Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  Fear fluttered in her throat. The buzz gave way to emptiness. What, exactly, had she unleashed?

  He folded his hands behind his back. When he spoke again, his words were barely above a whisper. “A madman’s dungeon is a world without honor, duty, or ideals. Is that the kind of world you want? Is it?”

  Lavinia stepped backward. “You are frightening me.”

  “If you think I would hurt you”—his lips were thin and white with rage—“you do not know me at all.”

  “I am,” she said in her own whisper, “not sure I do.”

  She meant in that moment she did not know him. But, from the look that crept into his eyes, he’d taken her meaning far more deeply.

  “Lavinia,” Sophia’s voice rang out from the passage. “You must come at once.”

  Sophia opened the door. Max turned on his heel and strode to the window, hands still clasped. He looked like a gentleman in contemplation—not a man struggling to contain his rage.

  Her gaze remained fixed to Max’s back. Fear sparked like flint against flint—fear that this time they had both gone too far.

  “My news can wait,” Sophia said, starting to back out.

  “No, I don’t believe it can,” Max replied, still facing away. “Lord Randolph awaits Lady Vaile belowstairs, does he not?”

  “How did you know?” Sophia asked.

  “Does it matter?” Max asked. “Our discussion is finished, Lady Vaile. I give you leave to go with Lady Sophia.”

  “Max,” she said his name in a voice that was both question and plea, “you cannot ask me to leave you like this.”

  He turned. His skin had recovered its hue, but a coldness that had seeped into his eyes made Lavinia shiver.

  “If you wish, I will escort you down,” Max said. “So long as Lady Sophia permits.”

  “You are welcome to come down, of course,” Sophia said.

  “Very good.” Max held out a stiff arm. “My commitment stands. I will see you through this.”

  He had stayed by her side—and not. He could not have meant what she heard. The conversation was not anywhere near finished. They weren’t anywhere near finished.

  …Or were they?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Emma’s dining room overflowed with biscuits and tea, lending a warm aroma that contrasted with the cold rage drifting like late winter ice through Max’s veins.

  Everyone had some occupation to distract them while they awaited Emma’s arrival. Randolph listened to Sophia. Thea and Lavinia quietly conferred at the far end of the room. Against the wall beyond the server, Sullivan spoke with Maggie.

  Amid the activity, Max sat still as a parson in prayer, studying the way Lavinia’s light brown hair contrasted with Thea’s midnight locks, searching for something in her presence that would bring back his certainty, his belief in their future. She glanced up and met his gaze.

  He looked away. One look had stirred another emotion into anger’s mix. His feeling now matched the one he had felt when his father had first dropped him at Eaton. Right ho, then, son. Carry on. Survival, then, as now, had rested in his completely inexperienced hands.

  Lavinia had flattened his soul and pinned him like a bug for inspection. His guideposts no longer made sense.

  Was he to believe her accusation? How could she have, in reverse alchemy, turned his intentions of gold into base actions done by rote? Was the honor he so esteemed just a loose configuration of dry duties?

  If he peeled away those to whom he felt duty—his family, hers, Wynchester, Sullivan, and finally, Lavinia herself—what would be left to guide him?

  Max rubbed his stubble.

  He certainly wasn’t the first man in England whose fixed ideas had been challenged by the woman he loved. Hell, he’d wager he wasn’t the first man in the room who’d suffered such a fate.

  Randolph, for example.

  Gone was the focused footpad Max had met in the alley. The man who lounged next to Lady Sophia looked, and acted, every inch the courtier…the devoted-to-Lady-Sophia courtier.

  Randolph had melded from sword to shield. He leaned over Lady Sophia as if he wanted to surround her. Lady Sophia inclined her head, a mirror of his posture, but the perception in her gaze remained undimmed.

  Randolph didn’t know what he was up against. If she hadn’t already, Sophia would rip through his façade at her leisure and send Randolph…how had Sophia put it? Ah, yes, tripping over his pride until he lay dazed at her feet.

