Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  Maggie flushed. “You told me to take care of him. He and I…well…we…” Her flush deepened.

  “Ah Maggie,” Lavinia said sympathetically. “You’ve developed a tendre for Mr. Sullivan.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “Who would have guessed love, murder, and riots could coexist so splendidly?” Sophia said with an ironic snort.

  “Who indeed,” Lavinia said.

  She traced Monte’s drawn version of himself, ending up with a charcoal-darkened finger. She rubbed away the black. Vaile would shiver in his silent grave if he’d known his greed would lead her back to the life he had stolen and into the arms of the man she loved. Monte, wherever he was, was likely raging for the very same reason.

  So long as she held to her belief in Max, and he in her, she could survive Montechurch. She curled her fist beneath her chin and let her neck’s skin warm her fingers.

  Now, if she could only survive meeting with her mother…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Max held himself steady, preserving his straight-line view of the brothel’s back entrance. The putrid scent of waste and refuse soaked the alley bricks and assaulted Max’s nostrils, burning in the bridge of his nose.

  “Are you certain of what you saw?” Max asked Sullivan.

  “I am as certain as the king shits, Harrison.” Sullivan pulled down his cap and yanked up his woolen collar. “I know it is impossible. That’s why you need to see it, too.” Sullivan nodded once as if to affirm the truth. “Kasai’s Brute entered the brothel early this morning—and Lord Eustace was with him.”

  If Sullivan had been anyone else, Max would have marked him for a lying fool.

  “I see your gin-bitten grimace.” Sullivan snorted. “I would not want to believe me either, if I were you.”

  Max had long suspected this murder would lead to a quagmire of deeper intrigue. But he had not anticipated his own past would become so intimately connected to Lavinia’s present trouble.

  A sudden wind gust roared through the narrow brick lane. Cold air stung like a backhand slap. Max turned up his own collar, huddling.

  “There,” Sullivan growled. He fit a miniature cow-bone telescope into Max’s palm.

  Shielded, in part, by the spikes of the back gate, two men, one hulking and one slight, strode toward a waiting enclosed carriage.

  Max held up the bone and peered through the magnifying glass.

  The slight man turned, suspiciously running his gaze along the perimeter. Recognition split Max’s spine ligament by ligament, like a spear thrust down.

  Lord Eustace was alive.

  What, in God’s name, did his presence at the brothel mean?

  Five years past, on a filthy dungeon floor, a guard had fulfilled Kasai’s order and used a garrote of knotted string to strangle Lord Eustace. Eustace’s gurgling chokes had taken years to purge from Max’s nightmares.

  How could Lord Eustace be alive? Max had seen Lord Eustace die. Hadn’t he?

  The dungeon had been dark, and Max had been half-mad with hunger, horror, and endlessly elongating hours of forced vigilance. Another explanation was possible—Eustace may have only lost consciousness.

  Lord Eustace. Alive.

  In Max’s mind-maze, wretched implications spanned every possible thought direction. If Eustace was alive and traveling with Kasai’s Brute, did that mean Eustace had pledged himself to Kasai like the other traitors?

  Unthinkable, but, if true, that line of thought had terrifying consequences. Eustace was the son of an English duke and, until the duke and Thea reunited, Eustace was the only heir to the title. If something happened to Wynchester, Kasai would control the dukedom through Eustace.

  On the other hand, if Eustace had not turned, then he was being unwillingly manipulated by a madman, deprived of his birthright and his life.

  “Stay here, Sullivan,” Max said. “I am going to investigate.”

  Silence, followed by a distinct neck tingle. He turned—slowly. Lord Randolph held a black knife to Sullivan’s throat. Randolph’s wolf-gray eyes no longer indolent, but heartless and fixed. Oddly, Max was not surprised.

  “Sullivan,” Randolph said, “will be staying where he is. As will you.”

  Sullivan’s gaze remained focused and unblinking, whites plain around his pupils. His skin shed lightning sparks of restrained action. Behind his eyes, a beast as lethal as Max’s own lurked, waiting for a signal.

  “Stand down,” Max warned.

  “No,” Randolph replied.

