Wicked Becomes You (6 page)

She looked down at the words, scrawled so fiercely that one might think a man had penned them. A terrier! It made her laugh again. Maybe wickedness was more her native talent. After all, where had niceness gotten her? From beleaguered to pitiable, that was where! Slobbered on and nipped by beastly men!

The
deuces
with being nice, then! It profited her nothing. It was exhausting! And here was proof: only five minutes ago she’d been exhausted, while now she felt like skipping into the hallway and—yelling! No, yelling wasn’t enough. She felt like
smashing
something!

She made a fist and smacked it experimentally against the desktop. Yes, she could smash something. She looked around. The clock? No, no, Aunt Elma admired that clock.

The mirror? It seemed a bit gothic. Madwomen too often smashed mirrors. She wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.

The flower vase? Yes! Yes, she
could
smash that!

Over his
head
!

Just imagining it made her queer exhilaration redouble. It swelled up so fast and fiercely that she had to swallow to keep herself from—screaming something, maybe. It felt just like that balloon ride,
exactly
like it: all the strings falling away, and then the sudden giddy lift into the ether.

Why, she would
not
knit those sweaters! Lady Anne had made the promise. Let
her
knit them! Gwen would even supply her with the yarn. Fifty skeins of quality merino currently sat in her dressing room, simply
longing
for the tender touch of an earl’s daughter.

What else wouldn’t she do? Heavens above, the possibilities seemed dazzling. All the nasty small thoughts that she hid away—why not share them?

No more purchasing gowns she disliked simply to placate sad-eyed shopkeepers.

No more patronage of charity events when she suspected the profits were going straight into the host’s pocket.

And no more ignoring the sly allusions to her background! Ten years, now—she was done with it!
Why, Lady Featherstonehaugh, do you mean to remind these ladies that my father was once a chemist, a shopkeeper of the most common order? How kind. Let me return the favor. May I remind them of how your husband halved your allowance when he found you in bed with Mr. Bessemer?

No more feigned obliviousness when a gentleman rubbed his hand over her breast during a dance.
Did you misplace your fingers? I will misplace mine into your eye.

No more levees at court! She always came home sore from wrists to shoulders, thanks to the nasty women who stuck pins into people’s arms to force them out of the way on the stairs. The Queen’s concerts were dead boring anyway.

And no more kissing
any
man who slobbered. Really, there
had
to be something more to kissing, or else why would ladies giggle over it? Well, bother it, she supposed she would simply have to find out! If she wasn’t going to be nice anymore, why not be fast?

In fact, now that being nice didn’t matter, perhaps she should also make a list of things she
would
do.

But first, she must finish the task at hand. Retrieving the pen, she wrote in that deliciously aggressive and unfamiliar hand,
You will return my brother’s ring
immediately
.

Despite the underlining, it did not look quite complete to her.

Ah! In giant block-print, she added:

OR ELSE.

Alex was beginning to wish he’d brought his own bottle of liquor. Alcohol—so said the doctor he’d consulted in Buenos Aires—interfered with natural sleep. But an hour now he’d sat listening to this nonsense, and it was beginning to wear on his patience. Meanwhile, Henry Beecham, who was Gwen’s de facto guardian and should have been out for blood, instead grew ever more cheerful. He reclined in the easy chair by the fireplace, flicking drops of his fourth or fifth whisky into the flames. With every sizzling pop, he smirked into his sleeve like a boy with a secret.

“But Fulton Hall won’t do,” said Belinda. She sat in a nearby chair, outwardly composed; heavy lids lent her blue eyes a deceptive air of placidity, and her chestnut hair had been trammeled into a viciously tight chignon. But Alex knew her nature, so he knew where to look. Her right hand had broken free of her left, which still sat demurely in her lap; the rogue digits were squeezing the armrest in a fierce and regular rhythm. She was imagining herself in possession of Pennington’s throat. Alex would wager money on it. Already she had told him to wring Gerard’s throat for the sin of selling a musty house she’d never bothered to visit.

