Ways to Be Wicked (14 page)

“Do you think she’d make a wonderful governess? Do you think she’d make a splendid scullery maid? Do you think her life would be any better then? Do you want to know where she was living before she came to the theater? What she was doing?”

“I take your point Mr. Shaughnessy. You are a veritable Samaritan.”

He grunted a humorless laugh. “Hardly. But I do hire people that many employers would never dream of hiring, people who haven’t a prayer of ever working at anything else. People I’ve encountered throughout my life. It isn’t merely charity, Miss Chapeau. Usually I’m richly repaid in loyalty and commitment. But there are times...” he trailed off. “Well, I hired an old friend to watch the dressing-room door. Jack. And it seems”—he twisted his quill distractedly in his hand—“that Molly has paid for my mistake.”

He was struggling to disguise the strain in his voice. The admission, and the event, and the harm to Molly, had cost him, greatly, Sylvie realized.

She was tempted to apologize. But then he became restless, glancing down at the work littering his desk. “Perhaps you’d understand, Miss Chapeau, if you had not been pampered your entire life.”

A deliberate torch touched to the kindling of her temper. It leaped up instantly.

“I’ve
never
been—”

“Yes?” He looked up swiftly. His grin was small and triumphant.

She made it all too easy for him, she realized. But then everything she felt and thought seemed amplified and very near the surface when she was near him. As though it was rushing to be closer to him.

She supposed it was wiser, then,
not
to be near him.

“Do you know a little of work, then?” he pressed. “You did say you might be able to teach me a thing or two. You might even find me a willing pupil.” Another wicked little grin.

“Yes, I know much about work, and a little about ‘nothing,’ Mr. Shaughnessy,” she said quietly. “And I, too, intend to never have
nothing
again. I have worked all my life to make certain of it.”

“So you’re an ambitious woman, Miss Chapeau?”

“Aren’t all women to some degree? Does life not require it of us?” She thought she heard a trace of bitterness in her voice.

He fell silent again.

And then he looked down, ran a light hand over the drawing of the grand building, smoothing it thoughtfully, proprietarily.

“What happened to Molly...what happened to Molly won’t happen again. I always learn from my mistakes,” he said suddenly, looking up at her again. Holding her eyes. Almost as though he was trying to persuade her of the truth of this. “One might in fact, even say the White Lily originated from a mistake.” He grinned swiftly, ruefully, and held up his scarred hand, as if illustrating his point.

“I was ten years old, and I was stealing cheese. The vendor objected and came at me with a knife because boys like me were forever infesting his stalls like little vermin. I fought back, but he got me,” Tom said nearly cheerily. “It became septic, and I very nearly died, but an apothecary took pity on me. He made sure I was healthy again, and he knew someone at a tavern at the docks who needed help, and they gave me a job, and that job led to another job at a theater, and...”

He paused, and his eyes lit with some amusement. “I’ve always just been lucky, I suppose. Particularly in my friends.”

Lucky?
Sylvie’s head spun for a moment with the graphic images; her lungs tightened at the thought of a large man coming at a boy with a knife. Pictured Tom Shaughnessy as small and terrified and wounded and hungry and ill, even dying. It seemed impossible. He seemed. . .

As though he’d
never
been afraid.

And now she understood that the calm she’d sensed in him had been
earned
. . . through knowing he could survive the very worst life could conjure.

Sylvie frowned a little. “But your parents—”

“Were dead at the time. I never knew my father.”

His smile became faintly cynical when he saw her expression. “Oh, there were thousands of boys just like me, Miss Chapeau. I
was
lucky. It’s as simple as that.”

She wasn’t certain what to say. She wanted to say:
I doubt there were thousands of boys like you. It’s impossible to imagine even one other like you.

“I never knew my parents, either,” she found herself saying, instead.

His face changed to something like surprise, whether at the nature of the confession or the fact that she had in fact confessed it, she wasn’t certain. He studied her, too, as if adding this information to whatever judgments he’d made of her in his mind.

Sylvie thought she understood something now. The White Lily was the thing Tom Shaughnessy had built to separate him from his old life, in the way ballet was the thing that had lifted her up out of the ordinary.

They were perhaps more alike than different. This she found strangely disturbing.

“Was it yours, when you were a boy?” She said it lightly, and pointed at the horse on the shelf when the silence had shifted into something more intimate, much less familiar to her. And therefore perhaps more dangerous.

He looked at the horse. “It’s mine for the moment, anyhow.” An answer and not an answer. Ah, inscrutability from Tom Shaughnessy. “I always did want one when I was small.”

It was difficult to know whether or not he was serious; the words were glib.

