Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  “I entertain the ‘youthful things’ because Sophia is so often sparring with Randolph, because they haven’t the coin to meet your stakes, and because they are too in awe of me to make advances. But Max—” she paused.

  But Max, what? Once, he’d chosen opportunity and power over her love. She’d seen too much of men to believe he’d choose differently this time.

  “I acknowledge your disapproval, Thea,” she said.

  Sophia squeezed Lavinia’s shoulder before sitting. “Mr. Harrison was magnificently protective. So lovely and male. You know I have a keen appreciation of the sex in general.”

  Thea snorted. “One in particular.”

  “If you mean Lord Randolph, then not in the least.” Sophia lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Bedeviling a devil is the truest form of entertainment.”

  Thea mimicked Sophia’s shrug. “Ah, sweet Scandal, tell yourself what you wish.”

  “What did you say to Max?” Lavinia asked, deftly heading off the good-natured row.

  Sophia grinned. “I told him he would have me to answer to, if he did not see you through this.”

  “Oh dear.” Lavinia covered her eyes with both hands and shook her head. “Enough, both of you.”

  “You cannot mean to silence me,” Sophia said. “I have news.”

  Lavinia parted her fingers and peeked. “What kind of news?”

  “Good news.” Sophia exchanged glances with Thea. “We had our best night yet.”

  “Well, that is good news.” Gold was a faithful friend.

  “While the men were leaving and you were…” Sophia raised her brows, “changing, I separated out the coins from the bank notes and other memorandums of understanding.”

  “Sophia,” Lavinia said in a warning tone, “I was changing. Nothing happened while Max was in my rooms.”

  “With no one to witness save our discreet staff? What a waste.” Sophia kissed the top of Lavinia’s head. “We women,” her sympathetic tone stripped Lavinia of protection, “can heal from any inflicted hurt.”

  Lavinia dropped her lids, unready to reveal the secrets Sophia perceived.

  Sophia untied a pocket from her skirts and handed Lavinia a pouch. “Your portion is here.”

  Lavinia bounced the comforting weight in her palm. The pouch contained coins enough to make the duchess of Devonshire slaver—enough, even to pay extra to Vaile’s procuress, if she would swear to stay clear of the inquest.

  “Now,” Sophia said, “we plan. Thea and I have decided not to host another salon while you observe mourning. When we resume, our invitations will be all the more coveted.”

  “But the two of you—”

  “Do not worry about us,” Thea broke in, “you must begin to play the part of a grieving widow.”

  “Yes,” Sophia agreed. “You’ve been playing the role of the ruthless Lady Vice. That must change.”

  Thea cleared her throat and pressed her fingers to her lips. In a performance complete with shaking voice and tearing eyes she said, “True, we were estranged, but one always feels there is time.”

  “Oooh, very good, Thea,” Sophia said. “Elmbrooke may have claimed Vaile’s body, but you must claim your right to mourn. We will have rings of remembrance made. And we will place a hatchment in the window of Vaile House—your coat of arms on white, the Vaile coat of arms on black.”

  “I had not considered a hatchment,” Lavinia said.

  “Of course you should have one,” Sophia replied. “When my husband died, the earl took care of it immediately.”

  As always, Sophia’s cheeks darkened when she mentioned her father. Why she only referred to him as the earl, Lavinia did not know. Sophia, too, kept her past private.

  “I suppose the earl wished to remind everyone of my husband’s more modest origins. In your case, the dual coat of arms will remind passersby of your grief.”

  Lavinia glanced between her friends. “The thought of going to Vaile House makes me ill.”

  “Do not worry.” Sophia placed a hand on her shoulder. “We will come with you.”

  Lavinia glanced up warily. She’d never told Sophia or Thea exactly why she’d left—only how. If they knew all, what would they say?

  “Bring Maggie and we will pack up the things you want,” Thea said. “I wish I could have taken more from Wynchester house. There must be things you miss.”

  “I am not certain the house and its contents are mine.”

  “Your marriage portion paid for the home, yes?” Thea asked.

