Ways to Be Wicked (3 page)

And Claude had never done anything to discourage the idea. Sylvie could scarcely remember now how it had happened, but she had gone to live with Claude. And Claude had told her only that there had been an accident, and that her mother would not be coming home. She never mentioned sisters, which had made it easier to believe the other girls might have been just a dream.

Sylvie put her hand over her heart. She had suspended the miniature of her mother from a ribbon, and it hung there beneath her dress now, where it was both protected and, in a way, protection, a talisman. And soon, hopefully, it would be proof to Susannah, Lady Grantham, that they indeed shared a mother.

Sylvie stood next to her own trunk in the inn yard now, a little island of dark clothing amidst a swarm of people going purposely about their business.
So this is London.

To be fair, one could tell very little of the city from the yards of coaching inns, she knew. It rather looked like any large city, cobblestones and storefronts; when she craned her head, she could see the tall masts of ships at harbor through the gaps in the buildings. The smells were city smells, the smells of thousands of lives lived close together: food spoiling or being cooked, coal smoke rising, the warm beasty odors of horses and other animals.

Despite herself, a little excitement cut through the trepidation. She’d done it. She was standing in London, she’d managed to cross the Channel entirely on her own, and soon, perhaps, she would learn what she’d come to learn.

“If you crane your head about like that, Mademoiselle, it will become obvious to the less savory among us that you’re new to London, and no doubt someone will attempt to rob you—or perhaps kiss you—again.”

She started and turned to find Mr. Shaughnessy before her, hat in hand. He bowed low. “Is someone meeting you?” he asked, when he was upright again.

“Yes,” she said swiftly.

Up went one of his brows, betraying his doubt of this. “Very well, then. But you should
always
appear as though you know precisely where you are going, Mademoiselle. And if you do find yourself longing for my company, you can find me at the White Lily.”

A grin flashed, and then he was gone before she could say another word, melting confidently into the crowd as he jammed a hat down on his bright head.

Sylvie glanced about; her eyes met the eyes of a portly fellow standing near a hackney, the driver. She saw him assess her, her clothing and bearing, and make a decision in her favor.

“Need a coach, Madame?”

He said it politely enough, and there was nothing prurient or predatory in his gaze. Regardless, she was armed with a knitting needle and extraordinary reflexes, should the need to defend herself arise. And she hadn’t really a choice.

“Yes, please. To...Grosvenor Square.”

His eyes flared swiftly, almost imperceptibly. “Shilling,” he said shortly.

Quick thinking was clearly necessary. “My sister is Lady Grantham. She will give the shilling to you when we arrive.”

The man’s expression changed then...but peculiarly. Not into the sort of expression someone of his station typically donned when the aristocracy was mentioned. No. Gradually, before Sylvie’s puzzled eyes, it became harder. Then sharply curious. And then finally, inexplicably. . .

Amused?

“Your sister is Lady Grantham?”

“Yes.” She frowned.

“Lady Grantham is your sister, is she?”

“I believe I said ‘yes.’ ” She’d clenched her jaw to steady her nerves.

He paused and appraised her again. “An’ look, ye’ve a trunk and everythin’,” he said it almost admiringly. He shook his head to and fro in apparent wonder.

Sylvie knew her English was quite good, but perhaps an entirely different dialect was spoken in the heart of London, the way those who lived in Venice spoke their own version of Italian. Perhaps this London dialect was one in which the inflections meant entirely the opposite of what one might expect.

“An’ she’ll pay me when we arrive, like?” he said, sounding amused. For all the world as though he was hu

moring a madwoman. “Lady Grantham?”

“Again...yes.” Regal now, and cold.

He regarded her a moment longer. And then shrugged good-humoredly and smiled, as though he’d resigned himself to some odd fate.

“All right. Let’s go see your
sister,
Lady Grantham, shall we?”

And still, despite his acquiescence, his tone could not be construed as anything other than ironic.

Chapter Three

G
ROSVENOR sQUARE TURNED OUT
to be comprised of rows of imposing edifices, homes several stories high built snugly together, as if symbolically to prevent interlopers such as herself from wedging between them.

