Wicked Little Secrets (31 page)

Overhead, the sky was pale blue with stripes of coal smoke. The sun edged over the rooftops, warming the air. Yet Vivienne shivered as if she were naked in the snow. She kept her head up, refusing to listen to the scary thoughts circling in her head. She was Joan of Arc going to battle.

“You look as scared as when they put me on the boat to Australia,” Jenkinson said. “That’s wot your uncle done to me.”

“Is that why you went after my aunt? Because you thought you could get some degree of revenge on Jeremiah Bertis?”

“He was one of them types who likes peculiar things. Then ’e don’t pays me, but puts me away for seventeen years in Australia. I was going to make ’im bleed whether he were dead or not.” Jenkinson laughed, a hoarse phlegmatic sound.

They led Vivienne to the back of a tall row house stacked with rounded balconies. All the windows were curtained. A scrawny woman in her mid-forties with concave pock-scarred cheeks answered the door; her tired eyes took in Vivienne. “The mistress will want to see this one.”

Sidney kept his fat hand tight on Vivienne’s wrist as they followed the woman through a dining room. The table was covered with an ivory cloth and set with white china and silver platters. As she passed, Jenkinson nonchalantly lifted the butter plate and shoved it into her dress, then continued on as if nothing were amiss. They were taken to a huge, airy hall. Three balconies were stacked like cake layers. A grand chandelier rested on a blanket while a thin, short man hung new crystals on the edges. Above them, three men hoisted a massive stone angel, heaving breaths and wiping sweat from their brows, while two other workers sat on their haunches, hammering new balustrades into the railing.

In the center of the room, a thin woman supervised their work. Black hair frizzed about her forehead and she wore a brown lace gown. Her mouth was pursed in a thin line. Perched on her shoulder was a large white bird with pink feather-tips. “Move it three inches to the left,” she ordered.

This
must
be
Fontaine.

“You heard her, boys!” one of the workers said.

The men lifted the angel, their straining grunts echoing in the high ceiling.

“No, no, you’ve gone too far,” Fontaine cried and flung up her arms. “I said three inches, not three feet. Come back.”

“Stay behind me,” Jenkinson told Vivienne and then tried to get the woman’s attention by clearing her throat, which led to a small coughing fit.

Fontaine’s head whipped around. Her eyes were shiny, black and hard as onyx.

“Annie,” Jenkinson choked out between phlegm.

The woman didn’t say a word, but cocked a thin brow to convey her annoyance. The bird on her shoulder spread its wings and stuck out its stubby tongue.

“I mean, Mrs. Fontaine,” Jenkinson corrected herself. She stepped forward, wringing her hands, her shoulders hunched. “I—I brought you a girl.”

“I thought I told you never to come here,” the woman snapped.

Sidney shoved Vivienne forward. She stumbled, colliding with Jenkinson, and then righting herself before Fontaine. Vivienne stared at the black boot points peeking below the madam’s skirts. “Joan of Arc,” she whispered, trying to muster her courage. “Save your family.”

But as her eyes rose up the small woman’s body, the tiny bit of pluck she possessed petered away. Despite Fontaine’s diminutive size, she emitted a power so strong and terrifying that Joan would have turned her army around, Cleopatra would have fled to the nether reaches with Marc Antony, and Queen Elizabeth would have converted to Catholicism.

The hammering and grunting stopped, all eyes fixing on Vivienne. Her head turned woozy and tears blurred her eyes.

“Oh my,” Fontaine said, a quiver snaking through her voice. Her tiny, strong fingers latched onto Vivienne’s chin. The large bird began bobbing and squawking, “I love you. I love you.”

The famed madam put a hushing hand on the creature. “Do you, my dear?” She drew a handkerchief from her cuff and wiped the tears from Vivienne’s cheeks. “Look at those green eyes,” she whispered. “Just like his. Tell me, what’s your name, beautiful child?”

“V… Vivienne Taylor.”

Fontaine released an audible breath.

“Old Gertrude’s ’er aunt!” The nubs of Jenkinson’s teeth glinted under her sneer. “Didn’t I do right by you? Didn’t I?”

A slow smile cracked the madam’s lips. “Oh, yes.” She held the
s
like a long sigh.

“And she’s genteel.” Jenkinson jammed her finger into Vivienne’s back. “See, say something genteel-like.”

Without thinking, the words from
The
Ethereal
Graces
of
the
Delicate
Sex
bubbled up.

