Lady Vice (7 page)

England’s loss, in this case, need not be his own.

He poured a small amount and brought the glass to his nose. A delicious aroma permeated his being: sweetness and mystery—vanilla, pepper, rose, and chocolate. He savored the fragrance while his hands warmed the liquid. He sipped, allowing no more than a half-spoonful to glide across his tongue.

Heaven. Just like her kiss.

When he had kissed Lavinia, he had glimpsed a safe harbor protected from the ravages of anger and blame. In that brief second, he had believed…

What?
That he’d found his elusive missing half, as Plato’s
Symposium
described?

He closed his eyes, remembering the trembling softness of her lips. Lips coated in poison for the pain stretching and twisting his gut. He was an infatuated, besotted, useless-as-a-third-horse-with-a-matched-pair fool.

Everything about Lavinia was illusion.

He rolled his neck to loosen dense and strained tendons.

Illusion or not, the beast within had laid claim and the animal was not about to back down, especially when facing such a feeble foe as reason.

Chapter Eight

The floorboards just beyond Max’s doorway creaked, herding tension to his shoulders.

Not Geste. Geste’s shoes clicked.

He set his glass next to the globe, bracing as the door clattered open. Light from the passage framed six feet of sputtering duke.

“I know you spent the morning in the company of my duchess,” the duke bellowed.

The duke’s punch ripped away Max’s breath. As he shook off the sting, instinct warned:
duck
. Even so, he barely dodged the duke’s doubler.

Rules governed this sort of situation: a gentleman did not goad another, not when the source of the other’s madness was a woman, and especially not when the woman was the man’s wife.

“Wynchester, be reasonable.”

“Did you help yourself to a slice?”

Slice?
“I
met
your wife.”

The duke attempted to land a dig. In defense, Max planted a facer against Wynchester’s smooth, aristocratic jaw. As he pulled back his arm for another hit, a glimmer of glass caught Max’s eye. His bottle of Armagnac balanced perilously at the desk’s edge. If the duke stepped back, the decanter would shatter.

“Stop and listen!” he yelled, keeping fists ready.

The duke blinked and swayed. A red mark stained Wynchester’s chin and his deep, heavy gasps punctuated the silence.

“Yes, I went to Lady Sophia’s home and, yes, Her Grace was present.” Max spoke slow and clear. “But
my
only purpose was to see Lady Vaile.”

“You were not alone with my duchess?” the duke asked.

“No,” Max replied. “Nor did I wish to be. Now please, step away from my cabinet.”

The duke glanced down and then shook his head, blinking. “Bronward said—”

“Bronward? The jealous, lying ass must still be angry that I interrupted his play with Lady Vaile. I have known Lavinia since we were children.”

Use of Lavinia’s Christian name was tantamount to announcing an affair but, damn good tipple’s satisfying burn, Max wanted his Armagnac. The smell of sweat and alcohol thickened the air as the duke examined Max’s features and remained ready, just in case.

The duke rubbed his jaw and sighed, closing one eye. “You never said you were a bruiser.”

“And you fight cunning.” Max softened his stance, though not fully. “Are we finished?”

The duke frowned and then winced. “For now.”

“Drink?” Max asked warily.

“Hell, yes.” The duke raked his hand through his already disheveled hair.

Max stepped past the duke and slid the globe of Armagnac into his grasp: safe. He exhaled. He poured two generous portions, and then joined the duke. Together, they pondered the glorious view of the mews stables.

“The study hasn’t the best aspect,” Max commented dryly, “but when the wind flows northeasterly, the smell is unforgettable.”

“I remember it well.” The duke snorted and took the drink with a flinched nod of thanks. “Eustace and I took lessons in this room.” His eyebrows rose as he sipped. “What is this, Harrison? Brandy?”

“Of sorts,” Max replied. “Brandy distilled from wine: Armagnac.”

“Ah.” The duke sighed as if he eased into a warm pond. “French?”

“Pays de Gascogne. But
before you ask, I do not have an extra cask.”

“Pity.”

The duke raised the glass in a silent toast, sipped, and then closed his eyes. Emotions played on his face: felicity and uncertainty, surprise and bliss.

All melted away as he swallowed, leaving melancholy in his wrinkled brow. Pain engraved every part of the duke’s usually anvil-smooth face. The kind of pain a man never spoke of, even if he acknowledged its existence.

Ah, but Wynchester was in a bad way.

