Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (3 page)

Hurrah!

“Quite the poet,” Lucia muttered. She read the note to Wilbert. “It seems Lady Lavery has been keeping a dangerous secret, Wilbert.”

“You don’t think—”

“What else?” Lucia interrupted. “You were right. It’s the Viking, back again. He was here, whilst we were here. If I were a lady, I should be quite frightened right now.”

“Maybe I can be frightened enough for the both of us,” Wilbert muttered. He made to pick up his pipe.

Lucia laid her hand on his. “I wouldn’t,” she said. “Madmen have been known to leave nasty surprises in pipes.” She withdrew her handkerchief, carefully wrapped the pipe in it, and then laid it
upon
the floor. She lifted her boot and crushed it down upon the pipe. Wilbert watched with that look of fascination that Lucia secretly adored. It was a look that said he had never seen a woman like her, that he could never love another woman, that if she willed it he would have her right there. Color rose in her cheeks. She tried to ignore it but failed.

She knelt down and unwrapped the handkerchief. She took her tweezers from her pockets, and picked up a crystalline rock. “Opium,” she said. She laid it down and picked up a smaller rock. “And cyanide. It seems the Viking wanted you to fall asleep and never wake up, my dear Wilbert.”

“Blast it!” Wilbert cried, kicking the bench. “What infernal man are we dealing with?”

“We must talk to Lady Lavery,” Lucia said. “We must find out what this poorly written poem means.”

“What about the pipe?” Wilbert said.

“Pick it up, would you? It may come in useful.”

Wilbert bent down and did as she asked. Lucia watched as he knelt down. His muscular legs showed through his britches, and for a wild moment Lucia imagined what it would be like to touch those legs. She remembered once, four years ago, when they had been chasing the Coffin Killer (named for his habit of burying people alive). They had hidden in an unburied coffin together for a half-hour, their bodies pressed together, their breath hot on each other, peering through their peep-holes. His hand had brushed her breast, by accident, and Lucia had felt something her mind ran from even as her body ran toward. That feeling came back to her, and for a moment she wished Wilbert would kiss her again.

But the case was on. Emotion had to be cast aside. They left the garden and went to find Lady Lavery.

*****

Wilbert had lost count of how many times Lucia had saved his life. She never seemed to think it was a big thing. She never mentioned it afterwards. And if he ever dared to thank her for it, she brushed it aside as though it was of no concern. He tied the pipe in the handkerchief, wrapped it once more, and put it in his jacket pocket. Here he was, an officer of Scotland Yard, with cyanide and opium on his person! How his superiors would scream! Lucia was watching him. Her eyes were wide and bright, even in the torchlight—bright as only a case could make them. Wilbert thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her lips were slightly parted. Wilbert thought – madly – that she was getting ready for a kiss.

But then she turned and left the garden. Wilbert followed, and soon they were in the drawing-room, where Lady Lavery sat, an ignored novel open before her.

“My lady,” Wilbert said. Lucia melted into the shadows. Wilbert did the “emotional parts” (as Lucia called them) because Lucia claimed she was stunted in that way. “I fear there this something you need to tell us, my lady,” Wilbert went on, standing a respectful distance from her. “It concerns the Viking, Malcolm Radfoot.” She flinched at the name. “You know him, do you not, my lady? You do not need to be afraid. I have no desire to make this secret known. I just need to confirm that we are correct.” He paused, and then went on: “I need to confirm that he is, in fact, your son.”

“How dare you!” Lady Lavery cried, rising from her seat. “What scandal do you bring into my home! What lies! I am a quiet widow! Yes, yes, a quiet widow and nothing more! How dare you imply otherwise! I have never heard such nonsense, such slander, in my life! Oh, oh, if my husband were alive! He would tell you where to get off!”

