The Den Of Iniquity

Her slipper caught on the edge of a broken slate and she tumbled forward, her palms scraping the stone in a sting of gravel and regret. With a firm push for leverage she rose in a tangle of skirts, forcing her cumbersome cloak aside as she ran further to accomplish the short stack of stairs. The insistent bark of the mongrel and accompanying steady footfalls thrummed in her ears.

Through a blinding sheen of tears she found the wrought-iron gate, the roadway clogged with carriages damning her to choose another means of escape. With a dodge to the left she angled her body behind a low-lying hedge where a stone wall blanketed with lush green ivy stood as a divider to the adjacent property. She pressed flat with hope the mongrel would continue its race to the street, past where she waited. Her lungs burst, but she hardly gave pause to inhale.

Time stretched. Slowly the pounding in her ears receded. She heard the discordant melody of a songbird as a lonely ray of sunlight broke the cloud cover and she narrowed her eyes in trepidation until the hairs on the back of her neck pricked to attention. Two elongated shadows darkened the corner. She didn’t dare move. Trapped, fear clogged her throat as she stared at the growing outline of blackness. She willed her courage to surface, for her brain to master control.

The wolf dog stood not two paces away, teeth exposed in a silent snarl that did more to her frantic pulse than the race across the churchyard. She had not a moment to consider it before a looming form appeared behind the animal. A man with a serious expression, hair left too long and wide shoulders tapering to a strong physique stepped closer to align with the dog as he looked straight into her eyes. For a half second, her soul quaked. Somehow, for no reason she could explain, the stranger’s piercing gaze seemed to look inside her. She could barely catch her breath, yet he appeared completely composed.

‘Settle.’

The sharp command calmed the animal and it withdrew to a place of quiet obedience at the man’s feet.

With great relief and a bit of awe, she raised her chin and matched eyes with the stranger who’d controlled the fierce animal with nothing more than a word. He didn’t appear dangerous, but then neither did her stepfather and of late, she possessed an unspoken wariness whenever they shared company at Nettlecombe.

This man demanded control with his presence, exuded power by silent force. He was handsome even with a scowl holding his jaw tight, his face harsh angles and sharp corners, as if he’d been carved not born. Add to that his impeccable attire, a brown cashmere greatcoat pulled taut across his muscular build, dark trousers and shiny boots, put her clothing to shame. Yet something told her he was no gentleman. She braced herself for an outlash of disapproval and accusation, the cause unknown.

‘My apologies.’

It was the last thing she expected him to say and her exhalation whispered free.

‘My dog grew agitated by my behaviour at the other side of the churchyard. When he sensed your approach he meant to protect.’ His rich tenor did strange things to her stomach.

‘Not me.’ Her soft-spoken response seemed to amuse him. One thick brow arched over eyes blacker than soot. Meanwhile her shoulders eased from their rigid position and she drew another breath, no longer afraid.

‘You have lovely green eyes.’ So had his mother.

She appeared perplexed, her lids flared then narrowed as if his comment surprised her. What had she expected? That he would set upon her, or worse allow Ransom to take a bite? Wrapped tight in a thick woollen cloak the only part of her he could discern was a heart-shaped face, smooth creamy skin kissed with a soft flush from her flight across the lawn. It gave the look of a playful wood sprite caught against the ivy. She angled her sharp little chin in defiance though she’d hardly said a word and likely trembled in her slippers.

The lady was stunning—composed of stark contradictions and delicate beauty. His body immediately took notice despite refined ladies not being for him. Too many airs and complications, worst of all, the inevitable haughty stare down the nose that spoke volumes to announce he was beneath them, a man of the lowest mark, and by consequence of his birth unworthy of attention, never mind genuine affection. That disdain sliced the deepest. Best he remember whenever he entertained the illogical notion he might taste caviar when he was born to eat porridge. Aah, but there lay the irony. He could easily afford the most expensive delicacies.

Time to move on. Had he not ranted with such vitriolic expletives over Rowley’s grave this situation would have been avoided, yet the miscreant’s dirty deed and scarring history evoked such volatile emotion he knew little else than to let it rain over the man’s final resting place. His loyal wolfhound had sensed the distress and reacted. Bloody hell, in his hurry to chase Ransom he’d forgotten to spit on the grave.

