Wicked Little Secrets (19 page)

After Miss Banks helped her dress in the morning, Vivienne trudged downstairs, clutching her Bible.

Her aunt was awake, clad in her usual crisp black, a steaming teacup in her hand. The coca wine from the day before had obviously worn off. Now she paced back and forth across the parlor floor in an agitated manner, her skirts swishing. Meanwhile, Garth was asleep, curled on a cushion by the fire, making wet, gargling noises.

“What is that vile man doing?” her aunt demanded to know. Vivienne followed the direction of her aunt’s glare. Outside, Dashiell leaned against the iron fence, arms crossed, his hat pulled low on his forehead. His hair, spilling over his collar, looked as if a comb had barely grazed its surface. He wore somber deep gray. Under his dark eyes, those blue circles had deepened. Even so, he was more dangerously appealing than ever.

“He’s been out there all morning.” Aunt Gertrude narrowed her eyes. “He is up to evil, I just know it. I’ll wager he is thinking about ways to peek at a lady’s drawers and chemise. It is God’s will to test my faith that I should live next to the worst sinners in all London. You don’t know how many nights I have lain awake, worried that they might corrupt you or your sisters with their wicked ways.”

Vivienne’s cheeks heated, thinking of the sleepless evening she had just spent, agonizing over her latest bout of wickedness and corruption with Dashiell. “I-I thought I would study the Bible this morning,” she declared.

“Do read to me. How my heart warms to hear the Scripture on your lips.”

Her aunt took her usual chair where her cane was propped beside the armrest. Miss Banks had left a tray with a pot of tea on the side table. Aunt Gertrude lifted the handle and refilled her cup. She ignored the milk and sugar, but picked up a bottle that read
Dobb’s Effervescing Citrate of Caffeine
and added a few drops. She took a sip of tea and then cleared her throat several times, fanning her face.

Vivienne sat on the sofa, turning so she wouldn’t have to look at Dashiell. Nonetheless, he remained a dot in her periphery—a tiny fly buzzing about the edge of Isaiah as she read. “
Come
now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool
.”

If only Vivienne’s conscience could be made white again. After last night, she felt her soul was permanently stained as red as Vinho da Roda.

“Aunt Gertrude, I know we are supposed to pray for forgiveness for our sins. Yet, let us say, for example, a man commits a horrible, horrible sin. He regrets it terribly and prays to the Lord for forgiveness, and he assumes the Lord forgives him.”

“If he is truly repentant. The Lord knows the true contents of our sinful hearts.”

“Oh, she, I mean, he is quite repentant. Yet guilt from his sin still lingers, nibbling at him like a little mouse. He fears the rodent of guilt will never go away, but will eat at him forever.” Dining on her conscience long after her marriage to John.

Gertrude pursed her lips together, thinking. “Guilt is a like scar,” she philosophized. “It is to remind us of the pain we felt when we fell from the Lord’s grace. So the next time the devil tempts us with his fruit,” she fisted her hand to her chest, “we will be strong and cast the demon away.” Vivienne peeked out the window. The demon in question was now sitting on a stone bench, being eyed by a bevy of hungry pigeons. He lifted his eyes and squinted, as if he could see her through the window.

Miss Banks appeared at the doorway. “Miss Taylor, this letter just arrived for you.” She advanced into the room and handed it to Vivienne.

She took the envelope and turned it over. On the back was written “John.” Except it wasn’t John’s economic handwriting, but a fine-penned, elegant hand.

Her fingers shook so badly she could scarce open the letter.

It read,
Garth
is
desperate
for
a
walk.
Vivienne’s face heated. Her head jerked up, meeting Dashiell’s gaze.

“Did you receive a letter from your sisters?”

“Oh no, no,” Vivienne said, trying to sound casual. “It’s just John reminding me that he will attend church with us tomorrow.”

“Such a decent, God-fearing man, just like Mr. Bertis. How happy he shall make you.”

“Yes,” Vivienne said weakly.

“I say, why does that evil man still linger?” her aunt asked. “Just look at him.” Her voice lowered as she gripped the head of her cane. “Just look at him. So very handsome, but I swear, he is the devil underneath.” She paused and then tilted her head. “Why, I think he is staring at you.” She turned to Vivienne.

