Wicked Little Secrets (38 page)

Dashiell hiked a corresponding brow, their gazes latched together.

“Because they weren’t there to take,” Dashiell whispered as the revelation dawned in his brain.
My
God, Vivvie’s brilliant!
He continued, the words rolling out, “Teakesbury had already put them in a safe place that only his client Angelica Fontaine would find. Presumably, her closet.”

Teakesbury broke into laughter, clutching his belly.

“Wot?” Jenkinson spat.

“You were set up,” Vivienne explained to the simpleton madam. “They knew you were going to steal those sketches and whatever paintings were about. The whole time, you were being manipulated to take the blame for a greater theft.”

Jenkinson whipped around to Fontaine. “You took the best paintings for yourself and didn’t leave me nothin’ but rubbish.” She released a low growl and snatched up the porcelain peacock again, jamming it into her dress. “You did me wrong every time, Annie.”

Tears of mirth streamed down Teakesbury’s face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I say, Dashiell, you’ve found a truly remarkable girl, but I have no ties with Angelica Fontaine beyond coming here tonight on your behalf.”

“Such carefully chosen words, sir,” Vivienne countered. “You said, ‘I have no ties with Angelica Fontaine,’” she repeated, slightly puckering her beautiful lips that Dashiell wanted to kiss. “Adele, answer very, very carefully: is Angelica Fontaine Annie’s real name?”

The lowly madam tossed her head in a derisive snort as she shoved a beaded box from a side table into her now bursting bodice. “It’s plain Anne Whitcomb. She ain’t French. She was always putting on airs she don’t ’ave. Her ma was an Irish laundress and whore.”

“And, according to your clerk, Albert,” Dashiell told Teakesbury, “Anne Whitcomb is very much your client.”

Teakesbury turned silent. He reached for his cane but it wasn’t there.

“You said Fontaine holds secrets on all the officials in London,” Dashiell reminded him. “Why do I suspect she has been whispering them in your ears all these years? She gets to move without impunity into Mayfair, and you move from being a lowly solicitor fresh from India to one of the most powerful solicitors in the city.”

“You all are going to Newgate,” Vivienne said.

“My little cherub, you are swimming in waters over your head.” Fontaine squeezed her kohl-lined eyes to mere slits. “I suggest you back down now, or I will make your life hell on earth.”

Dashiell watched as a dead calm washed over Vivienne’s features, but her eyes were glittery wild things.

“You had to make everyone suffer because James scorned you,” she said, gripping the head of Teakesbury’s cane to her chest. “You had to steal from James’s widow because James left you for her. You knew Mrs. Jenkinson would use those sketches to hurt my aunt, but you didn’t care. You hated my aunt because James loved her and not you.”

“You watch yourself,” Fontaine hissed. Dashiell slipped his hand inside his robe, extracting his revolver and concealing it behind the portrait of Vivienne. He edged to the left, to get a clear shot of the madam.

“And you were going to disgrace me, because James was proud of me.” Vivienne’s voice began breaking up. “Because I am…” She choked, tears swelling in her eyes. “Because I am a masterpiece, and you are nothing. Nothing!” she screamed like her lungs were coming out.

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way!
You
are nothing, not me!” Fontaine swiped the air. “I made all this by myself.”

“You made this on the backs of other women,” Vivienne retorted. “And I’m taking it all away.”

“Just you try.” Fontaine’s hand swept toward the folds at the side of her skirt.

“Vivienne!” Dashiell shouted as a gleam of light flashed in his eye. He dropped the painting, revealing his aimed gun. A few feet away, Vivienne held a long shiny blade that extended from the mongoose’s neck under Fontaine’s chin. The remainder of the sword cane had fallen on the carpet. Fontaine hadn’t had time to fully retrieve her muff pistol. The ivory heel protruded from her dress, the barrel aimed at her own leg.

“Hand me the gun,” Vivienne ordered her.

She’s amazing!

Fontaine kept her fingers around the trigger.

“Joan of Arc found her sword on the altar in the church of Saint Catherine,” Vivienne said. “She swore she would never use it to kill anyone.”

“You are the most peculiar, irritating girl ever,” Fontaine spat. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not Joan of Arc.” Vivienne pressed the blade into Fontaine’s skin, and a drop of blood rolled down the shiny steel. “Hand me the gun.”

