As her head fell back, Bill covered her mouth with his, lightly flicking his tongue over her plump lips. It had been worth the wait. Never had he thought that she would allow him such a liberty again. He opened his eyes and drew back to stare into hers, but her eyelids were shut, and an expression of rapture smoothed the lines from her face.
A knock at the door startled him. Victoria’s eyes flew open, and her limp body stiffened in his arms. Where her eyes had been unfocused, now they had returned to their customary ice blue. Bill unwound his arm from her waist and stepped back quietly.
“I heard we had a visitor,” Freddie said, marching into the room still wearing the garish dressing gown, but now bearing a plate of steak and a snifter of rum. He stopped suddenly. “Oh hello, Lady Colchester.”
“Lord Lassiter.”
How did she do it? How could she one minute have been limp in his arms ostensibly enjoying his kisses, and the next greeting Freddie in his awful attire as if she was leaving her house for the opera?
“I’ve brought the steak and I thought some rum might not go amiss, but I see George has already left.” Freddie took a step into the room and swung the tray around uncertainly.
Victoria frowned. “Who’s George?” She wrinkled her nose. “And why is he eating raw steak?”
Bill shook his head at Freddie. He didn’t want Victoria finding out about his failures. “The steak is for Brutus and the rum is for me. George is an... err... associate of ours who has just left.”
“Brutus?” Victoria looked bewildered.
“Bill’s wolfhound. Looks like a large rug which is probably why you didn’t see him in the hallway.”
“But I left Ponzi in the hallway—I didn’t think you had any other dogs here,” Victoria wailed and pushed past with Freddie with little ceremony.
Bill gulped. He hoped there was something left of the little dog.
“Would you look at that?” Freddie stood in the doorway, hands on his hips looking at a jumble of fur in the middle of the hall.
Bill peered of his shoulder and groaned. He was doomed. He tentatively stepped into the hall. Victoria was bent over the furry rug, a frown marring her face.
“Brutus. Come here,” Bill said quietly. The wolfhound’s great head lifted to reveal the tiny body of a small dog beneath. Bill moaned. It was going to be much worse than the rabbit offerings that Brutus brought him.
“Victoria, Lady Colchester, I can explain…”
But Victoria was not listening to him. Her eyes had widened in evident horror. “Ponzi, you little hussy, how could you?”
The tiny body squirmed round to reveal an equally small head that brought forth an unrepentant “Yip.”
“Ponzi, get up at once!” But the small dog lay back down and Brutus lowered his head.
“You mean…” Freddie started to laugh. Both Bill and Victoria glared at him.
“This is no laughing matter, Lord Lassiter,” Victoria said primly. Freddie threw his hands up in the air and, after glancing at Victoria and Bill, looked at the dogs.
“I give up. If you can’t see it in front of you…” Freddie walked away and mounted the stairs, grumbling. “Bloody idiots…”
“Brutus, come here,” Bill repeated and slapped his leg. He only did it when he was very angry with the dog. Mournfully Brutus got to his feet and with a long tongue gave the small Ponzi a lick on the nose before retreating to his master’s legs.
“Goodness, I… Ponzi. You naughty, naughty animal.” Victoria gathered up the small dog and marched to the front door.
Bill watched silently as she unlatched the bolts herself. Was she going to leave without saying anything? That would have been normal given their previous encounters. But he was surprised.
Victoria pulled the door open and spoke without turning round, her voice muffled against the door. “Your first round of treatment was most… interesting, Mr. Standish. I am not quite sure it has had the effect which I have been advertised. However, I would be most agreeable to taking part in a second treatment.”
Bill gasped. There was nothing that he could say. Victoria slammed the door shut before his mind could catch up with the nuance of what she had said. He stumbled back into the morning room and fell into the chair that he had vacated. Brutus strode in mournfully behind him.
