The Seduction of Viscount Vice (Fallen Book 3) Page 4

  But today he would finally unravel the mystery that was Mairi. No more footman encounters, no more lies, but her, as herself, in the place she was hiding. Then he could concentrate on his Fallen duties tonight instead of obsessing over her.

  “This is the place, m’lord. I swear it.”

  Startled out of his reverie as his carriage came to a halt, Vice stared hard at his recently hired private investigator, then dubiously across the road at the three-story Charlotte Street townhouse the man pointed to. It looked like a furniture cannon had exploded on the footpath and front steps. Drapery, rug, and paint cannons, too. Christ. If he were in charge, everything would be inside the house, not outside getting faded by the afternoon sunlight. And that crowd of laborers and carpenters wouldn’t be talking and laughing as they packed up their tools for the day. They would be goddamned working until the job was done. “Tell me about the occupants then.”

  The older man smiled eagerly, no doubt thinking of the handsome finder’s fee Vice had promised for a successful mission. “Four live in, m’lord. Two women and two men. One of the women is a Frenchie, you can tell by the accent. Short, very beautiful, blonde. One of the men is French, too. Skinny fellow, good-looking I suppose, if you like them dandified types.”

  Vice stifled a smile at the man’s disapproving tone. “Go on. What about the other two?”

  “The other man is quite a bull. Surly looking, big. I’d say he knows how to tear a carcass up with his bare hands, but his clothing is far too neat and clean. The other woman is a beauty as well, but about the opposite of the Frenchie. Very tall, like taller than me, even. Long, black curly hair. Lovely hair it is. Just a damned shame she ain’t got any pillows up front. Otherwise, I’d offer her coin myself—”

  “That is quite enough,” said Vice softly.

  “Begging your pardon, m’lord.” The man gulped visibly. “Didn’t mean no offense.”

  “Good. What is your take on the state of the townhouse?”

  “Well…I ain’t had much time to dig, you understand. Only since early this morning.”

  “I know that. But what have you discovered?”

  “My thinking is, the four of them ain’t just here to live. They are interviewing a lot of staff, maids and footmen, far more than you need for a townhouse. And all this furniture and whatnot…I reckon they might be starting up some sort of business.”

  Vice tilted his head and narrowed his gaze on the man. “What kind of business, if you would hazard a guess?”

  “Not sure, m’lord,” the investigator replied with a shrug. “But one expecting a lot of callers, that is for certain. Look at all them chaises and chairs. And the screens and gilt mirrors and huge cushion things. All bloody foreign. What is wrong with good, solid English furniture?”

  “Hmm. Maybe a salon for ladies? Or an exclusive dressmaker perhaps?”

  “Maybe. Do you want me to keep digging?”

  Vice hesitated, then nodded. Now that he knew where Mairi lived, he could probably investigate by himself for a bit, but it never hurt to have the support of a professional. “Yes. Take a few days and write me up a thorough report. Here…” He handed the man two guineas. “For your trouble and discretion.”

  “Much obliged, m’lord. And you needn’t worry about talk. Silent as the grave, I am. Part of my service.”

  “All right then. You may go.”

  After the investigator climbed out of the carriage and hurried away, Vice remained inside for a few more minutes, watching the men and women come and go from the townhouse. A few moved with purpose, but most needed a good kick up the backside. None of these people would last a day at Fallen with this sort of attitude. How was Mairi supposed to open a business with these nincompoops involved?

  Scowling, he climbed out of his carriage and marched across the road. Mairi might well slap his face for intervening, especially after what he’d done the previous evening at the Castlereaghs’, but he couldn’t abide laziness. Or haphazard clutter. And the combination of both occurring outside Mairi’s townhouse was about to give him an apoplexy.

  “Lord Vissen!”

  Startled at the rare use of his actual title, he looked up to see a familiar face standing at the top of the front steps. Here was confirmation at least that the investigator had done his job. Jealousy quickly swirled, alongside a strange mix of gratitude and resentment—even though he knew of Ramsey’s preference for men. Mairi’s manservant had gotten ten years of her company. This man had kept Mairi safe while they lived abroad, but they never should have been in Paris in the first place.

