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Crispin persisted and snatched up Vivienne’s hand next. ‘My deepest condolences once again.’ His grin vanished, replaced by an expression of sincere compassion.
‘Thank you.’ She offered him a gentle smile. ‘I’m faring better.’
‘Crispin, must it be one extreme or the other?’ Sophie skewered him with a wide-eyed stare. ‘Let’s not discuss anything sombre today. Vivienne is here after so very long and I’ve missed her company dearly. Come sit and talk. We’ve just rung for tea so your timing is ideal.’
‘I’ve missed you both. Know that well.’ Vivienne settled on the sofa across from her friend and Crispin took a seat at a distance from the tea table. ‘The mourning period has been long and distressing.’ Her voice faded. ‘You know the closeness Mother and I shared.’
‘Of course.’ Sophie frowned at Vivienne’s dismay and the room fell silent for several long beats. ‘Have you come straight from Nettlecombe?’
‘No.’ Vivienne’s spirits buoyed at the chance to retell her adventure from the morning. ‘Actually, I planned to meet the SalvationSaviours but when I arrived at the church, no one was there.’ Well, not exactly no one. Mr Sinclair was there. She carried his calling card like a dark secret in her reticule.
‘I admire your charitable endeavours.’ Crispin moved closer and took a seat beside his sister. ‘The unfortunate and needy exist in great number in this city and it speaks well of your generosity to think of others.’
‘It’s a selfish act in truth. Charity work was so meaningful to my mother; it’s one way to keep her spirit alive,’ Vivienne added with a slight smile.
‘Crispin is right. You’re a gem and I’ve missed you so. Having my brother accompany me to every social event without you by my side has been a chore.’ Sophie shot Crispin an impish look.
‘True enough, the condition is bilateral,’ Crispin concurred. ‘Conversation has suffered greatly without your pleasant company.’ His eyes twinkled with the compliment.
‘I don’t think I’m ready to embrace a round of festivities.’ Vivienne shrugged her shoulders with the quiet admission, although the convivial conversation fit as snugly as her best gloves. How she’d missed her two dearest friends.
‘Oh, I believe you have the right of it. Your charity work will honour your mother and also help you heal.’ Sophie’s face gleamed with hopeful compassion. ‘If you’re hesitant about re-entering society, you should put your heart into a cause and let that involvement lead you into the mix.’
‘Dedicate my time to charity, as my mother did. Yes. It’s what I planned and why I’d written to the SalvationSaviours in the first place.’ She nodded her head in the affirmative. ‘Since my earliest years Mother instilled the desire to offer assistance to those less fortunate. Over time I grew to truly understand the impact she created in so many lives through her kindness and generosity. I’d like to carry on this tradition.’
‘Exactly. You’ve always spared time for the needy and those who have left the path of wholesomeness.’
The tail end of Sophie’s comment planted a seed of inspiration that bloomed a smile on Vivienne’s face. ‘I owe the forlorn a debt of gratitude. By helping others, I often forget my own troubles.’
‘But what if charity repaid the debt to you?’ Sophie warmed to the subject, her idea drawing everyone’s apt attention.
‘Whatever are you babbling about?’ Crispin appeared sceptical.
‘Vivienne has always brightened the room with her presence.’
‘Indeed.’ Crispin agreed with a lopsided smile that earned him a dismissive wave from his sister.
‘I think Vivienne is most comfortable when she shines light and positivity into someone’s life.’ Sophie’s stare pierced her brother before it settled on Vivienne. ‘Perhaps you should dedicate your efforts to those truly in need. You could impart irreparable change to any of the forsaken while at the same time bringing peace to your soul by continuing your mother’s fine work. Beneficence is a two-sided coin and charity on a personal level could prove most rewarding. Just think of all who need the advantage of reformation.’ Sophie flipped her hand up, fingers splayed as she ticked off a series of worthy considerations. ‘Orphans at the Foundling Hospital, unwed mothers, the infirm, condemned, jailed.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Crispin popped from his chair and strode closer. ‘Within reason, Sophie. You can’t mean to suggest Vivienne should hie off to Whitechapel or St Giles and mingle with the sad sort lining the streets.’ His tone rang stern, his face echoing the sentiment. ‘There is danger within the vice of the lower classes.’
‘Not at all.’ Sophie rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘But she could find someone in need through the church or another organization: a person in dire need of reformation.’