“I always wanted a. . .
boîte à musique,
” she faltered, almost to herself. She remembered it now; the memory of it returned swiftly, the yearning strangely stirred.

“A music box?” he repeated. He sounded curious. Encouraging, almost.

She fell abruptly silent and straightened her spine, as if pushing away the memory and the moment. There had scarcely been enough money when she was young for what they needed, for Claude never made very much money; there had certainly never been enough for something quite so frivolous as a music box.

Tom Shaughnessy’s watch came out then, perhaps inevitably. “I’ve a builder to see, Miss Chapeau. I’ve given your wages to you today, as your employment is only temporary. The other girls are paid weekly. If you intend to stay on, I’ll rearrange our budget accordingly. But perhaps we should see how things are ...day by day.”

“Day by day, if that suits you,” she found herself saying.

“It suits me,” he said softly. He somehow managed to make the words sound like a promise.

Her face grew warm, and she dipped a curtsy and left his office abruptly, her payment for throwing her derriere in the air clutched in her palm.

Chapter Ten

I
F YOU KEEP SWIVELING
your head about like that, it will fly right off and go careening into those pigeons like a
bocci
ball.” Kit Whitelaw, Viscount Grantham, gestured to the little cluster of iridescent birds jostling each other for crumbs near a fountain spraying skyward.

“We’re in Paris, not Italy,” Susannah reminded him. “I do believe you’re as nervous about this as I am.”

“Nervous?” Kit scoffed at the very idea. “When I spent a good portion of the war spying upon the enemy, dodging bullets—”

Susannah jerked her arm from his and put her hands over her ears. Trudged on in silence.

Abashed, he walked quietly by her side for a moment, allowing her to make her point.

And then, by way of apology, he gently took her hand from her ear, kissed her palm, and tucked her hand back into his arm, covering it with his own. A silent, symbolic promise:
I will keep you safe always.
It had been thoughtless of him to remind her of the dangers he had survived, on behalf of his country, and on her own behalf not too very long ago. He bore the scars. She’d once jested about those very dangers, about the number of times someone

had tried to kill her, and he’d found it intolerable to hear.

“You’re forgiven,” she said magnanimously, finally.

He smiled.

And then he brought the two of them to a halt and looked up at the window of a flat; bright but wilting flowers trailing out of the window box. The high afternoon sun tinted the walls of the house a soft peach. Unassuming, pleasant, not at all dramatic enough for what it appeared it might be.

“This is the place, Susannah.”

Tracking down Claude Lamoreux had proved challenging, but Kit was dogged and experienced and delighted once more to use the skills he’d acquired in service of the crown. The investigation hardly posed the sorts of dangers he’d experienced before—he and Susannah had mostly made the acquaintance of a number of aging former opera dancers, and not one of them had lunged with a knife or pointed a pistol—but the trail had finally led them here, to these apartments on the outskirts of Paris. A little narrow stone staircase led up to them.

It was indeed the same address to which Susannah had directed her letters. What remained for them to discover now was why no one had responded to them.

He could feel her fingers curling a little more tightly into his arm, and she was right. He was nervous on her behalf. They had come so far, and been through so much. He very much wanted Susannah to have the thing she’d dreamed about for so long: a family.

The door was flung open by a housekeeper: gray hair spiraling anarchically out from beneath her cap, a little boomerang of a French nose, tiny, shrewd dark eyes.

An instant later, from behind the housekeeper, from inside the house, a raspy voice said something unspeakably filthy in German.

Susannah had seen Kit’s eyes pop, then saw the telltale quivering at the corners of his mouth.

“What did he say?” she hissed.

“I will tell you later,” he murmured back. “When you are naked.”

That both quieted her and turned her scarlet and completely eradicated her nervousness, which Kit had always been able to do.

“
Pardonnez-moi,
but Guillaume, he over and over says these words, and I know not what it means. I think he is angry.” The housekeeper was wringing her hands. “He is making me crazy.”

The housekeeper was right. The filthy German words, sounding even more vehement now, were repeated. As if Guillaume were desperate to make a point.

“He is lonely, Guillaume, I think, for Madame Claude.”

Kit really had no business knowing, but part of him wanted to meet the person who had such an unabashedly colorful vocabulary. “And who is Guillaume?”

“Guillaume is the parrot of Madame Claude.”

This was somehow both disappointing and even better than if Guillaume had been a person.

“So Madame Claude is not at home? We have come from England and hoped to meet her. We believe we have a mutual friend.”

“Madame Claude is away. Also Mademoiselle Sylvie. She left me alone here . . . with Guillaume,” the housekeeper said with dark despair.