  His gaze flowed back to Lavinia. Pride was not going to bridge the gap yawning with sharpened teeth between him and Lavinia—if the gap could be bridged at all.

  He remembered the way she’d looked the night of the murder—untouchable and cold, her hair pinned with sparkling jewels and powdered to pure white. He contrasted that memory with the image of her asleep on his bed—loose and open, natural and unadorned.

  He thought of the tight, precise order he’d cultivated since India and the pride he took when able to sway votes with the power of reason and logic. He contrasted that with the vitality he felt when she’d first surrendered in his arms.

  From the moment he’d seen her in Sophia’s garden, she had transcended all his other concerns. And, though she had granted him a physical trust, she had not shown proof of her feelings for him in the same way.

  He had offered to take her away. She had refused. He had offered to resign. She had hesitated. He had offered her marriage. She had demurred.

  Gradually, the way the rising sun slowly penetrates the gloom, he began to understand. Her sense of duty had been used against her, leaving her nothing on which to stand. Nothing but the things that had proven worthy of her trust—the Furies alone.

  His offerings—escape, resignation, marriage—had been attempts to claim what she would only freely give. And she could only give when she was free of threat and he, free of obligation.

  She did not understand she was his home, but she would. She would, because his home was under attack, and he was going to fight.

  He must ignore the sense that he was no longer on solid ground. Ignore his anger. Ignore his fear. A madman was out to get Lavinia. And Kasai’s Brute wandered the streets of London.

  He’d struggled for so long to hold the beast at bay, to mask the rage with the façade of a gentleman. She had implied he had acted out of nothing but blind duty. Perhaps she was right. The honor and duty that had driven him had served its useful purpose.

  But the rage within him still had a purpose to serve.

  Those threats must be diffused. And this offering would not be a means to bind her to him—but the means to set her free.

  What would be left between him and Lavinia when the dust settled remained to be seen. But whatever was left, he’d do his best to salvage.

  If he survived.

  …

  Max had been quiet since they’d left her chamber—too quiet.

  And just now, the lines that had creased his face disappeared as if he had been troubled, but had come to a decision.

  Burning, brimstone-scented Hellfire. She did not want him to come to a decision. She did not want him to turn her words over and over and finally discover she was as wanting as she had always believed herself to be.

  Oh, she was angry—that would take time to heal, but she would never forget the look on Max’s face. Never forget the utterly raw hurt she’d seen in his eyes.

  She allowed the sting in her heart to travel in and out with her breath.

  Longing for things to go back to the way they’d been this morning would be longing for a lie. She had based all her trust in Max on his actions—the fact he had remained by her side. That he’d done so out of duty was a brew too bitter to swallow. And the idea she could become a hated obligation to him seemed very, very real.

  She blinked away the burn beneath her eyelids.

  It was real. Wasn’t it?

  Emma strode into the room, peeling away layers of clothing and handing them to her servant as she walked.

/>   “Emma!” Sophia cried. “We’ve been waiting for you. I have happy news.”

  “A moment, child,” Emma said gravely.

  “What is wrong?” Thea asked.

  “I’ve just been to the Magdalene House. I have spoken with a young woman who, just today, escaped Montechurch’s brothel…along with a number of others.”

  “And?” Thea urged.

  “And we do not have a moment to lose. If Lavinia wants to prove herself innocent, she must confront Montechurch tonight.”

  “Why rush?” Randolph asked, looking unconcerned. “There is never a need to rush. So long as you have breath, the fight is not over.”

  “What did you just say?” Sophia’s voice trembled.

  Lavinia glanced to Sophia, whose eyes were fixed on Randolph. She had gone pale.

  “This is too important a task to rush,” Randolph replied.

  “That is not what you said, Randolph. You said so long as you have breath, the fight is not over—which is, I believe, rule number 23.”

  Understanding dawned in Randolph’s eyes before they went suddenly blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why tonight?” Lavinia asked.

