Wicked Little Secrets (30 page)

***

Dashiell and his grandfather walked back to Wickerly Square. The clouds had thickened, blocking the moon. The streetlights, blanketed in fog, burned in big glowing orbs.

“I guess I could move back to Berkeley Square,” his grandfather suggested. “Seeing how you’re going to need a nursery.”

“Don’t do that. You’ll want to be near Gertrude.”

The earl lapsed into silence.

“I’ll figure out accommodations and what not after I make Vivienne and me officially husband and wife,” Dashiell said, the word
wife
warming his heart.

He would make up for leaving her like he had done. For his terrible words. He would explain that he was scared because he loved her so much.

In his bedchamber, he collapsed onto his bed and pulled up the wool blanket. His muscles felt loose and heavy against the mattress. He turned his head and buried his nose in the down of his pillow, where her scent still lingered. His mind started to ease, and he closed his eyes, sinking into a dream where he and Vivienne were walking hand-in-hand at the Acropolis when the waning sunlight bathed the old ruins in gold light.

“I love you,” she said, her voice low and soft.

“I love you too,” he whispered in his dream. “My beautiful wife.”

Seventeen

The stark morning light crept through the crack between the closed curtains. Vivienne lay on her side in bed, the scent of Dashiell lingering on her body. The coals had burned to black ash several hours before and now the room was cold, but she didn’t move to lift the covers that were wrinkled at her feet. Her brain felt thick and numb.

Obviously, their sacred Bazulo vow didn’t extend to lifelong commitment after succumbing to unbridled passion and having one party beg the other to take her virtue.

In a few hours, she would board that train bound for Birmingham where she would have to tell her father what had happened. “Hallo, dear Papa! I fell in love with England’s worst rake, Lord Dashiell, and John caught me in his embrace, so I got jilted. Then I went crying to Dashiell and tried to trap him into marriage, but he left me too. And I still love him. I can’t stop this ache in my heart, like a knife sliced it open and the bleeding won’t stop. But I guess my feelings really don’t matter, because now you’re going to debtor’s prison.”

And getting tossed from the ladies’ seminary ended any glorious dreams of becoming a governess. She was useless. A bad seed.

She turned and gazed at the bottle of
Dr. Oliver’s Elixir for Tranquil Slumber and Serene Mind
that Miss Banks had left the previous evening. The sunlight illuminated the brown glass, making it glow like a garnet. At the very bottom of the label it read “Opium, Alcohol, Foxglove, Valerian, Henbane, and Dr. Oliver’s secret ingredients. A mere drop brings hours of blissful stupor.”

“Opium very good,” the oriental lady had said. “It make you forget.”

And Vivienne knew that if she had enough opium she would forget… forever. She would never have to see Dashiell again or remember how perfect she felt in his arms, never have to go home and tell her father what had happened.

She reached for the bottle.

There was a tap at the door.

“Yes,” Vivienne said, shoving the medicine back. Miss Banks entered, holding a tray with a steaming tea cup and plate of toast.

“Oh, Saint Mary, you do look a fright,” she exclaimed, rattling the dishes.

“I—I didn’t sleep,” Vivienne said. “I was… was worried about Aunt Gertrude.” Lies just rolled off her tongue so easily now. There was no hope for her. She was beyond redemption.

“Oh, now, don’t you be a’worryin’ that you’ve got to go home and tell your dear father that you were a’sinnin’ with Lord Dashiell and now your poor papa is going to prison.” She shoved the teacup under Vivienne’s nose. “Have a bit of nice tea. I made it special for you. Added a drop or two of the mistress’s
Dobb’s Effervescing Citrate of Caffeine
.”

Vivienne sipped the liquid and released a series of violent coughs.

“Very good, miss. Now, let’s get you dressed. The mistress wants you to come down so the ladies can pray for your soul,” the housekeeper said in her cheery lilt.

Vivienne slid off her covers and wobbled as her feet hit the floor. Her leg muscles were sore and goosy.

Miss Banks fussed with Vivienne’s corset and petticoats. She dressed her in the plain green crepe dress Vivienne had worn the day she arrived to London so full of those proverbial good intentions. She was going to be the perfect, loving wife. She was going to save her family and her father would adore her. For once, she was going to be the favorite daughter.

