Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  She gazed at him for a long time, then sighed. “Very well.”

  “Thank you.” He kissed her forehead. “Let me hold you awhile.”

  She quieted with silent acceptance. He tightened his arms. The firelight cast half of her face in dancing glow and half in shadow. He traced the edge of darkness down her cheek.

  He could not let her sacrifice herself and her reputation to take down Montechurch. He would find another way. He’d put himself between her and danger—no matter what the cost.

  “You will win,” he vowed.

  Inside, however, he ached as if his heart had been torn from the protection of his ribs. Never, no, not even in the powerless darkness of prison, had he felt so shaken.

  None of the choices ahead would be easy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lavinia awoke to haze. Sun soaked through whitewashed mullions spreading diamond patterns across dark, masculine-blue walls. Without a dash of femininity, the sparse serenity of Max’s bed chamber pleased.

  She inhaled his scent. Lovely.

  Last night’s passion, and the uneasy bartering of trust that had followed, left her wandering on foreign terrain. Through the years of Max’s absence, she’d merely survived. Now, their union challenged her, demanded she build a joint future when, just a few days prior, planning beyond the next fortnight had been impossible.

  Love, peace, and refuge. They did not come without effort, did they?

  She heard a few clicks and then suddenly the door opened.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harri—ah!”

  Max submerged her in a wave of fabric, shoving his solid-as-a-stone-hedgerow body between her and the door. Shrouded in white linen and tucked safely against his back, she pressed her fingers to her lips and swallowed a laugh.

  Max’s concern for her modesty, though too late to preserve her virtue, was touching, really.

  “Geste, I do not care how the duke ran his household.” Max’s voice crunched with grinding irritation. “You will learn to knock.”

  “Of course,” the man said, in nasally outrage.

  “You had better have good reason for invading my chamber.”

  How sweet, if anger could be sweet.

  “Mr. Sullivan is here to see you. He is insistent in his demands to be sent up. I declined, of course.” The butler cleared his throat. “Margaret, he says, has been unable to find her mistress.”

  Lavinia winced and squeezed the bridge of her nose. Such was the price of falling asleep in Max’s arms. A price she’d gladly pay again, heaven help her sinning soul.

  “Tell him I will meet him in the drawing room presently and tell him Margaret’s mistress is safe.”

  “Safe, indeed,” the butler muttered.

  “Geste,” Max called, warning stretching his voice, “I expect discretion.”

  “Naturally.” The butler snorted, clearly affronted. “I am a Wynchester butler.”

  “Close the door,” Max ordered.

  The latch clicked. Lavinia groaned as Max shifted his weight.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  His tangled limbs had been heavy, but not that heavy. “Can mortification kill me?”

  “No, but suffocation can,” he replied, yanking down the linen sheet.

  She yelped and covered her face.

  “Ahh, you are a sight more rousing than breakfast.” He sighed as if he beheld infinite beauty. “Good morning, love.”

  She peeked through her fingers. “Good morning, Max.”

  His hair fell over darkened cheeks, and his mouth twisted into a satisfied smirk. Sooty half-circles of sleeplessness stained the skin beneath his eyes but didn’t render him any less handsome.

  “Thank you for covering me.” She reached up to cup his face. “I am unused to such care.”

  “If I have my way,” he said, softly, “such care will become your expectation.”

  If heat under her skin was any indication, she’d blushed as dark as a Brighton sunset.

  “I apologize for scandalizing your staff,” she said.

  “My staff.” He piffed. “My valet hadn’t been surprised to find you in my bed. Geste is another story.”

  “Your valet saw me, too?” Lavinia winced. “Oh, but I cannot complain, can I? I knew the risk when I used the door. I was too eager to care.”

  “Mmm…eager.” Max leaned forward, resting on his elbows with a delectable grin on his lips. “Would that we could remain abed all day.”

  She glanced through her lashes. “Last night was not enough to frighten you away?” Her question was light, but she held her breath for his answer.