  “I spoke to my man.” Max lifted his chin, indicating Sullivan should follow along. “You do as you must, Lord Randolph. I will not have him hang for breaking the neck of a peer.”

  “This shit is a peer?” Sullivan’s lips curled into a snarl. “Damn. I was anticipating a bone-crack. So satisfying, that sound.”

  “Mark me, Randolph,” Max continued. “Should he abandon caution, within seconds you’d be over his back and soaking in gutter wash. The last thing you’d see was that knife you hold, carving out your eye.”

  “Warning taken.” Randolph’s fingers tightened around his knife. “I can hold my own.”

  Across the way, the gate creaked open. Horses neighed and coachmen shouted. Max’s gaze flicked back. The carriage jerked and then rolled toward the anonymous oblivion of London’s crowded streets.

  Max’s eye caught movement in the brush. Jem. He stepped forward, shielding Randolph’s view as the grimy boy caught the carriage’s rear rail, hanging tight as it sped past.

  “I am sorry, Harrison,” Randolph said. “but I cannot allow you to interfere.”

  “On whose orders?” Max asked.

  Randolph’s gaze traveled between Sullivan and Max, deliberately assessing.

  “I am here on the order of His Majesty, King George,” Randolph answered. “And you will find a way to let this rest. Return home and dismiss everything you think you’ve seen.”

  Steady. Excessive answer to this threat could jeopardize everything. Gather information.

  “What interest does the king have in Montechurch?” Max asked.

  Randolph’s mind visibly churned. “You are trying to mislead me,” he said, finally. “You weren’t watching for Montechurch. You were studying the men who arrived in the carriage.”

  “Westminster nobs never know as much as they believe,” Sullivan said.

  He balanced the Brute against Lavinia—past against future, rage against honor. The scale teetered, coming to an even rest.

  “My aim is to protect Lady Vaile. I intend to bring Vaile’s murderer, Lord Montechurch, to justice.” Max said. Surely I can fight both foes.

  “Montechurch? Vaile’s murderer?” Randolph stalled, calculating. He eased the knife back from Sullivan’s throat. “Why would he kill Vaile and then fund the investigation?”

  “Motive is what I am here to discover.” Max kept still and unblinking. “But if your interest is in the men in the carriage, we may have information you do not.”

  “Doubtful.” Randolph inhaled. “But if you do, I will listen.”

  “The large one was once in the employ of a man called Kasai—a mercenary Sullivan and I became acquainted with while he was operating in India.”

  Randolph raised a brow. “That much, I already knew.”

  “Let go of my man and I will finish. Sullivan will behave, won’t you Sullivan?”

  “I’d like me neck safe,” Sullivan replied.

  “If I let him go, you will tell me everything you know.” It was not a question.

  Nor was Max’s response. “And you will tell me everything you know about Montechurch. Lady Sophia would be very interested in our accidental meeting, don’t you think?”

  “I do not respond to threats—but information I could use.” Randolph released Sullivan.

  “Solid grip,” Sullivan complimented.

  Randolph nodded in acknowledgment. “Now, tell me everything you know about Kasai.”

  “He’s a mercenary who commands a small army. Some s
ay he’s a Mughal. Some say he’s a Turk. Some say he could only have been demon-spawned. All that anyone knows for certain is that the man whose name means ‘butcher’ loves the sight of spilled blood as much as he loves to pit power against power. His aim is to plunder and kill in the resulting chaos.”

  Randolph showed no expression.

  “Do you also know Kasai captured us? Tortured us? Turned five—perhaps six—of our number into his slaves?”

  “I worked for the East India Company at the time. We knew of the raid—and the subsequent attempts to ransom those he’d taken. I understood all but you and Sullivan had been killed.”

  “Only the highest levels knew the truth,” Max replied. “Bad for commerce, torture is. But what is Kasai’s Brute doing in England?”

  Randolph appeared to come to a decision. “Last year’s Treaty of Paris put an end to French support of Sultan Tipu, one of Kasai’s many employers. Kasai is on the hunt for an English employer.”

  “Impossible,” Sullivan said. “He hates the English.”

