Wicked Little Secrets (12 page)

“Do you suppose Mrs. Jenkinson has letters from him with accounts of how he spanked her? I know I would pay most dearly to keep that silent.”

“The problem is that we don’t know because we haven’t seen what is in the envelopes that your aunt receives. We can’t go to Mrs. Jenkinson and say that we know Jeremiah spanked women. Because that might have nothing to do with the blackmail—or if it even is blackmail. Then we would be giving her more material to use against your aunt and no evidence for us to prosecute her.”

“I have to get in Aunt Gertrude’s room and find the letters, which is almost impossible since she never leaves home except to go to church.”

“And if she had any sense she would burn them.” He paused. “Did you say you found this diary in a secret compartment?”

“Yes, I knew to look there because his desk is like my father’s at home.”

“So, Bertis hid his perversion, because if he were found out, he would be ridiculed in society and lose his stature as a judge. No doubt he didn’t expect to drop dead on Holborn eating a pigeon pie. He probably always assumed he had time to destroy the diary.” Dashiell slapped the book against his palm, “How many women do you think are in this book? Fifteen? How come none of them came forward before?”

“Because he held something over them!”

“Most likely. Did Jeremiah keep copies of
The
Proceedings
for the years he was a judge?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Dammit, I’ll have to go down to Old Bailey and check the records.”

“No, no, not you. You have done enough. This is not your problem.”

“Vivienne, you can’t go to Old Bailey alone,” he said in a weary voice. “It’s a dangerous place for an unescorted lady. The trials are on, people milling about drunk and bloodthirsty to see hangings.”

“But I’m not supposed to sp—”

“—speak to me,” Dashiell finished. “Yes, I know. So why don’t you ask John to escort you?” He asked it innocently, yet sarcasm boiled beneath his words. “Perhaps he would like to beat up a ruffian for you too?”

“You know I can’t,” she cried. “You-you saw what he is like.”

Dashiell opened his hands, palms up. “I’m your Charon between the worlds, love. You want to put yourself in the most dangerous places in London, then you’re going have to get on my boat and let me carry you or, preferably, let me handle it
alone
.”

She groaned and flung up her arm. “I’ll tell Aunt Gertrude I’m going to a lecture or something. But after that, we can never meet again. This time, I mean it.”

***

The next morning, Dashiell’s eyes shot open, his heart racing. The dim, coal-laden light of early morning peeked through the tops of his windows.

Vivienne had left him last evening after making him agree to “accidently” run into her at two in the afternoon by the gates of Old Bailey. After they parted, Dashiell’s emotions were crumpled in a tight wad and his nerves were jumpy with pent-up energy. He downed two glasses of brandy but couldn’t quench his thirst. Her kiss, her taste, her smell had unleashed a primal hunger and now he couldn’t get her out of his mind… or his sex.

He had resolved to go out and find some green-eyed, raven-haired beauty to relieve him of his frustration, so that when he met Vivienne today, every ounce of that pesky desire would be drained from his body. Yet the hearth coals in his chamber had wafted their drowsy lulling heat, and his down mattress felt so comforting, and the Italian Vivienne had stared seductively at him from where he had temporarily propped her by his bed. He shut his eyes, determined to nap for a few minutes, but the soothing tide of excellent brandy swept him back to the feel of Vivienne’s lips, and he sank into dream land, where his rational mind couldn’t venture and stop him from feeling her bare, silky smooth skin below his as he moved inside her. How she shut those glittery eyes, and her thighs trembled as she cried out in pleasure.

Then somewhere in the early morning, the sensual dream had turned to nightmare, and he had woken up with a start, his heart pounding, his body bathed in sweat.
Oh
god, I’ve bedded her!
Terror like the twenty-four hours he’d spent as a hostage down in a dried well in Persia assailed him. He had to run, to get away from here. Then he saw Italian Vivienne still staring at him at her place by his bed. It was a dream, he realized, gasping air as if he had just finished running a race. A dream.

He fumbled for the pocket watch he left on the table and squinted, trying to make out the hands.

Six twenty. Bloody hell. He was usually just wandering home at this ungodly hour.

He groaned, kicked off the covers, and sat on the edge of his bed. “This is your fault,” he accused the Italian Vivienne. He pulled his banyan off an obliging stone goddess in the corner and headed down to the water closet.

