Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  The creature disappeared, leaving him alone.

  The door slid open, revealing, not Iphigenia as expected, but a blond woman who appeared vaguely familiar.

  “Greetings, Mr.…Scott, was it?”

  “Mr. Scott, yes,” he replied. “And you are?”

  “Here, I’m called Helle,” she said.

  Helle was not the name Randolph had given him—but the woman Randolph had described was an attractive blonde with a husky voice Max would never forget.

  The description fit.

  Helle dropped her lids and her long lashes creased against her cheeks. Black lace set off flaxen flesh, and brackish brown eyes brightened hair as gold as a sunset on wet sand. He took the woman’s black-gloved fingers and bowed.

  “I’ve checked our schedule, Mr. Scott. I have no rooms reserved in your name.”

  “I arranged my visit with Iphigenia. She said she’d reserve me her best.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the even flow of Helle’s breath had whisked on the Madam’s name.

  “Are you quite certain you cannot find my name, Miss Helle? Iphigenia gave me this specific direction.”

  “Just Helle. No miss,” the woman said. “I must beg your pardon. Our dear Iphigenia has,” another slight quiver, “sadly taken leave of us. Unfortunately, she left no instruction for your comfort. I will call a footman to see you out.”

  “Wait,” he held her still with a beast-fueled order.

  She turned. He packed down resistance, and he banished his revulsion—for her and for deception—to a dark recess.

  “There must be some way you can accommodate me.”

  Her gaze lingered a second too long on a painting on the far wall. Ah, even the drawing room walls had eyes.

  She fit Randolph’s description. He’d have to take a chance or be tossed.

  He mouthed, Randolph sent me.

  She remained motionless.

  He withdrew a cold coin from his waistcoat and wove it in and out of his fingers.

  “I have needs.” He passed his hand over his crotch, knowing he could not get hard in that place. “And I have coin.”

  “If you have needs,” she said, over-loud, “they aren’t plain to me.”

  “Madam!” He sniffed indignantly, playing along. “My skill, I promise you, will lend you pleasure equal to girth.”

  “Doubtful.” She snorted. “If I came over there, I’d find you a petty little prick, wouldn’t I?”

  “Come over and find out.” He shot out his arm and drew her close.

  She was breathing heavy. “Randolph sent you?” she whispered. “Is he on his way?”

  He pressed his lips to her ear. “Yes,” he answered, so low a person at arm’s length could not have heard. “You must retrieve the proof and get out. Tonight.”

  “Oh sir,” she giggled, throaty and low, as if she heard a seductive enticement, “aren’t you a naughty one?” Through barely parted lips she added. “Play the part.”

  He ground against her back and splayed his hand across her belly.

  “Iphigenia promised me the best,” he said loudly. Then, low, “Take me to Iphigenia and get the proof.”

  “I assure you, I am the best,” she said suggestively. “No to seeing Iphigenia,” she added through clenched teeth. Helle turned in his arms and locked her wrists behind his neck. “You had better hope Randolph is faster than he is stupid. I do not work for him. I work—as does Randolph—for myself. Take him!”

  The stocky fellow was back in the room in an instant.

  “Kill him?” he asked.

  “No.” Helle ran her fingers though Max’s hair. “Pity to lose such a handsome face.” She sighed. “You are lucky I have a soft heart for beauty, Mr. Harrison.”

  She released him and walked past the bully back.

  “Lock him in the Gothic Room’s viewing chamber,” she said. “Where he can watch Lady Vaile plead for Monte’s help.”

  …

  Lavinia had entered the brothel by way of the secret tunnel built for the more esteemed guests, and there had been no guard. Too easy.

  She’d used the advantage, of course, and delivered Grimley to the Gothic Room’s viewing chamber. Then, she’d gone to the receiving room in search of Iphigenia. She’d found—not Iphigenia as expected—but another woman. Without bribe, the woman had agreed to tell Montechurch that Lavinia awaited him.

  Something was wrong. Where was Iphigenia?