“Go on, now. Go see to your sister. Shall I bring your trunk up?”

“Perhaps not just yet,” she said.

“Of
course
not,” he said.

More irony.
Oh,
but the man was grating.

Sylvie ascended the steps, not faltering, but conscious of the curtains at windows along the row of houses parting, then dropping when she turned her head swiftly at the movement.

Though the temptation arose, she knew turning on her heel and fleeing was no longer an option. Her journey
must
end here.

On the imposing door, a snarling brass lion held a loop of metal in its teeth; Sylvie took a deep breath for confidence, took the knocker in her hands, and rapped hard twice.

Her breath came short now. What if the woman who lived in this house had nothing at all to do with her?

Would she be kind? Would she be stunned to discover her sister was a ballerina, someone who had occupied a twilight world where she was admired and envied by women like herself—but only from a distance? And, not infrequently, courted and pursued by their husbands?

But Etienne had promised to buy her a home. He owned many homes, homes she had never seen, homes, she was certain, many times the size of this one.

Moments later, the door opened; a butler stared at her. His face was bland, as impassive as the walls of the home itself, his hair and skin were a matching shade of gray-white, no doubt the result of a life spent indoors.

“May I be of some assistance to you, Madame?” A neutral sort of politeness, the sort at which servants excelled, and he’d employed it because he hadn’t the faintest idea who she was and to which social stratum she belonged. She saw his eyes flick up, note the hackney at the foot of the steps. Flick back to her. Searching for clues as to whether he should warm the temperature of his voice.

He doesn’t know who I am,
Sylvie reminded herself.
Doesn’t know I’m a dancer, with a lover, who fled across the Channel.

“Is Lady Grantham at home, please?” She tried not to sound defensive. She also tried not to sound French, but this was virtually impossible.

The impassive expression changed not a fraction. “The viscount and Lady Grantham are away, Madame. Would you care to leave your card?”

“A-away?” Perhaps he meant they’d...gone to the shops or for a stroll, she thought desperately. Though, somehow, given the tenor of her journey thus far, she suspected this was optimistic bordering on the delusional.

“By
away,
I mean they’ve gone to France, Madame.” Something that might have been the beginnings of a frown shadowed the place between his eyes.

Suddenly the ramifications of the viscount and Lady Grantham going to France struck.

“Did they perhaps go to visit...Lady Grantham’s sister?”

“‘Sister,’ Madame?” It was almost sharply said.

And then his face, in a heartbeat, went from bland to cynical and wary.

“I am Lady Grantham’s sister,” Sylvie said with some dignity.

She heard the sound of a cleared throat eloquently from the street. The hackney driver.

“Of
course
you are, Madame.” Sylvie blinked; his words were all but chiseled from scorn. “You and every other opportunistic female on the Continent. Ever since the trial. It’s not an original idea, though I must admit your widow’s weeds are a new approach.”

“T-trial?” “Trial” was seldom a good word in any language.

“Come now, Miss. Mr. Morley’s trial. What a sordid business it was, what with him involved in the murder of Richard Lockwood, and Anna Holt blamed for it, and out it came that Lady Grantham—the wife of a
very
wealthy viscount, mind you—had two sisters who disappeared when she was very young, and she doesn’t know what became of them. Oh my, the letters we’ve received, the young ladies who’ve appeared on the doorstep...the story seems to have inspired every opportunist on the Continent. You’re not the first to think of it, Madame. Quite a nuisance, it’s been, the flocks of young ladies and the pleading letters. Posing as a widow, however, is a novel approach, I will say that for you, Madame. And you’ve shown a certain amount of daring—or would it be stupidity?—in telling such a story when my employers have begun to prosecute the transgressors. They are, in fact, offering a rather large reward for the apprehension of them.”

Sylvie’s hands were now clammy inside her gloves, and despite the sun beating at the back of her neck, the black of her gown soaking in every ray of it, a sick, icy feeling suddenly made her even more aware of how empty her stomach was.

“But...I had a letter. From Lady Grantham. Susannah. I brought it with me, you see, but the highwayman...the highwayman...he took it...”

