Lady Vice (11 page)

“Is it another print of Decadence, Scandal and Vice?” Lavinia asked.

Thea and Sophia exchanged a grim glance.

“This one contains only Lady Vice,” Thea said darkly.

Lavinia could not read the caption upside down. She placed her fingers on the edge of the paper and swung it around.

“Unrepentant Fury Takes a Life,” she read the title aloud.

The sketch depicted the distinctive ironwork in front of Vaile House. In the center of the drawing was a carriage with a man’s legs sprawling from the door. The Vaile crest adorned the carriage. She stood in the foreground, complete with wings and dark garments—a Fury of Grecian myth. Clasped in her hand was a smoking flintlock, and in a bubble above her head were the words, “Who dares to punish the punisher?”

“Oh, for the love of God.” Her mad laughter began again. “The artist has it all wrong—Vaile was killed in his bed!”

“It appears your fears were well-founded, Lavinia,” Thea said. “Someone wishes to cast suspicion on you and they wish to do so in public, not court. Randolph’s testimony won’t make a difference there.”

Sophia came round the table and knelt by Lavinia’s chair. “Is there anything you have left out? Who would want to harm you this way?”

Lavinia recognized the hand that drew the picture. “Only Monte.”

“Lord Montechurch?” Sophia frowned. “He seemed convinced you were to blame when he came to my home, but why stoke public anger?”

“I defied him once. Perhaps Vaile did the same. Kill him. Blame me. Rid himself of both of us in one neat parcel.”

The housekeeper pushed open the parted door and entered, carrying a tea tray. A swell of sudden noise filtered in from the front rooms.

“What is happening outside?”

“Outcry, ma’am.” the housekeeper answered.

Something about the gleam in the housekeeper’s eye sent a ripple of fear through Lavinia’s stomach.

“A few people may have gathered in the square.” The housekeeper placed her tray on the table and pointed to the print. “Some of them are holding that.”

Sophia grabbed Lavinia’s hand.

Thea rushed to the side windows and began slamming and barring the shutters.

“I will be going out now.” The housekeeper curtsied and backed from the room.

Lavinia ripped her hand from Sophia’s, lifted her skirts, and headed for the shuttered sitting room.

“Lavinia, be careful,” Sophia called. “Do not open the shutters facing the square.”

Heedless, Lavinia shoved open the door between the dining room and the sitting room. She marched to the window amid growing clamor. She placed a shaking hand on the latch. The hinge moaned. The opening was little more than a crack, but it was enough.

Lavinia gasped at the sight. A crowd—maybe one hundred people or more and growing—filled the street.

“There she is, in the window!” a woman shouted. “Murderess!”

The crowd looked up in unison.

“Close the shutter, Lavinia,” Sophia urged from behind.

“Murderess!”

The sun shone too bright. The crowd blurred into a mess of color and shape. One thing she could not mistake, however, was the anger in their raised voices. She jumped as a rock hit the jamb.

Thea barreled against the shutter and shoved down the latch.

“They will not allow us to leave peacefully, will they?” Lavinia asked.

“No,” Sophia replied.

Lavinia remembered the day a riot had erupted among her father’s brewery workers. Her father had addressed the crowd and, after some negotiation, had diminished the mob’s anger. The shouts outside were growing louder. What should she do to calm them? Where could she go for help?

Lavinia grasped the only solution that came to mind. “I must get a message to Mr. Harrison.”

“Maggie can slip through the back and deliver a message,” Sophia suggested.

“She’ll be hurt,” Lavinia said.

“Presumably, your housekeeper left. They aren’t likely to harm a servant.” Thea’s tone was dark. “They want you.”

Sophia squeezed Lavinia’s hand. “I will find her.”

Lavinia nodded.

Thea looked at the clock. “Mr. Harrison will be with my husband,” Thea said, rolling her eyes in response to Sophia’s shocked expression. “Wynchester’s housekeeper sends me his schedule, to prevent the scandal of an accidental public meeting.”

“We will need more than just Mr. Harrison,” Sophia said.

“Wynchester can call the militia,” Thea replied.

Sophia nodded and left.

Lavinia closed her eyes. “I cannot believe a single print drew this much attention.”

“If you are right, then Montechurch could have hired people to rouse anger. There has not been a riot in months. They were just waiting for an excuse,” Thea said. “Come away from the window.”

“They would not dare enter a private home.” Even to her ears, the argument sounded weak.

“You cannot count on a crowd to behave with decorum.” Thea bit her lower lip and then let it slide from beneath her teeth. Her cheeks looked scoured—from heat or fear, Lavinia could not tell.