It was after nine when his grandfather sauntered home. Dashiell, now barbered and wearing a somber gray coat and trousers, was preoccupied with hanging Italian Vivienne. Not an easy project, as it meant finding space on his already cluttered wall, and he didn’t trust his servants to move his precious archeological babies. He stood high on a ladder, holding a brass picture hook, the painting dangling from a wire. Below, Rivers and two footmen were debating how much more to the left the painting needed to move.

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to marry Vivienne and put her in your bed?” his grandfather quipped, surveying the slabs of hieroglyphics, broken pieces of frescoes and friezes, and various paintings set about the floor awaiting new homes.

The footmen’s lips trembled with repressed laughter.

“Pardon us,” Dashiell barked at the servants, then regretted it. Vivienne was fraying his nerves. The men scurried out, their faces tensed with worry. After all, if Dashiell let them go, they would have to find work in a “normal” home, which might actually keep account of the amount of wine they drank, insist on no relations with female servants, and demand that they serve meals other than breakfast.

“This does not look at all like Vivienne,” Dashiell said, stepping down from the ladder. “Stop talking like that. And don’t go about telling everyone that I love her.”

“Love isn’t something to be ashamed of,” the earl stated. “It’s the subject of art and poetry and all those damn plays Shakespeare foisted on us. How is it the French get that amusing Molière chap and we get Shakespeare?”

“This is not a contemplation of art or theater,” Dashiell said. “If you say that I love her again, I’m not reading any more parliamentary bills or writing speeches for you. Nor will I talk sense into the next jealous lover who wants to put a bullet through your head. Have I made myself clear?”

The earl shrugged, showing no indication of concern. Instead, he walked over to the commode, poured a brandy, and swished it around in his mouth. “So why were you talking with Teakesbury last night?” he asked. “I didn’t think you two were friends.”

“We’re not.” Dashiell hesitated, choosing his next words carefully, as his grandfather had a propensity to hear things that Dashiell had never uttered. “We were just talking about Teakesbury’s law business. I didn’t know he had such an extensive career. He even worked on some cases that were brought before Judge Bertis.” Dashiell tried to sound humdrum, as if he could have as easily talked about the Queen’s Cabinet appointments or the price of wheat.

“Is that so?” his grandfather asked, not taking his grandson’s bait.

So Dashiell needed to be more direct. “What do you remember about Bertis?”

“Is this because you’re in love with his niece?”

“Look, I warned you. The next man who wants to fight you, I will just give him my gun.”

The earl examined the refraction of sunlight on his glass. “He was an arse. The day we moved in, I passed him in the square. I bowed and introduced myself, being the neighborly sort. I told him about the fire at our Berkeley Square home, and how we were going to live here for a while until we could rebuild. He just said, ‘I’m glad it’s of a temporary nature.’ No ‘Welcome to the square,’ or ‘Have you met my wife?’ Hell, it was a least a month after I arrived that I first saw Gertrude. The poor girl looked nearly as worn out and broken as she does today.”

“Did you ever hear of Judge Bertis being involved with other women in some perhaps deviant manner—say, like spanking.”

The earl’s eyes widened. “Jeremiah was a spanker?”

Dashiell held up his palm. “I didn’t say that. I just asked if you knew of him involved in suspect behavior with perhaps equally suspect women.”

The earl began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. His nostrils flared with his hard breathing. “I
knew
something wasn’t right with him by the way he treated Trudie.”

“What do you mean? Did he abuse her? Beat her?”

“I would say he didn’t touch her. I felt sorry for her. She was unhappy in bed.”

Dashiell studied his grandfather. In his pale gray eyes, he saw something, a tender emotion. “Tell me, why didn’t you move back to Berkeley Square after you rebuilt our home there? Have you and Gertrude—”

“I’ve never touched Gertrude!” his grandfather shouted, as if Dashiell had questioned his honor as a gentleman. “It’s nice here, you know.” The earl tugged at his cravat, his eyes averted from his grandson’s. “Quiet. Look, there is something you need to know,” the earl said finally, with a deep reverence in his voice.