  Emma glanced at Sophia before continuing. “Montechurch,” she said, “is preparing to leave before dawn. The young woman did not know where he was headed, but she suspects somewhere far. She said he was talking of harems and deserts and—oddly enough—a butcher.”

  “Randolph,” Max said urgently, “it is time.”

  “Harrison, Sullivan.” Randolph’s manner completely shifted as he rose. “Let’s go.”

  “Sit. Down.” Sophia’s words hit the room like a cudgel.

  Randolph paused, but did not sit. “Not a butcher, Sophia. The butcher.”

  “I heard Emma, and I know what that means. The question is, why do you seem to know? And why did you directly quote Earl Baneham’s Book of Rules?”

  “You know that Kasai will come for Baneham’s daughter,” Randolph said quietly. “Protecting you is now my office.”

  “Oh no. God damn your soul to hell,” Sophia said, shaking her head. “I should have recognized a crony from the earl’s corrupted coterie.”

  Lavinia tore her gaze from her friend and glanced to Max—he appeared to be exchanging a silent message with Sullivan. Suddenly, she understood.

  She dragged Max out into the hall as the furious conversation between Randolph and Sophia continued.

  “You knew about this butcher…you have known all afternoon.”

  “Yes.” Not a stitch of apology appeared in Max’s expression.

  “That is why you ripped up the pictures—you have been planning to confront Monte. You, and Randolph, and Sullivan.”

  “I have to go,” Max said. “Even I do not understand all the connections here, but I know enough to tell you there is something very dangerous happening at that brothel.”

  “You have to go? I know the brothel, Max. If anyone should go, it is me.”

  The look in his eyes was pure fear. “Listen to me and listen well.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Stay away from the brothel. Please.” He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, determination had replaced his fear. “Cast me off if you will, but let me be the one to handle Montechurch. Let me protect you, even if this is the last time.”

  Her eyes widened. “You do not expect to come back.”

  He said nothing, but the fierceness in his eyes was answer enough.

  “Do not do this.” A frantic tremble had entered her arms. “You have paid your debt, absolved your duty. Do you understand? You have no duty to me.”

  “A man does not sacrifice everything out of duty,” Max said quietly. “He sacrifices out of honor. And, more importantly, he sacrifices out of love.”

  Randolph and Sullivan were at the door. “Are you coming, Harrison?”

  “I am coming.” Max said, though his grip on her shoulders tightened. “After tonight, you will be free.”

  “Of Monte or of you?”

  “Of Montechurch. As for me…that will be up to you,” Max said. “If I return, I am resigning. I tell you again: the world’s judgment does not matter—only yours.”

  He kissed her forehead, released her, and passed Randolph, heading out.

  “Swear you will not leave here tonight,” Randolph said to Sophia.

  “I will not leave,” Sophia said, “until I am certain Lavinia is out of danger.”

  Randolph scowled.

  “Go,” Sophia said. “There is no time.”

  Randolph swore as he left.

  Lavinia grasped the edge of the table to stop her sway. Max’s lips had left a damp imprint on her brow.

  “What,” Thea asked, “just happened?”

  Sophia looked a bit dazed. “I have entrusted everything to my worst nightmare—a student of the earl’s.”

  “A student?” Thea asked quizzically.

  Sophia sighed and sat. “I cannot explain. I have to think.”

  Lavinia touched the center of her forehead with the horrible thought that Max’s chaste kiss had been their last.

  She’d asked him that very first night if he would give up everything for her. Well, she had her answer: yes. He’d go off into the night not knowing if he was going to return. He’d go off and then he’d plead with her to remain where she was safe.

  She had struggled, wondering if she could enter the world of light and love with Max. But when the moment had come, Max had jumped without hesitation into her world of darkness.

  Inside, a resolution was quietly knitting together with thread stronger than her fear. Whatever Max had planned, she would not allow him to fight this battle on her behalf—not even because of this mysterious butcher.