Had a good deal of snap, did Belinda. Put her down in Manhattan’s Five Points, and by nightfall, half the citizens would be pouring into church to repent their evil ways.

“But Fulton Hall is lovely,” said Elma Beecham. She cast a hopeful look toward the settee, where Caroline was languishing.

As suited the twins’ respective roles, Belinda had shrieked in the church, while Caro had wept. Now Caro offered a regretful smile, along with a shake of the head.

Elma sighed. “No, I suppose not, then. It’s too near to Pennington’s estate.”

“Then keep her in London,” Alex said flatly. He rubbed his eyes. “I told you the viscount is bound for the Continent.” Henry Beecham might have come home directly from the church, but Alex had not. He’d found Pennington’s town house in a state of disarray. The master had fled to the railway station, intent on the Dover-bound train.

Elma gaped at him. “But she’s not
invited
to anything, Mr. Ramsey. Everybody thought she would be on her honeymoon.”

“Besides,” said Belinda, “it doesn’t matter. His mother is still in town.”

Caroline gave a visible shudder. “She’s even worse.”

“Right,” he said. “The dragon might slay her with an unkind look, I suppose. Who bloody cares?”

Elma gasped.

Most of the world could not tell his sisters apart. He’d no trouble on that account, but it never failed to amaze him how identically they delivered a glare.

“Watch your language,” Belinda bit out. “And please, do
not
illuminate us with one of your trenchant social commentaries.”

All right, he was usually a bit subtler in his approach, but this conversation was going in circles. “I illuminate, do I? And here I thought I idled, ignored, and absconded.”
Absconded
. Almost, he sighed with longing. It sounded like an excellent idea.

Belinda launched into a lecture to which he did not bother to listen. His attention wandered to the empty sofa across the room, an overstuffed piece of maroon brocade. Hideous. Unusually long, too. Almost as long as a bed.

It looked quite comfortable.

Sleep
.
The doctor in Buenos Aires had warned him against napping. That was very easy advice to give, no doubt.

Belinda grew louder. He nodded agreeably, and she rewarded him by modulating her voice to a less strident pitch. “. . .
you
may find civility tedious, Alex, but Gwen cares about her place in society.”

“Certainly,” he said. “But if actions bespeak character, as you have so often told me”—he gave her a flattering smile—“then I consider this morning a lucky escape for her. Don’t you?”

Belinda sighed. “Well, I am tempted to agree.” She wrinkled her nose. “What a toad the viscount is!”

“I just can’t understand it,” Elma murmured. As she took a deep breath and launched back into her pacing, Caroline sat up and sent him a mischievous look.

He lifted a brow in acknowledgment. Since vanity did not permit Elma to wear spectacles, her progress across the carpet was proving dramatic. Three times already she’d collided with the centre table, and now she looked bound for a fourth.

“I still don’t see why Trumbly Grange won’t do,” Elma grumbled. “The peace and quiet would do her good.”

Bel and Caro gave speaking snorts. Unaccustomed to their synchronized contempt, Elma halted. The centre table held its ground, four inches away. Alex shook his head at Caro
, who grimaced apologetically.

“It’s a sad little house located on the edge of the moors, isn’t it?” Belinda was never one to mince words, even when the property she maligned was her host’s. “There’s not a neighbor in miles. Would
you
like to stay at Trumbly Grange?” When Elma looked at her blankly, Belinda added, “You’ll be accompanying her, of course. She can’t travel alone!”

“Oh!” Clearly it had not occurred to Elma that the itinerary she proposed would be her own. “Yes, of course I’ll accompany her. Trumbly Grange . . .” She turned to consult with her husband. “Hal, hadn’t you planned to go north and have a look at that filly for the Yorkshire Oaks?” When no reply came from the fireplace, she put her hands on her hips and lifted her voice. “Mr. Beecham. I am addressing you!”

“What’s that?” Snuffling, Beecham wiped his nose and set down his drink. “North? No, no, changed my plans. Bad strain of the back sinew. She’s done for.”