Now she was on the road to hell.

“Oh, miss, what will become of us?” the housekeeper said. “We’ll be out in the street, beggin’ for our keep. I just know it. Those vermin won’t stop until they good and destroy the missus. But don’t you fret about us. No, no, you go home to your father and sisters. The Lord will take care of us just like he did Job,” Miss Banks said, reaching for Vivienne’s hair and wrenching it into a tight bun.

Through the window, Vivienne could hear the muffled rattle of carriages arriving for the Bible lesson.

“Oh, there are the ladies now, and my scones are still in the oven.” Miss Banks hurried out.

Vivienne crossed the room, drew open the curtains, and narrowed her eyes in the light. Below, a line of black, boxy town carriages stopped before her aunt’s home. Footmen held open the doors and helped down ladies in lacy black caps.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face those righteous women with her sins still fresh on her skin.

On the bedside table, the bottle of elixir glinted in the sunlight.

It
make
you
forget.

She snatched up the medicine and unscrewed the cap. The floral odor of opium and Dr. Oliver’s secret ingredients tickled her nose.

Come
rest,
the oriental woman had said.

Yes, rest. Sweet, sweet rest.

Vivienne tilted the bottle. The liquid touched her tongue.

Then she saw a speck of blue in her periphery. She turned to look out the window. Coming into the square, swinging his shoulders with his jaunty carefree gait, was the man in the blue coat. In his hand, he held an envelope.

“That little rat!” she hissed. He was going to interrupt her aunt’s Bible lessons with his ugly demands!

A vicious rage tore through her. An idea formed in her head—so vile, the thought sent a shiver through her. Below the haze of tiredness clotting her brain, she knew that perhaps this plan wasn’t a good idea. That she needed to sleep and then she could think more clearly. But time for that luxury had run out… just as Dashiell had.

I
will
save
my
family! I will if it’s the only thing I can do.

She would be like Cleopatra, except without fatal cobra bites, using her beauty and wiles to save her beloved Egypt. She would be like Joan of Arc, except without execution and French sainthood, raising an army to defeat the English. She would be like Queen Elizabeth, except without virginity, fending off the Spanish armada and leading her country to prosperity.

Vivienne dropped the bottle, letting the contents leak onto the carpet, ran to the clothespress, pulled out her boots, and jammed her feet inside. She tossed her green cloak over her shoulders, grabbed her reticule, and then flew out of her chamber and down the stairs.

Mrs. Lacey waited in the entrance hall, holding a pair of opera glasses with an aqua porcelain handle.

“I’m ready for Lord Baswiche today,” she said and held the lenses to her face, magnifying her eyes into two blue orbs. She gazed up at Vivienne. “Good heavens, look at you! Did I miss the wedding?” Her elfin features softened. “Isn’t the first time wonderful? I remember Mr. Lacey and I had left the church and were walking to my grandmother’s house for dinner, but he just couldn’t wait to have me.” She broke into giggles. “I tried to explain to the watch outside Hyde Park that we were newlyweds. But they arrested Mr. Lacey anyway.”

“I’m sorry, but there will be no wedding,” Vivienne said and sailed out the door.

Willie was coming around the line of carriages when she planted herself in front of him. He jerked to a stop and blinked. “You!” he exclaimed.

Vivienne didn’t reply. In a fast motion, she seized his envelope.

“You’re not supposin’ to ’ave that!” He swiped at her hand, but she whirled around, turning her back to him.

She ripped open the envelope and plucked out the contents. She unfolded a single sheet of thin paper. On the page was a clumsy tracing of a nude woman, sitting on a chair with one knee drawn up. Her face was turned at a quarter angle, gazing out a sunlit window.

Above her, written in misshaped letters was “
No
julry
this
time.
”

Willie watched her face, a sneerlike smile hovering on his mouth. “Pretty, ain’t it?” He reached for the paper, but she crumpled the sketch in her hand. “’Ey, give me that back.”

She ignored him and started walking.

He jumped after her, grabbing her elbow. “What do you think you’re playing at? You—”

She yanked her arm away from his grasp. “I’m going to give your mother her payment.”

“’Ow’s that?”

“Me. I’m giving her me.”

