Ways to Be Wicked (4 page)

The storm of laughter finally stuttered out into scattered hiccups, then ended in a deep, satisfied sigh. The hackney driver wiped his eyes, which Sylvie found excessive.

“Oh, all right, Miss. I’ll go ’ome poor today, but ’tis your lucky day, as I’m in th’ mood fer a lark. Come aboard then.”

Chapter Four

T
HE DURATION OF THE COACH
ride merely seemed to emphasize the societal gulf between Grosvenor Square and whatever the White Lily might turn out to be. Through her coach window, Sylvie watched the scenery gradually become darker, narrower, dirtier: well-dressed Englishmen and -women promenading through grand, tailored squares gave way to labyrinthine streets lined with vendors, filthy children crowding them the way mosqui-toes swarmed over split fruit. She saw several clearly inebriated people propped against walls, heads lolling.

The great lurid flower swinging on a board over the White Lily’s entrance didn’t clarify matters for her. Was it a brothel? A tavern? It looked rather like a theater. She doubted a brothel would advertise itself quite so proudly, but then considered she might know less of big cities than she originally thought, and perhaps London was a little different after all.

Perhaps it was a theater. Which would be tremendously ironic, given that nearly her entire life to date had been spent in theaters of some sort, and that she had worked her entire life to avoid spending her days in the sort of theater she suspected this one was.

“Go on, then,” the hackney driver coaxed, grinning, still maddeningly amused.

Sylvie was not accustomed to being considered a comedienne. She gave her head a toss and pushed on the door of the White Lily; it gave, and she took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It was empty of people and dim at the moment, but an impression of exaggerated luxury rushed at her, an almost caricature of classicism. Red, the ruby sort, was the predominant theme, seen in the plush carpet and upholstery and the great heavy curtain of velvet that swept across the front of the stage and pooled on the floor of it. There was a pianoforte centered before the stage and room for more musicians on either side of it. Rows of seats sloped upward from where she stood; above them, balconies and tiers traced with gilt and ornate carved plaster gleamed dully, and a few boxes featuring curtains to ensure the occupant’s anonymity swelled out from the walls nearest the stage. She tilted her head back and noticed an enormous chandelier—twined brass supporting row upon row of dangling crystal—presided over the subtly domed ceiling. And when she lowered her gaze once again, slowly, she noticed that not a single inch of the walls was bare: murals of gods and goddesses clad—well, “clad” was perhaps too emphatic a word for what they were— diaphanously, chasing and being chased by each other, as was the wont of gods and goddesses.

The place was unabashedly, cheerfully lurid; it was a celebration of sex, the way a man no doubt saw it— necessary, pleasurable, a game perhaps—and made no apologies for it.

“Couldn’t stay away, Mademoiselle?” The soft words came from the left of her.

She jumped and turned to find Tom Shaughnessy.

And for a moment she couldn’t speak, for the man’s face was a fresh shock. It seemed the sort of face that one would always find something new in, its assemblage of angles and shadows. His pale eyes were bright in the dim theater.

When he bent that broad-shouldered frame into a low bow so elegant it nearly mocked, it occurred to her that she hadn’t yet spoken, had only gaped, which no doubt gratified the man’s vanity.

“Says yer a relation, Tommy.” The hackney driver had poked his head in the door. “Ye’ve a lot of bloody relations, if ye’ ask me. All female. But there must ’ave been a male in the lot somewhere t’ ’ave spawned all these females.”

Tom laughed. “What can I say, Mick? The Shaughnessys must be exceptionally...fertile.”

Mick, the hackney driver, laughed with him. Sylvie suppressed a gusty sigh. If one more man took amusement at her expense, she might very well need to throw something.

And then, and this was the last thing she expected him to say, Tom turned to her and asked, “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”

Sylvie was weary and light-headed and wondered what sort of compensation he intended to extract from her in exchange for paying the hackney driver, and hoped he would say and do nothing untoward, as she wasn’t certain she had it in her to employ her knitting needle again when his face was sheer poetry. But no. Though her stomach was empty, it twisted, rebelling at the idea of more food of

the sort she’d been given at the coaching inn today.

“No,” she said. “I am not hungry, that is. Thank you.”

“You ate very little at the inn.”

