Lady Vice (20 page)

“And so you have.” Lavinia rubbed her forehead. “I had planned to try to establish a closer connection to her but—oh heavens, this is too much.”

“What has happened?” Thea asked.

“Vaile had planned to bring a criminal conversation suit against Montechurch,” Sophia explained.

“On what proof?” Thea asked. “Lavinia said she and Montechurch never—”

“Sexual congress isn’t always necessary to prove crim con,” Lavinia interrupted. “All he needed to prove was alienation of affection—the willful interference in another man’s marriage.”

“From what it looks like,” Sophia said, “Clarke recorded the dates and times Lavinia went to the brothel in this book. There are notes of the names of hackney jarveys who could testify.”

“But you went to the brothel to meet
Vaile
,” Thea said.

“We went separately,” Lavinia replied. “If Emma is right and Montechurch owns the brothel, the accusation that I was going to meet Montechurch would be believable. More believable, in fact, than the truth—that I was going to the brothel to meet my own husband.”

Thea sat on the bed. “If Vaile was going to name Montechurch in a suit, that means there was certainly a break between Vaile and Montechurch.”

“And a crim con would have brought the money he was expecting,” Sophia added.

“A trial would have been costly and long.” Lavinia ran a stray strand of hair through her fingers. “Max said Vaile was expecting money soon. I wager he tried to get Montechurch to pay for his silence. Or worse, in Monte’s mind at least, Vaile could have gone to the marquess of Elmbrooke and asked for a bribe.”

“Motive,” Sophia said.

“The only way,” Lavinia said, “Grimley would prosecute Monte is if Monte admitted to the murder. He would never. Unless…”

“What are you thinking?” Sophia asked.

“He is obsessed with me. If I were to go to him in the brothel, where he would feel his power is absolute, he just might—”

“Oh no, my lady,” Maggie said defiantly. “Lord Montechurch killed to keep this hidden.”

Sophia glanced at Maggie and then back to Lavinia. “Dress to inflame the desires he expressed in those paintings, and perhaps you could move him to speak.”

“No!”

Lavinia, Sophia, and Thea turned at once to Maggie, who lifted her chin.

“I will not dress you like a lightskirt so you can meet that man in a vaulting school—ah—did that language shock you? Bully-backs and bawd houses—you do not know them as well as you think!”

“Insult to my sensibilities is my least concern,” Lavinia said.

“I will go in your place,” Maggie said.

“I know you would,” Lavinia said, softening. She placed her arm about Maggie’s shoulders. “But you cannot influence Monte. I can.”

“I am frightened for you,” Maggie said.

“I am frightened as well,” Lavinia admitted. “But I will no longer permit fear to determine my actions—and I have not yet made up my mind if I should do this thing.”

Maggie pursed her lips. Then, she gave Lavinia a reproachful look of concession. “
If
you meet Montechurch, will you take Sully and his hackney? He is just a jarvey now, but he aims to be a Bow Street runner one day.”

The pride in Maggie’s voice caught Lavinia off guard. “Just how well have you gotten to know Mr. Sullivan?”

Maggie flushed. “You told me to take care of him. He and I…well…we…” Her flush deepened.

“Ah Maggie,” Lavinia said sympathetically. “You’ve developed a
tendre
for Mr. Sullivan.”

Maggie nodded.

“Who would have guessed love, murder, and riots could coexist so splendidly?” Sophia said with an ironic snort.

“Who indeed,” Lavinia said.

She traced Monte’s drawn version of himself, ending up with a charcoal-darkened finger. She rubbed away the black. Vaile would shiver in his silent grave if he’d known his greed would lead her back to the life he had stolen and into the arms of the man she loved. Monte, wherever he was, was likely raging for the very same reason.

So long as she held to her belief in Max, and he in her, she could survive Montechurch. She curled her fist beneath her chin and let her neck’s skin warm her fingers.

Now, if she could only survive meeting with her mother…

Chapter Twenty-Three

Max held himself steady, preserving his straight-line view of the brothel’s back entrance. The putrid scent of waste and refuse soaked the alley bricks and assaulted Max’s nostrils, burning in the bridge of his nose.