“I say, the light is awfully bright from the window,” Vivienne stammered. “I’m having a hard time reading my Bible. May I close the drapes?”

“Please,” her aunt said slowly, suspiciously.

Vivienne rose and strolled to the front window. Dashiell raised the brim of his hat and peered through the glass at her. He waved his hand, beckoning to her. Inside, she tingled as if he were some gravitational force pulling the tide of her blood.

Her hands trembled.
Oh
God, give me strength.
She untied the sash and let the curtain fall.

***

Dashiell continued to mill about the square, feeling rather ridiculous as nosy neighbors came out and inquired if he were well, then offered him tea and biscuits. “No, thank you. Just enjoying the day and the fresh air,” he said. After a while, even the pigeons gave up on him and wandered off in search of other crumb-laden squares.

She never came out, never opened the curtain, never even sent a reply to “John.” He could feel her, huddled inside with her Bible, praying that she would never have to speak to him again. A wise decision, since he couldn’t trust himself around her anymore. Surely some sort of divine hand had intervened last night and pulled his body from her before he could ruin her.

No, he would have ruined her, broken her heart, and driven her to sobs the way he managed to do to every woman who had warmed his bed.

John may be a blackguard, but the roots of Dashiell’s family tree ran straight down to the devil in hell. Vivienne needed saving, but not by him.

It hurt his heart to know he had caused her pain, to feel bad about herself. He just wanted a chance to tell her that she was beautiful and loving and innocent. There was no excuse for his behavior. He knew better, but she didn’t. She was absolved. Nothing happened that couldn’t be undone.

The temperature was dropping as night came on. The gold and orange tones of sunset fired behind the haze of coal smoke, hovering like a blanket above the chimney pots. Dashiell dug into his waistcoat pocket and fished out his silver pocket watch. Five o’clock. Again he scanned Gertrude’s windows, checking for any signs of life, any jiggle or swish of a curtain. The place remained as still and silent as a mausoleum.

He rose, dusted off his clothes, now powdered with dirt the wind had whipped off the pavement, and started toward Hyde Park. He rubbed against the current of shopkeepers, clerks, and laborers crowding the sidewalks and packing the lines of omnibuses, flowing back to the east side of the city.

As he neared the park, he veered off and headed for the heart of Mayfair.

He stopped at a tall white confectionary cake of a house with five stories of bowed balconies overlooking Green Park. A black iron railing ran across the entrance. An old-fashioned torch hung beside the door, illuminating a shiny name plate. There were no initials or names etched on the brass—just a simple pair of angel wings.

He pulled the bell, and the door cracked open. A bald-headed flashman with a thick neck and drooping eyelids gazed down at Dashiell. He had a silver toothpick sticking out the side of his lips.

“I’ve come to see Angelica Fontaine.” Dashiell plucked a pound from his pocket and tossed the coin at the man. He caught it in his large palm, bowed his polished head, and stepped aside to let Dashiell slip through, then quickly shut the door behind him.

The pungent, sweet scent of fresh gardenias and perfume assaulted his nose. A pianoforte trilled an ornamented French Baroque piece, weaving a ribbon of plinking notes through the laughter and chatter.

“Welcome to heaven,” came a soft, feminine voice from above.

Dashiell jerked his head up. A petite lady with silken pale skin balanced above him on a tightrope strung across the entrance hall. She was nude but for a tinsel halo and gold bow and arrow. She flashed him an impish smile and dipped her slippered foot to give his cheek a tiny caress. Stationed below her, a trio of gentlemen with pudgy bodies and ruddy complexions that bespoke of easy, country-bumpkin living roared at her little trick.

Beyond the tightrope walker, a gold-painted stairwell zigzagged up the back of the house. Ladies clad in flowing white silk led men across the balconies to the legendary chambers. The names promised adventure:
The
Wilds
of
America
,
Silk
Road
Splendor
, and
African
Safari
.

Dashiell didn’t find his pleasure in brothels. Yet tonight he could easily devour two or three of these comely women to sate his hunger. Vivienne was undoing him. He couldn’t have her, and he couldn’t leave her alone. It was a nasty cycle that needed to end. Tonight.

But first he had to take care of a little business. A small way to apologize to Vivienne.

