Miss Gayle had been her last interview of the day, so there was nothing keeping her there. She should return to Saint’s Row and look after that business instead of hanging about this one, especially now that Trystan had arrived.
She was halfway up the stairs before she realized what she was doing. Turning around didn’t seem to be an option as she continued the climb. Workmen bustled around the first floor and she could hear them on the one above as well.
There hadn’t been other incidents since Inspector Jacobs took over as their champion, but that didn’t mean she let her guard down. Enough had happened that she fully expected their foe to strike again, especially since there had been a story in the paper just yesterday morning as to the danger of copious spending among married ladies.
Apparently spinsters, widows, and young misses spent just enough, she thought bitterly. Had the writer of the piece never seen what a young girl in her first Season cost her papa in clothing alone?
On the first-floor landing, she stopped and looked up at the great chandelier. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had climbed the ladder and crashed to the floor. Glancing about, one would never know any such accident had happened on this very spot. Why, her blood hadn’t even stained the wood.
“May I be of assistance, Madame La Rieux?”
Vienne’s chin came down. A scruffy but friendly-looking workman was watching her expectantly.
“Have you seen Lord Trystan?” she inquired.
“Indeed I have, ma’am. He’s up on the next floor, in what’s to be the shop for linens and what-not, with another gentleman.”
“Thank you.” She smiled as he tipped his hat and then lifted her skirts to climb the next set of stairs. Who might this other gentleman be? She hadn’t seen anyone arrive, but then she had been interviewing shopgirls, all morning.
After this she needed a little chocolate, or perhaps an entire pot. And a hot water bottle for her belly. Maybe a nice warm bath and a nap.
Or a fight. She could just as easily jump feet-first into a good debate, or even a little hair pulling. It was just that sort of day.
At the top of the stairs on the second-floor landing she turned left, pausing only a moment to admire the chandelier that hung there as well. It was similar to the one on the first floor, but with a different design in the metal. This floor was coming along nicely. It really was amazing the difference that an experienced workman, paid exorbitant wages, could make.
She found Trystan and his company exactly where the workman said she would, which was good because she never would have heard them to follow their voices—standing face-to-face, speaking in very quiet voices, as they were. Vienne’s heart quickened at the sight of Trystan—Miss Gayle was right about him being a very fine fellow—but that eager pounding stopped abruptly when she saw who it was he was speaking to.
Ira Fletcher. Tall, blunt-featured and thick as a bull, he was soft spoken and allegedly a very good dancer. He was also one of the most notorious crime lords in all of London. He had approached Vienne shortly after she opened Saint’s Row about providing protection for her business. She politely refused. When someone beat one of her footmen senseless, she went to Fletcher’s place of business and stabbed one his men through the foot with a rather pointy parasol. It was a move that could have gotten her killed, but it earned her the criminal’s respect instead.
What the hell was he doing here?
With Trystan?
What possible business could they have? Unless. . .
It was a terrible thought. But once her suspicious mind thought it, there was no taking it back. She knew it was impossible . . . but what if Trystan
was
involved with the mischief that had plagued her for all these weeks?
No
. She refused to entertain the stupid notion. She felt dirty having thought it. Was she such an awful person that she automatically suspected it in others as well? No, Trystan Kane was a good and honorable man.
A good and honorable man who just happened to be talking very quietly to a notorious criminal in her—
their
—place of business. She might wonder whether Trystan would ever hurt her—and perhaps
nearly
believe that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to jeopardize an enterprise in which he had sunk so much of his own money. There was one thing, though, that she was certain of—
There was no such thing as doing good and honorable business with Ira Fletcher.
T
rystan didn’t fancy himself necessarily an intellectual sort of man, but he was smart enough to know when someone was avoiding him, and Vienne was avoiding him.
After his meeting with Ira Fletcher—the man owed him a favor for the investment advice Trystan had given him—he went looking for Vienne to tell her what he’d found out, only to be told that she had left just a few minutes earlier.
Why hadn’t she come to say good-bye? Maybe he was being what Archer called clingy, but
he
would have informed her he was leaving for the day. Perhaps she had started to do just that, and then saw him talking to one of London’s most infamous citizens.
He swore under his breath. God only knew where that mind of hers had gone after that. He should have known better than to meet Fletcher at the site; she was bound to use it against him. But Trystan wanted those who might be watching—or the people, or person, responsible for the incidents—to know that he was asking questions; and wanted to frighten whomever it was enough to back down, or feel poked enough to try something else so Inspector Jacobs might catch him, her, or them red-handed.
Chasing after Vienne wasn’t the best strategy, but it was better than giving her time to think herself out of their relationship. Besides, what Fletcher had told him was important—the sort of thing she would want to know.
So he surprised Havers by climbing into the carriage at an unscheduled time and instructed his driver to deliver him to Saint’s Row—and to wait outside for him. He didn’t plan to be there long; he’d explain and then leave. If he stayed any longer, she’d think of something to fight about—he’d been around her during “that time of the month” before.
At Saint’s Row he didn’t knock. They all were used to him by now. He climbed the stairs to Vienne’s apartments without bothering to check her office first. If she was upset, she would go to her room first and perhaps have a drink or some chocolate. If she wasn’t feeling well, she might lie down. Regardless, he likened it to walking into the den of an injured lioness. He’d be lucky to escape unscathed. Yet for all that, he really only wanted to make certain she didn’t think ill of him, and to be assured that she was all right.
