Ways to Be Wicked (9 page)

“
Quelle heure
—” she began, in her fatigue finding the French words easier to recall than the English. “That is, what is the time now, Josephine, please?”

“Why, time for you to eat m’dear. I’ll come and fetch ye before the show, about eight o’clock.”

“For the show?” To watch?

“Ye’ll be in the show tonight, me dear. Mr. Shaughnessy
did
’ire ye for that reason. We’ll pin yer dress t’ fit and alter it tomorrow. The work never ends ’ere a’ the White Lily.”

She smiled and closed the door, leaving Sylvie to her little feast.

Sylvie was torn between the attractive little heap of food and the soft heap of pillows on the bed.

A moment later, she dived into the food, ignoring the fork, making little shameless moaning sounds as the savory meat and cheese and bread met her tongue. She swal-lowed, felt it fill her stomach, began to feel human again.

And it probably wasn’t wise to sleep on a full stomach, but her body was giving her no choice. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin and sank backward onto the bed, shifted up until her head found the pillows, sighed, and slept.

Chapter Seven

T
HE TAP ON THE DOOR
woke Sylvie with a start, and when she shifted a bit, she realized she was still in her fairy dress, and her legs were tangled in its folds. She gave a few little kicks to free herself; she rolled sleepily over and blinked: A wooden wand was on the pillow next to her.

Ah, so it hadn’t been a nightmare induced by coaching inn food, then.

“Sylvie? Time to prepare for the show, m’dear.” Josephine’s cheery voice came through the door.

Sylvie snatched up her wand, rolled over, fighting a bit with her dress in the attempt, and went for the door.

Josephine eyed her with critical concern.

“Well, there’s rouge,” she finally said, resignedly, as though the rest of it could not be helped. “And we’ll pin yer dress, like, and yer ’air will be down. Ye’ll be pretty enough.” She sounded as though she’d cheered herself some, if not Sylvie. “Come along wi’ me, then.”

And so Josephine led Sylvie from her little nun’s room back to what surely must be the opposite of little nun’s rooms everywhere—the dressing room full of buxom girls, giggling in their shifts, rummaging through cupboards for props and costumes, exclaiming over the shiny gifts sent by admirers that littered the little dressing tables. The lamplight burnished their bare arms pale gold and gleamed on glossy hair and fairy wings.

Lizzie held up a pair of earbobs for all to admire.

“Ooo! Garnets, Lizzie!” Molly peered at them expertly. “They’re meant to dangle.”

“Like the bloke ’oo sent ’em,” Lizzie said sadly. “ ’E does naught but dangle, no matter
wot
I do.” She demonstrated by holding her fairy wand perpendicular to her body for an instant, then dropping it sadly so that the star pointed at the floor.

An explosion of wicked giggles followed.

And then Molly opened a box and went very still.

“What d’yer ’ave there, Molly?” Lizzie asked.

Molly lifted up a painted ivory-and-silk fan, an exquisite and nearly excruciatingly tasteful thing and probably worth a dozen pairs of garnet earrings in cost. She held it almost gingerly. Instantly everyone hovered about her to gasp over it.

“New bloke,” Molly said shortly She was reaching for nonchalance but fell short of the mark. “ ’E asked Poe to send it in to the...loveliest...girl ’ere.” She faltered over the adjective as though it was not a word she typically included in her vocabulary, as though she wasn’t certain she had a right to it. But triumph edged her voice. Perhaps it was confirmation of something she’d long suspected.

Even from the doorway Sylvie could see the fan was a remarkable little thing. Almost. . . pointedly singular. A gift calculated to intrigue and flatter and disarm, and these three things were the first step in seduction, she knew. A wealthy man might send in jewels to a girl such as Molly—Sylvie had been sent more than her share of jewels by admirers—but only a man of breeding and intelligence would have chosen this strategic little fan. Sylvie knew this, because it rather reminded her of the sort of gifts Etienne had sent to her when his wooing had begun. Fine little glittering snowflakes of gifts, which had gradually accustomed her to his attentions, then eased her into expecting them.

Sylvie suddenly felt a peculiar weight in her chest, as though a hand pressed there, limiting her breath. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, just to prove to herself that she could do it.

Perhaps it was simply because it had been days since she’d danced, days since she’d felt that delicious hard hammering of her heart in her chest from the exertion of it, since she’d worked until a fine sheen of sweat coated her exhausted, exhilarated body. She suspected her body craved the stretch and release of it.

She wondered, a little desperately, when she would have an opportunity to dance again. Ballet, that was. Not. . . well, whatever it was they did here at the White Lily.

“ ’Ave ye seen ’im, Molly? Yer new bloke. ’Is ’e ’and-some?” Lizzie asked eagerly.