“Are you certain of what you saw?” Max asked Sullivan.

“I am as certain as the king shits, Harrison.” Sullivan pulled down his cap and yanked up his woolen collar. “I know it is impossible. That’s why you need to see it, too.” Sullivan nodded once as if to affirm the truth. “Kasai’s Brute entered the brothel early this morning—and Lord Eustace was with him.”

If Sullivan had been anyone else, Max would have marked him for a lying fool.

“I see your gin-bitten grimace.” Sullivan snorted. “I would not want to believe me either, if I were you.”

Max had long suspected this murder would lead to a quagmire of deeper intrigue. But he had not anticipated his own past would become so intimately connected to Lavinia’s present trouble.

A sudden wind gust roared through the narrow brick lane. Cold air stung like a backhand slap. Max turned up his own collar, huddling.

“There,” Sullivan growled. He fit a miniature cow-bone telescope into Max’s palm.

Shielded, in part, by the spikes of the back gate, two men, one hulking and one slight, strode toward a waiting enclosed carriage.

Max held up the bone and peered through the magnifying glass.

The slight man turned, suspiciously running his gaze along the perimeter. Recognition split Max’s spine ligament by ligament, like a spear thrust down.

Lord Eustace
was
alive.

What, in God’s name, did his presence at the brothel mean?

Five years past, on a filthy dungeon floor, a guard had fulfilled Kasai’s order and used a garrote of knotted string to strangle Lord Eustace. Eustace’s gurgling chokes had taken years to purge from Max’s nightmares.

How could Lord Eustace be alive? Max had seen Lord Eustace die. Hadn’t he?

The dungeon had been dark, and Max had been half-mad with hunger, horror, and endlessly elongating hours of forced vigilance. Another explanation was possible—Eustace may have only lost consciousness.

Lord Eustace.
Alive
.

In Max’s mind-maze, wretched implications spanned every possible thought direction. If Eustace was alive and traveling with Kasai’s Brute, did that mean Eustace had pledged himself to Kasai like the other traitors?

Unthinkable, but, if true, that line of thought had terrifying consequences. Eustace was the son of an English duke and, until the duke and Thea reunited, Eustace was the only heir to the title. If something happened to Wynchester, Kasai would control the dukedom through Eustace.

On the other hand, if Eustace had not turned, then he was being unwillingly manipulated by a madman, deprived of his birthright and his life.

“Stay here, Sullivan,” Max said. “I am going to investigate.”

Silence, followed by a distinct neck tingle. He turned—slowly. Lord Randolph held a black knife to Sullivan’s throat. Randolph’s wolf-gray eyes no longer indolent, but heartless and fixed. Oddly, Max was not surprised.

“Sullivan,” Randolph said, “will be staying where he is. As will you.”

Sullivan’s gaze remained focused and unblinking, whites plain around his pupils. His skin shed lightning sparks of restrained action. Behind his eyes, a beast as lethal as Max’s own lurked, waiting for a signal.

“Stand down,” Max warned.

“No,” Randolph replied.

“I spoke to my man.” Max lifted his chin, indicating Sullivan should follow along. “You do as you must, Lord Randolph. I will not have him hang for breaking the neck of a peer.”

“This shit is a peer?” Sullivan’s lips curled into a snarl. “Damn. I was anticipating a bone-crack. So satisfying, that sound.”

“Mark me, Randolph,” Max continued. “Should he abandon caution, within seconds you’d be over his back and soaking in gutter wash. The last thing you’d see was that knife you hold, carving out your eye.”

“Warning taken.” Randolph’s fingers tightened around his knife. “I can hold my own.”

Across the way, the gate creaked open. Horses neighed and coachmen shouted. Max’s gaze flicked back. The carriage jerked and then rolled toward the anonymous oblivion of London’s crowded streets.

Max’s eye caught movement in the brush.
Jem.
He stepped forward, shielding Randolph’s view as the grimy boy caught the carriage’s rear rail, hanging tight as it sped past.

“I am sorry, Harrison,” Randolph said. “but I cannot allow you to interfere.”

“On whose orders?” Max asked.

Randolph’s gaze traveled between Sullivan and Max, deliberately assessing.