The German words wafted toward them again. This time they were a sad, low mutter, sounding nearly as despairing as Madame Gabon did.

“Mademoiselle Sylvie?” Susannah repeated, her voice faint with excitement and hardly dared hope.

Kit took her elbow to steady her, and spoke. “Tell me, Madame”—Kit paused, to allow her to complete the phrase.

“Gabon.”

“I am Viscount Grantham, and this is my wife, Lady Grantham. Tell me, Madame Gabon, does Mademoiselle Sylvie look at all like Susannah? Does she resemble Susannah?”

If Madame Gabon thought this was an unusual question, nothing about her betrayed it. She seemed to welcome the little challenge. Madame Gabon peered at Susannah. “You are close in age to Mademoiselle Sylvie, I think, Lady Grantham. I think perhaps your hair?”

“Does Sylvie look like . . . like this woman?” Susannah opened her hand, extended the miniature of her mother, and Madame Gabon squinted at it. Susannah lifted it up a bit higher so the woman could focus upon it more closely.

“Oh no, Mademoiselle. Not so much. Not Sylvie.” She looked up. “But you do!” She added hopefully, hating perhaps to disappoint this English nobleman and his wife.

“And Mademoiselle Sylvie is not at home?”

“No. Mademoiselle Sylvie, she left a note for Madame Claude. She is angry, Mademoiselle Sylvie, in the note she is. And they come to see her, Etienne, Monsieur Favre— all angry.”

Susannah glanced sideways at Kit. This parade of angry men arriving to see Mademoiselle Sylvie did not sound promising.

“Who is Monsieur Favre?” Kit asked, deciding to begin with that name.

“Mademoiselle Sylvie, she dances for Monsieur Favre. She is very pretty,” she added. “Famous. She is famous.”

This was better. Or perhaps worse. It was increasingly difficult to know.

“Did Mademoiselle Sylvie travel to the south as well?”

“No, no. To England, the note says. It says...” The housekeeper frowned forbiddingly, as it to narrate the tone of the note. “Dear Claude: I have gone to England, and I believe you know why.’ ”

The housekeeper shrugged then. “
I
know not why, but perhaps Madame Claude, she does. But she is in the South. She is expected to return in two days.”

When Guillaume muttered again, it was clear that as far as he was concerned, Madame Claude could not return soon enough.

“Do you know who Mademoiselle Sylvie might have gone to visit in England?” Though Kit suspected he knew the answer. Sylvie’s reason was standing right before Madame Gabon at the moment, being gripped by the elbow by Kit.

“I know not. But Madame Claude knows only of a Mrs. Daisy Jones in England. Perhaps it is that Mademoiselle Sylvie is acquainted with her, too. But I do not know, Monsieur, Madame Viscount. But there were letters, too, from England.”

“Letters?” Susannah repeated eagerly.

“Only very recently, Madame. Madame Claude burned them when they arrived. All but one, for it arrived but a week ago. Mademoiselle Sylvie, she read the letter. And then
poof
! She is gone to England.”

Claude no doubt had burned them to protect Sylvie from the truth of her past; Claude could not possibly have known that all was safe at last. Susannah had not told the entire tale in the letter; she had only sought to know if Claude was indeed the Claude Lamoreux who had adopted one of Anna Holt’s daughters.

Anna Holt, accused murderess.

Eagerly: “When did Sylvie leave? Was she alone?”

“Alone? I know not, Madame. I know that Monsieur Etienne did not accompany her. I told him that Sylvie might have gone to see Madame Daisy Jones, for what else might I say?”

“Who is Monsieur Etienne?”

“He is her lover,” Madame Gabon said very seriously. “He is a prince. And,
mon dieu,
he is angry.”

There was an eloquent pause as Kit and Susannah stood in the Parisian sun and allowed this little bit of information to sink in.

“Your family is proving to be so much more interesting than mine,” Kit said enviously.

It was exceptionally early. An hour at which Tom Shaughnessy would have, more typically, been returning from the Velvet Glove to catch an hour or so of uninterrupted sleep in his own cozy room before embarking on the business of his day. Early enough so that damp still clung to the vines tangling the little picket fence, so that sun was seen in the wan gold that touched the flowers and flag-stones, but seemed to have gathered no heat yet.

He’d hired a horse again to make the journey quickly, and to be able to return to London quickly, and he tethered the beast at the gate.

The door was already open, for of course the Mays would have seen and heard the hoofbeats of his arrival. Mrs. May stood in the entry, an apron still tied over the well-worn striped muslin of her dress. Her gray-threaded russet hair was scraped back away from her face, and a dot of what appeared to be flour was high on her cheekbone. She’d been at her morning chores then.

