Lady Vice (8 page)

Chapter Nine

Lavinia clutched her cloak at her throat and glanced up. No clouds marred the gray-white moon, but the air of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens felt stretched and tense, as if ready for a thunderous crack.

Last night had been much warmer while she’d waited for Vaile’s madam at the prearranged meeting spot, just inside one of the smaller walks off Grand Cross. Iphigenia, of course, had never arrived, though the madam had given instructions for such an occasion: should she fail to appear, Lavinia was to return every night at the proper time until the payment was made. If, on the other hand, Lavinia failed to appear, Iphigenia would go straight to the
Morning Chronicle
.

Lavinia pulled her jeweled watch from inside her cloak, tilting its face toward an oil lamp’s faint light.
Too soon
.

No chance the madam would arrive early. Every night, precisely at nine, Vauxhall’s walks and lanes emptied as people drew together to watch a cascade: a large painting with a series of mechanical parts. When the parts were in motion, they created the illusion of running water. Just last season, the owners had changed the backdrop. Visitors were eager to see the spectacle in its modern state, and during the event there was less chance they’d be observed.

As usual, Maggie had arranged for a hackney. This time, one arrived far faster than usual. Even though the jarvey had stopped once and had taken a circuitous route, they had crossed Westminster Bridge before the clock chimed eight.

Maggie stayed with the jarvey, ensuring he would not catch another fare. The last thing Lavinia needed was a desperate search for transportation. The fewer people she interacted with, the better. If Lord Randolph had testified honestly, then he had seen and
known
her last night. Tonight, remaining incognita was essential.

Lavinia slipped the timepiece back into her pocket and adjusted her cloak. The reticule of coin, now pinned beneath her skirts, was concealed by a modest pannier and only accessible through a slit. She hugged herself, brusquely rubbing her upper arms.

Though she was no longer welcome at the fashionable supper boxes she had graced when first married, on occasion, the Furies still attended Vauxhall for pleasure.

When with friends, Vauxhall was a great joke—a place where normal rules could be, if not suspended, then bent beyond recognition. Diplomats and dukes mixed with doxies and dandies and anyone else who could pay the entrance fee. On those nights, she loved to ride a barge across the Thames to Vauxhall. She loved the swish of the waves against the paddles and the jolly banter of the oarsmen who rowed with unified strokes. What she loved best, however, was striding up the stairs, knowing no one could bar her from attendance, one triumph which could not be stolen by high-and-mighty matrons with swift and merciless judgment.

When she was alone, however, Vauxhall became sinister. Every time she came to meet the madam, dread, not happy excitement, gathered in her stomach. And dread proved particularly potent tonight.

Another barge arrived at Vauxhall Stairs. Whooping laughter filled the night air as two gentlemen attempted to leap to the landing but instead hit the water with a splash. A lady on the boat cried out and threw herself into the arms of a third man.

Lavinia blinked and turned away. The scene of playful frivolity stood in painful contrast to her present circumstance.

Ahead, moonlight framed the faint forms of two drunken dandies as they shouted vile taunts at a group of older ladies. The ladies clung together and rushed past, heads down. One of the men slapped the other’s back, and they bent over, roaring with laughter.

The men staggered, drawing close. Lavinia tucked her veil around her hood and headed toward Grand Cross. No, she did not wish to be recognized. On the other hand, safety lay in numbers.

“Hello there, gentle
lady
. How about a discount for two?”

“Give us a kiss, will you? A sampling before we buy?”

From the sound of their voices, they were only steps behind. She prepared for the inevitable, repeating the sequence of protective actions she’d learned from Maggie—
swivel, grab his shoulders, kick.

She stumbled over a boot.

“I say, Bolton, I have been nicked by a canary.” The buck snickered.

“Well then,” his friend replied, “I’ll make sure she don’t scour while you check your pockets. This one looks quick with her fingers.”

Arms like iron bands clamped her from behind and lifted her from the ground. He had rendered her powerless—anticipation burned in her heart—powerless, for the moment. The man’s breath was so thick with drink, she could practically taste the gin. Her opportunity would come.

