Wicked Little Secrets (37 page)

“A half-groat,” a man called out.

“Stop encouraging him!” Fontaine said.

“Just a half-groat!” Dashiell cried in outrage. “For this luscious body?” He trailed his hand down his chest to his balls. “Come now, you don’t grasp the sheer enormity of my love. Sixpence, at least.”

“A shilling!”

“One pound for you to get down, immediately,” Teakesbury spat.

The flashman was now pushing clients aside as he made for the stairs. Dashiell took to the air again.

“Let go of that rope!” Fontaine screamed at the workmen on the top balcony. Suddenly, Dashiell was falling. He seized the top of the picture frame and, for a second, hung suspended.

A terrible crack resounded and then the ripping of fabric. “Oh, hell.” The flimsy structure fell apart where it had been poorly nailed together at the edges. Dashiell landed feet-first on the sofa. He waved his arms frantically to keep his balance, but tumbled over the back, toppling the sofa.

He opened his eyes, but all he saw was black, or perhaps the wig was blocking his vision. The audience’s howling laughter sounded like an oncoming train in his ear.

Save
Vivienne!

He struggled to his feet. His left wing dropped to the floor. “I’m a fallen angel, boys,” he stammered and staggered backward, hitting the velvet background. Little crystal stars twinkled and jingled around him.

“Two pounds,” a guest said.

“Three pounds,” upped another.

“I love you.”

“Frederick, come here immediately!” Fontaine ordered. The bird circled onto the madam’s shoulder. “Your little show is over, Lord Dashiell. It’s all been very amusing, but it’s time for your closing act, and I assure you that you will never be able to cross my threshold again.”

“Four pounds!” a man bellowed.

Fontaine and the flashman were closing in on Dashiell; he was trapped against the midnight sky façade. He’d always hoped that once in his life he would do something truly heroic: pistols in both hands, a powerful steed between his legs, reins in his teeth as he flew across an Indian plain, firing at a gang of Thugs, or quietly slitting the throat of a notorious Turkish assassin with a yatagan in some dark alley. He never imagined that his most noble deed would happen while wearing a dress and dancing seductively before drunken men. But he would sacrifice his pride and life to set Vivienne free. He reached into his robe for his revolver.

“A thousand pounds to take her as my mistress,” a female voice called out.

A shiver ran down his spine.
Vivienne!

Silence thundered through the hall. Everyone spun around to the direction of the woman’s voice. The crowd edged back, and there standing among them in a tawdry red wig and an ill-fitting lavender gown with gaudy bead roses was Vivienne. In her hands, she gripped a painting of herself.

“Son, I found her!” his grandfather called out. “She was wearing a wig.”

Twenty-two

Where did his brilliant lady find the masterpiece?

“My love,” Dashiell began in a strained voice, holding up his hand. “Let’s just talk about this in private.” With the masterpiece in Vivienne’s possession, Fontaine couldn’t do a thing to her. He just had to edge his love to the door and out the building.

“Of course,” she cried, using those frightening sugary tones. “It’s so improper to discuss the details of such an arrangement in public.” Her gaze landed on the solicitor. “Mr. Teakesbury, would you be so kind as to represent my interests?”

“Aren’t you clever?” Fontaine hissed. The muscles around her jaw twitched.

Vivienne tilted her head. “Thank you,” she replied tartly. “Oh, and Mama Dellie, I searched everywhere for you, and here you are lurking in the corner. You have been so helpful in this whole affair. Would you care to join us, as I believe you had a stake in this deal?”

“My sweetness, I would prefer it if we just walked out of here.” Dashiell gave Vivienne a hot
don’t even think about what you’re thinking about
look. “Right now.”

“Come, let us all meet in the parlor,” Vivienne said pleasantly, as if he’d said nothing at all, but then she glanced over her shoulder, gazing at him from under her lovely lashes. “You too, my little butter biscuit.”

He’d worked so hard to save her and now he might have to kill her.

“Wait, where’s the masterpiece of flesh?” a man shouted. “I didn’t come here to see some molly in a dress.”

Fontaine’s lips tightened. “Girls, talk to the gentlemen. There will be no auction this evening.”

Fontaine ignored the cries of protest and stepped down from the stage, her face stony and drawn.

Dashiell followed the party toward the parlor. Outside the door, he snatched his grandfather’s elbow. “I need a Scotland Yard officer!”

“The boys are working on it.”

“God dammit.” He slipped his hand through his silken robe and felt the hard heel of his gun. “If anything happens to me tonight, give all my antiquities to Vivienne. Except for the erotic Roman ones. You can keep those.”