He knocked once and then let himself into her private living space. She stood in the middle of the carpet, a box of chocolates in her hands. She started at his entrance, chewing on a bite of what appeared to be a nougat.
She swallowed. “Trystan. What are you doing here?”
“You left without saying good-bye,” he replied, all innocence. “May I have one of those?”
She set the box on her writing desk. He knew better than to cross the invisible line and try to take one for himself. “Trystan, if you are going to be so . . . needy that you follow me across the city just to say good-bye—”
“And you say I think too much of myself,” he interrupted, earning himself a scowl. “I’m here because I know why you ran off. You saw me with Fletcher and you couldn’t wait to run home and stew on it.”
She glared at him . . . and Trystan didn’t have the heart to tell her that the effect was ruined by a spot of chocolate on the corner of her mouth. “I am not
stewing
on anything. Who you choose to converse with is your own affair, though I do wish you had picked a more suitable venue.”
All that was missing from her indignant speech was a well-placed sniff. “Have you made me into a villain yet? Am I killing puppies, or perhaps busy engineering another ‘accident’ at the site?”
A guilty flush filled her cheeks. It was so expected, he couldn’t even be disappointed at it. “You’re so afraid to trust that you would rather make me a villain then believe in what we have.”
Her chin came up. “Don’t you dare presume to know what I think!”
“Oh, Vienne. Darling. It’s positively transparent what you think, don’t you know that? I know you, and I know that a part of you rejoiced at seeing me with Fletcher, because now you can talk yourself into a reason to end things between us.”
That was the spark that finally set her ablaze. He knew it wouldn’t take much. She was as hungry for a fight as she was for those chocolates. “You brought that man into my business! My house!”
“
Our
business.” He might as well provoke her; there would be no reasoning with her.
“Don’t you dare try that tactic with me. I am not the one who has done anything wrong!”
“Neither am I!” Perhaps he understood why she behaved the way she did, but that didn’t mean he had to like it or put up with it. “Fletcher owed me a favor for investment advice. I asked him to ask around about anyone who might be involved in the incidents at the shops.”
Arms folded under her breasts, she raised an expectant brow. “What did he say?”
At least she retained some degree of common sense. “He said that he had heard of a fellow making trouble for merchants earlier this year. A man whose wife apparently went on a spree and drove him deep into debt.”
She looked interested. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Fletcher’s going to find out, and then we can give the name to Jacobs.” He couldn’t help but smile faintly. “Feel free to thank me.”
She looked as though she’d rather eat glass. “Thank you. You should have told me before you met him. I might have been prepared. He injured one of my men, you know.”
“And you stabbed one of his in the foot, isn’t that right?” That was it, provoke and tease her. That will go over so very well.
She shrugged. “I don’t like being bullied.”
He sighed. “There are so many things you don’t like, Vienne. Why not concentrate on the things you do.”
“Such as?”
“Us. You like
us
, but any moment now you’re going to open that pretty mouth of yours and tell me it isn’t working, or that you think we shouldn’t spend so much time together.”
Her jaw tightened. “You presume to know me very well.”
“I do know you very well, and you know me. You knew that I wasn’t up to anything with Fletcher. It was just an excuse. Now you have to look for a new one. You know . . . you could just be honest.”
“Fine. I think we should end our affair.”
Expecting a blow did not generally make it hurt any less. He forced himself to remain stoic. “Why?”
“Does there have to be a why?”
“There does when you don’t want to end this anymore than I do. What are you afraid of?”
“You,” she amazed him by answering. “I am afraid of you and the damage you could do if I trust you with my heart.
Mon Dieu
, I have a difficult time trusting people with my coat, let alone my heart.”
He smiled—pitifully. “That doesn’t surprise me. You trust me with your business, Vienne. You know I would never hurt you.”
“No, not on purpose, I don’t think you would. But you might by accident. Or, God forbid, Trystan, I could hurt you. Surely you know the capacity I have for doing harm.”
He did. There was no arguing that nor was there any comfort for the ravaged look on her face.
She continued. “Everything I love turns awful and bitter. Turns against me. I have hurt so many people and been hurt so many times in kind, I think that is all I am capable of. I do not want to hurt you, but I would rather never see you again than give you the opportunity to see me for what I really am. I would rather die than see the day when you look at me with disgust in your eyes . . . and it would happen. I know it would.”
“Vienne . . .” He started toward her, but she stopped him.
“Please do not touch me.” Her voice was a frail whisper. “You want to tell me I am wrong. You want to insist that I am lovable, but I am not. Worse than that, I am not capable of that emotion anymore. I will not allow myself to feel it. Do you understand what it is I’m saying to you?”
He stared at her. “That it doesn’t matter if I love you. It doesn’t even matter if you love me, you refuse to take a chance because one of us might get hurt.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Disbelief and rage came pouring out of him. “That is the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever frigging heard!”
Vienne took a step back, staring at him as though he had suddenly sprouted a second head. “It is not an excuse! It is true.”
“It’s bullshit and we both know it. You love Sadie. You love your employees.”
“I shot one of my footmen!”
“Winged him, and the bastard deserved it. What this boils down to is that you are scared and too much of a coward to let whatever we have take its course. You would rather end it now and deny both of us whatever joy we might have had. You would rather go on to be a bitter old woman.”
“While you can go on to marry a sweet young debutante.”