Max understood. He had traveled to a distant land with heat indescribable and vistas unimaginable. All the while he’d been haunted by the thought of Lavinia. He had recorded every detail—descriptions of marble buildings with precious stones cast directly into the walls—just to one day share it with her.

Then, the ambush. His glass rattled as he set it down.

Pain. Terror. Darkness. Lice. Had he known she’d married a peer, he would have welcomed death. A year later, freedom had brought elation…and the news of her betrayal.

He recognized the duke’s expression because he had once worn it himself—devastation.

Devastation strong enough to birth a beast only strict adherence to duty and honor could control.

He refilled both glasses with an unsteady hand. Why did the duke suffer, when nothing barred him from the woman he loved?

Wynchester wandered to the mantle as if drawn by mystical magnetism to the fabric Max had hung on the wall. Hanging the piece like some medieval tapestry had been an unusual but meaningful reminder. Max’s wealth was a consequence of his greatest suffering—a lesson he had no wish to repeat.

The duke studied the gold thread woven into the fabric and the jewels set within.

“You have done well for yourself,” the duke said.

“Yes.”

“I admire that in a man.” Jealousy sung in his tone. He swiveled and pierced Max with a direct look. “I do not begrudge my station.”

“Of course not, Your Grace.”

“You do not believe me, I warrant.”

“I do not presume.”

“For once, Harrison.” The duke chuckled. “You do not presume, for once.”

“I am tired, Your Grace.”

“And I am testy,” said Wynchester.

An understanding passed between them before the duke straightened. Wynchester attempted to regain an aristocratic air, but with his jaw disfigured, his effort proved futile.

“I am no fool. I know my advantage, but neither is my station my choice. The title, the money, even my political views—none of them were mine. But I embrace them all, I do my duty.” The duke downed the rest of his drink. “My wife was chosen as well.
I
,” the duke placed great emphasis, “did my duty there.”

The suggestion was clear—the duchess had not fulfilled her end of the bargain.

Max placed his fingers over his lips. Had he given Wynchester too much to drink? Impossible. The duke must have started drinking before he arrived.

“I did my duty. But Thea Marie…” His voice trailed to a sandy whisper. “She was enchanting and mysterious. She had an essence I could never capture, let alone conquer.”

Wynchester dropped his head and his shoulders sagged—the posture of Atlas, struggling under the unforgiving weight of the earth. He’d even used the duchess’s name, speaking from the mud-drenched rapids of despair. Max had seen the duke this way only once before, on the day Max had told him that Eustace, the duke’s only brother, had died—uselessly—at the hands of a madman.

“Was?” he asked. “You speak as if your wife has died. She has not.”

The duke lifted his head and stared as if he led a hunt and Max was the target fox.

“You want the duchess to return to you,” Max said.

“She will not.”

“Because your methods—forgive me—are inept.”

“Pardon?” The duke’s brow angled up like a shot heaven-bound.

“I believe the duchess could be persuaded to return.”
Just before ice crystals formed on the gates of hell.

The duke flashed a wry smile. “And you think you can help, but you want something in return.”

“Lord Vaile was murdered last night,” Max said.

The duke looked down his nose. “Yes, I heard. Montechurch believes Lady Vaile is guilty.”

“I have history with Lady Vaile, and have offered my help protecting her from a warrant. The duchess wishes to help her friend as well. If you were to take an interest…”

“I may ingratiate myself to my duchess,” the duke finished. He sucked in his wounded cheek, considering. “You’ve offered your help, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Was that wise?”

No.
“I have known Lady Vaile my whole life.”
True.
“I am certain of her innocence.”
Almost.

Oh, he knew she had not pulled the trigger, but she hid something, and he feared the worst. The Furies held profitable soirees, and Vaile, by order of coverture and her trust, had been paying her personal expenses. Lavinia had enough money to buy, well, anything.

“You do not know my wife,” Wynchester said. “Winning her will take more than a shared purpose.”

“A shared purpose cannot hurt,” Max pointed out.

“I will consider. God knows, with Eustace gone, I need an heir.” Wynchester set down his glass and placed his fists on the desk. “Setting aside my duchess, I must warn you. You have influence in Commons because the other MP’s trust you. Any association with Lady Vaile will bring you harm. Others are eager to take your place.”

“So quick to forget my loyalty, are you?”

“A lesser man would already be gone.”

Max bit his cheek to keep from telling the duke he could take his rotten borough straight to the devil. The door rattled under a knock.

