Lady Vice (4 page)

“Vinia—”

She shook her head
no
and continued. “Unlike the others, Vaile was solicitous and sympathetic. He asked me about you. Assured me you would return and my fondest hopes would come true.” She swallowed. “We’d spoken many times when he asked me to ‘take some air’ with him during a particularly crowded ball…”

“He compromised you?” Max asked. She lifted her eyes to his. A terrible darkness lurked in their depths—anger and pity and something worse she could not define.

“Vaile ripped my dress, making it look as if we had been intimate.” She placed her hand on her neckline, as if doing so could mend the rent made long ago in a dress she had burned. “He told me no one would believe me when I protested my innocence. He was right.”

“Your parents?” he asked.

“What recourse did a brewer have against a baron who was the nephew of a marquess?”

“I…” The muscle in his cheek worked hard. “…I wish I had been there.”

That was all he had to say? A sloppy heap of anger gathered like rotted autumn leaves in her gut. “That night wasn’t the first time I had misplaced my trust in a man.”

Max tilted his head as if he had misheard. “Do you mean to say you misplaced your trust in me?”

“Didn’t I?” She tried to pull away.

“
No
,” he said harshly, “I regret leaving, but I left with the intention to build a name—a life—for
us
. I had no idea of what you suffered.” His grip fell to her forearms and tightened. “I wish I had been there. I am here now, and my duty to you is undiminished.”

Again, duty
. Blind adherence to society’s norms had cost her everything. She looked down at his fingers as if she were watching someone else. For the past year, she had shed duty and instead formed choices based on respect—both for herself and for those closest to her—the Furies.

“Release me,” she said.

He cursed under his breath then let her go.

The boy in Max had vanished, there was only the man. She banished any remaining grief for their long-ago love. He should go back to his world of simple answers and perfection, and she should retreat to the protection of the things she understood—vice, hauteur, and disdain.

“Go, Max. It is too late for me to accept your help, even if I wanted it.”

“I will not leave,” he vowed.

“The devil you won’t.” She stepped toward the bellpull. “I will call a footman.”

Max blocked her path to the bellpull, breathing heavily. “Do it, then. Cast me out of Lady Sophia’s home like your father cast me out when he told me I’d never live up to his standards.”

She froze as a shower of needles rained on her neck. She refused to acknowledge—much less feel—his pain.

The servant’s stair creaked…Maggie alerting them both to her imminent return.

“I will await you in the library.” His green eyes bore into hers, fierce and resolute. “I cannot mend the past, but I will remain here. I will remain here to honor what we once shared…even if nothing remains of the woman I loved.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

His words stabbed, and she could not parry. He was right, of course. She was a shell of a woman with no hope for redemption. But she had damned well earned the right to shape her life according to rules only she created.

Love, peace, and refuge.

Those things could never be hers. So why, as he disappeared through the doorway, did she stretch toward Max like a sun-starved flower?

Chapter Five

Max slumped in an overstuffed chair in Lady Sophia’s library, causing his newly brushed coat to crumple. The usually comforting scent of must, parchment, and leather failed to ease his fury.

He felt almost as he had when he’d returned from India—a pitiful, wounded thing. Back then, a master had taught him to use intellect and honor to subdue his rage. But after all this time the beast still existed. Now, hope, desire, and doubt clashed in bloody battle and the newly reanimated beast paced inside his heart, drooling in anticipation of carnage.

Lavinia thought she could lead him like a puppy: Come. Sit. Stay. Go.

You could have trusted me
, she had said. Had she expected him to tend their love’s flame forever? Sacrifice the rest of his days to her memory?

He had done just that, of course. He slumped farther into the chair. Not that she had deserved such a sacrifice.

He could not place the day his affection for the charming young woman from the neighboring estate had deepened to desire. The content of their easy conversation had turned slowly from weather to philosophy, from philosophy to dreams of the future and then, somehow, from dreams of
the
future to dreams of
their
future.

They were the last of their respective lines. The untitled Harrisons, though not wealthy, were respected gentry. Her mother was the granddaughter of the earl of Eweing, though the title had since reverted to the crown. Her father, Mr. Edward Wiggins, was a moneyed brewer of modest origins. All of Thistleton-on-Thames had thought the match lucky for Lavinia.

All but her father—the one Max had expected would be most pleased by his proposal. Wiggins had held standards unrelated to blood, birth, and position.

When her father had challenged Max’s ability to support Lavinia in the manner she’d known, insult had seized Max like a fever. Determined to prove her father wrong, he’d taken the opportunity in India.

His lips tightened. Any reasonable man would have sought to prove his worth under such a challenge.

Though not, perhaps, in such drastic fashion.

And how could he have known her marriage had been forced? As if the nuances of London gossip reached India. As if he had not languished those long months in prison. Did she even care about that?

He cracked his neck. His head hurt. His legs were heavy and his eyes burned.

Abruptly, he stood. What did such reflections matter, anyway?

He strode to the nearest window and observed the silent courtyard. All was stillness. Like some godforsaken demon, Lady Sophia’s house only came alive in the dark of night.