He’d been watching her? Perhaps as aware of her as she’d been aware of him? Difficult to know with one such as he. In her profession, she had known flirts very nearly as skillful as Tom Shaughnessy. It was a skill they shared generously with nearly every woman, a means to keep it honed.

“Perhaps I require very little, Mr. Shaughnessy.”

This made him smile slowly, his way of turning her words into an innuendo. “Oh, I doubt that, Mademoiselle. I expect you require rather a good deal.”

She felt the corners of her mouth start to tug up in response, an accomplished flirt’s reflexive response to another accomplished flirt; it couldn’t quite completely become a smile, however. She was too weary. Too wary. Too angry at herself for leaving herself no other options.

And, though she hated to confess it even to herself. . . simply, quietly afraid.

The hackney driver cleared his throat.

Tom swiveled in his direction. “Oh, of course, Mick. My apologies.” Tom fished about in his pockets, came up with a handful of coins, pressed them on Mick. The hackney driver disappeared for a moment and reappeared with her trunk, which he deposited unceremoniously on the floor of the theater.
Clunk.

“Thank you for looking after her, Mick,” he said somberly. “I...have her now.”

Mick tipped his hat to the two of them; the door swung shut, and suddenly all was silence.

I have her now,
Sylvie thought.

“Now...I believe you are now in my debt. Shall we discuss how you should repay me?”

Her heart began to trip. She was as interested in the dance of flirtation as in the art of ballet, but her nerves were frayed, and at the moment she felt like a mouse between the paws of a well-dressed cat. He wasn’t to know it, however.

“I believe we both know I am now in your debt, Mr. Shaughnessy. Please speak your intent.”

Eyebrows up, amused. “All right, then. First, please tell me your name.”

“Miss Sylvie...” she hesitated. And then she remembered the butler’s warning about the prosecution of those pretending to be Lady Grantham’s sister, and considered that someone in London might very well know her name, and thought it best she remain, on the whole anonymous. “Cha...Chapeau.”

“Miss Sylvie Chapeau.” He repeated flatly.

She nodded weakly.

“You are Miss Sylvie...Hat.” He said it almost warningly, as if giving her an opportunity to choose a less ridiculous name.

“Yes,” she said, chin hiked.

He nodded thoughtfully. “And you are from...”

“Paris.”

“And you are in London because...” he coaxed.

“Because I wished to see it.” She wasn’t anxious to watch his handsome face become as cynical as the hackney driver’s or the butler’s when she told him she was, in fact, the sister of Lady Grantham.

He laughed. “Oh, and we were doing so
well
with honesty, Miss Chapeau! Allow me to rephrase my question. Whom precisely are you running from?”

“I am not running from anyone.” It was an effort to keep her voice even.

“Running
to,
then,” he corrected blithely.

“I believe we were discussing repayment, Mr. Shaughnessy, and not the reasons for my journey.” Temper licked at the edges of her words.

“Perhaps I require information about you as payment of your debt.”

This seemed reasonable if ungentlemanly, so she remained silent, and began to seethe a little.

“Your English seems improved,” he mused suddenly.

“Perhaps because I am no longer...”
Nervous,
she thought, though she reconsidered the wisdom of confessing this to him.

“Running from someone?” he supplied helpfully.

She turned on her heel and made as if to leave. He didn’t yet know she had no other place to go, and she suspected he would attempt to lure her back, but it did seem an excellent way to make her point.

“Quite right,” he said hurriedly, laughter in his voice. “My apologies for indulging again my curiosity, Miss Chapeau. Very well, I shall ask only questions relevant to your debt. How long do you intend to stay in our fair city?”

She hesitated. “I do not know.”

“And do you have any money at all?”

She paused again.

“It’s really a simple question, Miss Chapeau.” He was beginning to sound impatient. “A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will answer it. You are either here at the White Lily because you have no money and no other options, or because you found me

so irresistible that—”

“No,” she said quickly.

He grinned, the bloody man. He’d all but cornered her into an admission of her greatest vulnerability: She was currently penniless. It would be wise not to assume she was cleverer than he, despite his too-bright smile and too-bright clothes and this lurid theater. His friends included hackney drivers and highwaymen and only God knew whom else.

“You’ve no money,” he repeated musingly, regarding her unblinkingly. His eyes were so clear it seemed a little unfair, almost, that she could not read the thoughts passing behind them.