‘I intend to work closely with my mother’s favourite charities, but I do understand what you mean.’ Vivienne nodded her head in agreement, an immediate image of Maxwell Sinclair strengthening her conviction. ‘I could strive to find a solitary someone in need, perhaps a lost soul in this great city. A person more than a cause. Someone in a—’
‘Brothel?’ Sophie offered, although from her friend’s mischievous expression, Vivienne suspected she meant to goad Crispin more than present a valid idea. And just like a fish on a hook, Crispin took the bait and jumped in with a sound thrashing of his sister.
‘How could you suggest such a thing?’ He came to stand beside Vivienne’s chair and she looked up at his profile, his brows drawn low.
Vivienne had known Crispin for years and over that time he’d become as close to a brother as she’d ever have. He was protective of her person, respectful, and quick to chastise Sophie for her far-fetched ideas whenever they surfaced. No social reform would ever be needed for Crispin Daventry.
‘I agree.’ That earned her a smile and a frown. ‘But I’ve another idea. I could work to reform someone who needs my help, but at the same time wouldn’t place me in harm’s way.’
‘Where would you find this person?’ Crispin eyed her with affectionate amusement, his expression sharing he thought the notion foolish.
‘Oh I don’t know…’ She hesitated, not sure how either of her friends would react. ‘Perhaps a place where people congregate for activities but don’t necessarily break the law. Somewhere that more adventurous spirits gather…’ She feigned a pensive expression. ‘A gaming hell comes to mind.’
‘A gaming hell?’ Sophie and Crispin answered in unison as if they’d rehearsed it.
‘Yes.’ Voicing the idea boosted her confidence.
‘And what would you know about the goings-on at a gaming hell, sweet Vivienne? Ladies as refined as the two of you do not frequent scandalous establishments such as jails, brothels and hells. I’d wager the last raspberry tart on the tea tray neither one of you could name a single place of nefarious reputation in all of London.’
Crispin looked sufficiently pleased with himself, but Vivienne couldn’t stop the truth from erupting. ‘There’s the Underworld.’ She let the words settle, more than a little curious, while she reached for the last tart on the tray.
‘The Underworld.’ Crispin’s brows rose all the way to his hairline. ‘That topping house is a well-kept secretand no place for a delicate lady. Every scoundrel, rogue and rake holds an account there. How do you know of it?’ He leaned closer as if he could see the answer in her eyes and for a brief moment, Vivienne thought his expression altered, softened, until a look of absolute surprise slid back into place.
She settled against the cushion and relished Crispin’s shocked expression, Sophie’s laughter and prompt applause. If she were to visit the Underworld, she would see Mr Sinclair and that in itself was intriguing enough to motivate a continuation of the discussion. ‘Never mind that. You’ve proved my point. If the ton seeks to keep the hall secret, there must be good reason. What better place to find a gentleman to reform?’
‘Oh, now that sounds intriguing,’ Sophie added.
Crispin chuckled loud and long. ‘It is called a hell, not a hall and, Vivienne, you are the veriest delight.’ He sat beside her on the couch. ‘You will not find a gentleman there.’
‘Enlighten us, dear brother.’ Sophie drew closer too, aware her brother enjoyed being the centre of their attention.
‘A gaming hell is a magnet for low women and high stakes. People who dally at such places are not fit company for either of you.’ He spoke to them both but somehow his focus remained solely on Vivienne. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of you rubbing elbows with the lowest levels of humanity in the dimly lit interior of a gaming hell.’
Sophie cleared her throat and Crispin amended his statement.
‘Or you either, Sis.’
‘I’m just wondering—’ Sophie flashed a knowing smile ‘—at your exuberance for the telling. It ignites my curiosity as to how often you’ve visited the Underworld club.’
‘Not a club. Not a hall.’ He shook his head back and forth as if he was explaining something simple to a young child. Then he expelled a long breath to indicate he tolerated their foolery and by obligatory bond would impart his privileged male knowledge and eradicate why their reasoning remained flawed. ‘I mean to protect Vivienne lest you put some hare-brained idea in her head.’ He paused to eye his sister with what could only be considered a glare of warning.
Sophie pulled a mulish look in return. When silence ensued, Vivienne interjected.
‘I don’t believe it can be as bad as all that. I’m sure there is a man who oversees the activities of this hell.’ She made sure to emphasize she’d stated the word correctly. ‘Someone in control.’ Absolute control. Mr Sinclair exuded authority like others perspired.
‘Let me speak plainly, ladies. The proprietors are neither well-mannered men nor company for anyone in good standing with the ton. I’ve heard stories about one of the owners, Mr Sinclair.’ The latter was said with calamitous gravity.
Vivienne’s head shot up with the mention.
Sophie wasn’t as patient. ‘And?’ She practically begged the question.