“Enter,” he said in unison with the duke.

Geste opened the door. Either a devilish ghoul or an extremely irate street urchin hung from his grip.

Max pinched his nose between his eyes and inhaled. “Let the boy speak, Geste.”

The boy wiggled from the butler’s grasp and threw Geste a glare of unadulterated outrage. The child’s stench smothered the pleasant, lemony smell of freshly waxed furniture.

The boy clenched his fists. “Sully told me to get me message to Harrison straight away,” the boy said in breathless puffs. “I ain’t to give no one else me message but Harrison!”

“Your Grace, would you excuse us?” Max asked.

“Very well. Call on me tomorrow at eleven. We will finish this discussion after we go over the latest version of Burke’s bill.”

“Of course.” He was damn right they’d finish. “Leave the visitor, Geste. I will take care of this.”

The boy snapped his head toward Geste and a cloud of dust scattered. “Ha.”

“Tomorrow,” the duke said as he departed.

Geste remained behind the urchin, arms crossed.

“That will be all, Geste.”

Geste sniffed as he turned, muttering to the duke about upside-down worlds where masters used mews entrances and urchins were welcomed through the hall.

True, filth marked the boy’s progress through the entry. Islands of brown dirt dotted his ripped clothing. Sullivan must have been in a hurry if he failed to instruct his messenger to rally a stable boy and use the back entrance.

Max waited until the click of the butler’s shoes muted, and then he knelt.

“I am Harrison,” Max said. “You did a very good job, master… What is your name?”

“Jem.” The boy’s black eyes narrowed. “I thank ye for the compliment, but don’t be callin’ me ‘master,’ ’cause I ain’t a nob.” Jem jutted out his grimy chin.

“My apologies.” Max sucked away a smirk and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Now Jem, tell me exactly what Sullivan said.”

“Sullivan?” The boy drew his brows together. “Oh, Sully ye means! I am ’ta tell ye he be takin’ the bird to Vauxhall where she’s got some sort of meetin’ but he don’t know what. He means to get it from ’ta maid, when ’ta bird flies.”

“I see.”

Lavinia was on her way to Vauxhall. She planned to leave her maid in Sully’s hackney. Sully could not follow her without rousing the maid’s suspicions, so he had decided to press the maid for answers.

…At least Max thought he had correctly translated Sullivan’s message.

Why would Lavinia go to Vauxhall again? A woman on her own in such a place was not safe and could be up to no good. She was supposed to be in the seclusion of deep mourning. If anyone saw her there…

Hell. Randolph had seen her last night. Could she be on her way to meet him—
again
? Was that the reason he’d been unable to find Randolph? The beast growled.

Jem yanked on Max’s arm. “Sully says he’s taken his rattler ’round the long way, so’s you can get there. He says to tell ye the bird was donnin’ a…”

Jem waved his hand over his face.

“A veil? A mask?” Max prompted.

“Yes,” Jem said, nodding. “One of those. And she’s wearin’ a dark red cape.”

Jem’s description did not give Max much information, nor did he have much time. He drew a shilling from his pocket and tossed it up.

“Much obliged,” Jem said, easily grabbing the coin from the air. “I don’t do no purse pinchin’, I comes by me blunt right and proper.” He turned the coin over in his thin and dirty fingers as a triumphant grin dimpled his cheeks. “That pantler of yours was tryin’ to beef me, but I duffed the ken anyways.”

“Yes, you were quite effective. I will be sure to tell Sulliv—Sully all about your persis—a-hem—pluck. If you want to avoid another run-in with my pantler, you had better leave by the back.” He pointed. “Those stairs lead to a door that opens to the stable yard. If you have another message, come that way and have a stable boy fetch me.”

Jem nodded.

“I seen them back dancers comin’ in.” Jem waved toward the stairs. “I thought there might be a gigger at ’ta bottom.” Jem cocked his head and squinted. “I ain’t bounced by the pantler, mind you, but I will be taking the dancers so’s I can scour.”

“Right,” Max agreed. “The back entrance will be a faster way to leave.”

“Me thanks for plumpin’ me rep with Sully. If ye need to send a message,” Jem said, tucking the coin into his shoe, “old Jem’s your man.”

“I will remember,” Max promised.

Jem scurried down the back stairs. Max shook his head as he grabbed his greatcoat. Boys like Jem knew their way around these streets better than most. He prayed he could be as effective when locating a disguised Lavinia amongst the hordes at Vauxhall.