The softly murmured word, the downcast gaze, and gentle blush of rose. These qualities are the perfection of the proper female. A lady’s true nature is to please her helpmate. Her beauty must appease his sight, her gentle words must calm his woes, her shy smile must convey the pleasure of his presence.

The men broke into applause.

“See! See!” Jenkinson said. “She’s already been trained proper. Them rich gents will pay a pretty penny for her.”

Fontaine beckoned with her hand. “Come into the parlor. And Adele, tell your ape to go help the men with that damned angel.”

Jenkinson jerked her head. “You ’eard ’er,” she said to Sidney.

Vivienne followed Fontaine into a room paneled in shiny carved oak. The thick mirrors strewn about the walls reflected the glowing embers in the grate, bathing the parlor in warm gold light.

Fontaine spun on her heel, coming face-to-face with Vivienne. The bird on her shoulder cocked its head, regarding Vivienne with one eye.

“What happened to your fiancé, Mr. Vandergrift?” Fontaine asked.

Vivienne’s breath caught. How did this madam know about the engagement? Had John been talking about her in a brothel? Her skin heated with shame, but she forced her head high. “He left me.”

“You are a beautiful creature,” Fontaine said. “Surely you can find another husband in no time.”

Vivienne swallowed, her throat burning.

“You have disgraced yourself, haven’t you?” the madam asked.

When Vivienne couldn’t answer, Fontaine laughed, a silky, purring sound. “Why do I sense Lord Dashiell’s handiwork?”

Tears filled Vivienne’s eyes again.

Jenkinson jabbed her. “Stop your sobbin’.”

“Don’t you dare talk to my sweet, sweet cherub that way!” Fontaine cried. She ran her hand along Vivienne’s cheek and cooed, “It’s all so perfect.”

Vivienne saw nothing perfect in her situation, unless the madam meant perfectly humiliating, desperate, embarrassing, or heart-breaking. “My family is in terrible trouble,” she said. “They’re going to take my papa to debtor’s prison. I must make money.”

“And you will, you will. Your papa will be so proud.” There was a curious, rather malicious arch under Fontaine’s words. “Come, Frederick,” she said, extending her arm. The bird hopped down to her wrist. “There you go, my lovely baby,” she said, gently shooing him onto the wood railing on the back of the sofa. Then her voice went cold. “I’ll give you twenty percent for her,” she told Jenkinson.

“Twenty percent!” Jenkinson cried, outraged. “That’s wot you gives everyone. Now, I could ’ave kept ’er meself, but I’m sharing ’er because we’re business partners.”

“Business partners?” Fontaine laughed. She tilted her head and stared at Jenkinson, her eyes sparkling. “Isn't it a coincidence that you brought Judge Bertis’s niece to me. I wonder how she came to your door. I hope you haven’t done anything unlawful?”

“Wot do you mean?” Jenkinson paled under her tan, turning her skin an ugly burnished yellow. “I know you ’ated Gertrude. I did this for you. You told me about them sketches.”

“What sketches?” Fontaine asked. “I don’t remember anything about sketches.”

Jenkinson’s eyes widened. “But… but you told me—”

“Have you been pestering poor Mrs. Bertis?” Fontaine asked.

“Poor Mrs. Bertis?” Jenkinson echoed. “You never liked her. I bring her pretty niece, and you behaves like the rest of them Mayfair folk, pretending your ’ands ain’t dirty. Nows you give me thirty percent tonight, or I’ll just take ’er ’ome!”

Vivienne felt dizzy. Was there more to this blackmail than just Jenkinson? The game was turning, and she wasn’t sure what was happening. Had she made a terrible mistake? Well, of course she had… trusting Dashiell with her heart. And body. But how did her aunt know these women?

“Very well,” Fontaine said and waved her hand as if the money meant nothing. “You can come back tonight and wait in the kitchen for your share.”

Jenkinson bobbed a curtsy. “We’ve always done right by each other, well, except for that one time. But no need to mention that anymore. Mebbe when I get my business going good, we can be like we used to be before Lawrence James. Just Annie and Adele.”

Fontaine flashed an impatient smile and cleared her throat, a humming purr. “Good-bye,” she said sweetly and then held up a finger. “And leave the glass angel figurine where it belongs, on the side table.”

“Oh, I forgot to put it back,” Jenkinson said, her face turning red. She dug deep into her dress. “’ere it is. Heh-heh. I thought it was such a pretty little bauble,” she said, setting it down.