‘If I must.’ Crispin lifted a meaningful eyebrow. ‘The man is a by-blow: child of a mother with light heels and a father with poor judgement.’ He shifted on the couch though he didn’t break eye contact. ‘I’ve heard he is a violent man with a wicked temper, too clever by far to be caught at his misdeeds. Details would curl your hair so I will spare you both, but association with the scoundrel would bring about any woman’s ruin. Let that erase any ambitious thoughts simmering in your lovely brains.’
‘But wouldn’t his poor reputation suggest he was in need of reform more than most?’ Vivienne slid her gaze from one friend to the other.
‘There’s no reforming Lucifer.’
‘Oh, Crispin, you exaggerate. I think Vivienne’s logic makes a fine point.’ Sophie shook her head for emphasis. ‘All this talk of dark and dangerous strangers makes me more curious than ever. Besides, everyone deserves a chance for atonement.’
‘Perhaps,’ Crispin answered. ‘But not by the two of you. Father would lock you up for the rest of your life, darling sister.’
‘I never said I wished to provide salvation to the wayward.’ She backtracked with hurried explanation. ‘I merely suggested an idea to assist Vivienne to ease into social circles now that she’s returned to us.’
Vivienne half listened to the continued debate between brother and sister, stalled on Crispin’s description of Mr Sinclair as wicked and clever. He’d certainly seemed that way when he’d discovered her against the ivy. Lord, when he’d looked at her she’d gone all fluttery inside. And the more Crispin spoke of the man’s daunting reputation, the more she became convinced he warranted her attention. Besides, any man known to his friends as Sin begged for betterment, didn’t he?
Chapter Four (#ulink_14bee128-51b6-5dae-92c6-d3ac4db124ee)
‘So did you spit on Rowley Johns’ grave?’ Cole shuffled a deck of cards with lightning speed before splaying them across the table to flip back and forth in senseless distraction. The reassuring chatter of conversation mingled with an occasional shout of celebration from below. The hell was crowded again tonight.
‘No.’ Sin answered with a grunt of regret. He hadn’t achieved his objective at the graveyard yesterday. Not because the man deserved better but because Sinclair was a better man. And, too, he’d become distracted by Ransom on the hunt for a runaway ebony-haired sprite. He should have learned more of her, but his mind had been all over the place, emotions a muddled mess.
It wasn’t until early this morning after closing the hell and returning home to his town house that he allowed himself the luxury of fantasy. She was no doubt a beauty, but something else about the lady fired his blood with unexpected desire. Jaded by wealth and opportunity, myriad women had warmed his sheets and left the next morning without his second glance. But this one, with her raven hair and emerald eyes, gave him pause. Not that he had any room in his life for a woman. Binding relationships were off limits. Life seemed much simpler when not emotionally anchored to another person. The remembrance spoke well of his mother’s hardship and father’s fickle attention.
Like the flick of an overturned card, Sin remembered being called to the headmaster’s office all those years ago. He’d worked hard to achieve the grades expected of him, though he knew his efforts were not valued. He walked a fine line with the headmaster and a false story had given cause to have his mother summoned. With a heartless economy of words, he’d learned his mother had been killed, set upon by highwaymen, and already buried while he’d studied for midterm exams, none the wiser.
His heart shattered in that moment, never to be mended, his mother the only person of value in his life. He was often at her hip, just the two of them through his formative years, and despite his father making brief appearances the rare meetings were composed of reserved conversation and a stilted report of his progress in school. His father would never fail to remind him of his place and the difference between Max and the legitimate heir he’d fathered across London.
From that rejection the bond with his mother grew stronger and they were inseparable until his schooling at Eton. Even then he’d begrudged having to leave her. She was an unending source of love and pride, determined to instil in him a belief his world was not limited by the circumstance of his birth. The impact of her death compounded every sorrowful regret he amassed since that horrible afternoon in the headmaster’s office. It wasn’t until years later that his world exploded for a second time.
Cole snapped his fingers a few inches from Sin’s face with impatient sarcasm. ‘Where are you? Are you listening?’
‘No.’ He smiled. Truth was truth and his friend wouldn’t be offended. ‘I was thinking about something else.’
‘When we met four years ago you told me you’d not rest until you located the three names on your list. With Ludlow having disappeared…’ he cleared his throat and smirked with the comment ‘…and Johns providing the local worms with a hearty meal, that leaves one last man to pursue. Am I correct?’
‘Yes.’ Sin rubbed a hand across the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the strain. One floor down the tables were busy, the girls worked the customers and liquor flowed. Everything was as it should be; yet he couldn’t shake the tension holding his muscles tight. ‘I hired a man to investigate the matter. Pimms will be the hardest to locate considering he’s recently regained his freedom. Instead of providing a clean path to his location, Pimms’ release from prison enables the sneaky cur a wide variety of alliances.’ It was the most he’d shared with Cole whenever the rare conversation of his personal goals arose.