She trailed off when the butler’s expression grew more and more incredulous. “Lady Grantham’s sister is in France,” he said sternly. “Lady Grantham has gone to France in search of her.”

“I have come from France.
I
am French,” Sylvie said indignantly.

“So are thousands and thousands of other people, more’s the pity.”

Sylvie’s patience slipped and her hand darted into her bodice, fishing for her miniature.

The butler’s eyes bulged like hen’s eggs when she did, and then he flung an arm over his face. “Madame, I assure you that exposing yourself won’t convince me to—”

She finally retrieved the miniature on its little black ribbon. “Please look.” She said struggling for calm.

The butler kept his arm up over his eyes.

“I have a miniature,” she coaxed softly.

There was a silence. From the foot of the stairs, the bloody hackney driver began to whistle a mocking little tune.

“A miniature
what
?” the butler ventured nervously. Only his lips moved from beneath his arm.

It would have been a simple enough thing to say, “a miniature of my mother, Anna, whom I suspect is also Lady Grantham’s mother.” But the devil in Sylvie was stronger, as was the coquette. “Why don’t you have a look, monsieur?”

Ah, so he was a man after all. He slowly pulled his arm away from his eyes. And he looked. She bit back a smile.

He recovered his composure quickly enough when he saw the miniature she held out on its ribbon.

And then, after his first quick glance, his posture stiffened, and he stared at it.

Sylvie allowed this stranger to study her mother’s sweet face: those pale eyes tilted with laughter, the fair hair, the finely drawn bones, the image she had cherished her entire life. The only reminder of the family she had lost. Apart from Claude, Sylvie had never shared this image with anyone until this man who looked at it with wary eyes.

But then the butler’s expression transformed. As gradually as winter melts into spring and spring into summer, she saw speculation become uncertainty and—and her breath caught at what this might mean—at last she saw a glimmer of sympathy.

He cleared his throat. Good God, she was surrounded by men who cleared their throats. “May I hold the min—”

“No,” Sylvie said the word tersely, but then again, her patience and nerves were frayed. “I hope you understand,” she added, conciliatorily. “It is precious to me.”

“I suppose I do understand,” he said, sounding abstracted now. “May I ask how you came to own this miniature, Mrs....”

“My name is Sylvie Lamoreux. I’ve had it always. I’m told it’s my mother, Mr....”

“Bale. My name is Mr. Bale.”

He fell quiet. At the curb, the hackney driver cleared his throat.

“
Mon dieu,
have
patience,
” Sylvie snapped over her shoulder.

She turned back to Bale, just in time to see the corner of his mouth twitch. He still seemed thoughtful; he said nothing. She turned the miniature over. “And see, there are words.”

“To Sylvie Hope of her mother Anna,”
Bale read slowly aloud, half to himself. Wonderingly.

Sylvie allowed him to absorb this information. Then she tucked the miniature into her bodice once more while he averted his eyes. Ah, so prim for a man.

“Did the other young ladies who arrived on your doorstep present miniatures, Mr. Bale?” Her tone was lightly acerbic.

The butler looked pensive. “I know nothing of any miniatures of Anna Holt, Mrs. Lamoreux.”

“Holt?” Sylvie pounced eagerly on the name. “My mother’s name was Anna
Holt
? Sir, I know nothing of her. All my life I have wanted to know . . .”

Mr. Bale said nothing. His lips worried over each other, folding in, folding out, as he thought.

“Can you tell me please whether Lady Grantham and her husband intended to call upon someone named Claude Lamoreux in Paris?”

The butler was an edifice of silence. As seemingly immovable as the walls of the house he attended.

He was merely being dutiful, Sylvie knew, protecting the privacy of his employers, but at the moment his silence felt unspeakably cruel. But his silence at least spoke of doubt, and the doubt had mercifully eliminated his dreadful patronizing for the moment.

“When will they return? Lady Grantham and her husband?”

“I cannot say, Miss Lamoreux.” Flawless, his pronunciation of her name was.

“But can you tell me,
please,
Mr. Bale, does Lady Grantham resemble me?”

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot, or
will
not?” she demanded desperately, with growing impatience.

