dear Mrs. White, that you wish me to expire from boredom. Yes, that is your mission, is it not?
You wish poor old Lucia Skiffins to collapsed in a bundle of ennui.”

  Mrs. White sighed, but a smile touched her lips. “A strange creature,” she said. “Rent, dearie.”

  “Oh.” Lucia rose and paced to the other end of the room to the lockbox where she stored her money and her jewels. Carelessly, she pulled her last five-pound note. She handed it to Mrs. White. “There. Are you satisfied? Will you let me die, now?”

  “You need more work, my sweet,” Mrs. White said. “Or lest next month will find you homeless.”

  “Oh, how exciting that sounds,” Lucia said.

  Mrs. White was about to leave when there was a knock at the door. “Knocking on your door, and not the main door?” Mrs. White said. “I wonder who could be so impudent—”

  “It is Mr. Underwood. He has a case for me.”

  Lucia jumped to her feet.

  “How on earth could you know that?” Mrs. White said.

  I recognize his footsteps. His footsteps can sound two ways, depending upon his mood. Either they are light, and nervous, and often walk here and there before ascending the stairs. Or they are purposeful. Today they are purposeful, which means there has been a death. His knock, too. Knock-knock-knock-knock. Four knocks means a death; two knocks means a social call.”

  Mrs. White opened the door and Mr. Underwood entered. His jacket was in disarray and his eyes were wide. He tapped his coat pocket. “Where—” He shook his head and walked further into the room. “Left my pipe at the scene.”

  Lucia hastily threw on a coat and bent down to fasten her boots. “A factory? A household?”

  “An inn,” Wilbert said. “

  “Oh, how provincial!” Lucia cried.

  “You are quite monstrous, aren’t you?” Wilbert said

  “Yes, quite, quite,” Lucia agreed. “Shall we go? You should’ve sent a note.”

  By the way he looked at her, Lucia knew why he did not send a note. He wanted to see her. Wilbert loved her. He had loved her for eight years now, and he showed no signs of stopping loving her. Lucia had no room for love; it was too bulky. It would take up room in her head better reserved for other things.

  “Well, nevermind,” she said, seeing he was at a loss for words. There was no joy in seeing Wilbert squirm. “Let’s go! Finally, something exciting is happening!”

  Together they left the flat, hailed a hansom, and rode it to the crime scene.

  *****

  The boredom was gone the moment she walked into the inn. The landlady cried from the drawing-room, and the guests were gathered around her, tapping her shoulder, muttering inconsequential words. The three women were prostitutes. They had that wan look in their eyes, plus they moved lithely, as though they moved for a living. But they did not have the grace of dancers. The lad was a factory worker. One did not have to be a genius to discern that; his clothes were stained with coal. None of them was the killer.

  She followed Wilbert up the stairs. He gasped and strutted to the desk. “Where—My pipe, it had gone. I am going to inquire with the landlady. Do what you do, Miss Skiffins.”

  The killing spoke of an artist. This had not been rushed. This had been carried out slowly, leisurely, with passion in mind. Whoever had done this really loved his job. The boy was sitting in a chair, his legs crossed. There had to be some point to this level of mutilation. Killers did not usually engage in self-indulgence like this. Husbands killed wives because they had been with other men. Wives killed husbands because they were drunkards. Brothers killed brothers. Men killed drinking buddies. But this was something else. And the words – Hello Detective – were they meant for Wilbert?

  The boy’s eyes were tilted to one side, as though peering at something. Wilbert came back into the room. “She hasn’t seen it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “My pipe.”

  “Your pipe!”

  “Yes—”

  “Did you move the boy?” Lucia said.

  “No, he is how I found him.”

  Lucia followed the line of sight of the boy’s gaze. Upon the wall hung a painting of a garden. It was an artist’s interpretation of the garden of Lady Samantha Lavery, who lived on the outskirts of London. She walked to the paining and lifted it from the wall. Bloody writing appeared on the wood behind it. This message was longer and looked as though it had been written with a brush, whereas the bold, capital letters looked as though they had been scrawled in half a frenzy.

  “Where flowers doth bloom/ and ladies doth swoon/ a killer finds his boon/ in the light of full moon.” Lucia traced the letters with her fingers, feeling for—anything. There was nothing. Most of the time shots in the dark didn’t work out. “It is a full moon tomorrow night, is it not?”

  Wilbert shrugged. “The heavens are your specialty.”

  “Ha! You say the strangest things.”

  “You bring it out in me.”

  “We must take a carriage to the home of Lady Lavery, on the outskirts of the city.”

  “Why?”

  Lucia turned in surprise. Wilbert was looking at her with genuine curiosity. Was it not obvious? “There is going to be a killing there tomorrow night, my dear Wilbert, that’s why.”