  Randolph gave him a harsh glance. “Kasai is, was, and always will be, a mercenary. He is a man without a country, but with a thief’s self-justifying loyalty to his own ways.”

  “The Brute would not visit to sample the brothel’s offerings. Montechurch has something Kasai wants.” Max looked over at the brothel. “What is Kasai after?”

  “Montechurch has detailed records—adulterous affairs, unpretty preferences—enough information to take down an already weak government. Do you see why I cannot allow you to interfere? No one can touch Montechurch until we have secured that information.”

  “We can work together. Our interests are united.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you decided to perjure on Lady Vaile’s behalf.”

  “I did not lie, and that was a boon for Lady Sophia,” Randolph said.

  Understanding clicked like a turning lock. “You saw Lavinia at Vauxhall because you were following Iphigenia.”

  “Yes,” Randolph admitted. “And if that’s all you have—”

  Max raised his brow. “I have told you traitors may still be alive—but some of them were scarred in the raid. How will you recognize them?”

  “We will recognize them.”

  “Then tell me who travels with the Brute as his translator.”

  “He is of no consequence.”

  “If you say so,” Max replied. “But I’d like to be in attendance when you explain to His Majesty why a possible traitor in line for a dukedom is of no consequence.”

  “That man is The Lord Eustace Worthington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit.” Randolph ran his hand through his hair. “Very well, work with me. But you cannot have divided loyalties. You can only have Montechurch after I get those records.”

  “Lavinia and the duchess and Sophia are planning some sort of confrontation with Montechurch. I can delay them, but I will need your help. I am to meet Lavinia at the home of the dowager duchess of Wynchester at four o’clock.”

  “I will be there, but late. I have a wedding to attend.”

  “Could a wedding be more pressing than this?”

  “Yes,” Randolph replied. “If it is my wedding.”

  …

  Lavinia watched warming and pretty light shimmer on her arms as she waited for her mother to arrive. Outside Emma’s sitting room, fine carriages pulled by matched pairs proud as their owners clacked over the cobblestones.

  Life carried on.

  Foolish, her case of excited nerves. Facing her mother should have been less worry than the thought of facing Montechurch. But facing Monte was a matter of clear intent and obligatory outcome, an expected incision made with clean and sharpened scalpel—a surgery, in fact, long overdue.

  Facing her mother was far more complex and, in some ways, more important. From Monte, she wanted to be left alone. From her mother she wanted…

  Well, her wants were amorphous, intricate as needle lace. Acceptance. Understanding. The beginnings of a path to a societal place she and Max could happily reside, once free of threats.

  What if her mother was cold and distant? What if they had nothing to say to each other? What if her worst fears proved true and she had ruined this chance to bridge her past and future?

  She soothed herself with the satiny feel of a lock of hair through her fingers.

  After her wedding, Vaile had forbidden her to talk of her family or to visit them, but she and her mother had often exchanged letters.

  Mother: The oaks are in bud. You should see my kitchen garden. How I love my lavender.

  Lavinia: I miss country scents, even the less pleasant. Your lavender must smell divine. Have I told you about this season’s dancing? Reels vibrate on every hired string. What advice have you for aching feet?

  Mother: Draw warm water and add a dash of Epsom, soak nightly. The oast house overfull. We will have plenty of hops. I’ve enclosed a lavender sprig—the scent is divine.

  Their letters had been full of nonsense, skirting the dark, essential truths: Lavinia was trapped in misery, and the brewery—without heir and without clear direction—was failing. Knowing Lavinia was angry with her father, her mother rarely mentioned him, not even to tell her he had fallen ill.

  When she’d left Vaile, she’d written her mother hoping they could finally be present in each other’s company. She had been ready to mend the rift and requested her parents visit Sophia’s home. Anxiously, she had awaited a reply. Her letter had been returned, unopened…as had every letter thereafter.

  Perhaps in defiance, perhaps simply seeking habit’s comfort, she continued franking her weekly missives, knowing they’d be returned. With each letter, she’d wrapped up the hurt of her parents’ rejection.