***

“Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth,” Vivienne whispered, waiting for them to assemble in the parlor. Her body was shaking, but she didn’t feel scared, only angry, and not a consuming boiling rage either, but a quickening of her mind, ready for anything.

Teakesbury strolled in, paused for a moment to take in his surroundings, and then chose to sit on a sofa. He reached into his coat, fished out a cigar, and lit it on a lamp on the side table. Behind the haze of smoke, his features were relaxed, and a bemused smile adorned his face as if he were watching a theatrical production. Jenkinson followed behind the solicitor, her lips pursed, her frame slightly bent, and her fists balled, ready to fight.

Meanwhile, Dashiell stalked up to Vivienne, his silken robe flowing about him, his remaining wing flopping behind his arm, and laid a strong possessive hand on her shoulder. He leaned close, his lips near her ear. “I swear, I love you with all my being, but if we make it out of here alive, I might throttle you.”

Vivienne clung to the “I love you with all my being” part, letting those words strengthen her resolve and discarding the less than helpful ones.

Fontaine was the last to enter. She closed the door behind her, her small eyes hot and nostrils pinched. Frederick edged back and forth on her shoulder. “For God’s sake, take those ridiculous wigs off,” she muttered as she crossed to the mantel, her gold wings creating a draft in her wake.

“Gladly.” Dashiell ripped his off and tossed it onto the sofa opposite the one assumed by Teakesbury. The bird flew down and began plucking the black strands.

“I’ve grown rather fond of mine,” Vivienne said coolly, refusing to be cowed by the woman. “Queen Elizabeth had red hair.”

“I don’t care if Queen Elizabeth had fern green hair,” Fontaine spat. “Just give me the painting, and you can have this ridiculous, faithless coxcomb of yours. But when he leaves you—and he will—don’t you dare come crying about your sad papa and debtor’s prison again.”

“Very good then, let us go, my dear,” Dashiell said, tugging Vivienne’s arm.

But Vivienne wasn’t leaving yet. In her hands, she held a portrait of herself painted by her father whom she had never known. Her identity, her life, everything she thought she knew about herself was wrapped up in this theft and blackmail. For the last twenty years, she had been unwittingly floating along on lies and secrets. Now she wanted the truth.

She didn’t budge an inch, even when Dashiell hissed under his breath. “Vivienne, dear, give her the painting and let me get you out of here.”

“Wot do you mean, letting ’er go,” Jenkinson cried. “Where’s my money?”

“For God’s sake, just shut your mouth, Adele!” Fontaine exploded.

“Ah, you must be Mrs. Jenkinson.” Teakesbury sucked from his cigar, then released a curling stream of smoke. “You live in St. Giles with your son Willie and a massive lover named Sidney.”

“Aye, so wot of it?” Jenkinson retorted, as she plucked a porcelain peacock from the mantel and shoved it down the front of her dress.

“And I would advise you to be careful,” Teakesbury said. “You wouldn’t want to go back to Australia, would you?”

“How do you know about me and Australia?”

“I’m Robert Teakesbury, solicitor,” he replied, as smooth as satin, but Vivienne noticed how tightly his hand gripped his cane. Between his whitened knuckles glittered the tiny glass eyes of a golden creature. He was playing at something, but she couldn’t figure out what.

“I’ve had my clerks watch you,” he continued. “You stole sketches and paintings from my client, Mrs. Lawrence James.”

“Wot? I didn’t steal nothing.” She yanked the peacock from her gown. “And I—I was just looking at this. Pretty like.”

“Come now.” Teakesbury gave Dashiell a patronizing, knowing smile as if they were privy to a private joke. “We spoke about Jenkinson just yesterday.”

“I don’t remember,” Dashiell said slowly, though Vivienne knew how his steel trap of a mind worked and wagered he remembered every detail of that conversation. “Remind me.”

The solicitor complied. “Scotland Yard determined that the Lawrence James robbery was carried out by a strong person or persons, capable of moving about an enormous cabinet. Meanwhile, as Mrs. James walked her child in the park, she was entertained, or should I say detained, by a little man in a blue coat. A few days later, a painting of young Mrs. Jenkinson here surfaced in a pawn shop near the Strand.”

“I didn’t steal nothing!” Adele spat.

“Mr. Teakesbury, you are so clever,” Vivienne said, flashing him the dimpled smile that Dashiell had once instructed her to use in order to get what she wanted. She watched the solicitor shift in his seat under her spell.