The conversation fell silent as the door to the office swung open.
‘Aah, two for the price of one.’ Lucius Reece, Luke to his friends, completed the ‘three of a kind’ propriety of Underworld. He was the missing bastard of the trio. ‘Anything interesting happen while I was gone?’
‘When did you return?’ Sin motioned to the brandy decanter on the table near the side wall. Peculiar how they shared equal ownership in the hell and each had a spacious office, yet Max’s seemed to be the place where they congregated most frequently. Either that or they more often came looking for him instead of the other way around. True, he’d been distracted of late. Finding two of the men he’d sought for years had a way of monopolizing one’s attention.
‘I rode into London a few hours ago, visited my apartments and then headed here. Is something wrong? The two of you look morose.’ He splashed a generous amount of liquor into two glasses and handed one to Sin. Cole didn’t drink and no one pried into the reason.
‘Not at all.’ Cole abandoned the cards and strode to the glass overseeing the floor below. One yank of the curtain pull and the men had a clear view of the tables; though were anyone to peer up at them, the gambling gents spending money and risking wagers would see a mural on the wall depicting blue-black caverns, hollow and empty, a distant golden moon, untouchable and out of reach now that one had entered the Underworld.
The window offered an irreplaceable advantage, which kept everyone honest, most especially patrons who strove to achieve the opposite. Cheats, punters, sharps, and pickpockets were easily monitored from above. If a swindler fell into his cups too deep, threatened a ruckus or handled one of the girls in an unacceptable manner, the action was noticed and remedied with fluid alacrity.
Tonight the hell hummed with energy, the promise of profit thick in the air, a tangible force that crawled across the carpet, inched up the gilt paper wallcoverings, invigorated by each outrageous wager at the tables, whether piquet, loo or faro. The discreetly lit interior thrummed with the forbidden temptation of fortune to be won or lost, a temptation most all high-flyers and skittle-sharps failed to resist.
Sin, Cole and Luke weren’t lords. They were bastards, but in this place, on their property, they ruled with more power and conviction than any dandy wagering coin on the felts. The situation suited and pleased on the shallowest echelon, allaying the itch of unresolved dispute that accompanied daily existence. Still they were intelligent men who battled demons on a personal level that no measure of wealth, success or acknowledgement could conciliate.
‘Any luck?’ Sin broke the quiet with his enquiry.
‘No. My stepbrother chose to hide his secrets well. I spoke to every mudlark and dredge man along the Thames, yielding not one bloody clue. Times are desperate when I beg information from a sweeping boy or doxy in Seven Dials and come away with little for my effort.’ Luke’s low growl echoed the pain the admission cost him. ‘But I’ll find my son. This I vow. Nathaniel deserves better than to be a pawn in my stepbrother’s deranged machinations.’
‘Rightly so.’ Sin eyed Cole beside him. ‘And you’ll have our assistance as needed.’
‘Thank you. At the moment, I’ve employed every device and opportunity possible, but I’m not so foolish as to turn away help if it leads me to my son.’ Luke shook his head slowly. ‘What could my stepbrother possibly stand to gain by taking Nathaniel? He might have hurt me in any number of ways, but this…this cuts the deepest.’
The three stood stoically at the window, perhaps contemplating their personal wounds and goals instead of their accumulation of wealth, which prospered and flourished with each roll of the dice under their feet.
Not wishing to waste one day in her efforts to reform Maxwell Sinclair, Vivienne dressed with renewed spirit. An ambient hum of excitement invigorated her senses at the thought of the new endeavour. Nothing else had achieved her interest since her mother’s passing. That alone proved it the right choice.
The house remained quiet, her stepfather and the servants the only other residents, but the fresh morning brought with it abundant sunshine, a rarity for London this time of year, and she embraced the warming rays as a good omen her intentions would be successful. With a slight nod Vivienne dismissed Ann, her young maid, and gathered her shawl and reticule, the calling card tucked safely inside.
She found her stepfather in the breakfast room. His demeanour appeared buoyed by the fresh day as well.
‘Good morning.’ She smiled and took a seat to his left. For many long months she’d taken a tray in her room, too broken to sit at the table and stare across at her mother’s empty chair, but of late she’d managed to accept the loss that scarred her life and plan for the future. Visiting Sophie and Crispin had underscored how much she needed to return to living within society. She was only twenty-three. Someday soon she would need to think about marriage. She flitted her eyes to her stepfather. He would be left alone when that day arrived and she would move on to build a life without him. The thought should sadden her, but for some peculiar reason the realization evoked something akin to relief.