The man did have disconcertingly broad shoulders, she noticed absently.

“And do you need a place to stay?”

At this, after another brief hesitation, she merely nodded.

“Do you think you can dance, Miss Chapeau?”

“Of course.” The answer was startled from her.

“I didn’t mean the waltz.”

“Nor did I.”

He was quiet a moment, and then, peculiarly, Sylvie thought she saw something like regret darken, just briefly, his face. “How fortunate for you, then, that I, as the owner of this theater, am in a position to employ and lodge you. Your timing could not be better. Come with me.”

He pivoted and walked to the back of the theater. Sylvie looked toward the door through which she had entered the White Lily. Outside, it was daylight and an unfamiliar London.

She turned her head back to the theater, where Tom Shaughnessy’s broad back and shining head were rapidly moving away from her.

She knew which void she preferred to leap into.

Sylvie scrambled to follow him.

Tom stopped before a door and tapped on it. Behind it she heard giggles and the sound of rustling fabric, familiar sounds to her; the sounds any roomful of women was bound to make, unless they were in mourning. And even then, she’d known a few—

The door swung open to reveal a startlingly lovely woman.

“Good day, Mr. Shaughnessy,” she said breathlessly. She dropped a curtsy.

“Good day, Lizzie. May we come in? Are the lot of you fully clothed?” He asked it playfully.

“Would it matter, Mr. Shaughnessy?” She lowered her head and peered up at him through her lashes.

He gave a laugh, which in fact sounded more polite than flirtatious to Sylvie’s ears. And he waited, with a sort of calm authority. As he was the man in charge, after all, the girl stepped aside to allow Tom in, Sylvie behind him.

Sylvie found herself plunged into a veritable nest of girls. The room was windowless but aglow from dozens of small lamps and littered with mirrors and dressing tables and well-worn wooden chairs, and it smelled powerfully, provocatively of female—powder and a stew of different perfumes and soap and stage makeup, kohl and rouge. It was a scent familiar to Sylvie, as she’d dressed in rooms just like this before performances many times before.

A glance over the girls. One was dark-haired and sloe-eyed, another had marble-fair skin and silver-blond hair, another had cheeks warm as hothouse peaches. Each unique but for one shared characteristic: they were all lushly rounded—arms, breasts, hips—in the ways that mattered to men. Sylvie could imagine the flocks of men arriving at the theater night after night for the pleasure of watching—or pursuing, if they had the money to do the pursuing properly—their favorite.

She wondered if Tom Shaughnessy partook of these young ladies as one would a box of sweets.

To a woman, the box of sweets returned her perusal.

“
What
is
that?
” One of the lovelies murmured under her breath, her eyes fixed on Sylvie. A chorus of hushed giggles followed.

Tom either didn’t hear the question, or pretended not to hear it, and Sylvie would have wagered the latter.

“Good afternoon. Molly, Rose, Lizzie, Jenny, Sally...”

Sylvie lost track of all the English names and studied the girls instead. Pretty, all of them, some startlingly so.

“Allow me to introduce Miss Sylvie Chapeau, ladies. She will be joining you onstage. Please make her welcome. I trust you will extend the appropriate hospitality? As you know, The General expects you for rehearsal very shortly. I apologize that I cannot remain longer, Miss Chapeau, to assist with your orientation, but I have an important engagement.”

Sylvie glanced at Tom Shaughnessy; his eyes were glinting in fiendish merriment. The silent message in them was:
See if a knitting needle will help you now.

And then he gave a crisp bow and left Sylvie to the mercy of the girls.

All those pretty eyes, brown and blue and gray, continued to stare at her. Sylvie had seen more hospitality reflected in a row of icicles.

“It’s a chicken,” the one called Molly mused thoughtfully, answering her own earlier question. “Plucked. With great staring eyes.”

Giggles, musical as strummed harp strings and malevolent as cholera, rustled through the room.

Chin up, Sylvie let the giggles wash over her. For her, jealousy was like ants at a picnic...a tiny annoyance that merely confirmed the grandness of the main event.

And Sylvie, of course, was accustomed to being considered the main event.

“Does it ’urt very much?” Molly asked when the giggles had faded away, her brow furrowed in sympathy. Chestnut ringlets, eyes fluffy-lashed spheres of blue, lips a pillow of pink—that was Molly.