  “Why? Because we argued? Have some trust in my fortitude, love. I suspect we’ll disagree frequently.”

  Relief made her giddy, and she dropped her jaw in mock shock. “Are you saying I am churlish?”

  “I am saying your passions are not measured—and, no”—he kissed her into silence—“I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

  Her heart flopped like a waterless fish.

  “I wish, for your sake, I was unsullied and whole.”

  A growly sound of dismissal rumbled in his throat.

  “Would you have me beardless and unscarred?” His thumb trilled on her jaw. “Brace yourself to bare the bard.”

  “Again?” she asked.

  “As Benedict said to Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing: ‘love me, and mend’.”

  She blinked away a rush of sentiment.

  Two conversations, though separated like clefs on sheet music, ran in unison—one light and easy, one resonant and deep. She chose the lighthearted.

  “I am beginning to regret purchasing those plays,” she said in faked derision.

  “Ah!” He grabbed his chest in spurious hurt. “Dost thou mock a heart laid bare?”

  Her laugh earned her a darling, slanted grin. Nothing could be done. Those two clefs joined in a song uniquely theirs.

  “We will mend together,” she whispered. She was his, and he was her past, her present, and her future.

  “Yes.” His look said he wished to say more, but he kissed her forehead, rose, and donned his breeches.

  “I expect I will be gone for most of the morning. Enjoy your time with Sophia and Thea.” A crease appeared between his brows. “And Emma.”

  “Emma, too?” she asked, not bothering to hide her disbelief.

  He took her hand. “I’ve been deliberating all night. Montechurch must be the killer. And if he is the killer, this cannot be his first brush with lawlessness. We will need Emma’s help and you, her friendship. I will find out as much as I can about his past and connections.”

  “Do you promise to share whatever you discover?”

  “I promise.” He kissed her fingers. “This afternoon, we will meet at four and devise a plan.”

  She smiled. In his own domineering way, he was extending an olive branch. “Thank you, Max.”

  “We will bring Montechurch down.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You will be free. And after your mourning is through, we will be together.”

  She held tight to his hand, grateful for the love that had driven him to come to her the night of Vaile’s death and grateful for the love that had kept him by her side every time she’d tried to push him away. She loved him, loved him enough to make her way back through the briars leading to his world—loved him enough to believe that they could build a home between, should the way be completely barred.

  Max wrapped his arms about her shoulders and placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

  “I must go.” He stepped back, looking oddly right in his tradesman’s ensemble of shirt, loose coat, and breeches. “How do I look?”

  “Very trade,” she teased.

  “Sullivan has seen me worse. And I can move about unnoticed. Can you return to the dowager’s the way you came?”

  “Yes, I checked,” she said. “There are levers on both sides.”

  They kissed, lips touching lips alone. Warmth nuzzled her skin from
her cheeks all the way to bared toes.

  “I will see you at the stroke of four.”

  “Stroke of four,” she repeated.

  Reluctantly, he backed to the door. He winked once and was gone.

  Sighing, she sat back down onto his bed. Before she could sink into his sheets as she’d intended, her eyes fell on a package just beside the door.

  Something about the package was vastly unsettling. She looked closer. The package’s unbroken seal was green.

  Always green for Vaile.

  She moved to the tiny box to check and, yes, the wax bore the impression of a V. The address was to a MacDonald, Solicitor.

  What was Max doing with a package that bore Vaile’s seal?

  She picked up the package and pressed it against her chest. Should she take something that did not belong to her? She leaned against the bookcase.

  Without warning, the door clicked and pivoted. Lavinia landed with an oof in Sophia’s arms.

  “The prodigal daughter emerges,” Sophia said, appearing remarkably nonplussed in her cheerful yellow morning dress and tidy chignon. “You were right, Maggie—the latch opened up a passage.”

  “I was so worried,” Maggie scolded while helping Lavinia stand.

  Lavinia mustered as much dignity as her shift allowed. “Did Emma not tell you I would be occupied?”