“Treatment. Treatment? What bloody treatment?” Bill picked up the snifter of rum and threw the contents of the glass down his throat. He stuck out his tongue as the rum burned. Freddie hadn’t even thought to water it down. It was as strong as when they had rolled the barrels off the docks in Bristol.
She couldn’t have meant their kiss, could she? And she had only found it interesting? She had certainly had her eyes closed. Had she been thinking about someone else? And just what kind of an effect had she been advertised?
Bill looked dolefully at the half measure of rum that remained in the snifter. He might as well have it. He gasped again as the raw alcohol seared his gullet. Through watery eyes, he turned to gaze at Brutus whose melting brown eyes had not left him.
“Well, Brutus,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “We’ll soon find out. It seems that she’s coming back for a second round, and this time I’ll show her the meaning of interesting.”
CHAPTER 9
Victoria pulled the heavy book from the library shelf and laid it on the ornate desk in her study. Flipping open the secret drawer in the desk, she pulled a box from it and placed it next to the book.
Without opening either, she sat back in the chair behind the desk and drummed her fingers on the table. One-two-three-four-five, her digits hit the inlaid leather. As she hesitated between four and five, her little finger hit the desk for the seventh time. She made up her mind.
Fifth rule of investigation, analyse what you have learned. Leaning forward, Victoria cracked open the box and selected a cigar from the neat pile that were stacked within it. With practiced ease, she snipped off the end, and lit the other from a guttering candle.
She held the cigar within her forefinger and her thumb for a minute, savoring the smoke that spiraled into the air. It was almost the best moment about smoking cigars. With a gentle puff, she sucked gently on the cigar and leaned back against her chair.
She had meant to review what she had learned about the missing girls from Mile End, but as the cigar smoke tickled her chin she could not help shivering as she was reminded of the sensation of Bill’s nose as it had brushed against her chin, and then his breath as it had tickled her neck. Goodness, he was well practiced. No wonder all the ladies raved about his prowess. Well, at least she thought he was. She didn’t have anything to compare him against. Victoria frowned. She didn’t think much of Cecile’s recommendation, however. Victoria certainly had not felt more together as she had left Lord Lassiter’s. If anything she felt like the only thing that was keeping her together was her outrage at Ponzi’s hussy-like activities. If that hadn’t happened, then she was sure that she would have melted into a puddle on the floor.
When Bill had touched her, she had felt like the only woman in the world. Victoria took another gentle puff at the cigar. Goodness, as his hands had stroked along her collarbone her blood had hummed like a violin. The only way she could stop herself purring was by closing her eyes. She could not—would not—bring herself to look at him. He would have known how much he was affecting her. He had to believe that she was only there for treatment. Nothing more. Of course I wasn’t there for anything more, was I? This way she held control and knew exactly what she wanted. Anything more and… well, that was the unknown, out of her control, and sure way to induce an episode. Perhaps. It was one of the main reasons she had refused to see him the end of the summer.
What was she meant to be doing again? Fifth rule of investigation. Oh dear. Perhaps it would be a relief to her senses to think about the missing girls rather than Mr. Standish. So what had she learned?
Mmmm. She particularly enjoyed it when Bill kissed underneath her chin. Gods, she had known it would be dangerous if
she let him come too close. It was why she had spent a year trying to keep him away.
Shaking her head, Victoria stood up from the desk and stubbed out her cigar in the freestanding tray that stood in the center of the room. It reminded her of when her brother had come to tell Agatha that the rumors about her had started again. He had opened her secret drawer and pulled out one of the cigars as if he owned Colchester Mansions. She still didn’t know how he had found out where they were kept. She hadn’t ever bothered to change their hiding place. There was no point—the more people think they know about you, the more you can hide. That wasn’t one of Colchester’s rules. That was Victoria’s—another one she had added.
“Number twelve,” she said to the silent room, and laughed. Now she was talking to people who weren’t there.
Like those girls. Where had they gone? She pulled the bell rope and sat down in a low chair.