“Hello there, honey,” he murmured. “Why so stiff?”

“Bring her here and I’ll show her some stiffness!”

Her heart thundered over their laughter. She calmed herself with a deep breath and forced her body to loosen, just as Maggie had instructed.

The dandy’s hold slackened. Her heel hit dirt and she swiveled, jabbing her fingers into his eyes. Something ripped. Her stays? Heedless, she took hold of his shoulders and shoved her knee between his legs.

The man wailed and crumpled into the gravel, just as Maggie had said he would.

“What the devil?” the friend shouted. “A trollop who thinks she’s a bloody bruiser! Why, I’ll teach you—”

The buck dove, but she skirted his strike. He could barely stand, let alone fight. Her velvet cape tangled with her petticoats and she stumbled.

“Apologize to my friend,” a new voice boomed through the darkness.

She froze and her heart dropped to her belly. Fight three men? Impossible.

“You heard me, you sorry excuse for a man. Apologize.”

Max.
Relief mopped her sweaty skin like a cool towel. She lifted her face. Max loomed over the men with the deadly intent of an Elizabethan executioner.

“She’s the one should apologize,” the dandy said incoherently.

Max grabbed the man by his shirt. “I will not ask again.”

“I…I…apologize…ma’am.”

She nodded without speaking, placing a protective hand over her concealed reticule. Had Max recognized her?
Impossible.

Max shoved the one called Bolton with his boot. “You as well.”

“I apologize,” Bolton wheezed.

“If you bother this lady again, or any other, I will send you both to a surgeon. Now go!”

The dandy helped Bolton stand and the two disappeared down the pathway.

She tried to affect the accent of a Covent Garden light skirt. “I thank you, sir. But I must be goin’…”

Max grabbed ahold of her elbow, and she stumbled into the folds of his greatcoat.

Through the veil, he lifted her chin. “Are you hurt?”

Max looked different. The planes of his face had wired into a mask both hard and lethal.

“For God’s sake, Vinia, as if I would not recognize you.”

“How did you know I was here?” she asked, her heart dancing a frantic reel.

“No word of thanks, then?”

“I wager you are proud of dispatching those men.”

“I daresay you accomplished the difficult part.” He shook his head in slow, furious disbelief. “Where did you learn…that?”

“Maggie,” she answered truthfully.

“Maggie?” he asked, surprised. “Your little slip of a maid?”

“Not just a maid, my abigail.”

“An odd sort of thing for an abigail to teach her mistress.”

What would he think if she told him about Maggie’s past? Suddenly, she wanted desperately to know. Lavinia’s situation after leaving Vaile would have been the same, but for a fortunate accident of birth and Sophia’s offer of shelter.

“Maggie is different. I took her into my service from the Magdalene Hospital.”

“Where they reform street women? Wait—Maggie is a
prostitute
?”

“
Was
a prostitute.” What did she hear in his tone? Shock? Disapproval? She bristled. “Maggie did as she had to, until the hospital provided an alternative.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “I have caused offense I did not intend.”

“Yes, well, I understand a man like you would disapprove.”

“Not at all. Taking her in was admirable. You are recovered enough to walk, I see. Come.”

He fixed her hand to his arm, holding her fingers against his muscle in an intractable grip. Her heart beat so loud, she was certain he could hear its thud above the din. Silently, she vowed she would make an excuse as soon as the three-quarter hour bell chimed.

Their strides fell together with absurdly pleasing ease.

Taking her in was admirable…

His words had fanned a deeply mistrusted spark of hope.

She peeked at his face, shrouded in shadow and then lit by a hanging oil lamp. His hair, tied with a black ribbon, curled onto a back broad enough to hoist a standing stone. She’d been dazzled by the handsome perfection of Max the boy but, after what she’d just witnessed, she had to admit that Max-the-man had merit. Strong, solid, commanding, his honor sped her heart.

He stopped at a quiet area, thick with vegetation.

“Vinia,” his whisper was deep and breathy, “what the devil are you doing here?”

Her body joined her traitorous mind and thrilled at his protective anger. She might have confessed all, but experience had trained her to distrust impulse and assumption.