After the door had closed, Fontaine rolled her eyes. “That evil woman sets me on edge. Don’t listen to her. She was a liar from the egg. I’m so thankful that I’ve gotten you away from her. Now, let me see you.” She crossed to the sofa where her bird waited and patted the cushion for Vivienne to sit. Vivienne obeyed, feeling naked even though she was fully clothed.

“Don’t be nervous,” the madam said and untied the ribbon to Vivienne’s bonnet, pulling it away. “So beautiful.”

Frederick leaped down and pecked the edge of the hat.

An enigmatic smile lit Fontaine’s face, revealing her small, white, square teeth. “I will make you the most prized courtesan in England… no, in all of Europe. You will be the mistress of royalty.” She grasped Vivienne’s hand. “Now come!”

Fontaine broke into a jog, as if she were an excited little girl, pulling Vivienne along. She flung open the parlor door. Frederick flapped over their heads and landed on the railing on the second balcony.

“Boys, we’re going to have a special auction tonight. One like we’ve never had before.”

She released Vivienne’s hand and waved her fingers before her face, as if she were conjuring something. “She will be a masterpiece. I see a stage with a huge frame draped with white silk… and… and stars. Get velvet. Yards and yards of midnight blue velvet and nail it to a backdrop. Then you will glue little twinkling beads on it.”

Fontaine flounced the edge of her skirt like a Spanish dancer. “And on the center of the stage will be a sofa. More velvet. She will lie upon it, dressed in white silk and with wings, of course. And the girls.” The madam hurried to the stairs and clutched the banister. “They will stand on each step and sing.” She began to hum, swaying to her own music. “‘She is a gem beyond compare,’” she sang. “‘A beauty fair, a face so… so…’”

“Rare?” a man suggested.

“Quiet!” Fontaine shouted, her hands fanning about her ears as if the man’s utterance had hurt her delicate eardrums. “
I
see it,
I
sing it,” she said with quiet menace. “And
you
just keep quiet and build it.”

She turned and stared at Vivienne; her eyes seemed to pulse. Vivienne backed up.
Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into?

“And they will lead you down and… no!” she screamed. Vivienne and the men jumped.

The madam rushed to the chandelier resting on the floor and began to circle it, gazing up to where a rope had been fed through a pulley in the ceiling. “She will float. I see a moon. Silver and crescent. Yes, you must build a swing to hold the moon.” Fontaine closed her eyes and opened her palms, as if she were receiving a divine revelation. “And she will descend from the heavens like an angel. And it will be perfect,” she declared, and then turned silent for a moment, as if to revel in her vision.

Vivienne had her own vision of descending from the heavens and falling mercifully on her head. An ugly splat of silk and feathers. However, her death could hardly help her father.

“Get to work,” Fontaine said quietly, her lids still shut. Then she popped them open and stared straight at Vivienne. “Come with me.”

Vivienne hesitated, looking over her shoulder at the door. She had the urge to run, perhaps fulfill her childhood fantasy of dressing like a sailor and boarding a merchant ship bound for the Orient. But she knew her father didn’t have the luxury of running from his creditors. They would hunt him down and lock him in debtor’s prison because of her. “Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, Cleopatra,” she whispered. “Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, Cleopatra… and Dashiell.” Her belly clenched as the full weight of her decision fell on her. She wanted Dashiell. She wanted to wake in his arms and have him tell her this was all a nightmare. That he had never left. Her tears came again but she wiped them away and followed Fontaine, her head high and stiff. Dashiell may run away, but she wouldn’t.

***

Fontaine led her up the stairs to the first floor. The madam stopped at a door at the end of the hall and pulled out of her cuff a silver bracelet with three keys. She unlocked the door and held it open for Vivienne. Vivienne stepped into a stuffy, windowless parlor.

“Come, Frederick,” the madam called. The bird swooped inside and flew into its cage that hung down from a chain on the interior wall.

“Sit down.” Fontaine gestured to a sofa as she crossed to a writing desk where an ornate red glass lamp stood. She pulled out a matchbox from a side drawer, removed the shade of the lamp, and lit the wick.

“How do you know so much about my aunt and me?”

“I actually knew your father very well. Intimately, in fact.”

“What! My father is a decent man. He would never… he doesn’t even come to London.”

“You poor, poor child.” Fontaine shook her head. “You don’t know who you are, do you?”