Carruthers was at her side instantly. She didn’t wait for him to speak. “Tell me, Simon, do young women really switch from being streetwalkers to paupers and back again so easily?”
Carruthers stared at her, and pulled at his sleeves. “How did you find out?”
“I beg your pardon? I don’t believe I’ve told you about the girls…”
“The girls?” Carruthers glared at her. “My mother was not one of the girls. She was a respectable girl from Buckingham. Went to London to earn her fortune she did, but was nabbed as soon as she left the coach. Some flash cove forced her into streetwalking. And that was it for her. In and out of the house at Mile End. Onto the streets when it became too much. She earned an alright living but she didn’t enjoy it. Although she didn’t stay long enough with me for me to know.” Carruthers collapsed into a chair opposite Victoria. “She was straight back out onto those streets.”
Victoria tried to force her lips to move, but she couldn’t. She had already made up her mind not to pry into Carruthers’s past, but it seemed as if he couldn’t hold it all in. Inadvertently she had pushed him into declaring everything.
“I hadn’t meant to pry,” she said cautiously. She sat upright and patted his hand. It seemed to calm him down, although he looked at her small hand in horror as it covered his.
“Madam, you cannot do that, you are my employer!” he said, anguished.
Victoria rolled her eyes. After all he had done for her. “Simon, I didn’t really mean for you to tell me about your mother. It’s these pauper farms that I’ve been visiting. They seem to be suffering from a spate of young women leaving them for life on the streets.”
Carruthers shrugged, a mixture of horror and relief on his face. “You mean you weren’t asking about my mother?”
Victoria shook her head. “No.”
“Oh. err, yes. Some women do find the streets more lucrative. There are no laws against it. And they can earn more money.” He looked at his feet. “I’m sorry about the outburst. It has been on my mind lately.”
Victoria nodded. “I can understand.” Surely she did. She desperately needed to talk to someone about Bill. But there was nobody—so she had ended up talking to an empty room. Just as she ended up talking to that odious portrait in the hall as an outlet about her dead husband.
“But what I don’t understand is that Mr. Robertson was very keen to gloss over the fact that he had lost two girls in a month, and Mr. Deacon was extremely worried that he had lost three girls in three weeks. Pretty young ones, I understand.”
Carruthers frowned. “That is a lot.”
“Yes. And every time Mr. Durnish seems to have recently visited looking for staff for his new house.”
“That’s not unusual, as you know.”
“No.” But Victoria did not believe in coincidences. And neither had Colchester. Analyse what you have learned.
“I think we might take Mr. Durnish’s investigation, Simon.”
“You mean the one to find his brother?”
“Yes.”
“But if he is involved in the disappearance of young women, surely you should not meet with him alone like you do with the others?”
“No. That is why you are going to go on my behalf.”
Carruthers pulled at his sleeves again. “Are you sure, my lady?”
Victoria nodded. She had seen Carruthers in action, making enquiries, dealing with her own visitors, turfing out the old Colchester servants… he was formidable, and always inscrutable. He could have given Victoria a run for her money if she hadn’t found his pressure points. That is what made him her perfect butler. And the man to meet Mr. Durnish.
“I will observe the meeting. Somewhere open, yet somewhere I can still listen in.”
“Very good.”
“Leave me for now, Carruthers. I need to do some planning.”
“Ahem,” Carruthers coughed.
“Yes?”
“You asked me to remind you about Mr. Cryne.”
Victoria sighed. The odious Mr. Cryne. There was no way that she could avoid Miss Fanthorpe since she had become Miss Guthrie’s best friend. It was likely that she would be appearing at Agatha’s salon every week, and there was no way that Victoria was going to miss that the next time. Especially as she needed to interrogate Celine further on her treatment.
“Have you found out anything further?”
“I made enquiries to a young maid who has just started working in his father’s household. Apparently the young master’s behavior has changed somewhat recently.”