“How did you know I would be here?” she asked. “Did you follow me?”

“Answer my question and I will answer yours.” His fingers clamped her shoulders with the force of a snapping fox trap.

“My reasons for coming are my own. And your failure to answer is confirmation enough. I do not appreciate being followed.”

“Do you realize the danger?” he asked. “What if I had not been there?”

“I had them in hand.”

“Oh, right. Certainly. My mistake.”

“Please, Max, I am grateful for your concern, but I will not tell you why I am here.”

His neck stiffened. “You refuse to confide in me. And yet earlier today, I attended the coroner’s court session strategizing how to prove your innocence. Imagine my surprise when Lord Randolph blithely verified your whereabouts. Is Randolph here again? Is he expecting you now as he was last night?”

“Insult me. Very nice.” She pushed his hands off her shoulders. “He saw me. I did not see him.”

“What is going on?” Max demanded.

“I must go.”

He gripped her waist and swung her into the shadows. The night air was alive with the rustling of branches as he threw aside her veil.

“Is Randolph your lover?”

His eyes were too wide and fierce for her to send him to the devil.

“Of course not, you dolt,” she said. “Lord Randolph testified at
Sophia’s
request.”

Jealousy bled from his face and his shoulders edged down. Did he think her denial made everything better?

“I told you,” she added icily. “I will not depend on any man.”

“Not even me?”

Her heart contracted with a howling cramp. “
Especially
not you.”

“Especially not me,” he repeated slowly.

He cradled her burning cheek and his rough fingers chafed. He radiated more heat than a bustling inn’s kitchen—and his warmth was every bit as alluring.
Comfort
, his body promised.
Care and sustenance.

“If you can,” he said, “tell me truthfully you wish I was not here.”

Her chest deflated with a sting as he gathered her close.

He ran his cheek along her hairline. “I thought not.”

“Do not ask me to explain—” she started.

“—because you cannot,” he interrupted. “So you have said. I failed you when I left for India. I cursed your marriage in my heart. But I have admitted my wrong. Vinia, I can help, but not without your consent. Why are you fighting me? I may be the best chance you have. The only chance you have.”

His tightening arms were as unyielding as Newgate bars. She could deny him at a distance but not when his breath caressed her cheek.

She fortified her resistance. What reason had she to trust his words? And even if his actions offered proof, which they had not, Vaile had left her ruined. She’d only ever experienced a pantomime of the act of love—and that within the walls of a brothel.

Whatever Max was seeking, she was no longer the woman who could provide it.

“Intimacy between us is impossible,” she said.

“Impossible? I will tell you what is impossible. I will lose my position. I will lose my current home. But impossible is controlling what happens to me when you are near.”

“I am sure you wished you could have blotted out my memory when you learned of my marriage.”

“How could I have wished such a thing, when the memory of you is the reason I survived prison?” His voice was gritty as a rusty nail driven into creaking wood. “Yet, if I thought you believed all you say, I
would
stay away.”

The nail lodged between her ribs. “I must leave the past in the past
.
For my own good, as well as yours.”

“Damn the past.” Abruptly, he let her go, staring down with determined eyes. “Trust me, and we can have a future.”

Oh.
She could have beaten him with her fists. How dare he make her feel and want and need when he knew nothing of the black sludge sloshing around in her soul?

“Trust you—when you are only here because you had me followed and when, moments ago, you accused me of being Randolph’s mistress? I trusted Vaile when he offered a friendly ear and an innocent garden walk—and I ended up ruined. I trusted you when you said you loved me and wanted
more than anything
for us to marry—and I ended up alone. I have paid in spades for those mistakes.” She gasped to catch her breath. “Stop chasing a girl who no longer exists. Vaile left me a broken woman.”

He buried her in the folds of his greatcoat. “You,”—the force of his voice caused his body to tremble as he spoke against her ear—“
you
left
me
a broken man.”

“No!” Horror raised gooseflesh. “I never left you.”

“A broken man, damn you.
Broken
.” He yanked down her hood and thrust his hands into her hair, sending pins flying. “Look at me and tell me I lie.”