Muffled voices sounded in the entry hall. So she would not come to him alone. He snorted. Perhaps it was best. In his current temper, he was far too likely to speak in rapiers.

A servant opened the door. The first lady to enter was unfamiliar. Next, the duchess swept into the room. At last,
she
entered.

She did not look him in the eye. “You have been introduced to the duchess. Allow me to present Lady Sophia, our hostess.”

A petite woman, as lushly curved as a mortal Venus, smiled at him. Her cornflower blue eyes were lighter than those of the duchess, but they caused a ripple of unease. She beheld him with the most deeply perceptive gaze he’d ever seen.

“Welcome,” Lady Sophia said. “Though I wish we had met under less unhappy circumstances, I trust you have made yourself at home.”

He glanced to Lavinia. She blushed. So they all knew he’d been to her rooms. Again, she placed him at a disadvantage.

“We…” He cleared his throat. “We have matters we must discuss. Might we begin?”

As the ladies seated themselves, he pulled a chair across from Lavinia and sat.

Looking at her now, he had the uneasy feeling she was practiced at conveying the exact image she wished to convey. Her hair powder had been reapplied, and her morning dress was subdued yet fashionable and fitted. No one would suspect she’d been gambling all night—proving he could trust neither eyes nor instinct.

He stood and returned to the window. “The coroner’s inquest is to convene this afternoon at The Red Lion Inn.”

“Not that I wish to put an end to all this lovely distress,” the duchess sighed, “but Vaile’s murder could be as simple as a robbery.”

He paced to the fireplace and then back to the window. “The constable questioned Vaile’s housekeeper. She insisted nothing was missing. I would advise Lady Vaile to prepare for all possibilities.”

“Max,” Lavinia said, “you must sit in a proper chair.”

Come. Sit. Stay. Go.

“Call me Mr. Harrison, Lady Vaile. Let us keep to formalities.”

Lavinia paled to ghostly white.

“We do not wish to arouse speculation regarding our relationship,” he added, swallowing regret.

“I did not kill my husband, Mr. Harrison. And without false witnesses, no one can prove I did.”

“Can you prove for certain that you did not?” Max asked. “Were you here the whole of last night?”

Sophia responded, “She was in town,” at the same time Thea said, “She was here with me.”

Thea cleared her throat. “Before our soiree, Lavinia was with me, in town.”

Max glanced to the ceiling, shook his head, and then fixed on Lavinia. “Is there anyone who can truthfully verify your whereabouts?”

Lavinia placed a hand over Thea’s. “I joined the soiree much later than usual. I was…” She blinked. “I was alone.”

She held something back. Hell, she held everything back.

“Last night, you said that Vaile may have died in the manner you threatened. I want the truth. Did you threaten him with a gun?”

“Yes.” Lavinia’s eyes sparkled and two bright blotches of red colored her cheeks. “I pointed a gun between his legs and promised if he came for me, I would shoot him through his cock.”

Max near doubled over.
You could have trusted me.
Without question
—
and
clearly
to his peril
.

“Why?” he demanded.

The duchess huffed. “What do you think, Mr. Harrison? Do you think a man like Vaile would just allow his wife to abandon his home? She had no choice but to make him fear a painful death.”

Max glanced to Lady Sophia. She sat as still as hot July air, carefully taking his measure.

“I begin to understand why they call you Furies,” he said under his breath.

When he’d seen her shock, he had been certain—so certain—that she hadn’t had a part in Vaile’s death. But truly, was there reason to be certain of anything where Lavinia was concerned? He’d call her a changeling, if he believed in Elfhame.

“Let us begin again,” he said. “Can you think of anyone else who wished Vaile harm?”

“Why naturally, Mr. Harrison.” Lavinia looked up, her eyes swimming with hate. “I had the greatest cause. The wife everyone believed he had left penniless. The wife he had humiliated. Am I not the vicious Lady Vice?”

The duchess seated herself beside Lavinia and wrapped her arm about Lavinia’s shoulders. “Vice, yes, but flanked by Decadence and Scandal.”

Lavinia smiled halfheartedly at the duchess.

“How about the heir—would he be suspect?” Max asked.

“Vaile has no heir,” Lavinia replied. “The title dies with him or, I suppose, with me.”

“You are yet young,” he said.

Her eyes darkened. “I will never place myself in the hands of a man again.”

We will see
, he nearly answered, hating an impossible but infuriatingly persevering insistence she could still be his.

Lady Sophia cleared her throat. “The family history is this—Vaile’s father, the first Baron Vaile, was the marquess of Elmbrooke’s younger brother but he was given a separate title for service to the crown.”

“What kind of service?” he asked.

Sophia rose and perused her shelves.

“He wrote nationalist poetry. Ah, here.” Lady Sophia pulled a book from her collection and ran her finger along the spine. “Beautiful, gold-gilt bindings and the very best parchment.”

“Filled with obsequious praise for the monarch,” the duchess added. “Just the thing to catch a king’s notice.”

He twisted his lips in wry irony. And here he had sacrificed so much, hoping in vain to be raised to the peerage—for Lavinia’s sake. How young and stupid he’d been.