“I am here on the order of His Majesty, King George,” Randolph answered. “And you will find a way to
let this rest
. Return home and dismiss everything you think you’ve seen.”

Steady.
Excessive answer to this threat could jeopardize everything.
Gather information.

“What interest does the king have in Montechurch?” Max asked.

Randolph’s mind visibly churned. “You are trying to mislead me,” he said, finally. “You weren’t watching for Montechurch. You were studying the men who arrived in the carriage.”

“Westminster nobs never know as much as they believe,” Sullivan said.

He balanced the Brute against Lavinia—past against future, rage against honor. The scale teetered, coming to an even rest.

“My aim is to protect Lady Vaile. I intend to bring Vaile’s murderer, Lord Montechurch, to justice.” Max said.
Surely I can fight both foes.

“Montechurch? Vaile’s murderer?” Randolph stalled, calculating. He eased the knife back from Sullivan’s throat. “Why would he kill Vaile and then fund the investigation?”

“Motive is what I am here to discover.” Max kept still and unblinking. “But if your interest is in the men in the carriage, we may have information you do not.”

“Doubtful.” Randolph inhaled. “But if you do, I will listen.”

“The large one was once in the employ of a man called Kasai—a mercenary Sullivan and I became acquainted with while he was operating in India.”

Randolph raised a brow. “That much, I already knew.”

“Let go of my man and I will finish. Sullivan will behave, won’t you Sullivan?”

“I’d like me neck safe,” Sullivan replied.

“If I let him go, you will tell me everything you know.” It was not a question.

Nor was Max’s response. “And you will tell me everything you know about Montechurch. Lady Sophia would be very interested in our accidental meeting, don’t you think?”

“I do not respond to threats—but information I could use.” Randolph released Sullivan.

“Solid grip,” Sullivan complimented.

Randolph nodded in acknowledgment. “Now, tell me everything you know about Kasai.”

“He’s a mercenary who commands a small army. Some say he’s a Mughal. Some say he’s a Turk. Some say he could only have been demon-spawned. All that anyone knows for certain is that the man whose name means ‘butcher’ loves the sight of spilled blood as much as he loves to pit power against power. His aim is to plunder and kill in the resulting chaos.”

Randolph showed no expression.

“Do you also know Kasai captured us? Tortured us? Turned five—perhaps six—of our number into his slaves?”

“I worked for the East India Company at the time. We knew of the raid—and the subsequent attempts to ransom those he’d taken. I understood all but you and Sullivan had been killed.”

“Only the highest levels knew the truth,” Max replied. “Bad for commerce, torture is. But what is Kasai’s Brute doing in England?”

Randolph appeared to come to a decision. “Last year’s Treaty of Paris put an end to French support of Sultan Tipu, one of Kasai’s many employers. Kasai is on the hunt for an English employer.”

“Impossible,” Sullivan said. “He hates the English.”

Randolph gave him a harsh glance. “Kasai is, was, and always will be, a mercenary. He is a man without a country, but with a thief’s self-justifying loyalty to his own ways.”

“The Brute would not visit to sample the brothel’s offerings. Montechurch has something Kasai wants.” Max looked over at the brothel. “What is Kasai after?”

“Montechurch has detailed records—adulterous affairs, unpretty preferences—enough information to take down an already weak government. Do you see why I cannot allow you to interfere? No one can touch Montechurch until we have secured that information.”

“We can work together. Our interests are united.”

“Since when?”

“Since you decided to perjure on Lady Vaile’s behalf.”

“I did not lie, and that was a boon for Lady Sophia,” Randolph said.

Understanding clicked like a turning lock. “You saw Lavinia at Vauxhall because you were following Iphigenia.”

“Yes,” Randolph admitted. “And if that’s all you have—”

Max raised his brow. “I have told you traitors may still be alive—but some of them were scarred in the raid. How will you recognize them?”

“We will recognize them.”

“Then tell me who travels with the Brute as his translator.”

“He is of no consequence.”

“If you say so,” Max replied. “But I’d like to be in attendance when you explain to His Majesty why a possible traitor in line for a dukedom is of no consequence.”