  She trusted his judgment and she trusted her own. She knew she was the only one who could coax Monte into admitting to murder. Max had judged her worthy of sacrifice, but his sacrifice was one she would not allow.

  “I am going to the brothel,” she said.

  “You cannot,” Sophia said. “I do not know what is going on but, if Kasai is involved, you will not come back alive.”

  “Kasai is Randolph’s concern. Monte is mine.” Fear like a thousand tiny raindrops drizzled coldly over her skin. “I will bring, as I intended, Mr. Grimley.”

  “Who is Kasai and what does he have to do with the brothel?” Thea asked.

  “What he has to do with the brothel I cannot say, but Kasai is the man who murdered the earl. And he has vowed to make sure my father’s line ends with me.”

  “You must stay—just as you promised Randolph,” Lavinia said to Sophia.

  “I will come with you, then,” Thea said.

  “No—please, no.” Was this how Max had felt when she placed herself in danger? “I know the brothel. I can get in and out and, if you come with me, I will be worried. I need all my wits tonight.”

  Sophia gazed at Lavinia long and hard. Then she sighed. “What is your plan?”

  “I will take the magistrate to the brothel and I will get Montechurch to confess before he leaves. Like Thea said—he is obsessed with me. If he’s leaving, he will take what I offer before losing me forever.”

  “Emma, send for Grimley,” Thea said. “Lavinia must force a confession if she can. Otherwise, she will live forever under the cloud of society’s doubt and suspicion.”

  Sophia’s expression remained grim. “If you are intent to do this, I want you to prepare as an actor prepares for the stage. Knowing what to expect will strengthen your chances of forcing a confession. Will you try this with me?”

  “Yes,” Lavinia answered.

  Sophia placed her hands on Lavinia’s hips. “I am Monte. Most important to me is lordship over the ways and thoughts of others. I hate you, because you do not do as I expect. I owned your husband. I should, by right, own you.”

  Something that had been floating in Lavinia’s stomach settled, a traveling seed dropped from the wind into earthy stillness. She closed her eyes, picturing Mon
te—not as an all-powerful man, but a cur driven by need and desire.

  How many times had she thought herself a marionette? She imagined Monte’s own strings. She imagined fingering the tendons that held him taut, imagined stretching and loosening them at her will.

  Just as she strengthened, an unanticipated memory of him, hard and ready in her bed, flashed in her thoughts. She closed her eyes as her blood washed spring-water cold.

  Sophia’s fingers tightened and Lavinia understood why Sophia held on while they practiced. Cold gave way to a rooting warmth. She opened her eyes, seeing Monte, not Sophia.

  “Monte,” she said, soft and pleading. “I need your help.”

  Sophia smiled. “Very good. Now keep going.”

  Over and over Lavinia repeated Sophia’s exercise. By the time Grimley arrived, Lavinia had perfected a performance that would twist tenderness from even the most hardened Newgate criminal.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Max stepped through the doorway of the brothel, feeling as if he were moving beneath the Tower of London’s Traitors’ Gate, gliding slowly toward a cell for the condemned.

  Blood would be spilled. Max only hoped it would be Monte’s—and the Brute’s.

  He, Randolph, and Sullivan had entered via the alley, where they had made a hasty plan. Sullivan would remain in the alley, watching for Eustace and the Brute and making certain Montechurch did not leave. Randolph would report the development to his superiors—and obtain an order for more men. If Eustace did not come within the hour, Max would enter the brothel, find the woman who was Randolph’s contact and get her out—with whatever proof of wrongdoing and scandal Kasai had hoped to purchase.

  After that, Randolph had promised Max he could do as he wished with Lord Montechurch. Fuck doing this the honorable way. He would make sure Lavinia would survive this with reputation intact, even if he had to kill to do so.

  After tonight, Lavinia would be free, even if he was not.

  A mean, stocky creature ushered Max into the sitting room of a home that looked quite the same as any other. If he had not known better, he would have taken the home to be as purported: a modest boarding house for cits of respectable income.