“I’ll know if ’e’s ’andsome tonight after the show,” Molly said slyly. “ ’E’ll send a carriage fer me after the show. Po told me ’e would.”

“Ye’ve so many admirers,” Rose said somewhat resignedly, but without obvious rancor. “ ’Ope
yer
new one doesna. . . dangle.”

More giggles.

“Willna Belstow and Lassiter and all of the rest of yer admirers be jealous, now, Molly?”

Molly shrugged with one shoulder. “I told Belstow I canna give ’im more of the time until ’e ’as more of his papa’s money, and what Lassiter doesna know willna trouble ’im.” She hadn’t moved her eyes from the fan.

Molly at last looked up from the fan then and noticed Sylvie and Josephine in the doorway. “Miss Chicken ’as arrived,” she said grandly.

“Oh, ye’re to be a fairy as soon as tonight, then, Sylvie?” Rose’s voice was mildly pleased. “Perhaps ye’ll learn to be a damsel tomorrow.”

“D’yer really kiss an ’ighwayman, Sylvie?” Jenny, big-eyed, wanted to know. “Rosie said ye did.”

“I did,” Sylvie confirmed. “He wanted a kiss in exchange for not robbing our coach. And so I kissed him.”

“
Ooooh!
” Awed attention swiveled toward Sylvie. But Molly’s chestnut head had turned away and was now fixed on a mirror. She was smoothing rouge onto a fair cheek, desperately trying not to look interested.

Sylvie shrugged nonchalantly. She deliberately omitted, “and then the highwayman took all my money and the letter from my sister, forcing me to cast my lot in with the lot of you.” She thought perhaps remaining enigmatic might be useful. She shifted her wand into her other hand as Josephine reached beneath her arm.

“Be still now, Sylvie, whilst I pin yer dress.” Josephine’s mouth was bristling with pins; her large deft hands were plucking at Sylvie’s skirt, pinning it closer to her body.

Sylvie dutifully remained motionless until Josephine nudged her this way and that to reach other parts of her dress.

“An’ so Mr. Shaughnessy ’ired ye because ye were brave?” Lizzie wanted to know.

Oddly, Sylvie was a little insulted.
No, because I am beautiful.

But why
did
he hire her? Surely that
was
the reason.

“I do not know,” she answered, more or less honestly. With another inscrutable little French shrug. “I needed to work.”

“No shrugging,” Josephine ordered, plucking a pin from her mouth and poking it into the dress.

And then the door burst open, flinging hard against the wall. The girls shrieked and jumped.

A man stood there: young, handsome but already going to fat, red in the face with fury, breathing as though he’d run for miles. His fists were balled and white with tension, and they were raised, poised to launch.

Sylvie knew danger when she saw it. Her heart raced into her throat. “Get help,” she mouthed to Lizzie, who was closest to the door.

Lizzie sidled against the wall behind him and bolted out of the room.

His head swiveled, found Molly. “You,” he said flatly, contemptuously. He snatched at the bodice of her dress with one hand and yanked her out of her chair. “Who is he?” he demanded.

“Belstow, I—”

“Tell me who he is!” the man snarled. “Who are you giving your favors to now, you little whore?”

And then, to Sylvie’s horror, he struck Molly with the flat of his hand across the face.

A horrible sound, that smack of flesh. Molly cried out.

And when the man lifted his hand over Molly again, Sylvie lunged for him.

Before every performance, while the girls dressed for the show, Tom and The General convened to discuss the particulars of the White Lily’s business, and the room they did it in was a snug male fantasy of comfort. Plush chairs sprawled about a hearth like a pride of lazy, sated beasts, and the crackling fire threw light up onto vivid murals, smaller, slightly more lurid versions of the ones that decorated the interior of the theater: satyrs and nymphs, gods and goddesses cavorted in the leaping light of the flames. Ever since he’d learned to read, Tom had loved the unabashed, joyous carnality of Greek myths, the violence and playfulness, the magic and the lessons in them.

There was one character from mythology, however, who never made it up onto the murals: Chiron, the wounded healer. Not an erotic character, Chiron. He lived with pain every day and grew the wiser for it. A teacher, Chiron was. Noble cove.

Tom knew
he
was not a noble cove, and doubted he ever would be. This knowledge did not cost him sleep.

Tom fished a little moon of gold from his pocket, snapped it open, reviewed the time. He could hear through the walls the low cheerful rumble of the gathering crowd of men who nightly enjoyed the entertainments he provided. It was one of his favorite sounds, along with the jingle of shillings and the sounds a woman made in the throes of pleasure.

A pleasant hitch of breath accompanied that last thought, which led to thoughts of one woman in particular. “So how did the new girl fare today, Gen?”