“Vaile’s father gained a title but hadn’t a cent to his name,” Lavinia said. “He spent every dime publishing his work on his own.”

“Vaile needed money, then,” Max said.

“Yes. He inherited the title and the debt.” Lavinia’s eyes were blank and distant. “The first Baron Vaile never managed to save enough to purchase his own residence and Vaile was raised in the marquess’s home.”

He frowned. “When Vaile married you, he gained a fortune.”

A chilling half smile lifted Lavinia’s lip. “No. He gained a fortune to manage.”

You could have trusted me.
He fancied he could read the repeated accusation behind her eyes.

“Vaile did not get the one thing he most wished to have,” she continued, smooth and polished as a Chippendale desk. “My father devised a trust that specified the principal of my inheritance would remain intact in the form of property and investments. Vaile, though trustee, could only access the interest and pay my expenses…until there was a child.”

Neither of Lavinia’s parents had told him of the arrangement. Then again, they had rarely spoken of their daughter—at least not to Max. Though, considering her father’s view of the idle rich, Max was not surprised Wiggins had done his best to protect his daughter’s fortune.

“And then?” Max asked.

“On that point, my father felt duty-bound to concede.” Lavinia placed her hand over her stomach. “If I had issue, half my fortune would have passed into Vaile’s complete control.”

Issue
. What an odd word for a woman to use for a child. How terribly had Vaile treated her? She had tried to tell him. He scowled. Next time, he would listen. Next time…

I will never again place myself in the hands of a man
, she had said.

Not even if he would risk everything for you?
He crouched by her knees.

He imagined another night. A night when a lonely, innocent Lavinia had followed Vaile into the darkness of a garden, unsuspecting she was about to lose innocence, freedom, and the only home she’d known.

His heart caught in his throat. Yes, he’d languished in prison. But she, too, had been in a prison—of Vaile’s making.

“I am sorry, Lavinia.” He should have been there. She should not have been alone.

“You needn’t be sorry for Lady Vaile, Mr. Harrison,” Thea said.

He placed his hand over hers. “You are distressed.”

“The topic is upsetting, naturally,” she said, her voice flat.

“You said earlier he still controlled your inheritance. How is that, if the trust is yours?”

“Vaile is—was—my trustee. Although a distant cousin of my mother’s was also appointed, he was rarely involved. And the laws of coverture, of course, applied. You know a woman’s legal rights and obligations are subsumed by her husband. The trust was mine, but he had the right to disburse the income.”

Max recalled the gown she wore last evening: ribbed crimson silk, brocaded with silver thread. He cocked his head.

“You have flaunted your expenses since you left,” he said, “knowing Vaile could not deny your bills and would rage over every penny he had to pay.”

“What if I did?” she asked, diffusing ice-queen frost. “Spare me the insult to your male sensibility. Coverture has some advantages among much degradation. Yes, I wanted him to taste just a small measure of the helpless humiliation he had forced on me. No, I did not take his life.”

“You said he did not beat you,” he whispered fiercely. “What happened, Lavinia?”

“There is more than one way to ruin a woman’s spirit,” she replied.

“Damnation. Why won’t you give an honest answer?”

Lady Sophia slammed down the book, stepped behind Lavinia, and gripped her shoulders. “This conversation is at an end.”

“Oh, do excuse me,” he said mockingly. “Lady Scandal and Her Grace, Duchess Decadence are certainly more qualified to protect Lady Vaile than I.” He rose and thrust his hand through his hair. “Is it not better that she confide in me now? Or would you all be happier if she were forced to speak her secrets to a stranger or in front of the court and spectators?”

Lady Sophia’s expression remained fierce. “Excellent logic, Mr. Harrison, but you and I both know your motive, right now, is personal.”

He squeezed his lips together. Damn Lady Sophia, damn the duchess, and damn Lavinia.

Lavinia pulled away from Lady Sophia. She gripped the settee’s edge for support and stood. “Must every detail of my marriage be revealed and examined? Is there no other way to prove my innocence?”

She dropped her show of indifference, and her skin began to whisper secrets. Every thought painted a distinct hue. Maddeningly, he’d lost the key to translation. Was she pale angel, suffering in innocence, or vengeful wraith, intent on destruction?

He searched the face he knew so well—the embodiment of his greatest weakness—and felt lost on a continent of foreign tongue and poisonous endemic plants.

He turned on his heel and went to the window.
Concentrate on the task at hand.

Examinations were almost entirely based on witness testimony and their reports of the accused’s history and character. Was there another way to prove her innocent?

“When you threatened to shoot Vaile, what did you use?” he asked.

“My lady’s flintlock.”

He grimaced. Perhaps if the firearm had never been triggered, they could cut off that line of suspicion.

Perhaps, but not likely.

A large black carriage turned onto the drive. The glossed door sported the marquess of Elmbrooke’s gilded crest. He frowned. If the magistrate had come in the Elmbrooke carriage, the implication was clear: Vaile’s family was supplementing the prosecutorial funds. If the marquess became convinced of Lavinia’s guilt, proving her innocent would become even harder.