Fontaine released the weapon, letting it thud on the rug.

The room was silent except for the rise of chatter from the adjoining room.

Keeping her blade trained on the madam, Vivienne kicked the pistol and then reached down, lifting it. “Dashiell, my butter biscuit, um… now what do we do?”

“One moment.” He backed to the door, switching his aim between Teakesbury and Mrs. Jenkinson, who had stopped mid-theft, clutching a statue of a boy with grapes. He cracked the parlor door and called out, “Grandfather!”

The earl hurried in, his palms up. “Son, the boys couldn’t round up an officer that Fontaine ain’t got something on.”

The powerful madam released a purring laugh.

“What!” Dashiell shouted, his mind already doing the calculations: two guns, a sword, seventy men, and ten feet to the door.

“Well, the boys’ spirits were awfully low, seeing how they couldn’t help you,” his grandfather continued. “So they stopped into the club for a dram and found him.”

“Him?”

A handsome young man with a prominent forehead and sporting a tiny mustache and whiskers strolled into the parlor.

“Prince Albert!” Vivienne gasped and curtsied, all the while keeping her sword pointed at Fontaine.

“Lord Dashiell, I heard that you were in quite a predicament,” the prince said. His gaze raked Dashiell up and down. “I say, nice dress.”

***

The prince sent his footman for the Chief Magistrate. Vivienne was willing to wait for the man to arrive, but Dashiell was beside himself to get her out of the brothel. He ripped off his robe and remaining wing, then gave the painting, sword cane, and Fontaine’s pistol to the prince. Using his own gun, he corralled Teakesbury, Fontaine, and Jenkinson onto a sofa and handed the weapon to his grandfather, instructing him to stand guard. The revolver dangled from the earl’s fingers in the general direction of the suspects, as his grandfather was more interested in making friends with the hissing Frederick. “Be a nice birdie, be a nice birdie. I always wanted a birdie.”

Vivienne curtsied to the Prince and Dashiell gave his farewells to the others. “I’ll see everyone in court.” He swung Vivienne up into his arms. “Hang on, my love,” he whispered. Her muscles were quavering and jellylike, and a cold perspiration broke over her skin. They were free. She pressed her lips into the warm skin under his ear, ignoring the shocked stares they received as Dashiell, coatless and shoeless, carried a woman in a red wig and garish gown out of the brothel and into the street.

Under a streetlamp, his carriage waited. His groom and a footman, lounging on the carriage perch, threw down their cards and tankards of whatever they were drinking and leaped to the ground.

The groom opened the door and then yanked down the steps. “Do you still want me to go to—”

“Yes,” Dashiell said.

Vivienne stepped inside and slid onto the cushion. Dashiell leaned across her lap, his shoulder brushing against her breasts as he yanked down the window blind. He grabbed a brown wool blanket from the floor. While he was tucking it about her neck, she stole a kiss. He groaned as he pulled the wig from her head and buried his face in her falling hair.

“Don’t leave me tonight,” she whispered.

His mouth sought hers. She savored the taste of him, his scent, his feel, everything she thought she had lost.

“I’m never leaving you again,” he said. “I’m going to be a human burr, stuck to you wherever you go. Just try to stay away from bawdy houses in the future.”

The carriage lurched forward.

“Are you taking me to a flat?” she murmured, imagining their bodies entwined on a soft bed. Knowing again that amazing sensation of him moving inside of her, and then drifting off into lovely sleep in his arms, leaving this dreadful day far behind.

“A flat?” He chuckled softly in her ear and then nibbled its edge.

She became nervous. Didn’t men keep their mistresses in rented rooms? For a woman who’d almost sold herself into prostitution and spent an entire day in a brothel, she really should know these things.

“Well, you’re my mistress, remember?” she joked to cover her uncertainty. “Isn’t that where I should put you?”

His lips brushed the side of her jaw. “Don’t you worry, my dear, I have the perfect love nest for us.” His mouth covered hers again.

An anxious thought pricked her conscience and she pulled back, taking his face between her hands. His eyes were wild and glassy, and his hoarse breath warmed her face. “Are you truly going to take care of my family?” she asked.

“Your sisters, your father, your aunt, your mother, any yet unknown half-siblings, whoever and whatever.”

She gazed down. “It’s all so ugly, isn’t it?”