  “Ramsey,” he said eventually. “You look well.”

  “It’s good to be back on British soil, my lord. Unfortunately, London is as close to the Highlands as I’m likely to get nowadays.”

  Vice grimaced. The law truly was an ass when it came to criminalizing two adults in love, just because both were men. And even though it had been ten years, village folk had long memories when it came to scandals and accusations of so-called deviant behavior. Fuck, even now he could recall the vicious rumors that had flown like arrows after Ramsey had run and taken Mairi with him. Fallen was a sanctuary that welcomed all couples, but it meant anonymity was even more important because the punishment was so severe. “I’ll send over some decent whisky. A wee dram will help make English food more palatable at least.”

  The manservant stared at him, visibly swallowing. “That would…that would be most appreciated, my lord. Can I assist you with something?”

  “I’m here to see Lady Mairi.”

  “Oh.” Ramsey’s gaze shifted. “She’s out and about at the moment.”

  “Where?”

  “Bonnet shopping.”

  Vice sighed and began to climb the steps. “To match her breeches?”

  “Yes. No. Please, my lord, Lady Mairi is not receiving visitors today.”

  “I wouldn’t call myself a visitor. Would you, Ramsey? After everything?”

  The older man hesitated, then his shoulders slumped. “No, my lord. But if you’ve come seeking vengeance for the, er, knee incident, I’m afraid I cannot admit you.”

  Vice almost smiled, even as he appreciated the rock-solid loyalty displayed. “I’ve better things to do with my time. And fear not, my trousers are now lined with lead.”

  Ramsey coughed, his eyes crinkling suspiciously at the corners. “Very good, sir. Lady Mairi is in the ground-floor front parlor. I’ll bring her a tea tray in one hour and will expect her to be in good spirits.”

  Acknowledging the warning with a brief nod, Vice strode past him and made his way inside the townhouse. The disarray was just as bad indoors with half-opened boxes, woodchips and dust piles, collections of fabric swatches, and rooms full of all sorts of exotic, high-quality furniture pieces. The more he saw, the more he was convinced his investigator was correct. Mairi and the others were definitely setting up some sort of business. Not a chance all this could be purely for domestic purposes, and with her comments about stage-worthy breeches at the Castlereaghs’, his curiosity reached fever pitch.

  One question remained. Just what the hell were they up to?

  …

  “Ma’am, has a decision been made yet?”

  Mairi paused in her sweeping up of wood chips left by some unruly carpenters to glance at their lone parlor maid. Cleaning was a horrid job, but after Yvette’s raging temper at the renovation bills and potential staffing costs, it had been decided that the extra men and women hired for Worldly wouldn’t start until the following week.

  “On what?”

  The maid held up two practically identical swatches of brown fabric. “It’s for the cushions, ma’am. Egyptian brown or cinnamon?”

  Pinching the bridge of her nose to ward off a thundering headache, Mairi sighed. “You know I leave that to Ramsey. He has a far better eye than I do.”

  “Begging your pardon, but he said the vote is split, and yours will decide the result. A few of the footmen have put a wager on it, too.”

&nbs
p; Oh God.

  “Let me have a closer look,” she muttered, peering at the swatches. This was a test she had no hope of passing. They were brown. Both very nice browns, but bloody brown all the same. “Er…cinnamon?”

  “Oh dear. Mr. Ramsey chose Egyptian brown.” The maid bit her lip.

  “Of course,” Mairi said hastily, willing to agree to anything that might end the conversation. “That is what I meant to say. Look how warm it appears when the sunlight catches it.”

  The maid curtsied with a look of pure relief and left her alone.

  Flexing her shoulders, Mairi allowed herself a moment to admire her surroundings. Yes, the townhouse needed a fair amount of scrubbing and repainting, and it certainly wasn’t Portman Square, but they had all loved the three-story brick Charlotte Street residence the moment they’d seen it. Large windows to welcome the sun, intricate plasterwork, solid wooden floors, and a charming wrought-iron second-floor balcony just wide enough for seductive interludes.