But all at once she comprehended the expression on his face earlier, the source of what appeared to be dawning sympathy.

“She looks like my mother,” Sylvie breathed. “Susannah, Lady Grantham. . . perhaps
I
do not resemble her, but she
does
resemble the woman in the miniature, yes?”

Sylvie saw the answer in his face, saw him look at her now, as if inventorying her features, trying to draw conclusions. Hope dizzied her.

“Please, Mr. Bale. All of my life, I have wanted to know something of my family. I’ve had none, you see, and I was told...” She stumbled. “I was told things that I think are not true.”

“Miss Lamoreux. I cannot stress enough the significance of the trouble this has caused Lady Grantham. The viscount has in fact arranged for one interloper to be arrested, and has offered a reward to anyone who assists in apprehending impostors. Do you understand my position, Mrs. Lamoreux? I implore you to abandon your charade if you
have
embarked upon a charade.”

Do you understand my position? I am alone and penniless and hundreds of miles away from home because I am a headstrong fool.

A silent stalemate ensued.

She imagined saying, “It is
not
a charade,” which seemed unproductive. So she tried hauteur instead.

“Will Lady Grantham be angry with you, Mr. Bale, if she discovers you turned her true sister away?”

It worked. He glared at her, clearly torn, frustrated, and wishing she hadn’t arrived on
his
doorstep.

“Where will you be staying, Mrs. Lamoreux, while you are in London?” he asked finally, with some resignation.

“I don’t know, Mr. Bale,” she said bitterly. He deserved the punishment of wondering whether he had done the right thing, she decided unfairly. “Perhaps you should look at the White Lily.”

She caught a glimpse of his eyes going wide again as she turned her back and marched down the steps. No royal army had ever retreated more proudly than Sylvie Lamoreux.

“You knew,” she accused the hackney driver. “Why did you say nothing?”

“Say nothing? I thought ye knew what ye were about, Miss, and I thought ye’d the look of someone who might verra well ’ave a plan. I mean, ye’ve a costume, a trunk— ye’d given it all some thought, seemed to me. Thought ye deserved a chance.”

He smiled, a hatefully amused gap-toothed smile. “So where shall we go? To visit another relation? To see if the king is in?”

She thought about it for an instant; arrived, suddenly, at what appeared to be her only option. “To the White Lily, please.”

The driver’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Did you say. . . the White Lily, Miss?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t certain how to interpret the surprise. “Mr. Tom Shaughnessy will pay my fare.” She hoped this was true. Her mind veered to more inventive options she might employ to earn money and immediately batted them away.

“Shaughnessy?
Tommy
Shaughnessy?” All warmth and genuine grins now.

Good God, did
everyone
know Tom Shaughnessy? Perhaps she should have asked the butler whether he knew Tom Shaughnessy to gain an entrée into the viscount’s home.

“Mr. Shaughnessy! Well, then! Looking for honest work now then, are ye? The sort of work fer a miss like yerself? Given up the impostor business ’ave ye now?”

“I am
not
a fraud, Mr....”

“Me name’s Mick,” he said simply.

“I am not looking for ‘honest work,’ Mr. Mick. Mr. Shaughnessy is...is my relation.”

The hackney driver’s eyes flew open wide. “Your relation?” he said flatly.

“Yes.” This man was growing more and more tiresome.

“Tom Shaughnessy is your relation,” he repeated. His mouth began to tremble then, and his eyes grew pink at the rims, and then began watering. Sylvie took a single nervous step backward.

And then as though a dam burst, as though he’d been storing it up all day, he exploded into great gusts of body-buckling laughter.

“Your
relation
!” He howled, and slapped his thigh resoundingly a few times, sending the flesh of it wobbling to and fro in his trousers. “Yer related to everyone in London, are ye now? To viscounts
and
to the likes o’ Tom?”

The likes o’ Tom?
This hardly sounded promising. No doubt, given the luck she was experiencing thus far today, Tom Shaughnessy was a flamboyant criminal of some sort. But she couldn’t now ask the hackney driver what the White Lily might be, or who Tom might be, because she imagined it would make him howl even louder, and she didn’t think she could bear that.