“I think…” Thea began. “…I think we should leave with Maggie through the mews.” Her calm was swallowed by thickening fear. She looked through the door to the stair, as if by looking she could will herself beyond the reach of the groundless hate in the voices of the enraged.

“You go,” Lavinia urged. “As you said, they want me.”

Outside, Lavinia heard the sound of shattering glass. Thea turned back and placed her thumb between her eyes. She lowered her face while clutching her elbow to her stomach.

Lavinia forgot her own fear. “Thea, are you well?”

“The room is terribly hot.” Thea’s breath was fast, and bumps appeared on her forearm’s skin.

“Stay calm, Thea.”

“You cannot understand. You were not in London during the Gordon Riots.”

Lavinia’s eyes went wide. The duchess had gone to live with Sophia just after the Gordon Riots. Good Lord, the duke’s home had been damaged. Had Thea been inside?

“Thea, you must sit.” She wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist and helped her to a chair. “Maggie will get word to Max.”

“You do not understand. Crowds can kill.”

“Thea!” Lavinia held her friend’s face. “Breathe.” Her heart thumped in her chest.

“They burned…” Thea gasped. “They burned the house. Wynchester was supposed to be home. He was not there. He did not come. And still, I cannot look at him without remembering my terror and my loss.”

“Max will come,” Lavinia said with certainty.

Whether he would get there before someone broke down the door was another question.

Chapter Thirteen

Max followed the sound of Wynchester’s breath over distant clinks and rattles. He should be with Lavinia, not debating a bill in the duke’s massive house with its roving army of servants.

“Harrison, would you pay attention?” The duke’s voice was more wry than angry. “You, of all people, should apply yourself to the fate of the East India Company. If this bill cannot hold your attention, there’s no hope for you.”

Max trilled his fingers on the duke’s desk. Had the beast within consumed every vestige of the gentleman he was raised to be? Was he so far gone he could no longer honor his commitments? He had sworn to Lord Eustace he’d stand by his brother.

“Of course you are right, Your Grace.”

The duke rubbed his purple jaw and shook his head. “I daresay after the beating you gave me last evening, you should call me Wynchester.”

Well, that got his attention. “Earned your respect, did I?”

The duke puckered his lips and shrugged. “My respect earned you a place in Parliament. Your beating warned me it would be wise to keep you close.”

The duke lacked full disclosure. Max knew the duke had chosen him, not out of respect, but loyalty. Max had cared for the duke’s brother during his final months, and had carried news back from India of the younger Wynchester son’s death.

Max shuttered unwelcome memories. “You threatened to replace me,” he said.

“My respect for you is one thing. Your useful influence is another.” The duke tapped the papers sprawling across his desk. “Your mind is not here, and I need it here. Political vultures do not cease to circle merely because you have a woman on your mind.”

“You should know.”

“What was that?”

Max coughed. “Nothing, Your Grace.”

The duke sighed. “You want to know what is going on with the inquest, and you shall, Harrison, you shall,” he said. “You’ve obtained permission from the lord chancellor to have a servant transcribe the events. By day’s end, you will know more than the jurors themselves can remember. And that surgeon you paid, is he not to testify today?”

“Yes.” Max could not argue, still, his limbs seethed with the impulse to fight. He frowned and snatched up a copy of the bill. He squeezed his eyes shut—gentleman, not ravaging beast—and then he opened them wide.

The harder he focused, the faster the neatly scripted letters on the page danced.
Lavinia, Lavinia, Lavinia.
His mind trotted like a horse along a narrow path.

Angrily, he thrust away the page. “It is useless.”

“Harrison, you have covered all the ground you can cover with the information you have. Let the solicitor you hired to look into Vaile’s debts complete his business.”

Every point the duke made, Max could have made on his own. Still, he could not shake the fear wrapping its prickly fingers around his throat. Inaction strummed against instincts in full vigilance.

“Is there anything more I can do to help you concentrate?” the duke asked.

It was not the friendliest of questions. Max detected a warning edge in Wynchester’s tone.

“No,” he answered honestly. He curled his fingernails into his palms. “I will not be able to fully concentrate until she is safe.”

The duke’s eyes grew dark. He dropped his lids half-mast, cloaking his thoughts’ direction. With a kick, he balanced his weight on his chair’s back two legs.

“And when will she be safe, Harrison?” he asked. “The coroner’s court may not issue a warrant but, unless they find the real killer, she is at risk. Even if someone else is charged and convicted, the
ton
will expect her to observe a period of mourning. If you wish to maintain any place in society, or allow her to regain hers, you must accept you cannot be by her side.” He narrowed his eyes. “People will not forget.”