  “Yes, but I am unclear concerning the deed. If the house wasn’t specifically protected, Vaile would have willed it elsewhere.” She rubbed her forehead. “My trust will revert to me—or at least to me through a trustee. I suppose I need to appoint a new trustee to replace Vaile. I do not know how long the transition will take.”

  Sophia tilted her head. “I will arrange for you to meet with my solicitor. He will know. I was able to appoint a new trustee quite quickly after my husband’s death.”

  Thea leaned forward. “Who did you appoint, Sophia?”

  “Someone who has served me well.” Her clipped response closed the door to further questions. “Now, Lavinia, we tried to make Mr. Harrison believe you were with Thea earlier this evening, but if he did not believe us, why should the court?” Sophia hesitated. “Can you tell us where you were?”

  “I was meeting someone at Vauxhall—someone I would rather not reveal.” She rubbed her forehead. “They never came.”

  Sophia examined her with a calculating expression. “Randolph was at Vauxhall earlier.”

  “I wasn’t meeting Randolph,” Lavinia said, insulted that Sophia could think she’d intrude.

  Sophia laughed. “I know. But perhaps he saw you and will swear it to the court. They would never question a peer.”

  “He couldn’t have seen me. I was disguised.” Lavinia rubbed her eyes, thinking of Max’s falsehood. “I appreciate the thought, but I will not allow anyone to lie for me.” Again.

  “Well, asking Randolph couldn’t hurt. He is quite observant. He often rattles off our guests’ names when I, who wrote the invitations, cannot recall who was invited without consulting the roster. Maybe he saw you in truth.”

  “Just say he does remember…” Thea’s eyes narrowed. “…how will you convince him to speak to the court, Sophia?”

  “That’s between him and me.” Sophia inhaled as if sucking in courage. “Be assured, if he did see you, I will have him at the court before the day is finished. And tomorrow, we will meet at Vaile House, inspect the hatchment and decide how to proceed from there. I am certain of a Fury victory.”

  “What could possibly go wrong?” Thea asked.

  …

  Stubble scratched Max’s palms as he rubbed his hand over his cheek. The journey up the staircase connecting the mews to his study had never seemed so long. Then again, he’d accomplished much since dawn.

  After leaving Sophia’s, he had arranged for a surgeon to view Vaile’s body—and what a grisly mess they’d found. Vaile’s mattress was soaked in so much blood, he’d almost pitied the man. Almost.

  Next, he’d paid a visit to his old friend Sullivan, who now spent his days as a hackney jarvey. A poor Irish soldier and a wellborn court officer may never have crossed paths in England, but in the merciless world of a madman’s cell, they had become brothers. Nothing could break the bond they had forged during their months of imprisonment.

  Sullivan had agreed to keep a discreet eye on Lavinia’s coming and goings—an arrangement that had caused Max guilt until Max had attended the start of the coroner’s court’s first session.

  The coroner himself, thank God, seemed an upstanding man who would be unlikely to accept a bribe. First, the housekeeper had testified about how she had heard a shot and then found the body. Next, Lord Montechurch had testified that he believed he saw Lavinia rushing from the house. He said he knew the exact time because he’d stopped his pocket watch as a gesture of grief and remembrance.

/>   Surprisingly, the infamously indolent Lord Randolph had testified that Lavinia had been at Vauxhall at that very time.

  Max rested his back against the wall.

  An alibi for Lavinia should have brought him relief, but things too good to be true usually were. And, judging by Montechurch’s angry reaction to Randolph’s testimony, he wouldn’t be surprised if Monte found more “witnesses” to come forward who would challenge Randolph’s claim.

  Max had wanted to discuss the strength of the alibi with Randolph, but Randolph had slipped out the back of the Red Lion Inn after giving testimony and, despite an exhaustive search, Max could not locate the man.

  Now, he needed a drink.

  He shrugged off his greatcoat and shook out the dust. Immediately, the telltale click of the butler’s shoes echoed through the hall.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Harrison,” Geste said. The older man’s jowls jiggled as he reached for Max’s coat. The butler found his habit of entering through the back eccentric.

  “I wish to work in my study. Is it lit?”