He pulled his attention to the present where moss-green eyes, luminous and almond-shaped with long curled lashes, twitched with shock and some other indecipherable emotion, her lips drawn in a tight white line. Indeed, the woman was scared of his approach and the realization stirred an errant question. Had this same haunting trepidation filled his mother’s gaze all those years ago?

He should offer reassurance. Would she be offended if he told her to settle?

‘We mean no harm.’ As he reached forward she recoiled, yet her action didn’t deter his. He plucked a wayward leaf from below her ear and his fingers brushed a tangle of curls, silk, caught between her shoulder and the collar of the cloak. Acting on instinct, he lowered the hood and a mass of hair tumbled past the woman’s shoulders, down in rivulets of blue-black gloss, sleek as the feathers on a raven’s wing. The sight conjured images of an avenging angel or, perhaps, an ethereal spectre. He breathed deep and fought off a misplaced feeling of arousal. Stop wanting what you can’t have. ‘You’re safe.’

Who did he aim to reassure?

‘Thank you, Mr…’ She paused mid-sentence, her voice snagging his attention.

‘Sinclair.’ He supplied with a speck of amusement. ‘Sin, if you prefer.’ He watched her slender brows rise high, her expression wide-eyed and dishevelled, somewhat delectable.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She eased, smoothing a hand down the length of her hair to tuck the ringlets into order. ‘I was startled, but I’m better now.’ She shifted, adjusting her cloak in the process, and ventured a small step from the wall where’d she pressed herself flat in hope of becoming invisible.

Impossible, that. This young lady would easily stand out among the finest beauties of the ton.

Not that it mattered.

Damned if his body thought it did.

Instead he waited.

‘Your dog is asleep.’ Her statement was a mixture of curiosity and hope.

He shot his eyes to Ransom who’d apparently found their conversation dull. When again he looked up, the lady had undergone a transformation.

‘He’s not a wolf at all.’ She wrinkled her nose, wise and wary enough not to approach.

While Ransom appeared complaisant one wrong move would put him on alert.

‘Appearances aren’t always accurate.’ He cleared his throat, wondering if she would read the world within the words. ‘Ransom’s a loyal protector. It all depends on who he wishes to protect.’

‘I see.’ She looked beyond his shoulder.

‘I’m keeping you, Miss…’

‘Vivienne.’

Her name fit. It might have been a type of rare flower. He made a sidelong step and the dog stood as if by having listened he knew it was time to take leave. ‘Well then, accept my regret for Ransom’s misbehaviour.’ With a nudge from long-abandoned manners, he canted his head towards the street. ‘Were you headed to your waiting carriage?’

She answered with a nod.

‘I’ll accompany you there.’ Suspecting she would object he continued. ‘By way of apology for my dog and temper having sent you running across the property.’

She flicked her eyes to the wolfhound, likely at war with her courage.

‘Ransom is less than interested now that we’ve spoken. He wouldn’t cause harm unless I gave the command.’ The words rolled out before he thought the better of them. He glanced to Byward Street and strove to soothe her ill ease. ‘To your carriage then.’ The lady shouldn’t be out without a footman, maid or some kind of keeper and that deduction held true for anyone bound for a private carriage. Fine gentry. The seedier parts of London composed the place of his ill-spent youth that now provided his living, but this woman didn’t belong to the streets. She was polite society. His personal anathema. Hell if she didn’t spark his curiosity though.

She gave a curt nod, her expression a mixture of appreciation and speculative trust, and fell in beside him. He adjusted his stride so she could keep pace. Ransom wandered ahead on the pavement clearing a path until Vivienne stopped beside a cluster of carriages, one stacked against the other too closely for him to discern to which the lady belonged.

‘Thank you.’

She smiled and he forgot what he was about to say until the crack of a nearby whip broke him from distraction. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a card, doubtful he would ever see her again. Such a pretty bit of muslin was unlikely to frequent the same establishments as he, but something told him to offer his address. It was the least he could do after scaring her thoroughly. ‘If you need anything or if I can be of service, do not hesitate to call.’ He extended his ungloved hand in her direction.

‘Anything?’ She watched him with those crystalline green eyes and he quelled a smile.

‘Anything at all.’ When she didn’t immediately reply, he added, ‘A one-time favour if you will, to compensate for your inconvenience.’

She stared at the white calling card a long minute, scepticism wrinkling her brow, and just when he believed he’d made an error in judgement, she accepted. This time he allowed a smile free and with a sharp click that brought Ransom to heel, he left her standing beside the kerb.