  “The duchesses departed early this morning on some mysterious errand,” Sophia said. “And, no, Emma did not inform us.” She jiggled the door and then peered beyond. “Is that Mr. Harrison’s bedchamber?”

  Lavinia clicked the panel closed and tightly sealed her mouth.

  “Occupied, did you say?” Sophia asked, lips twitching.

  Lavinia narrowed her eyes. “I hadn’t meant to spend the night.”

  “But you did.” Sophia’s cheeks dimpled. “And?”

  What did Sophia wish her to say?

  Even now I wish I could crawl back under the covers and inhale his scent.

  She dropped her lids. “He was everything I could wish a gentleman to be.”

  “Indeed.” Sophia crossed her arms over her chest. “Such circumspection.”

  “Am I to be admonished for privities,” Lavinia accused, shoving her fist onto her hip, “by a woman who leads a famously taciturn man to dance to her every whim and still won’t even admit her attachment?”

  Sophia laughed. “Whose whey had spoiled curds this morning? Very well. Keep your secrets and I will keep mine.”

  Interesting. For the first time, Sophia had not denied a closer connection to Randolph.

  Sophia continued, “Just tell me—are you happy?”

  “I am hopeful.”

  “Hope, in your case, may be better than happiness.” She peeked over Lavinia’s arm. “What have you there?”

  She glanced down at the package. “I just found this on Max’s floor. It bears the Vaile crest. I was deciding if I should break the seal when you opened the door.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Sophia took the package and ran her fingers over the address. “MacDonald, Solicitor. MacDonald—why have I heard of their office?” Her lips fell. “Oh dear.”

  “What is wrong?” Lavinia asked.

  “MacDonald was the counsel who represented Dr. Drample when he divorced his wife, Grace. Remember? He had her stripped of her right to coverture and left her unable to marry and unable to demand support.” Sophia frowned. “Poor woman, she was forced into prostitution.”

  Divorce? The truth clung to her skin like a damp and clammy shift. “Do you think Vaile planned to file for a Parliamentary divorce?”

  Sophia frowned. “If he did, he needed proof you committed adultery.”

  “But I did not!”

  “Let’s open the package,” Sophia said, leading the trio to the bed. “Do you have scissors, Maggie?”

  Chains clinked as Maggie lifted a pair of sewing scissors from her chatelaine. She cut the twine. The contents spilled across the bed: a bound book, a collection of drawings, and a stack of bound papers.

  Maggie picked up the book. “I know this. It belongs to Vaile’s housekeeper, Mrs. Clarke. She was always noting your comings and goings in here.”

  “And these”—Lavinia sifted through the drawings—“were drawn by Monte.”

  The first drawing was a picture of herself naked. From there, the drawings grew more shocking. She was featured in every one, each more provocative than the last. In the final drawing, she was devoting herself to an act involving Montechurch’s anatomy—with enthusiasm.

  She frowned, twisting a drawing sideways. “Do ladies really do that?”

  Maggie looked over and snorted. “I don’t know about ladies, but that is a common enough request where I am from.”

  “Let me see.” Sophia glanced up from reading and looked over. She hummed and then said. “Indeed, ladies do. Some ladies even enjoy it.”

  “Sophia!” Lavinia gasped. But, in truth, Max had done something similar last night, had he not?

  Sophia raised her brows. “Censure from the woman who sneaks through walls? I have a mind to explain in detail. Clearly, you are not as educated as these pictures suggest.”

  “I would never…not with Monte,” Lavinia said derisively, planning to ask a few questions when they were alone.

  Sophia flipped a page, and her lips thinned. “Prepare yourself, dearest. Vaile was not only going to request a Parliamentary divorce, he was planning to sue Montechurch for criminal conversation.”

  “I have heard the words criminal conversation,” Maggie said, frowning. “But I do not fully understand.”

  “Adultery, simply put,” Lavinia answered. “When money and power are involved, a husband can sue at the Court of the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall for damaging his wife’s purity.”

  “Rich folk,” Maggie said, derisively. “I’ve heard of poor people having a wife auction when they have had enough of a marriage, but this is worse.”