She stepped forward, but Dashiell immediately reined her back to him. “Oh, stop.” She giggled and jerked herself free. “I just want to see Mr. Teakesbury’s sweet little cane. Do keep this, my dearest.” She thrust the painting at Dashiell and then crossed to the sofa. She put her hand on top of Mr. Teakesbury’s and watched his Adam’s apple lift, the bemused glow on his face faltering for a moment.

“Isn’t this simply darling!” she cried and drew the cane from the solicitor’s grasp. She waved the creature’s face at Dashiell. “It’s an Indian mongoose. Such a precious creature.”

She grinned at Teakesbury again, dimples in full force, refusing to acknowledge Dashiell’s scowl and the way he jerked his head toward the door.

“I adore how they eat mean old scorpions and venomous cobras.” Vivienne wrinkled her nose. “I think it’s a shame that Cleopatra didn’t have one.” The man reached for his stick, but she kept it in her hand, turning to Jenkinson. “So, Mr. Teakesbury, you’re saying that Mrs. Jenkinson stole the masterpieces, but that doesn’t explain how they ended up in the secret room behind Mrs. Fontaine’s closet.”

The wealthy madam’s eyes narrowed, the heat of her hatred burrowing into Vivienne’s skin.

“What?” Dashiell asked.

“There’s a secret latch on the mirrored wall in Mrs. Fontaine’s closet, my sugar cake,” Vivienne explained to him. “I found it after you left, else I would have told you.”

His mouth opened, his face assuming a slack-jawed look. “I—I love you. I’m taking you to the Valley of the Kings. We’re going to find some tombs.”

The bird looked up from dining on its wig. “I love you,” it repeated.

“Damn you, Frederick, be quiet!” its owner yelled.

Head low, the shamed bird edged to the other side of the sofa, emitted a low sad “I love you” and then flew over to land on Dashiell’s shoulder.

“Hey there, lad,” Dashiell said, scratching the side of Frederick’s face. “I know how you feel about me.”

“I believe we were trying to ascertain how Mrs. Fontaine ended up with the masterpieces,” Vivienne said.

Fontaine didn’t answer, but kept her eyes fixed on Vivienne, except for a flicker in Teakesbury’s direction. When she finally spoke, her words came out haughty and cold. “Adele brought the paintings to me. She knew I would pay to keep them safe. And naturally, someone in my position can’t simply go to Scotland Yard.”

“Well, that explains everything perfectly,” Vivienne said. “Clearly, Mrs. Jenkinson has spent the last fifteen years in Australia studying art and readily knew which pieces were the most valuable, stole them, and then sold them to you.”

“Huh?” Jenkinson said. “I ain’t studied no art!”

“Are you suggesting that I asked Adele to steal those paintings?” Fontaine laughed, slow and measured, from deep in her throat. She approached the other madam.

Although a good three inches taller than Fontaine, Jenkinson cowered, slumping her shoulders.

“Adele, answer very, very carefully.” Fontaine enunciated each syllable with crystalline precision. “Did I tell you about the painting in Lord Dashiell’s hands? Did I ask you to steal it?”

“No. I didn’t steal nothin’! I didn’t know nothin’ about no masterpieces.”

Fontaine’s lips curled in triumph.

“But you told her about the sketches of my aunt.” Vivienne wagged the mongoose before Fontaine’s face. “And you knew Mrs. Jenkinson desperately wanted revenge on my uncle. And you knew she would be willing to steal to get it. Why shouldn’t she conveniently pick up a painting or two after she had gone to all the trouble of breaking in?” She shook her head. “It’s just I find it exceedingly odd that she would know to take the most valuable pieces.”

“I didn’t take no masterpieces!” Jenkinson spat. Her mouth hung open, exposing the stubs of her black teeth. “Just some paintings lying about. One of me that Lawrence did when I was pretty. And I was pretty. Prettier than you.” She pointed her finger at Vivienne and then at the painting in Dashiell’s possession. “But I didn’t take that there painting. I never saw it before today.”

“She’s a lying thief,” Teakesbury said, tapping the glowing red end of his cigar on the rim of a pewter bowl. “I deal with these low sorts every day. Lord Dashiell, your Miss Taylor shouldn’t be exposed to this degradation any longer. You take her along and let me handle the situation. And, miss, do return my cane.”

Vivienne didn’t comply, but pressed the mongoose to her bosom. She arched a brow at Dashiell. “Well, I actually believe Jenkinson when she says she didn’t take no masterpieces.”