“Lord Dashiell, I saw you come in.”

He spun around. Angelica Fontaine stood behind him in her outlandish heavenly splendor. She must have been watching through a peephole. He wouldn’t have missed the madam in her wings of gold-painted ostrich feathers and matching turban. She was a tiny, delicate woman, but her long neck and rigid posture created the illusion of height. Black kohl lined the lids of her hooded, narrow eyes, giving them an oriental slant. Her mouth was a thin, shapeless line over which she had painted generous red lips.

“I feel shunned by you,” she said, sauntering toward him. “I entertain princes and dukes, but not the elusive Lord Dashiell.” Her tight mouth smiled. “Come, you needn’t bother with these common girls.”

Wrapping her small, strong fingers around his elbow, the famous madam guided him under the tightrope to the other side of the hall.

“The India parlor, for my more discriminating guests,” she said, opening the door to a room paneled in rich, shiny oak inlaid with carvings of leaves and vines. The lulling, warm gold of candlelight reflected on the surface of the etched crystal decanters, chandeliers, and gold-framed mirrors. Languid women draped the furniture, creating a rather artistic composition of bare skin and flowing silk.

“These girls are what I call my reserve,” she said. “Are they not the most sublime creatures you have ever seen?”

The women gazed at him from under their lashes, sultry smiles curving their lips. Lovely, yet not one could rival Vivienne. “Yes,” he lied, as his grandfather’s words echoed in his head:
You
can
pretend.

“Best pretty girls in world,” declared a hefty man with long whiskers and a husky Russian accent. He squeezed the pocket-sized redhead sitting on his lap. She squealed and wiggled on his thigh.

“Thank you, your Highness.” Fontaine curtsied. “The Prince is visiting from Russia,” she said in a breezy, casual manner, but then peeked at Dashiell to see if he were duly impressed.

She gestured toward an empty, red brocade sofa. “Please.” Scanning the room, she selected four ladies with a slight nod of her head. The beauties slinked over and curled like silky felines about his body.

Fontaine cleared her voice and spread her arms in a grand, dramatic gesture. “Welcome to Seven Heavens,” she boomed, as if she were on stage and not three feet away. “You know only good boys go to heaven. Have you been a good boy, Lord Dashiell?”

He winced. All he wanted was some information and a little niggle, not some hackneyed Drury Lane production. “I just want to talk.”

“Of course you do, my lord. A little intellectual stimulation can heighten the physical pleasure.” She stroked the curls of a dark-eyed, sullen beauty whose chin rested on Dashiell’s arm. “Lydia is a poetess. Recite one of your little poems for our guest, darling.”

Oh
God, no
. Dashiell detested poetry. “That won’t be necessary.”

Tears welled in Lydia’s eyes, as if his refusal had mortally wounded her fragile soul.

“Oh, very well,” he gave in.

She rose, clasped her hands to her heart, and rolled her eyes heavenward.

Oh rose, thy splendor in bloom hath ceased,

The snows of winter doth increase,

Thy red petals hath fallen upon the white,

As my heart doth bleed at the sight…

And so continued the torrid, romantic comparison of her heart to the withering of a rose in winter and other verses of such banal cliché. Dashiell felt his belly tighten. Wasn’t this supposed to be easy?

When Lydia finally bowed her head, signaling the end of the literary butchery, the Russian Prince, who, at most, probably understood a fifth of her words, violently clapped his fat hands. “Pretty girl. Pretty girl.”

“Very emotive,” Dashiell managed, and then turned back to the madam. “What I meant was might I have a word with you? It’s in regard to a private matter.”

“First, tell me which lady teases your fancy,” she replied.

So, she wasn’t going to budge until he put money on the line. The ladies pressed their breasts against him, giving him smoldering eyes and pouty lips. His tense muscles eased under their caressing hands. Oh yes, a little more of this would be the perfect medicine for his taut nerves.

“I can’t seem to make up my mind,” he teased, making the feather-fingered angels massage a little deeper in his muscles. They tried so hard, he felt terrible having to pick one over another. That didn’t seem gentlemanly. And besides, when he would finally mosey out of here in the early morning, he didn’t want to be capable of a single damn thought. He wanted every sexual impulse drained from his body.