For a moment, Dashiell thought he was going to impart some terrible family secret involving Gertrude. That she was his lost sister or something. Dashiell wouldn’t be surprised. He always suspected he was related to half of England.

“Son, I’m a seer into the feminine soul.”

“A what?” Dashiell should have known his grandfather was incapable of a serious discussion. He could gain greater insight conversing with a hyena about the reasons for the collapse of the Roman Empire.

“It’s a family gift,” his grandfather admitted. “You’ve got it too.”

Dashiell rubbed his forehead. “Well then, I should make myself a little sign and go sell my clairvoyant powers in Covent Garden. I’m sure my man of business will be thrilled with the additional income.”

“Wait,” the earl said. “What makes you think Jeremiah was a spanker?”

“I just heard a rumor, that is all.” Dashiell shrugged, trying to appear casual. “If you didn’t know, it probably can’t be true. In any case, I wouldn’t go about saying anything.”

“What kind of gentleman do you think I am? Trudie’s a damn good woman, better than Jeremiah ever deserved. I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing her.”

Dashiell’s mouth hung open. He waited, thinking that perhaps his grandfather might see something a tad ironic in his proclamation. After several seconds, Dashiell gave up and asked the obvious. “Then why do you expose yourself in front of her and her Bible friends?”

His grandfather jerked his head and blinked. “That’s not embarrassing.”

“Dear God,” Dashiell muttered, hoping that either his grandmother or mother had lied about the paternity of their firstborn son.

***

After breakfast, Vivienne asked Harold to go out and buy a copy of
The
Times
as she was unable to leave the square. The man must have traveled to Portsmouth to buy the newspaper, for he didn’t return until after lunch. She took the paper to her chamber, spread out the pages on her bedcovers, and searched for any lecture within the vicinity of Old Bailey that her aunt would allow her to attend. At one-thirty, the Royal Academy had a discussion concerning the composition in da Vinci’s works.

She opened her trunk and sorted through all her books and notebooks until she located the booklet she wanted: “A Tour of Roman and Medieval London.” Guilt weighted her belly as she used the sparse visitors’ map to trace a route from the Royal Academy to Old Bailey. She had promised John she wouldn’t talk to Dashiell again, and already she had kissed the scoundrel, and now she was planning a clandestine meeting.

She touched her lips, letting her mind drift back to the memory of his kiss. John’s kisses were pleasant, but Dashiell’s touch was like velvet on fire. Soft, sensual, and burning all the way to her feminine core. She had turned and turned through the night, burrowing her head under the pillow and the covers, but the memory of the feel of his body, the taste of brandy on his tongue, and the way her breasts tingled when he pressed his chest against her kept sneaking into her brain, refusing to go away.

This
is
the
very
last
time
, she promised herself, stifling a yawn. She couldn’t let Dashiell delve deeper into her family’s problems… or her heart.

She heard a quiet tap on the door and quickly shoved the pamphlet back into her trunk. “Yes?” she called.

Miss Banks slipped into the chamber. “Pardon me, Miss, but Mr. Vandergrift has come.”

Shame knotted her insides. “P-please tell him I’ll be right there.” She took a deep breath.
Oh
God, give me strength
, she prayed and then realized God probably wasn’t too happy with her.

***

From the stairwell, Vivienne could hear Garth growling and her aunt saying, “Come here, you naughty, naughty dog. Let go of Mr. Vandergrift’s cuff this instant.” She entered the parlor to find Garth being reined in by Aunt Gertrude’s chair. “Just you behave yourself!” her aunt admonished him. Unfazed, the hound peeked his wrinkled face around the upholstery and snarled at John.

“I just had these trousers tailored,” her fiancé muttered, brushing fur from his legs. When he saw Vivienne, he stopped what he was doing, rushed forward, and squeezed her hands. “Mr. Montag has invited us to attend the opera in their box tonight,” he said. “They desire to meet you.”

Tonight? Why tonight?
“How wonderful,” she mustered and forced a smile. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about without the addition of meeting the man who had the power to make or destroy her father with a flourish of his pen.

“Wear your hair up with those curls falling from the top,” he said, lifting a strand of her hair. “Just like the first night I saw you. I had never seen a more lovely vision. My fiancée must be the most beautiful lady there tonight.”