  Somewhere in the house she heard the sounds of a struggle—male grunts without words. Then, the slamming of a door. Nothing unusual there.

  “Grimley,” she whispered fiercely.

  “Here,” he replied from beyond the wall.

  “Lavinia!” Monte’s voice echoed through the empty halls.

  Swiftly, she turned back to the door. She stoked her courage but failed to dispel the fear webbing over her heart like needle lace on rich red velvet. She would do this—afraid, or not.

  “Monte,” she called. “Monte! I have come to you, at last.”

  Monte appeared in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot—wild. She had not imagined he could look more dangerous, but he did. He crossed the room.

  “Kitten, you are bruised,” he said, breathy and raw. “Let me see.”

  She tried to remain still as he brought his hand to the curve of her cheek. He brushed back her hair, examining.

  “Is this the result of your magnificent little performance at the riot?” he asked. “Yes, I saw,” he said in response to her unspoken thoughts. “I would have taken you from the square myself—had you right there in my carriage—but for that appallingly large jarvey.” He tucked a wayward curl back to order. “I drew you instead—hair flying, eyes blazing, face covered in ash.”

  Her breath caught. Grimley is not far.

  “You have a fool’s courage, Lavinia. Always spouting at the most inconvenient times.” His smile was cold and dead. “Why are you here?”

  “I think of you often.” True. “And I could no longer stay away.” Also true.

  He leaned down and sniffed her skin. “And so, you have placed yourself at my mercy?”

  Her bodice tightened as she breathed. She would do her best to draw him in.

  “Yes.” She shivered—and then, like the competent actress she was—used that fear. “I have nowhere else to turn.” She made her lower lip quiver. “The man you call my lover found drawings you made of me at Vaile House. He will not have me now.” She used the truth, though the pain slashed like a knife to her heart. “Even before, he was only helping me out of a sense of duty.”

  “If true,” Monte said, his blank gaze giving nothing away, “what a delicious development.”

  “I did not kill your cousin, Monte,” she said.

  Monte’s assessing gaze burned into Lavinia’s cheeks. His powdered face made his blue eyes icier and even more remote. Under the powder, his cheeks glowed with malignant excitement, leaving a frightened quiver in the skin between her collarbones.

  “I know,” he said, watching her like an owl on the hunt. “That’s the real reason you are here, isn’t it? You are here because you found out your lover killed your husband. And you want me to make sure they do not burn you on the same day he hangs.”

  Breathe.

  She could not let him speak such an accusation. Not with Grimley in the room beyond. It could not be true.

  “I am afraid, kitten, your lover played you like a used deck of cards. Shocking, how he left Vaile bleeding while he dashed through the night to be by your side.”

  She teetered, swaying as if drunk.

  He folded his arms. “Ah, kitten. You always knew he was too good for you…too good to be true, as it turns out.”

  The sideboard bit into Lavinia’s lower back and she curled her fingers around the edge.

  Dread spread through her mouth, drying words and taste. Traitorous thoughts whispered in her ear. Max had come here tonight prepared, if necessary, to kill. Had he killed for her before? Her throat was closing. />
  Goddamn Monte for flooding her mind. Suspicions, lifted by fear like rushing water, floated and bobbed in bewildering patterns.

  Breathe.

  The painted lines in the paper pasted to the wall started to wave like cattails in the wind.

  …

  Were it not for Grimley’s stilling hand on his shoulder, Max would have smashed the plaster.

  Max had been flung, tied and gagged, into the dark chamber. After the door had closed, the magistrate had appeared out of shadow. He’d recognized Grimley just as quickly as Grimley had recognized him. Before removing his gag, Grimley had whispered instructions for him to remain silent and then explained Lavinia’s intentions.

  She’d ignored his plea. Ignored his warning. And now this. Monte had turned the tables with one line: you found out your lover killed your husband.

  Through the wall, he watched Lavinia double over. Watched, restrained by a resolute Grimley, as doubt and anguish crept into her eyes.