The General pulled a cigar from his mouth and admired the glowing tip. “She has no arse, she’s proud and impudent, and I do believe half the girls are wildly jealous of her, thanks to you, and the way you just foisted her upon our cozy little group. How did you think she’d fare, Tom?”

Tom grinned, relishing the description. “But can she dance?”

“She’ll do,” The General growled.

“Good, then. I’ll have a look myself tomorrow, during rehearsals.”

“And you...broke the news to Daisy about Venus?” The General ventured gingerly.

“Yes,” Tom said grimly.

“I expect she took it gracefully?” More stock-in-trade irony from The General.

“Would you
ever
describe Daisy as graceful, Gen?”

There was a curious pause. The General turned away from Tom and studied his cigar again, as though the answer to this question could be found there. “Not the first word that comes to mind,” The General finally allowed. Tom would have sworn the words were almost wistful.

Tom studied his friend in bemusement for a moment, frowning slightly.

“I’ve already had notes from the Major and Lord Cambry. They’re in. They want to be a part of The Gentleman’s Emporium.” His voice was quiet, but triumph infused every note of it.

“Mmm.” The General made a little sound of appreciation. “Do you need the whole of that group involved before you go forward with it?”

“If I get at least commitments from all of them this week, I’ll buy the property with the capital I have and sign agreements with the builders. You’re in, Gen?”

“You need to ask? I want my share in this, too, Tommy. You’ve all but guaranteed me a prosperous dotage.”

“Can you see it now? We’ll have—”

Sudden frantic pounding on the door had Tom in his feet in an instant. He flung the door open.

Lizzie stood before him, wild-eyed, breathing hard. “The dressing room—Molly—Mr. Belstow—ye best come—
oh please
—”

Tom took in the scene in the dressing room with a glance: Molly, one arm raised to shield her face; four other girls in various stages of undress cowering in the corner; Belstow standing over Molly, arm lifted, either to protect himself or to strike again.

And next to Belstow Sylvie Chapeau, a starless shard of a wooden wand in her hand, hand raised as if to administer another blow.

Quickly and gently, Tom closed his hand over Sylvie’s other arm and tugged her behind him, keeping his fingers closed around her. She resisted him a little, almost reflexively, still bristling with her own anger.

“Where would you like it, Mr. Belstow?” Tom’s voice was low and taut. Deceptively polite.

Belstow whirled, startled, frowned in surprise; his hand froze midair.

“‘It’?” he repeated. And for a moment, the bastard looked almost hopeful. As though Tom had come bearing a selection of gifts.

“The knife,” Tom clarified slowly. An almost cheery deadliness in his voice. “Through your gullet, across your throat, perhaps...?” Tom gestured casually to his own throat, then swept his coat back idly, just a little, as though it was merely in his way.

Everyone saw the knife tucked there in its sheath at the top of his trousers.

Belstow’s face spasmed in disbelief. “You wouldn’t
dare,
Shaughnessy. I caught this little whore with another—”

Tom’s hand snapped out and seized a fistful of Belstow’s shirt and cravat, yanking it taut as a noose, pulling him to the balls of his feet. Belstow teetered on his toes within inches of Tom’s face.

“Test me.” Tom measured each word out tonelessly, as though nothing in his life had ever bored him more than the man dangling from his fist.

Tom held him a moment longer, allowing the message in his eyes to penetrate fully.

When Belstow’s face went ashen, Tom knew he’d succeeded.

He released him abruptly.

Belstow dropped to his knees, his legs too weak to hold him. And then everyone watched, and no one helped, as Belstow struggled awkwardly, shakily to his feet. He rubbed at his throat.

“When my father hears of this, Shaughnessy—”

“I know your father, Mr. Belstow. I assure you, when I tell him what you’ve done, you’ll be sorry I didn’t gut you. I wonder if your father approves of hitting women?”

It was a bluff. Tom didn’t know the senior Mr. Belstow from Adam, really; he’d seen him but twice at the theater. But he struck him as a good sort, and Tom’s instincts along these lines were typically sharp enough.

His instincts were borne out. Belstow’s ashen face took on a lovely undertone of green. Ah. Most weak young men
were
afraid of their fathers.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re no longer welcome here,” Tom added politely. “And I’ll leave you to imagine what might happen to you if you
do
choose to show your face here again. Can you leave under your own locomotion, Mr. Belstow, or will you require further assistance?” Tom was all mock solicitousness now.

Belstow’s mouth opened and closed. He glared at Tom in quiet fury for another moment.

Tom met his gaze unblinkingly.

Belstow turned, unable to hold the gaze. A moment later, he turned and stalked out the door, without saying another word.