“Not unusual if he is in so much debt.”
“As far as I understand it, Mr. Cryne is constantly in debt, but this time his father has refused to bail him out.”
“He did say that his grandmother would die soon and leave him some money.”
“The maid mentioned some hullabaloo concerning grandmama’s wishes to leave all her money to the Lisson Grove Animal Sanctuary.”
“Oh dear.” Victoria almost felt sorry for Mr. Cryne. Almost. “What about women? That was the main point of finding out the information.”
Carruthers frowned. “I asked the maid. She said that there hadn’t been anyone recently and that is unusual as Mr. Cryne likes the high steppers and was normally unusually forward in his dalliances.”
“Good news for Miss Fanthorpe,” Victoria murmured.
“That is if a leopard can change his spots,” Carruthers said unexpectedly.
Victoria raised her eyebrows and looked directly at Carruthers. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t mean to say anything out of turn, my lady.”
Victoria shrugged. “You didn’t. I just want to know exactly what you mean.”
Carruthers stood. “It is my observation that a gentleman who changes his ladies as he changes his cravat will never settle down with one lady. They like the excitement of the chase, the ownership and then the discard. To them it is a game.”
Victoria swallowed and sat up straighter. Was Carruthers trying to tell her something?
“Mr. Cryne is up to something if it is to be believed that he is not currently involved with numerous women. Or so says the housemaid,” he continued hurriedly.
Victoria let out a puff of air in relief. “Thank you, Carruthers. That will be all. I will let you know what I decide about the meeting with Mr. Durnish.”
Carruthers nodded, resuming his mask. “As you wish, my lady.” He closed the door softly after him as he left.
There was one thing that Victoria still hadn’t done with regard to Mr. Cryne and that was look in the book on her desk. She didn’t like to open it very often—only once every investigation, in fact, which made it sixteen times altogether. Once for every investigation and twice for just after he, Colchester, had died.
Victoria moved back to the desk and gently fingered the edges of the book. It was bound in an unassuming dark red leather. Like dried blood. Certainly the secrets it contained were dangerous enough that people would shed blood to have them erased. Thankfully it appeared no one was aware that she owned such a thing.
She opened the boo
k to where the C section started. Colchester’s cramped handwriting crawled across the page. Tamping down on the shudders, Victoria ran her eye down the left hand side of the page, Carrington, Carlyle, Colthaven, Carsbrook, Candin, Canterwell—Cryne.
She sighed. It was too much to ask that there wouldn’t be an entry on the Cryne family in the book. Colchester’s knowledge had been encyclopedic. He had started the book many years before her marriage, and some of the secrets were forty years old, with many of the protagonists dead.
This entry was different from the others though. The others were always straightforward. Mr. K— is not Lady H—’s son. Earl P— has debts of thirty thousand. Mrs. N— is in love with Viscount C— but married to Mr. N— and so on. The Cryne entry merely had a date.
1880. Too close to brother. Page thirty-one.
Victoria let out a frustrated puff of air. It wasn’t the first time that she had heard about page thirty-one. Colchester had warned her of it when he had died. She flipped the pages. Page thirty one was not much further on. But as she had found the first time when she had opened the book, page thirty-one did not exist. In fact, it was as if it had never been part of the book. The facing pages were numbered neatly thirty, then thirty two. No small slips of paper showed where a page had been torn out, or where thirty one might have been.
She had only looked for it once before, the second time that she had opened the book, when she was re-entering society after the stipulated time of mourning for Colchester. The look on his face when he had died was as if he had seen a ghost. He had been sure that something on page thirty one would return to haunt him. It had killed him instead. Victoria did not want anyone or anything to prevent her return to normality. And nothing had.
Apart from now, two years on, and that mention of page thirty-one… again.
CHAPTER 10
Celine shivered and pouted. “Mr. Standish, you know just how to make a woman happy.”
Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) Page 9
