Lady Vice (19 page)

They’d come closer but were not safe. He searched the horizon for some solid, common ground.
My Vinia
. Words came to him from memory…“Until the last syllable of recorded time.”

Her neck dipped and the tension fell from her arms. She glanced up. “An encore of Shakespeare?”

“I must borrow from the bard. I am in trouble here.”

Layers of turmoil, unfathomable as the woman herself, stretched through the silence. Was he rising or sinking?

“I shall borrow another… ‘Love does not alter when it alteration finds’.”

Water clumped her lashes together—definitely rising. She blinked. “Oh Max.”

He threaded their fingers, soft and small through large and dark. With his other hand, he wiped muddled tears from beneath her eyes. She sighed, drooping. Unresisting, she allowed him to draw her into a tender embrace.

“It is an ever-fixed mark,” he continued, his chin resting on her head, “that looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

She sniffed. “We are in a tempest.”

“The boat is rocking,” he replied. “How can I make it stop?”

“I do not know,” she said.

He held her close. “I will not stop trying.” He hesitated. “Because I love you.”

Her breath snagged on a ragged inhalation.

“An ever-fixed mark,” she said, quiet and low, “of which I am not worthy.”

Understanding reordered the pieces vanity had scattered. “Do you think you are too damaged”—
astonishing, truly
—“for me?”

“Yes,” she said. “And, though it slashes another mark into my selfish soul, I love you still.”

Unspun wool, coarse and replete with thistle leaf needles, clogged in his throat, rendering him silent. He wrapped his legs around her body, fully encircling her in a loose grip. He rocked to the side, so that her head rested in the crook of his arm. She looked into his eyes.

“Max,” she said with longing.

“Tell me again,” he said, rough but sure. “This time, without apology.”

“I love you.” She touched his heart with their joined hands. “Now you tell me again—while I can see you.”

“I love you,” he said, leaving feeling bare. “You are everything I need.
Please
come back to me.”

“I am here,” she said.

“Then
stay
this time.”

“I want to,” she murmured. “I want to believe in love, peace, and refuge.”

“Love, peace, and refuge?”

She nodded. “The promise in your arms.”

Love, peace, and refuge. Yes, he could imagine a place where honor ruled and the beast’s strength lived tame within the gentleman.

“Can happiness,” she asked, “follow a union so cursed?”

“Cursed? No, blessed. We found each other, did we not?”

“We’ve stolen a night,” she said, echoing his earlier thoughts.

“Stolen? Proud Max would never steal.” He coaxed a small smile. “We’ve borrowed from the future. And, if you are willing, we will borrow again. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, until the last—wait.” He stopped and frowned. “How did you get in here?”

Her smile widened, turning sheepish. “I came through your bookcase.”

He glanced uncertainly to the solid wood. “How?”

“Emma and her duke used the case for secret meetings. She gave us this gift at Thea’s behest.”

“I see,” he said slowly. “I have been an ungracious recipient, no?”

“Somewhat.”

The dowager had been a madam, then a mistress. A queasy rush slid snakelike through his gut. The dowager was now his future wife’s friend. Did he trust Lavinia’s judgment or not?

“Is my getting to know Emma that important to you?” he asked.

“I cannot explain, but yes. I carried my failure. No one—not you, not Sophia, not Thea—could make the burden any lighter. But Emma understood, and my burden grew light.”

“I will call the dowager friend,” he said.

“Thank you,” she sighed. “And do you believe me about Montechurch?”

He thought of Montechurch’s desperate howl.

“I believe you,” he said.

Her eyes cleared—the clouds parting to reveal a glowing moon.

“If we work together,” he added, “we will be stronger than if we work apart.” But that didn’t mean he’d stand down—not fully. “To that end, swear you will not execute a plan without discussing the details with me first?”

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.”