‘Good morning. You look lovely.’ He motioned to the footman standing at attention near the sideboard. ‘Tea, James.’ He returned his gaze. ‘Would you like something special from the kitchen? I can have Cook prepare you anything you’d like. I’m so pleased to have company this morning.’
‘It’s time, isn’t it?’ She spread a thick layer of raspberry jam across a slice of bread, still warm to the touch. ‘Mother will be missed in my heart always but I cannot stay locked in my room for ever.’
‘Then it is time.’ He canted his head to the side and stared at her for what seemed an inordinate stretch—so long that her pulse began a race in her veins, the feeling most uncomfortable. Her chewing slowed in wait of what he might say.
‘Sometimes when you speak or when the sunlight slants through the window at an unexpected angle, I see such a strong resemblance, it is like your mother is still with us.’
Vivienne swallowed, though she needed to force the mouthful down. She took a long sip of tea. ‘But I am not Mother.’ Her soft-spoken statement seemed to jar him from whatever imaginings he’d entertained.
‘Of course not.’ He made a point of smiling in her direction before he folded and then refolded the napkin beside his plate. ‘Don’t listen to me, Vivienne. I am so pleased for your company at breakfast I should keep my mouth closed instead of conjuring maudlin thoughts.’
‘No.’ She would never wish for him to feel censured. ‘We may speak of whatever you’d like.’ She exhaled, feeling more comfortable than only a few minutes before.
‘How will you spend your day? Are you in need of the carriage?’ He too appeared more at ease and opened the newspaper where it lay in wait at the corner of the table.
Still the arrangement was awkward without her mother present. Mealtime usually centred on conversation shared between the two women. She’d never felt the need to inform her stepfather of her daily schedule as she usually accompanied her mother on calls or received friends in the drawing room. With a twinge of guilt she finished her bread with large bites and hurriedly explained how she intended to continue her mother’s efforts.
He nodded with approval though she’d spilled it all out rather quickly. ‘See, I am correct. You are more like your mother each day.’
Accepting his words as praise she excused herself and informed Henderson, their butler, she needed the carriage brought around. Nettlecombe was located on the opposite end of London from Mayfair. Situated on Weymouth Street in Bloomsbury, the multi-level house represented old England more than the stylish design of the Daventrys’ three-storey town house.
At times, Vivienne believed when she crossed Oxford Street and travelled beyond Grosvenor Square she entered an entirely different world; though collectively the population, whether it included orphans, lords, nabobs or cits, composed the heartbeat of London. Apparently she would need to adjust her categorical consideration to include gaming hell proprietors. The idea caused her mouth to twitch as if she kept a secret on her tongue and refused to let it out.
The ride to Drury Lane was lengthy no matter the hour was early. She would leave her carriage to wait in the shopping district of Wellington Street and discretely hail a hackney to take her the remaining distance to Mr Sinclair’s establishment. A current of excitement accompanied the solidification of her plan.
Wanting to pass the time in a more productive fashion she removed her journal from her reticule and with capricious attention focused on the list she’d composed earlier, but after a few minutes she abandoned the attempt. Not much later the carriage rolled to a stop. She spoke briefly to the driver and then set off to purchase fresh flowers. She’d asked Cook to prepare a goodwill basket, the servant accustomed to Vivienne’s charitable requests.
Now, with the basket looped over her arm and a small bouquet of daisies in the other hand, she walked to the corner and hailed a hackney to take her to number eleven Bond Street, St James Square. The wiry driver, unshaven and potent-smelling, cast a curious eye at the basket and flowers before accepting her money with a grimy smile. They set out at a discombobulating pace. Vivienne sat primly, legs pressed together, basket and flowers on her lap, for fear she might bounce out of the flimsy gig. A sense of relief paled her excitement when the conveyance finally pulled to the kerb. She exited without a glance over her shoulder and across the cobbles she went.
At first her mind whirled with the right words to say, the exact conversation to be had with Mr Sinclair, but as she crossed the street and approached the address a diffident qualm caused her steps to falter. She stopped near the kerb, safe on the pavement beside an umbrageous chestnut tree where she could muster her courage and consider the residential location lined with two-storey buildings in varying shades of brick and slate. Nothing about the conventional environment suggested a lively gaming hell thrived across the street. If indeed she’d arrived at the correct address, Mr Sinclair proved cleverer than she’d given credit, his gambling establishment essentially hidden in plain sight. Deep in admiration, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a male voice questioned her from the other side of the tree trunk.
‘Watching number eleven, are you?’