Wilbert waited for her outburst to end, and then produced the poem. He read it, ignoring her looks of anguish, and then handed her the note so that she could read it for herself. “He has been on the grounds,” Wilbert said. “I believe the only reason he killed the boy, in fact, was to get us all on the grounds together. Me, because I almost caught him last time. You, because you are his mother. And Lucia because she is the best detective in England. Oh, it would make quite an article, would it not? Quite a return for the Viking? My lady, we need answers.”

“He’s taught himself to read and write,” Lady Lavery muttered at length.

“I beg your pardon?” Wilbert said, moving closer.

“I’ll tell you the story,” Lady Lavery said. “But you must promise to keep it a secret, forever!”

“I promise.”

Lady Lavery turned to Lucia. “And you.”

Lucia shrugged. “You have my word.”

“Very well,” Lady Lavery said. She slumped down
upon
the chair. “I was a
young
woman, not much older than a girl, when it happened. He was a brutish man. He—he fouled my honor, you understand? I did not wish it, but he did it anyway. He was the son of a very wealthy man, a merchant, but not a highborn man. He kept me prisoner – as his ‘guest’ – in Scotland in the middle of nowhere to nine months, as the child grew within me. It was horrid. It will sound abhorrent, but I wanted nothing so much as to lose the child. It was a parasite, feeding off me, a reminder of this evil man. When the baby was born, he took it from me and commanded me to leave and never return. I admit I did not fight. I let him have the child, and I returned to England where I met Lord Lavery. To the day he died, he never knew of the vicious affair.

“But sixteen years later, the merchant’s son sent me a letter. It detailed what he had done to my son. I can hardly speak of it. He left the boy in complete darkness, without companionship, for the first twelve years of his life. In a locked room, the child waited, not once hearing the sound of a voice, or feeling the touch of human skin. And then, on his twelfth birthday, he began to teach the boy violence. He brought him live animals and—and you can imagine what he did! You see, Malcom is not like other men. He was born in the dark. He knows only violence. He has taught himself to read and write, but he is not a person like me or you. His father died, thank God, but the son lives on. I suspect—” Her voice dropped lower. Wilbert was forced to lean in. “I suspect that Malcolm killed his father.”

Lady Lavery rubbed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks. “So you see,” she said, “that we are dealing with a wild man.”

“I see,” Wilbert said. “Then we must ask ourselves a question. How does one catch a wild man?”

“Oh, that is simple,” Lucia said, stepping into the light. “There is one thing that wild things cannot resist. Bait.”

“Bait?” Lady Lavery said softly.

“Yes, my lady,” Lucia said, without a hint of emotion in her voice. “You must present yourself as bait to your son. There is no other choice. Come, Wilbert, it is time for us to leave. He will not strike until the morrow.”

“You would leave me!” Lady Lavery cried.

“Lucia—”

She waved a hand, cutting short his protestation. “We will wait in the woods on the outskirts of the estate,” Lucia said. “One does not fear
sleeping
in the mud, does one?”

“One does not,” Wilbert muttered.

“And we will watch,” Lucia said. “When he approaches…” She clapped her hands. “The game is won!”

Wilbert leaned into Lucia and whispered into her ear: “Is this likely to result in the lady’s death?”

“Not if we are fast,” Lucia said. “Only if we are slow. I can assure you one thing. We will catch him if we follow this plan.” Lucia did something strange then; she hugged him. Then she leaned back. “Now, leave us, Wilbert. Lady Lavery and I must discuss something in private.”

Wilbert, bemused, left the room.

But he trusted Lucia. She had never left him down before.

She was, after all, the smart one.

*****

They returned to London, slept, and in the morning took a carriage back to the Lavery homestead. They arrived at the woods at about ten o’clock. Wilbert fear that the lady may already be dead. Perhaps the Viking had been lying in his note. But the Viking proved as honest as ever, and the lady admitted them with a wan smile. “I merely wished to make sure you were well, my lady,” Wilbert said. “We cannot stay here, now. We must retreat to the woods, and wait.”

She nodded, seeming not to care either way.