  Much like the one at the Castlereaghs’. Well, almost a seductive interlude. If bloody Iain had actually let her come. She’d had a sleepless night, even trying to ease her aching pussy with two fingers, but instead of helping, it only made it worse. Her body wanted the real thing.

  And now, quite ridiculously, it felt like forever since she’d seen him. But she couldn’t risk that, instead needing to make herself scarce for a while. Dressing up was one thing, but explaining to an English magistrate why a Scottish woman who’d spent a decade in Paris kept posing as a footman in the homes of important noblemen was definitely not something she wanted to experience.

  Yet it was almost impossible to concentrate on activities here. Yvette spent most afternoons in her chamber claiming fatigue, so Mairi had to clean, supervise tradesmen, record and approve all expenditure, and interview prospective staff. The heavy workload each day stretching from dawn until late at night left her nearly doubled over in pain—her back and shoulders cramped, her hands red and raw, and her eyes and nose dripping from the dust and woodchips. If she’d had the energy, she would have hurled a bucket through a window. Or cried for several hours. This was the life she’d hoped to leave behind forever in Paris, where she had been silent and sore and miserable and lonely. It was even worse now, when all she could think about was Iain.

  With him, she played with fire. He could make her forget her own name with his touch. Saw into her soul as if it were a damned window. Nothing she did shocked him—well, apart from her midnight escape to France. And the regrettable knee to the groin. But it was his own bloody fault. If he actually behaved like most Englishmen after being here so many years—wore perfume, carried a lacy handkerchief, and spoke in that cold, clipped way—she could treat him as no more than a rival. Unfortunately, curse his stubborn Highlander hide, he actually reveled in who he was. No elocution lessons to soften the brogue. No military-short cut to lessen the impact of his auburn hair. And definitely no foppish affectations.

  The sound of heavy footsteps behind her startled her out of her foolish daydream, and she quickly began sweeping again. “I’ll be finished in a few minutes, Ramsey, and then we can move in the other furniture. I still think the Queen Anne chaise would look better over by the window.”

  “Your decision, of course. Although the direct sunlight will fade the Egyptian brown irritatingly fast.”

  Mairi gripped her broom handle so hard she almost snapped it in half. “What…what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Darling, I’m wounded.” Iain sauntered past her and lounged against a carved oak desk. “No hospitality for a fellow Scot? Especially when here you are, playing ladylike in an actual gown.”

  “Pah. I can’t wear breeches all the time, more’s the pity,” she managed, trying to calm her racing heart. The fact he had discovered her sanctuary was one thing, but looking so perfectly handsome in his fawn trousers, plain linen shirt, and black jacket was a far greater threat to her sanity. “How did you find me? And how do you know the cushion swatch is Egyptian brown?”

  He shrugged. “I may or may not have instructed someone to follow you. You aren’t the only one who can employ underhanded spying tactics…”

  Mairi winced.

  “As for your other question, I…see fine detail. Whether I want to or not. So, if you crave a debate on the merits of Pomona green, primrose, or ivory, I am your man.”

  “I shall keep that in mind. If I’m ever struggling with insomnia.”

  “Wounded again!” He clutched at his chest. “Remind me to invest in full-body armor for our next rendezvous. Now I have a question for you. The renovations you are undertaking, they aren’t to live in. They are preparation for some sort of business. What are you planning?”

  She swallowed hard. “My goodness, you have missed your calling. Rather than overseeing orgies, you should be solving crimes.”

  “Hmm. So you admit to a crime, then?”

  “Hardly,” said Mairi primly, suppressing the urge to create a loud distraction and flee the room. “Nothing would compel me to talk.”

  A wicked grin curved his hard lips. “There are ways and means, dear lady.”

  She shivered at the thought. “Remind me why you have invaded my home?”

  “Invasion wasn’t even required. The door was open, I spoke to Ramsey, and he waved me in. You really should invest in more security, if you are planning a business.”

  The man was like a bloody hound who’d scented a fox.