  “Keep touching your hair,” Thea warned, “and you will undo your coiffure.”

  Lavinia dropped her hand to her lap, sat motionless for—she counted—five, long seconds. She tapped her foot. Thea stilled her with a glance.

  “You are acting like a child in leading strings.”

  Lavinia shivered. “Good riddance to starched aprons,” she replied. She mimicked her mother’s voice, “Has Miss Wiggins dawdled again today, Miss Groten?” She placed her fingertips against her forehead, and answered, governess-like, “Keeping Miss Wiggins attention is a trial, Ma’am. She’s a good miss, but for her wandering fancy.”

  Thea chuckled. “I was always behind, myself.” She tilted her head with remembrance. “Except in history, of course.”

  “Ah yes, history.” Lavinia nodded. “So many fascinating stories.” She sighed. “I am acting the ninny, but don’t you find my mother’s acceptance of your invitation odd?”

  Thea set down her tea and looked up from the pages of The Morning Chronicle. “Why should I?”

  “If I was too scandalous for her to visit at Sophia’s, why should she deign to visit me in Emma’s home?”

  “The footman returned with a very prompt reply, as if she hadn’t needed to consider at all. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding?”

  Lavinia’s heart sat up like an eager puppy. Bad thought. Down.

  If their estrangement had been but a misunderstanding, her pride would suffer a vicious blow. So much lost, just because she had failed to visit in person.

  But no—she pinched her lips—she had her returned letters as proof she had not been wanted. And Max would have told her if there had been a misunderstanding.

  Thea reached out and clasped Lavinia’s hand. “You are right: if your mother thought herself a tonnish stickler, she would not visit the infamous Dowager of Wynchester. All will be well.”

  Thea had meant to help, but, instead, had worsened her fears.

  Outside, a carriage slowed to a stop, and Lavinia’s heart twittered and jumped like a startled starling.

  “Peeking around the window dressing,” Thea said sternly, “isn’t good ton.”

  “I fear I would not recognize good ton.” On the mantle, the clock
chimed eleven. “Mother is prompt as always. She’ll likely insist on a strictly proper, quarter-hour visit.”

  “You see how easily manners are remembered?” Thea brightened. “Besides, should she observe propriety, all the better. Anything can be borne for fifteen minutes.”

  “Even Wynchester?”

  “Don’t provoke.” Thea tsked. “Though I forgive you, considering your sorry state.”

  Emma peeked in. “Are you ready, Lavinia?”

  Lavinia swallowed and nodded, appreciating Thea’s finger-squeeze. The dowager smiled warmly before leaving, as planned, to greet their anticipated guest at the door.

  “You’d think Queen Charlotte was arriving,” Thea said.

  “I would be no less nervous,” Lavinia responded truthfully.

  Muffled sounds of feminine chatter filled the hall. Thea pulled her to her feet as Emma’s butler opened the door.

  “Mrs. Edward Wiggins,” he announced.

  Lavinia blinked as the two older women entered. Her mother hung heavily on the dowager’s arm.

  “Mother.” Lavinia became all at once a small child, unable to command her limbs.

  “Lavinia?” Her mother lifted her chin, but her eyes failed to focus.

  An odd clanging reverberated in Lavinia’s chest.

  “Lady Vaile, would you lead your mother to a seat?” Emma asked, sweet and easy, as if the world had not just dropped.

  “Yes,” Lavinia breathed. “Yes, of course.” She strode across the room. “Mother?”

  “I am going to place your arm on your daughter’s arm,” Emma said in a soothing voice one would use with a child. “Would that be satisfactory, Mrs. Wiggins?”

  “You are too kind,” her mother smiled into the empty center of the room. “Thank you, Your Grace. I hope I am not causing undo trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, Mrs. Wiggins.” Emma guided Lavinia’s mother’s hand to Lavinia’s arm. “The settee is three steps ahead and one to the right.”

  Had the Queen sauntered in offering sips of home-distilled gin, Lavinia could not have been more surprised. Her mother was blind. Why had Max kept this from her?

  Emma touched Lavinia’s cheek and then said, “Thea, might I have a word with you in the hall?”