  “I lit a fire in the duke’s study, sir.”

  “Thank you, Geste.”

  Much like the ancient furniture, Geste had come with the townhome and he never let Max forget the house had always belonged to the dukes of Wynchester. The butler’s manner had never rankled before, but Max’s position had become precarious. When Wynchester found out about Max’s pledge to protect a murdering countess who also happened to be a friend to his estranged duchess, he would evict Max without question.

  Max strode into his study and shoved the door closed. He wrestled with the knot of his cravat and then cast off his neckcloth. He leaned over the mess of books and parchment and ink.

  Damnation. If Lavinia had gone to Vauxhall as Lord Randolph had testified, why hadn’t she said so?

  A stinging anger he feared was actually jealousy-in-disguise rippled through his gut. Another tether holding the beast snapped.

  Sophia had implied Lavinia feared men, but rumor suggested otherwise. Could Randolph be Lavinia’s lover? And what of Lord Montechurch? Montechurch had touched her as if accustomed to doing so.

  No—he shook off the thought—Lavinia had been afraid of Montechurch. And, from what Max had learned today, Randolph was widely acknowledged to be smitten with Sophia.

  Still, the whole business stank worse than Rats’ Castle Rookery on a sweltering August Sunday. If saving Lavinia meant he must play by both fair means and foul, could he stay in the game?

  Sophia had told him this was his hand to lose. Yes, his hand, his savings, his home, his life. He’d offered to run away with Lavinia, for God’s sake. If she had accepted, to whom would his mother—and hers—have turned?

  He closed his lids, soothing his smarting eyes.

  He could no longer use the excuse that Lavinia had betrayed him by marrying Vaile. She had been innocent and he had refused to face the truth. He wanted to believe her innocent now. But could he be sure Vaile had not made her desperate enough to do the worst?

  People made terrible decisions to save themselves. Somewhere in India a group of Englishmen wandered, dressed in the clothes of another culture and speaking a tongue not their own. He wondered if the mercenaries were haunted. How could a man betray his country and live with himself?

  If he chose to walk away, he’d save his position and lose the honor on which he’d come to depend. He could not live with himself if he left his one-time love to the machinations of a viper like Montechurch.

  Propriety be damned, he intended to pay another visit to Lavinia soon. He’d convince her to confide in him, by any means necessary.

  He braced himself against the wooden cabinet and pulled open the glass door. He reached for a crystal decanter of port, but hesitated. Tonight, if any, must qualify as a special occasion. Gently, he slid the decanter aside and pulled out a smaller globe.

  He uncorked the bottle and inhaled.

  His one indulgence. Armagnac, and not the brandy-diluted version the Dutch traded, either. His was the real thing, a cask straight from the Maniban family in France, a liquid gold delicacy not well-known in England.

  England’s loss, in this case, need not be his own.

  He poured a small amount and brought the glass to his nose. A delicious aroma permeated his being: sweetness and mystery—vanilla, pepper, rose, and chocolate. He savored the fragrance while his hands warmed the liquid. He sipped, allowing no more than a half-spoonful to glide across his tongue.

  Heaven. Just like her kiss.

  When he had kissed Lavinia, he had glimpsed a safe harbor protected from the ravages of anger and blame. In that brief second, he had believed…

  What? That he’d found his elusive missing half, as Plato’s Symposium described?

  He closed his eyes, remembering the trembling softness of her lips. Lips coated in poison for the pain stretching and twisting his gut. He was an infatuated, besotted, useless-as-a-third-horse-with-a-matched-pair fool.

  Everything about Lavinia was illusion.

  He rolled his neck to loosen dense and strained tendons.

  Illusion or not, the beast within had laid claim and the animal was not about to back down, especially when facing such a feeble foe as reason.

  Chapter Eight

  The floorboards just beyond Max’s doorway creaked, herding tension to his shoulders.

  Not Geste. Geste’s shoes clicked.

  He set his glass next to the globe, bracing as the door clattered open. Light from the passage framed six feet of sputtering duke.

  “I know you spent the morning in the company of my duchess,” the duke bellowed.