Max shifted uneasily—restless, caged. The duke’s office stifled. His cravat chafed against his neck and his vest was sewn too tight.

“You mean
you
will not forget.”

“Harrison, you have what you have because of my patronage. Should your judgment be called into question, you will no longer be able to sway votes.”

“So you have already said.”

Which was more important—a vow to a dead man or loyalty to the living?

Madness, his love.

An image of the mountains of Cumbria shimmered like a watery reflection before his eyes.

A mad love, yes. Mad, yet genuine and enduring. Lavinia’s proper place was as she had been last night. Secure in his arms, yielding, trusting, and open.

“Wynchester,” he said, taking full advantage of the intimacy the duke had just granted, “Lady Vaile is mine.” He laid bare the full intent and power of his emotion in his eyes. “She may not be by my side, but I will not leave hers. If that means I can no longer hold your county’s seat, then I will resign.”

“Ah,” the duke interrupted. He stretched his fingers wide and pressed their tips together in front of his lips, shrouding his contemplation. “That besotted, are you?”

Was losing his seat the worst, truly?

Nothing would compare to losing Lavinia again.

He had worked hard on Burke’s bill and more. But others would carry on the work. He’d fulfilled his promise to Eustace—Wynchester was recovered from grief and had allies to spare in Parliament. What more need Max prove to the world? He’d already made his fortune. He’d claim Lavinia as his wife and discover distinctions of a personal nature.

…If Lavinia would have him after the ultimatum he had given her last night.

“A woman like her—” Wynchester started.

“Careful, Your Grace.” He let his voice fall away. He would not be goaded into speaking a full threat.

A younger but otherwise perfect replica of Geste appeared at the door. Beside him stood the servant charged with recording the court proceedings. The younger Geste made the introduction and then returned to his duties.

“What news?” Max asked.

“The coroner’s court delivered a verdict of person or persons unknown.”

Max slammed the desk. “Thank God.”

The duke’s gaze grew speculative. “The magistrate is still on the hunt. Lady Vaile could be arrested, anyway.”

“Possibly,” the servant said, “but not likely. The surgeon testified he did not believe the wound was caused by a lady’s flintlock. The ball that killed Vaile was bigger than a ball made for a lady’s flintlock…and scarred.”

“How extraordinary,” the duke said. “What has scarring to do with anything?”

“I did not understand myself,” the servant replied, “so I spoke to the surgeon after and he explained. Barrels of muskets are spiral-etched, commonly called rifling. The etchings cause the ball to spin, resulting in a more accurate aim but also scarring the ball.”

“Wouldn’t the housekeeper have seen a musket in the hands of the person fleeing?”

“Confidentially, the surgeon told me he suspects the murderer used a dueling pistol.”

Max’s mind raced with possibilities. “A dueling pistol with rifling would have to be made special,” he said.

“And would be downright unsporting,” the duke added. “Far fewer men would duel if they could not trust that one weapon was not more accurate than the next.”

“Yes,” Max replied with a smile. “A gunsmith might remember a commission requesting rifling in a dueling pistol.” Yet another road to explore.

Young Geste appeared again, this time red with agitation. “Pardon my interruption, Your Grace, but a woman wishes to see Mr. Harrison. She is
most
insistent.”

The duke arched his brow and sucked in his lip. “I will allow you one more interruption, Harrison.
One
.”

Geste stepped aside to reveal Lavinia’s maid, Maggie. She was trembling and wet with perspiration.

“What is it, Maggie?” Max asked through his closing throat.

“There’s a riot brewing,” she said in a breathy burst. “Cits are crowding the square in front of Lady Vaile’s home.”

Max stood. The duke remained seated.

“I am certain the disturbance is small,” the duke declared. “Geste, send word to the constable.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Maggie said hesitantly. “They’re throwing rocks. I fear much worse.”

“I should go—” Max started.

“What are you going to do,” Wynchester interrupted, “Disperse the crowd yourself?” The duke frowned as Maggie sniffed. “You. Stop your tears. Do you know what started this?”

She cast a crumpled sheet on the duke’s desk. Max smoothed the edges and examined the drawing.

Damn.

“Please come, Mr. Harrison. The crowd is yelling ‘Murderess’.”

“She may well be one.” The duke clucked and shuffled his papers.