  You always knew he was too good for you…too good to be true, as it turns out.

  He was going to kill Montechurch. Now.

  Grimley’s fingers tightened against Max’s shoulder. “Don’t move,” he hissed.

  Grimley stilled the beast long enough for Lavinia’s words to spring into his mind. You could have trusted me.

  Her words rang over the commands of the beast to pounce.

  Was it possible her belief in him would override Montechurch’s ploy?

  Max looked back through the sliver in the wall, Hope, terrible and heavy, hung onto his heart with piercing tentacles.

  …

  Monte grabbed the back of her neck and forced a metal case beneath her nostrils. The noxious scent traveled down her like over-brewed tea. Her eyes burned, her nose stung.

  She shoved Monte back, coughing. Water filled her eyes.

  “You are welcome,” Monte said.

  She waved her hand in front of her face, blinking in search of sight. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them wide. She coughed again. Keeping the sideboard at her back, she slid farther from Monte—needing air, needing space.

  God, but he stank. The urge to groom had not come with his impressive string of courtesy titles.

  “He’s told you he’d kill for you, hasn’t he?” Monte asked.

  She had heard deadly intent in Max’s voice. But that was different, that was for her protection. She knew him, knew the boy as well as the man, and she trusted the good in his heart. He had come to her that night to offer her his help. He had not come to her from a kill.

  “Watching you struggle is divine.” Monte smirked. He touched her forehead. “I have made quite an extensive home here, haven’t I?”

  Like a cold creature drawing warmth inward, Lavinia gathered strength. Montechurch was the man who’d constantly stoked Vaile’s pride, telling him how other men would be impressed by his strength and virility. Montechurch was the man who had reminded her of her duty to provide an heir. Montechurch was the man who’d gifted the statues Charm and Creativity to Vaile and had lamented the inability to find a third.

  She’d been dreaming of confronting Monte as a surrogate for the humiliations Vaile had inflicted. But Montechurch had always been the source of her trouble, hadn’t he?

  She was certain Max did not kill Vaile. As certain as she was that Montechurch had.

  “If you cannot bear to watch him hang, you could, of course, confess to the crime yourself.”

  “A Hobson’s choice,” she said slowly, her voice rising from a reservoir of anger. “Your favorite.”

  “Why, yes.” Monte looked up. “You should be quite practiced now. Your first was far too easy…modesty or marriage.” He expelled a puff of air between his teeth. “You regret your choice, don’t you?”

  She’d chosen marriage, valuing reputation, or honor bestowed by others, over integrity, or the honor to her heart’s principles.

  She looked into Monte’s glowing blue eyes, bereft of empathy, bereft of honor, bereft of warmth. In the chill he diffused, she stood warm and secure in the gifts trust in Max had given her—love, peace, and refuge.

  “Why should what happens to Mr. Harrison concern me?” She stared into his eyes. “He means nothing.”

  “Oh?” Monte lifted his favored brow. “Prove to me Harrison means nothing to you.”

  She felt her face drain. “You want me to lay with you.”

  “Of course. But come now, kitten.” Monte laughed. “Do you think I’d take you here, in the shadow of Vaile’s sweat?”

  That voice of his—such a strange cadence. Even revolted, she could not help but listen.

  “What do you want, then?” She asked, feeling sick.

  “For now,” his gaze became heavy-lidded. “I want you to remove your gloves.”

  “Very well.” She knew what he wanted, but she kept her voice light, aloof.

  She yanked at her fingers. His cold hands stilled her movements.

  “Not. That. Way.” Each T was emphasized in a fashion that pricked her skin.

  “Do it like we taught you,” he whispered.

  Her heart jerked and kicked in protest. She did remember. She remembered the way a player might recall lines spoken decades past. Remembered wisps of controlled movement.

  Was she any closer to breaking Monte? Could this be the key?

  “Please,” Monte whispered.

  Her heart thrilled to the pleading note in his voice. Monte had pleaded. If she did this, Montechurch would be squarely in her power.