“Hush now.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face and threaded it behind her ear. “Maybe to the more proper and dull-minded, but not to me. I come from a deep, colorful line of scoundrels, rakes, and blackguards. My family tree is a wonder of the forest. It grows in directions no other flora does.”

She laughed as she ran her hand down his face, gingerly brushing her fingers over his bruised jaw.

“I love the sound of your laughter,” he said, his lips caressing her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin. “I love your brilliant mind. I love the fanciful way you see the world. I love your courage. I love you. You’re perfect.”

She shivered. “Say it again.” She moved closer until her lips barely touched his.

“You’re perfect.”

“No, the ‘I love you’ part.”

“I love you.”

She closed her eyes and released herself to his kiss. The chatter of pedestrians, the neighing of horses, and the rattle of the wheels sounded miles away as they held each other. Lost in a lull of Dashiell’s embrace, she didn’t know how much time had passed when the carriage stopped.

“We’re here,” Dashiell murmured. “Our little love nest.”

She gave him a shy smile. “Is it bad of me to say that I can’t wait to touch you? To feel that amazing, quivering release when you caress me
down
there
, to see the beautiful light in your eyes when you’re moving inside me.”

He raised a quizzical brow. “I don’t know if they allow that here.”

The groom opened the door, and in the dim gaslight, Vivienne could make out the brick and stained glass arched windows of Wesley Congregational Chapel.

“What? No!” She pushed against Dashiell’s biceps. “I can’t go in here. You’re mad.”

“Mr. Charles is waiting for you.” Dashiell gestured to the minister who was hurrying across the courtyard, dressed in a dark evening robe. A brass lantern dangled from his hand.

“You told him!” Her face heated.

“I had your aunt send him a letter.” He kissed her fingers. “Everyone was worried about you.”

The minister, whom Vivienne had known since she was a tiny girl, gazed over Dashiell’s shoulder. She was ashamed that he should see her this way. The edges of his eyes were crinkled with sympathy. “Come, my poor child,” he said. “We have a warm chamber prepared for you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Charles,” she cried. “But I don’t think I should stay here. So much has happened—”

“Nonsense, you need to rest,” he insisted, beckoning her out of the carriage. “You’re going to have a very busy day tomorrow.”

Dashiell drew her close, pretending to arrange the blanket about her. In truth, he wanted to feel her again, one last time, before he carried her inside the church.

“First, I must have a word with her, alone,” he told Mr. Charles. “In the chapel.”

Dashiell lifted her in his arms again and trailed the minister up the steps. Inside, the chapel was dim except for the glow of the minister’s lantern. Dashiell set her on the front pew and draped the blanket over her shoulders.

“Brother Lord Dashiell, I expect you know your duty,” Mr. Charles said, as he placed the lantern below the altar. Its flame cast an orb of light that reflected off the gold and rich mahogany on the apse and stained glass windows. “I’ll check back in a few minutes to make sure you do.” He nipped through a side door to his connected home.

Then they were alone. Dashiell was nervous. He didn’t know what to say. He had been too busy running about town, getting beaten up, sneaking into a brothel, and wearing women’s clothes to think of the actual words of his proposal beyond “I’m a jingle-brained scoundrel. For the love of God, marry me.”

He took a deep breath and did the customary thing: dropping to one knee, taking his beloved’s hand. “My beautiful Miss Taylor, I have loved you since I first saw you.” That sounded rather peculiar. “Well, not in the same way that I do now. My love was more innocent then, now it’s… never mind, I’m digressing. I know I’m not worthy of your affection, but if you would take mercy on me and consent to be my wife, I would—”

“No.”

He leaned in. “That’s not the right answer, love.”

“We can’t get married. It is wrong. I’m not respectable anymore. Can’t I just be your mistress?”

He flung up his arms. “By God, Vivienne, I was ready to kill someone to get you free. I nearly got shot… again. I danced before all those men. And now you won’t marry me! This is a direct violation of our Bazulo vow.”

She jumped to her feet. “There is no Bazulo tribe in Africa. You made it all up.”

“I did not,” he said rising to meet her. “The third paragraph near the bottom of the eleventh page in very fine print states: If one member of the sacred vow is disgraced in the eyes of society, the other must marry said disgraced member.”

She arched a brow and considered him. “Well then, I don’t think I was disgraced. It’s a matter of semantics.”