***

Dashiell opened his eyes. The pale light of morning flowed in from his window.
He
was
going
to
marry
Vivienne.
The very thought that hours before had petrified him, driving him into the night, now caused a quiet peace in his heart, like the unruffled water on a lake at daybreak.

He nestled deeper into his blanket, wanting to linger in this tranquility a few moments longer. Soon, he had drifted back to sleep, and the sweet dreams of his future life with his beloved Vivienne.

***

Vivienne stood outside Jenkinson’s brothel. The bright sound of children’s laughter rang in the air as they explored the pockets of the drunks sprawled unconscious about the pavement. Mothers clustered about the doorsteps, holding their crying babies and looking at Vivienne with tired eyes.

“Tell Mrs. Jenkinson to meet me outside,” Vivienne told Willie.

He scratched the side of his nose. “She won’t like it,” he said as he turned to go inside his home.

Vivienne scanned the rotting building. The window that had been broken during her last visit was now boarded up with rough scraps of wood. Her life had come to this sad place, when just a week before she was deciding on which gown to wear to her wedding. She felt tears come back. She blinked them away and steeled her spine. She couldn’t feel sorry for herself when she had done herself in. She grimaced to think that she had tried to trap Dashiell into marriage, even if it was one of the sweetest moments of her life.

The brothel door opened, and Jenkinson stepped out, hugging a tatty gray wool shawl about her shoulders. Her tanned face was rough and slightly swollen as if she had just woken up. Suspicion tensed her eyes. “Wot the ’ell are you doing back ’ere?” she demanded.

Vivienne’s heart beat like a trapped moth. “I’m Gertrude Bertis’s niece. My… my aunt hasn’t any more money. You won’t get any more from her. She is dying,” Vivienne lied. Hot dizziness filled her head, and she had to pause before she could continue. “I’m… I’m offering m-myself for you to sell to Mrs. Fontaine on the condition that you give me all the sketches.”

“Well, aren’t you the dutiful niece? A right li’l martyr, you are.” Jenkinson squeezed her eyes and looked hard at Vivienne. “Where’s your gentleman friend?”

“I don’t know.” Vivienne swayed on her feet. For a moment, she thought she might collapse on the street.

Jenkinson’s mouth cracked into a knowing smirk. “Got wot he wanted and left, did he?”

Vivienne couldn’t answer; her heart hurt to hear Jenkinson so bluntly sum up the situation. She gazed down at the dirt trapped in the cracks in the pavers, wishing she could seep through them and disappear. “Do we have a bargain or not?” she snapped.

Jenkinson considered for a moment, her tongue licking the corner of her mouth. “Sidney!” she yelled over her shoulder.

The giant peered out from an open window at the top of the brothel. He was shirtless. Red sores and sprigs of coarse black hair covered his massive chest and belly. “What?” he grunted in his deep voice.

“Get dressed and bring them sketches of Gertrude, you damned useless bugger,” she screamed, waking several of the sleeping drunks. “We’re going on a li’l stroll.”

Sidney grunted again and disappeared into the dark interior.

“And you”—Jenkinson grasped one of Vivienne’s locks that had escaped its pins. She wound the curl tightly around her finger—“you better not be lyin’ to me this time.” She pulled Vivienne’s hair, tilting her head toward her own. “’Cause if you are, your aunt might find her pretty li’l niece floating in the Thames. You understand?”

Sidney ambled out, wearing an eggplant-colored coat that he couldn’t button over his belly. He wore no waistcoat, and his shirt hung sloppily about the waist of his trousers. Greasy spikes of hair poked out from under his hat. Jenkinson snatched away the folded pages he held in his fat paw.

“Is that all of them?” Vivienne said, looking at the sketches. There only appeared to be five. She expected more for all the misery Jenkinson had caused her aunt.

“Did I need any more?” The madam shrugged. “A respectable lady will pay a great deal to save her honor. But I didn’t want her ugly jewelry anymore. It don’t bring nothin’.” She let the pages fall from her hand and float down to the muddy street.

Vivienne knelt and grabbed them before the wind could blow the papers away.

Eighteen

With Sidney’s hand clamped around her upper arm like a human shackle and Jenkinson holding Vivienne’s opposite elbow with her thin rough fingers, they started toward Mayfair.