  “It makes sense if you look at it from the perspective of the law,” Sophia said. “A wife is her husband’s chattel. Peers have been awarded as much as £20,000 for the despoiling of their wives, or, in legal terms, for their loss of property rights.”

  Lavinia sat down on the mattress, grinding her fists into the soft edge. Cold fingers pulled at her skin—a shivering, vulnerable sort of chill leaked straight to her heart.

  “Montechurch would have gone mad,” she said, “if he had known what Vaile was planning.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Thea swept into the room. “I’ve wonderful news. Lavinia’s mother—” She stopped. “My goodness! Has someone else been murdered? Lavinia looks as if she’s about to faint.”

  “What about my mother?” Lavinia asked.

  “She’s accepted my invitation to call later this morning.” Thea winced in the ensuing silence. “I thought I’d surprise you, Lavinia.”

  “And so you have.” Lavinia rubbed her forehead. “I had planned to try to establish a closer connection to her but—oh heavens, this is too much.”

  “What has happened?” Thea asked.

  “Vaile had planned to bring a criminal conversation suit against Montechurch,” Sophia explained.

  “On what proof?” Thea asked. “Lavinia said she and Montechurch never—”

  “Sexual congress isn’t always necessary to prove crim con,” Lavinia interrupted. “All he needed to prove was alienation of affection—the willful interference in another man’s marriage.”

  “From what it looks like,” Sophia said, “Clarke recorded the dates and times Lavinia went to the brothel in this book. There are notes of the names of hackney jarveys who could testify.”

  “But you went to the brothel to meet Vaile,” Thea said.

  “We went separately,” Lavinia replied. “If Emma is right and Montechurch owns the brothel, the accusation that I was going to meet Montechurch would be believable. More believable, in fact, than the truth—that I was going to the brothel to meet my own husband.”

  Thea sa
t on the bed. “If Vaile was going to name Montechurch in a suit, that means there was certainly a break between Vaile and Montechurch.”

  “And a crim con would have brought the money he was expecting,” Sophia added.

  “A trial would have been costly and long.” Lavinia ran a stray strand of hair through her fingers. “Max said Vaile was expecting money soon. I wager he tried to get Montechurch to pay for his silence. Or worse, in Monte’s mind at least, Vaile could have gone to the marquess of Elmbrooke and asked for a bribe.”

  “Motive,” Sophia said.

  “The only way,” Lavinia said, “Grimley would prosecute Monte is if Monte admitted to the murder. He would never. Unless…”

  “What are you thinking?” Sophia asked.

  “He is obsessed with me. If I were to go to him in the brothel, where he would feel his power is absolute, he just might—”

  “Oh no, my lady,” Maggie said defiantly. “Lord Montechurch killed to keep this hidden.”

  Sophia glanced at Maggie and then back to Lavinia. “Dress to inflame the desires he expressed in those paintings, and perhaps you could move him to speak.”

  “No!”

  Lavinia, Sophia, and Thea turned at once to Maggie, who lifted her chin.

  “I will not dress you like a lightskirt so you can meet that man in a vaulting school—ah—did that language shock you? Bully-backs and bawd houses—you do not know them as well as you think!”

  “Insult to my sensibilities is my least concern,” Lavinia said.

  “I will go in your place,” Maggie said.

  “I know you would,” Lavinia said, softening. She placed her arm about Maggie’s shoulders. “But you cannot influence Monte. I can.”

  “I am frightened for you,” Maggie said.

  “I am frightened as well,” Lavinia admitted. “But I will no longer permit fear to determine my actions—and I have not yet made up my mind if I should do this thing.”

  Maggie pursed her lips. Then, she gave Lavinia a reproachful look of concession. “If you meet Montechurch, will you take Sully and his hackney? He is just a jarvey now, but he aims to be a Bow Street runner one day.”

  The pride in Maggie’s voice caught Lavinia off guard. “Just how well have you gotten to know Mr. Sullivan?”