Chapter Three

After speaking to the driver, Vivienne settled against the squabs and exhaled a cleansing breath. What just happened? She’d begun the day with the intention of planting flowers for those in need and instead had fled across the yard and hidden behind a stone wall, only to be discovered by the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

A wry smile turned her lips. It wasn’t as though she had a large catalogue of reference when considering men. The few formal functions she could claim were modest house parties where males numbered less than ten and that count often included the butler. No one looked like Mr Sinclair.

Before her mother remarried, they’d moved in modest society, attending tea parties and occasional embroidery circles, happy to linger on the fringe more than take society by storm. Her mother’s sudden marriage took Vivienne by surprise, having hardly any interaction with the earl beforehand. The subsequent events were a whirlwind of blurred memory and disconsolate mourning.

With gentle reverence, she laid the card across her skirt and read the neatly printed square letters. Maxwell Sinclair. The name fit. He exuded strength and control, two qualities she lacked or at the least, struggled to improve. She peered at the line of type beneath his name. Proprietor. And then the bottom row. Underworld Gaming Hell.

Suspicion confirmed. She knew without doubt the man was dangerous, but proprietor of a gaming hell…well, that was as sinful as one could imagine.

Yet somehow that fit too. When he’d settled his eyes upon her, his piercing gaze sent delightful prickles up her spine and then much lower for some odd reason. She welcomed the thrill, numb since her mother’s death, filled with grief and fear for her future. Oh yes, the man was trouble inside and out. If a glance could send a delicious shiver through her, what might a kiss evoke? She shook her head and dismissed the question. Proper ladies didn’t think of kisses.

As if to stop her wayward thoughts, the carriage rumbled to a halt and she moved the curtain aside to ascertain she’d arrived at the proper address on Maddox Street, the home of her dearest friend, Sophie Daventry. Sophie was the only daughter of Baron Hastings and she and her brother lived in Mayfair with their parents in a fashionable three-storey town house, one of several sleek homes that lined the walk in a reflection of influence and affluence. The baron and his wife travelled extensively and often abandoned London for months at a time, which afforded Sophie and her brother Crispin a lifestyle of unusual freedom. The two were friends as well as siblings, less than a year’s span between their births.

A small smile played about Vivienne’s lips as she climbed the fancy red brick steps and dropped the brass knocker. Many good memories existed here. Lost in mourning, she hadn’t realized the depth she’d missed her friends until this very moment. How very different life seemed across town. Nettlecombe, with its dour grey stone and narrow corridors, had kept her caged for too long. Of course, she amended, her stepfather’s home spoke more to history than style. Lord Huntley seemed a more traditional, reserved sort, who never spoke of family relations and hadn’t had one caller the entire time she’d resided at Nettlecombe.

As expected, Gilbert, the Daventry butler, answered the door with a cheerful greeting.

‘Miss Beaumont, it is lovely to see you.’ He took her cloak and passed it off to a nearby servant before leading her down the pristine marble hallway. ‘Miss Sophie and Master Crispin will be pleased with your visit. The house has missed your company, if I may be so bold.’ He stopped before the door and waited on her answer.

‘Of course you may, Gilbert. I would expect no less.’ She followed the servant through the double panels into an elegant salon where her name was received with an enthusiastic squeal and clap of conversation, an immediate balm to her soul. The shared friendship in this house was one of her heart’s treasures.

‘Vivienne.’ A smile broke across Sophie’s face as she hurried to embrace her in a warm hug. ‘I can’t believe my eyes. Have you decided to re-enter society? The time is right with the season set to begin. I couldn’t be happier.’

Accustomed to Sophie’s fast-paced chattering, Vivienne nodded in agreement, knowing better than to interrupt.

‘Indeed.’ Crispin approached the twosome, his grin broader than his sister’s. ‘At last I have reason to breathe again.’

‘Good heavens, Crispin, you sound like a lovesick fool.’ Sophie waved her brother away before he could reach for Vivienne’s hand. ‘None of your teasing today.’ She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer. ‘He’s such an intelligent man, yet he behaves like an empty-headed sop whenever you visit. One would think after your extended absence he’d abandon his foolish antics.’

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 Salvation Saviours 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 Salvation Saviours 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 secret and 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.