  Forcing herself to amble, Mairi made her way over to one of the street-facing windows and stared out. Afternoon sunshine warmed her bare arms, and she flexed her aching fingers. “We haven’t quite decided what color to paint this room yet.”

  “Indeed?” Iain murmured, and she nearly screamed as his hands settled on her shoulders. Bloody hell, she hadn’t even heard him move. But then he began kneading her sore, tired flesh, and she bit her lip to halt a groan of pleasure. God, his hands.

  “Mmmm.”

  “You are so very tense. Actually, I could probably do a far better job if there wasn’t all this damned fabric in the way.”

  Mairi’s breathing hitched, and her nipples tightened to rock-hard peaks. They were alone. If Ramsey had let Iain in, he would see they had some privacy. She just needed one good climax to cool this unbearable heat in her blood. Then she could relax and focus on all the tasks at hand again. “Well, make yourself useful and help me out of my gown and stays.”

  “What about your chemise?”

  “Really, my lord. It is a simple shoulder massage, is it not?”

  “Of course,” Iain said mock-contritely, lifting her gown over her head. Expertly, he unlaced her stays and draped the garments over a chair. Then his thumbs pressed deeply on either side of her spine, rubbing and circling, trailing up and down, and her head fell back on his shoulder in blessed relief as her muscles eased.

  “That feels…”

  “Adequate? I know. Your nipples are hard. They are currently a shade of pink known as blossom, but with the right encouragement, they could become carmine. Or perhaps claret.”

  Mairi shuddered, need reaching breaking point. Turning, she climbed up onto the high window seat and lifted a hand to tug at the ribbon on her threadbare chemise. Only to falter. Damn it, why couldn’t she have full breasts? Ample cleavage that he could bury his face in? “Er…”

  “Hurry up, woman, or I’ll tear the fucking thing off. Ten years I’ve waited to taste ye again, and I’ll no be waiting a moment more.”

  Iain’s accent had thickened considerably, caressing the words. Mairi squirmed on the seat as she tugged the ribbon and let her chemise gape open. “Suck my nipples. Suck them hard.”

  He didn’t. Merely teased them, flicking and rubbing one aching peak with his tongue while his finger and thumb lightly pinched the other, before swapping sides.

  It was heaven. And hell.

  Mairi cajoled, she threatened, she begged, finally in desperate, frantic need, arching her back to force her jutting, painf
ully swollen nipple into his mouth.

  His teeth scraped, his lips sucked, and she cried out in stunned delight as sensation gathered and exploded. Just as it had been in Scotland, the sun’s warmth on her naked skin, the delicious pressure of Iain’s mouth on her shockingly sensitive breast, tumbled her over the edge into orgasm.

  And they’d barely even started.

  …

  Christ.

  Taking several deep breaths to try to calm his racing pulse, Vice drank in the sight of the wanton goddess spread out in front of him. It was true Mairi still wore her chemise, but the old, knee-length linen garment was practically transparent with sunlight on it. The front gaped open, and the hem was rucked up around her hips. No impediment whatsoever to full appreciation of her sweet little breasts with their swollen, rock-hard nipples, or the crisp dark hair and succulent pink folds of her cunt.

  But beyond the sheer perfection of her slender, long-limbed body, was their location in such an open spot. The windows had no curtains, and the distance to the footpath could be no more than ten feet. It would be just like performing at Fallen. Anyone walking past could see them. Stop and watch as he indulged in his favorite activity—rough, raw fucking.

  His cock surged, needing to be inside Mairi. To take her so hard that her screams of ecstasy would be heard the entire length of Charlotte Street. Equally enticing was the thought of dropping to his knees, forcing her thighs wider with his shoulders, and feasting on her wet pussy.

  “My, my. That was a hungry sound. Whatever could you be thinking about, Iain?”

  “Vice,” he said smoothly. His real name sounded far too good from her lips. Too intimate. That was the mistake he’d made back in Scotland, falling for her charm and thinking it meant so much more than it did. This was nothing more than a dalliance with a woman who was certainly up to no good. And once he’d satisfied the urgent need to fuck her, he could discover precisely what that no good was.