Wilbert and Lucia crouched down in the woods, looking toward the house. They were as out of sight as it was possible to see, almost buried in leaves. Lucia was close to Wilbert’s arm. He could feel her there. Her presence seemed to reach out and bring him in, drawing him toward her. There was something magnetic in Lucia, something dangerous. One found it impossible to ignore her aura. At length, Wilbert turned and regarded her, and saw that she was regarding him.

“Is there something wrong?” Wilbert said.

“No,” Lucia said. “Not wrong, precisely. I am at war with myself; that is the truth of it. I know I should be focusing on the case, and yet I cannot stop looking at you, Wilbert.”

Wilbert blushed. He felt as though he had just been complemented by a goddess. A foolish thought, of course; Lucia was flesh and bone and imperfections and perfections. But his feeling was sincere. “Why is that?” Wilbert said, his voice naught more than a croak.

“Perhaps I am looking back over our time together. We’ve had some adventures, have we not? I am looking back
to
that time with the cat, thought. Do you remember when you nursed that cat back to health?”

Wilbert remembered all too well. His landlord despised cats, so Wilbert had had to hide the poor thing in his coat every time he left the house with it. Weeks of watching it sip weakly at his saucer of milk, chew halfheartedly on a little piece of bird. Try to jump
upon
the chair—fall back to the hard floorboards with a squeal. And eventually, the triumphant moment of its recovery. He saw it outside Lucia’s house at times, full of life and strong. It didn’t seem to recall him, but that was okay.

“I remember,” he said. “What of it?”

“Why did you do it?”

Wilbert found this to be a strange question. “Why should I
not
do it? The cat was sick. It would have died.”

“You see?” Lucia said. “You did it without thinking. That is what you are saying.”

“Yes,” Wilbert said, “I suppose it is.”

“That is the difference between you and me. You do kind things without thinking. For me, it would take a momentous effort to even consider saving that cat.” She paused, bit her lip, and then went on: “Wilbert, why do you love me? There is little love
in
me. Just coldness and hardness. Why not find a nice frumpy woman who will love you deeply and pack your pipe for you?”

Lucia had never spoken so plainly to him. He found himself unable to answer for a time. He choked, coughed, laughed at his inability to act decisively, like a man. There was color in her cheeks, bright red, and her eyes were wide and awake. “Because—” It was the truth. Blast it, why was the truth so hard to speak. “Because,” he said, at length, “that woman would not be you.”

He locked his eyes on her, forcing himself not to look away. He prayed that this was the moment when she would finally see him, finally return his affection. He reached up and touched her cheek. It was soft and gaunt and perfect. She touched his hand, held it against her face. “Wilbert, dear,” she said. “I want to ask you something.”

“Ask me.”

He felt half-asleep. His hand was on her face. Fire rose within him. His manhood stiffened.

“Would you think me a complete whore if I asked you to make love to me right here?”

*****

The words had escaped her, had thrust themselves out of her. She expected to regret them, to quickly mutter an apology. But she did not. Instead, she just watched him, watched the effects of her words rippled through his muscular, supine body. His tilted his head at her and inspected her, tracing his eyes from her forehead down to her boots. She liked when he looked at her like that; it made her feel like prey. But not helpless, not afraid. Just alive.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“I am,” she replied, quickly. His hand was almost twice as big as hers. She gripped his fingers. “Why shouldn’t we?”

He stared at the earth. “I just—I have never—”

“Neither have I,” she said. “Oh, Wilbert, I thought
you
had – you know how men are – but I am glad that you haven’t. It will be nice, won’t it, if we do it together for the first time?”

“Here? Now?”

“Yes, yes.”

The more they talked about it, the more Lucia wanted it to happen. A metamorphosis had come over her. All because of that look in his eyes, that slightly boyish, speculative, half-afraid look. He didn’t say anything else. He rolled over so they were close, and then kissed her
upon
the lips. She opened her mouth and thrust her tongue toward him. His tongue caught hers and they danced. His hands were on her, grabbing her breasts, moving down her body to her womanhood.