“That man is The Lord Eustace Worthington?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.” Randolph ran his hand through his hair. “Very well, work with me. But you cannot have divided loyalties. You can only have Montechurch
after
I get those records.”

“Lavinia and the duchess and Sophia are planning some sort of confrontation with Montechurch. I can delay them, but I will need your help. I am to meet Lavinia at the home of the dowager duchess of Wynchester at four o’clock.”

“I will be there, but late. I have a wedding to attend.”

“Could a wedding be more pressing than this?”

“Yes,” Randolph replied. “If it is my wedding.”

…

Lavinia watched warming and pretty light shimmer on her arms as she waited for her mother to arrive. Outside Emma’s sitting room, fine carriages pulled by matched pairs proud as their owners clacked over the cobblestones.

Life carried on.

Foolish, her case of excited nerves. Facing her mother should have been less worry than the thought of facing Montechurch. But facing Monte was a matter of clear intent and obligatory outcome, an expected incision made with clean and sharpened scalpel—a surgery, in fact, long overdue.

Facing her mother was far more complex and, in some ways, more important. From Monte, she wanted to be left alone. From her mother she wanted…

Well, her wants were amorphous, intricate as needle lace. Acceptance. Understanding. The beginnings of a path to a societal place she and Max could happily reside, once free of threats.

What if her mother was cold and distant? What if they had nothing to say to each other? What if her worst fears proved true and she had ruined this chance to bridge her past and future?

She soothed herself with the satiny feel of a lock of hair through her fingers.

After her wedding, Vaile had forbidden her to talk of her family or to visit them, but she and her mother had often exchanged letters.

Mother:
The oaks are in bud. You should see my kitchen garden. How I love my lavender.

Lavinia:
I miss country scents, even the less pleasant
.
Your lavender must smell divine. Have I told you about this season’s dancing?
Reels vibrate on every hired string. What advice have you for aching feet?

Mother:
Draw warm water and add a dash of Epsom, soak nightly. The oast house overfull. We will have plenty of hops. I’ve enclosed a lavender sprig—the scent is divine.

Their letters had been full of nonsense, skirting the dark, essential truths: Lavinia was trapped in misery, and the brewery—without heir and without clear direction—was failing. Knowing Lavinia was angry with her father, her mother rarely mentioned him, not even to tell her he had fallen ill.

When she’d left Vaile, she’d written her mother hoping they could finally be present in each other’s company. She had been ready to mend the rift and requested her parents visit Sophia’s home. Anxiously, she had awaited a reply. Her letter had been returned, unopened…as had every letter thereafter.

Perhaps in defiance, perhaps simply seeking habit’s comfort, she continued franking her weekly missives, knowing they’d be returned. With each letter, she’d wrapped up the hurt of her parents’ rejection.

“Keep touching your hair,” Thea warned, “and you will undo your coiffure.”

Lavinia dropped her hand to her lap, sat motionless for—she counted—five,
long
seconds. She tapped her foot. Thea stilled her with a glance.

“You are acting like a child in leading strings.”

Lavinia shivered. “Good riddance to starched aprons,” she replied. She mimicked her mother’s voice, “Has Miss Wiggins dawdled again today, Miss Groten?” She placed her fingertips against her forehead, and answered, governess-like, “Keeping Miss Wiggins attention is a trial, Ma’am. She’s a good miss, but for her wandering fancy.”

Thea chuckled. “I was always behind, myself.” She tilted her head with remembrance. “Except in history, of course.”

“Ah yes, history.” Lavinia nodded. “So many fascinating stories.” She sighed. “I am acting the ninny, but don’t you find my mother’s acceptance of your invitation odd?”

Thea set down her tea and looked up from the pages of
The Morning Chronicle
. “Why should I?”

“If I was too scandalous for her to visit at Sophia’s, why should she deign to visit me in Emma’s home?”

“The footman returned with a very prompt reply, as if she hadn’t needed to consider at all. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding?”

Lavinia’s heart sat up like an eager puppy.
Bad thought. Down.

If their estrangement had been but a misunderstanding, her pride would suffer a vicious blow. So much lost, just because she had failed to visit in person.