  The duke’s punch ripped away Max’s breath. As he shook off the sting, instinct warned: duck. Even so, he barely dodged the duke’s doubler.

  Rules governed this sort of situation: a gentleman did not goad another, not when the source of the other’s madness was a woman, and especially not when the woman was the man’s wife.

  “Wynchester, be reasonable.”

  “Did you help yourself to a slice?”

  Slice? “I met your wife.”

  The duke attempted to land a dig. In defense, Max planted a facer against Wynchester’s smooth, aristocratic jaw. As he pulled back his arm for another hit, a glimmer of glass caught Max’s eye. His bottle of Armagnac balanced perilously at the desk’s edge. If the duke stepped back, the decanter would shatter.

  “Stop and listen!” he yelled, keeping fists ready.

  The duke blinked and swayed. A red mark stained Wynchester’s chin and his deep, heavy gasps punctuated the silence.

  “Yes, I went to Lady Sophia’s home and, yes, Her Grace was present.” Max spoke slow and clear. “But my only purpose was to see Lady Vaile.”

  “You were not alone with my duchess?” the duke asked.

  “No,” Max replied. “Nor did I wish to be. Now please, step away from my cabinet.”

  The duke glanced down and then shook his head, blinking. “Bronward said—”

  “Bronward? The jealous, lying ass must still be angry that I interrupted his play with Lady Vaile. I have known Lavinia since we were children.”

  Use of Lavinia’s Christian name was tantamount to announcing an affair but, damn good tipple’s satisfying burn, Max wanted his Armagnac. The smell of sweat and alcohol thickened the air as the duke examined Max’s features and remained ready, just in case.

  The duke rubbed his jaw and sighed, closing one eye. “You never said you were a bruiser.”

  “And you fight cunning.” Max softened his stance, though not fully. “Are we finished?”

  The duke frowned and then winced. “For now.”

  “Drink?” Max asked warily.

  “Hell, yes.” The duke raked his hand through his already disheveled hair.

  Max stepped past the duke and slid the globe of Armagnac into his grasp: safe. He exhaled. He poured two generous portions, and then joined the duke. Together, they pondered the glorious view of the mews stables.


  “The study hasn’t the best aspect,” Max commented dryly, “but when the wind flows northeasterly, the smell is unforgettable.”

  “I remember it well.” The duke snorted and took the drink with a flinched nod of thanks. “Eustace and I took lessons in this room.” His eyebrows rose as he sipped. “What is this, Harrison? Brandy?”

  “Of sorts,” Max replied. “Brandy distilled from wine: Armagnac.”

  “Ah.” The duke sighed as if he eased into a warm pond. “French?”

  “Pays de Gascogne. But before you ask, I do not have an extra cask.”

  “Pity.”

  The duke raised the glass in a silent toast, sipped, and then closed his eyes. Emotions played on his face: felicity and uncertainty, surprise and bliss.

  All melted away as he swallowed, leaving melancholy in his wrinkled brow. Pain engraved every part of the duke’s usually anvil-smooth face. The kind of pain a man never spoke of, even if he acknowledged its existence.

  Ah, but Wynchester was in a bad way.

  Max understood. He had traveled to a distant land with heat indescribable and vistas unimaginable. All the while he’d been haunted by the thought of Lavinia. He had recorded every detail—descriptions of marble buildings with precious stones cast directly into the walls—just to one day share it with her.

  Then, the ambush. His glass rattled as he set it down.

  Pain. Terror. Darkness. Lice. Had he known she’d married a peer, he would have welcomed death. A year later, freedom had brought elation…and the news of her betrayal.

  He recognized the duke’s expression because he had once worn it himself—devastation.

  Devastation strong enough to birth a beast only strict adherence to duty and honor could control.

  He refilled both glasses with an unsteady hand. Why did the duke suffer, when nothing barred him from the woman he loved?

  Wynchester wandered to the mantle as if drawn by mystical magnetism to the fabric Max had hung on the wall. Hanging the piece like some medieval tapestry had been an unusual but meaningful reminder. Max’s wealth was a consequence of his greatest suffering—a lesson he had no wish to repeat.