“Ah!” Elma turned back to the twins. “Well, I suppose the north will serve, then. Indeed, why not? Have you noticed how young everyone looks there? It’s for want of sun, I expect.” She sounded positively warm now. “Yes, what a good idea. The north will do nicely!”

Alex swallowed a laugh. Elma had a remarkable ability to judge anything by its possible effect on her looks. Moreover, since her faith in her beauty still thrived at age fifty, this worked to create an attitude in her of unshakable optimism. The gray in her blond hair only made it look blonder. The wretched failures of her cook benefited her bone structure by melting away “that puppy fat about my jaw.” Three summers ago, when taken with fever during a weekend at Caro’s country house, she had observed to Alex, in a tone too syrupy for his comfort, that the flush on her face made her hazel eyes look radiantly green. Didn’t he agree?

He’d agreed, but he’d also taken care not to find himself alone with her again. She had the alarming habit of speaking to him as though she were twenty, and raised in a bordello. Worse yet, on the rare occasions when her husband was present for it, he tended to stand behind her and nod vehemently, as if to say,
Give it a go, then. I don’t mind.

“The lack of sun is a sound point,” Belinda decided. “What Gwen needs is someplace cheerful.”

“Hmm,” Alex said. “Rules out England, then, doesn’t it?”

Belinda flashed him a sharp look.

“Not the north, then,” Elma said hesitantly.

“Not the north,” Belinda confirmed.

Sighing, he tipped his head back to study the ceiling. It was an interesting geography they were assembling, here. For shame, Gwen could not stay in London. For pride, she could not go south. For spirits, north was out of the question. East lay the ocean, of course.

His eyes had shut.

Forcing them open, he said, “There’s always west.”

His sarcasm was lost on Elma. “Wales, do you mean?”

The syrupy note. He pulled his head down to confirm it. Yes, she was posing for him. Her hand strategically stroked the neckline of her gown. He did not wish to glance onward toward her husband.

Belinda cleared her throat. She looked dubious, and he did not think it all for Wales. “Herefordshire, perhaps.”

“Ireland!” cried Caroline. “Whisky cheers a lady as well as a man.” She cast a pointed look toward Henry Beecham, who had not offered to share his joy.

“Boston?” Elma frowned. “Do we know anyone in Boston?”

“Newfoundland,” said Alex. “San Francisco—bit foggy, no doubt, but most Londoners would call it tropical. Or why not China? Keep going west and you’re bound to hit it eventually. Usually works for me.”

“You might wish to reconsider that,” Caro said. “You got kicked out of China last year, if I recall.”

“Did I? Well, that explains the rude reply to my greeting at the port authority. I thought I was in Japan.”

“Your flippancy helps no one,” Belinda informed him.

He shrugged. “You propose to hide her away like a broken toy. London is her home, and you want to hound her out of it. Is that the act of a friend?”

Caroline leaned forward. “Alex, you
must
try to understand. It’s not at all like last time! The
groom
cried off. And in such a horrible way—when he needed her money so badly! People will assume he discovered something awful about her at just the last moment.” She faltered, going pale. “I really do fear she is . . .”

“Ruined,” Belinda whispered.

Elma flinched.

“For God’s sake.” Hearing the edge in his voice, he caught himself. “It isn’t as if she were caught
in flagrante delicto
. This is London’s darling you’re talking about. I hope you won’t feed her this nonsense; she’s silly enough to believe it.”

“You’re so naïve,” Belinda said pityingly. “How do you manage that with all these foreign places you visit?”

He sighed. In an argument, Bel was like a dog with a bone: she would never let go of her point. “Naïveté is imagining that doors will stand closed to her after this. Naïveté, Belinda, is your
vast
underestimation of the power of three million pounds. Preach all you like about what people will
say
. In Shanghai, they gossip if a woman’s feet are too large—in Valparaiso, if her mantilla clings too tightly to her breast. But no matter where you are, money makes every sin disappear. It’s better than vinegar that way.”