“Mr. Shaughnessy.”

It was all the greeting she offered, but she didn’t sound surprised. Tom bowed; she dipped a shallow curtsy and stepped aside, allowing him into the house, and held out her hands for his hat and coat. Her face, a worn reminder of Maribeth’s, had been all but impassive until she took these things into her hands; her movements slowed, she lingered a bit, as perhaps any woman would, over the fineness of the fabric. He noticed it. He wondered what she thought.

His
behavior
had so far been all that was gentlemanly, glossy appearance notwithstanding. There remained, however, the little matter of his reputation, which followed him like an invisible army into the house each time, he was certain. And he was certain Mrs. May had ideas about what a man of his reputation might do at any minute, and was braced for all of his reprehensibility to come spilling out of him.

“Thank you for allowing me to visit, Mrs. May.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Shaughnessy. Have you brought ham, today?”

Tom paused. He could have sworn her eyes sparked for an instant. Then again, it might have been a reflection of the morning light.

So he smiled, to encourage further thawing, if thawing indeed was taking place.

“No, I am afraid not. I brought only. . . these.” He held up his hands; in one was the tiny pirate hat; in the other, the wooden horse.

She peered at them for a moment.

“Even better,” she said.

Tiny as the hat was, it still engulfed Jamie’s head, but it made him laugh mad, gurgly, contagious laughs and flail his arms about. There passed an hour or so in which they played some combination of pirate and peekaboo, which Tom found surprisingly diverting, and during which Tom taught him to growl “aye, matie!” and to say “Tom!” Jamie was quick, a veritable little parrot, and Tom found it strangely gratifying.

And then Tom got down on his hands and knees and showed Jamie how to pull the horse along. Jamie dragged it briefly, then picked it up by its string and dangled it.

“ ’Orse!” he told Tom.

Tom looked at Jamie and felt—well, nearly as though a celestial chorus had just sounded.

“Bloody hell—that is—by
God,
it certainly
is
a horse!”

“Buddy hell!” Jamie repeated happily.

Tom felt a little chill of horror. “Oh bloo—” Tom clapped his mouth shut just in time. “Christ. That is—”

“CHRIST!” Jamie bellowed, and grasped the horse by one of its legs and held it up to him.

Mrs. May appeared in the doorway with a tray in her hands. “I thought you might enjoy some—”

“
Christ!
” Jamie roared happily, clutching at the horse with one hand to show her. He toddled over to her and curled one fist into her skirt, looking up at her, offering the horse.

Mrs. Mays had gone utterly still. Her eyes bugged out briefly.

Jamie apparently thought Mrs. May’s bulging eyes were funny, because he laughed his gurgly laugh.
“Buddy hell!”
he shouted gleefully, hopping up and down, the horse bouncing in his hand.

Tom squeezed his eyes closed briefly. Apparently “Aye, matie!” wasn’t funny enough to repeat to Mrs. May. It certainly didn’t make the eyes of adults bulge in that amusing manner. And the child possessed the most remarkable volume.
Everything
became an announcement.

But then again, when almost everything in your world is new, Tom supposed enthusiastic announcements were not untoward.

Mrs. May slowly lifted her head up from Jamie and met Tom’s eyes. Tom held her gaze bravely.

There passed an incongruous moment during which little Jamie gleefully hopped about the rug, singing out “buddy hell!” at intervals, while the two adults regarded each other warily.

And then, before Tom’s disbelieving eyes, Mrs. May actually, slowly. . .

Well, it was almost a smile. But whatever it was, it changed her face completely, softening and lightening it, and Tom could see the glimmers of Maribeth there.

“They’re a challenge, Mr. Shaughnessy. Particularly boys. They hear—and repeat—everything.”

Tom cleared his throat. “I fear he most definitely takes after me.”

His way of apologizing, and a bit of a risk as far as jests were concerned, since as far as Mrs. May was concerned, he was about as disreputable as they came.

But Mrs. May smiled in earnest at that.

And so Tom knew several milestones had been reached. Jamie had added significantly to his vocabulary, and Tom and Mrs. May had made progress in the warmth of their relationship.

Jamie hopped over to Tom. “ ’Orse!” he said, and lifted the toy up to him.

Now
he says horse,
Tom thought grimly.

But then, having caught on: “Horse!” Tom echoed delightedly. And made a point of bugging out his eyes.

Jamie clapped his hands. “Aye, matie!”

Tom still didn’t know why he had come. He only knew that when he had returned to London, it was as though he brought with him a little invisible strand that bound him to Kent and tugged at him like a string on a bow, pulling him back again.