  “Of course I’ll take off my gloves,” she said smoothly. “If it is your wish.”

  He leaned back against the doorframe, his breath moving from his belly to his chest.

  Swallowing slowly, she drew within. She bowed her head, remembering the feel of being wrapped in Max’s arms. Knowing her soul had been, for a time, fixed in the strength of love, she allowed herself to transform, one last time, into Vaile’s careful creation.

  She arched her back and stretched her arms, as if a performer about to take a bow. She glanced over her shoulder, pretending herself seductress, with dark, smoldering eyes.

  “Say what you used to say for him.” Monte’s voice had cracked.

  “You get the gloves.” Her voice was raw and gravelly. “For now, that is all.”

  Monte released a shivering exhale.

  “I do love your claws,” he said. “Go on.”

  She reached over her head to the tip of her long, black glove. Taking the edge between her thumb and forefinger, she slid it down to her elbow, dropped her head back, and sighed.

  Swirling slowly, she bowed her head and pressed her arms together. She bent her elbow, as if to cool her face with fluttering fingers, and bit the tip of her glove above her middle finger. She kept her head bowed, but lifted her eyes to Monte. One by one, she tugged on each of her fingers with her teeth, blotting out the sour taste of leather and disgust.

  And all the while she watched his eyes—a David at the feet of Goliath—seeking exactly the right moment to cast her stone…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  You could have trusted me.

  Lavinia’s cheeks tinged with pink. Her tight black bodice raised her breasts almost to spilling. Max had never seen this Lavinia. She had made herself into nothing more than an animated doll.

  Was she still in control, as Grimley believed, or was she sinking further into Montechurch’s web? You could have trusted me.

  She leaned onto a desk. She covered her face. Her chest heaved—as if she were about to cry. But before the fountain broke, she stiffened her back and settled her shoulders.

  She caught the hanging glove in her teeth and pulled it from a steady hand. She let it drop and then licked her upper lip. For one breathless moment she gazed down at her palm.

  Then, she snagged Montechurch with her sharpened eyes, her lashes like careful hooks, drawing him near, drawing him in. Eyes, like sensual hands, ran over Monte’s body, though she remained completely still.
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  Beast and gentleman demanded he pounce. But something stronger bound them both.

  She sauntered to Monte, accentuating her hips’ sway. Without touching the man, she stood close enough for him to feel her heat.

  “Finish,” Monte spat, as if she held him by his throat.

  “Ah, Monte,” she said, “Lust is making you tremble.”

  “I have a house full of whores,” he protested, breathy. “And I have been promised a harem.”

  Her smile was faint. “But a man of your refined tastes craves a lady’s touch.”

  She spoke in the voice she’d used that first night in Sophia’s garden. Low, sensual, and brimming with disdain.

  “You, kitten, are no lady.”

  “You should know. I am, after all…” she moved her hand through air, hovering just above his arm. “…your creation.”

  Monte, as did Max, visibly shook. You could have trusted me.

  “You yearn for confession’s purification, don’t you, my lord?” She spoke but a half inch from Monte’s neck. “You tire,” she said softly, “of guilt’s unrelenting weight.”

  Lavinia used Montechurch’s exact words. Awareness blossomed beneath Max’s skin. She was in control. She had not fallen for Montechurch’s ploy.

  Relief was cool and calming and settled bone-deep with an iron resolve. He would trust her. Both beast and gentleman melded into one—a steady force, awaiting her command.

  “Tell your kitten how you made things right again.”

  Montechurch seized her upper arms.

  “You did it for me, didn’t you, my dear Monte?”

  “Foolish girl,” he rasped.

  “Foolish and weak and totally at your mercy,” she whispered back.

  “What is your game?” Montechurch asked.

  “I have none. I came here to beg your protection. I have in my pocket papers to make you my trustee. That’s what you wanted all along, wasn’t it? That, of course…” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “…and me.”

  God how he wanted to break through the wall.

  Hurry, love.

  “Go ahead, Monte, check the papers.”