  “How do you know whose garden this is?” Wilbert said. He picked up the painting and examined it. “I see no label.”

  “I have seen this painting before, around nine years ago. I was in a tavern when a man remarked that the Laverys have a nice place. I saw the painting out of the corner of my eye. This is the same one.”

  “Nine years ago—out of the corner of your eye. How can you be sure?”

  Lucia stood face to face with him. “Wilbert, must we do this each time? The back and forth? The disbelief and the final vindication. It was the same with the coal. Oh, Lucia, how can you be sure it comes from this specific factory?”

  *****

  Sometimes, Wilbert wanted to scream at her. She was so much smarter than him it made him feel unmanned. She was beautiful, too, when she talked like this. Her eyes were rimmed in dark makeup, and her skin was pale white. Her body was thin and strong-looking. Her hair was brown and fell to her shoulders quite scandalously. There was a half-wild look about her. When she worked, her sky-blue eyes looked more alive than any Wilbert had ever seen.

  “Fine,” Wilbert said. “Let’s go. I hope Lady Lavery is in a welcoming mood.”

  “She better be,” Lucia said. “We’re going to stop her beautiful garden from being spoiled.”

  Lucia left the room and Wilbert had no choice but to follow. His pipe—it still bothered him. None of the guests, or the landlady, had seen it. Perhaps they were lying, but as far as Wilbert could tell, none of them had left the drawing-room.

  “Lucia,” Wilbert said, when they were in the carriage.

  “Yes?”

  “Did one of them steal my pipe?”

  Lucia would know if they did; she always knew. She closed her eyes and was silent for a few minutes. When she opened them, her lips parted slightly. Wilbert could have died a happy man right then if she had leaned forward and laid those lips upon him.

  “No,” she said.

  “Then where is it?”

  “I do not know,” Lucia said.

  “It’s silly, I suppose,” Wilbert said. “Worrying about a pipe when the case is on. I’m just certain I left it on the desk.”

  Lucia leaned forward and placed her hand upon his knee. She did this sometimes, crossed personal boundaries, and thought nothing of it. Her hand lingered on his knee and a vivacious smile lit up her face. “The case is on,” she said. “And yet you look miserable. Are you not excited?”

  “A child is dead,” Wilbert said. “Lucia, there’s something you need to know.”

  “Is this concerning love? I believe we have discussed this.”

  �
�No,” Wilbert said stiffly. “It’s about a killer I almost caught ten years ago. Malcolm Radfoot, the one the papers called ‘the Viking’.”

  “Yes,” Lucia said. “I remember him. What of it?”

  “Once, when I caught him cutting up the Durnham lad, he turned – axe in hand – and screamed at me: Hello Detective! It could be a coincidence—”

  “There are few of those, I’m afraid,” Lucia interjected. “You think the Viking may have returned?”

  “I fear it,” Wilbert admitted.

  *****

  One of the reasons Lucia respected Wilbert was his strength. It was true that he needed her help to see the finer details, but once those details were illumed, he bore the aftermath with considerable stoicism. His only weakness seemed to be his love for her, and he even took the rejection of that with a stony face. Now she saw the fear within the hard outer shell. He stared down at his hands and a shiver went through him. She thought intellectually about his attractiveness as a mate. A purely hypothetical question: if she were the type of woman to take a man, would Wilbert be the man for her? He was certainly handsome. He was tall, and muscular, and his face was clean-shaven and his jaw was square. His eyes were earth-brown. His heart was sincere; he was cynical but he loved her all the same. The woman in her called out to him oftentimes, in the night, but she stamped out these impulses. They had no place in her world.

  “Then we will catch him,” Lucia declared.

  Wilbert nodded. “You know why they called him the Viking?”

  “Yes,” Lucia said. “The man carried two axes, didn’t he, and liked to pretend he was a Viking berserker?”

  Wilbert nodded again. “If it is him, I fear I may be putting you in a considerable amount of danger.”

  “I am not some rose, to fear the wind. Plus, when has danger stopped me before?”

  Wilbert smiled and looked into her eyes. She did not flinch. She returned the smile. For a moment, it was possible—

  Then the carriage stopped, and the case was on.

  *****

  A stricken-faced footman emerged from the house as Lucia and Wilbert left the coach. He paced over to them, bowed profusely, and then, with downcast eyes, spoke so quickly it was difficult to follow what he said. “I am gravely sorry,” he said, in one breath. “My lady Lavery is not expecting company. Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding in the scheduling of the meeting. Did you send a card? I am not implying, you understand, that you are not worthy of her company. It is simply that Lady Lavery does not take unscheduled visits.”