Maggie shot daggers from her eyes and would have shocked the brocaded breeches straight away from the duke’s illustrious arse had he seen her expression. She cleared her throat and twisted into a saucy pose—a pose definitely not that of a servant, especially not a servant in the presence of a duke.

“Come, Mr. Harrison,” she said, defiantly, “and you too, duke.” She trembled with the intensity of all-out rage. “Bring your strongest footmen.”

“Just why would I want to do that?” The duke raised his eyes to Maggie without raising his face.

“Because, Your Grace, Lady Vaile is not alone. Lady Sophia and the duchess—your duchess—are trapped inside the house.”

Wynchester’s hands balled. He stood so fast his chair fell to the floor with an echoing crack.

“Hell,” he cursed. “Geste, bring round the carriage—and send for the militia immediately.” The duke strode to the door, his eyes alight with fear. “What are you waiting for, Harrison? Let’s go. Now!”

…

Inside the servants’ quarters, Lavinia wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Drops of perspiration wet her fingers as she inhaled air thick with heat and the tart scent of unwashed linen.

The sliver of a room could barely fit Sophia, Thea, and herself, but five stories of brick protected the view from the dormer. Shouts, though less piercing, still managed to leak through the walls.

Lavinia sunk onto one of the two small beds that lined either wall. The knotted rope supporting the mattress squeaked under her weight.

“Coming up here was not a good idea,” the duchess murmured for the third time. Thea leaned against the cracked plaster of the unadorned wall farthest from the window.

“Any sign of the militia?” Lavinia asked.

Thea shrank by the minute, curling herself into an ever-tightening ball, her tenuous hold on composure weakening. Something
must
be done—and fast.

Sophia pressed her back against the dormer to see as far as she could down the road. “No.”

Lavinia cursed her lack of judgment. She should have known Vaile House would pose a risk to her friends. Because of her, they suffered. Had the duchess stayed home, she would not be reliving the Gordon Riots. Sophia, on the other hand, showed no sign of upset. Then again, she never did. The earl, Lavinia surmised, would not have allowed his daughter to show fear.

Lavinia chewed on her lip as her heart beat wildly. She—like her mother—had been raised in wealth and luxury. But her father’s grit must lie somewhere in her soul.

She was lady of this house, not Sophia. She could not wait for a rescue that may or may not arrive in time. She stood on shaky feet and placed her hand to her stomach.

When her father had vowed to stop the riot outside his brewery, her mother had begged him to stay home and to allow the proper authorities to handle the masses. Her father had replied, “No, the brewery is my responsibility.”

She stepped toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Thea asked.

Lavinia hesitated. If she said she planned to face the crowd, Sophia would bar the door.

“I am going to see if the housekeeper has returned.”

“She shows you nothing but hostility. Leave her be,” Thea said.

“Nonetheless, she is my responsibility.” Lavinia tilted up her chin. “I will return shortly. Sophia, will you keep watch?”

Sophia sucked in her lips as she regarded Lavinia. “I will,” she said finally.

Lavinia walked her hand along the wall as she descended the staircase. The narrow servants’ stair gave way to wider family stairs. Finally, she reached the opulently carved center stair. She paused on the top step. The windows above the door showed a blur of angry faces.

She took a deep breath and swallowed past the blockage wadding in her throat. Step by step, she descended.

The rioters were angry at injustice. She was merely today’s symbol of excess and privilege. To them, the
ton
had wealth and ease and used them for naught but securing further wealth and ease.

Her father had not been born to the gentry. In part, she understood.

She wished she could remember how her father had calmed the people during the brewery riot. She wished she had paid attention to his stories. He
had
stopped disaster from becoming tragedy. She could do no less for her friends, who were innocent.

Her breath came in short, fast pants. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. She must make the crowd see that she was not a murdering monster, but a living, breathing person.

Oh Papa, how did you calm an angry crowd? How?

Silence reigned in her heart but she refused to give up seeking. Then, with gentle unfolding, inspiration dawned.

Discard signs of wealth
.

The order came from her heart, cloaked in the remembered tones of her father’s voice. With a stone face, she twisted off her ruby ring. She removed the rest of her jewelry and peered into the mirror above the hall’s fireplace.

Humble yourself.

One by one she removed the pins from her glossy curls. Long strands fell about her shoulders. With her hair unbound, she just might shock the crowd enough for her to speak. She frowned at her reflection. The crowd would be able to smell any insincerity—and then her plan would backfire. She could be hurt…or worse.

How could she command their attention? How could she make them see her as a grieving widow? She rested her elbow against the mantle and cradled her face in the crook of her arm. Small chunks of coal remained in the fireless hearth below.