The Seduction of Viscount Vice (Fallen Book 3) Read online

  “Wonderful show as always, Vice. Wish I didn’t have to leave so soon, but my wife is expecting me at a damned charity ball.”

  He nodded and shook yet another escapee lord’s hand, but the smilingly apologetic liars were getting damned tiresome.

  “Bloody hell,” said Sin, coming to stand beside him. “Another one leaving? Is there an odor here I cannot smell?”

  “Perhaps. But I must be equally immune. I’m hoping it’s nothing to do with the food, that’s about the only thing I can think of. Our domme was her usual excellent self, everything looks adequate…”

  “And the harem is in fine form,” added Sin, frowning. “There haven’t been any incidents of drunkenness or abuse, either. Or rabid protesters.”

  “Fuck,” muttered Vice. “Maybe this is how the apocalypse begins. Fallen members losing all interest in sexual play does scream that the end of the world is nigh.”

  “It can’t be us. If our members were sick of pleasure, there would have been a gradual decline, not a sudden purge. And yet…when have they ever chosen a ball over a show here?”

  “Sin! Vice! There you are, dear boys. Splendid show. Do pass on my congratulations to that delightfully naughty lady.”

  Vice bowed low to the Prince Regent, a sick feeling curling in his gut. Surely he wasn’t leaving, too. Usually their hardest task was getting rid of the man. “A brandy, sir?”

  “Normally I would, of course, but tonight I must pass. Mrs. F and I have another party to attend. A grand opening!”

  “A grand opening?” said Sin politely. “Of what?”

  Their future king looked at him askance, then his face cleared and he burst out laughing. “Oh dear boy, don’t you know?”

  “Know what?” gritted out Vice, all patience gone.

  “You have competition! A new pleasure club has opened over on Charlotte Street. Called Worldly. Isn’t that clever? Because they have themed pleasure rooms from around the world. Quite looking forward to taking a peek, actually. Never say you didn’t get an invitation from Madame Yvette!”

  Ice encased him. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “I say, Vice,” said Prinny with concern. “You’re looking a trifle ill. What in Hades is wrong?”

  “He’s fine, your highness,” said Sin smoothly, shooting him a worried look. “Who did you say you got the invitation from?”

  “The owner, Madame Yvette. She owned a high-class brothel in Paris, but nowadays every man and his friend are running those over there, so she and her staff moved to jolly old England. Lucky for us, eh? It will be most interesting to compare it to Fallen, what?”

  “You must be mistaken, sir,” replied Vice, desperately attempting to stay upright when it felt like he’d been sucker-punched. “Worldly isn’t competition for Fallen, it’s a private theater. Supper and dancing and one-act plays.”

  Prinny’s gaze narrowed. “I most certainly am not mistaken! Says right here on the invitation it is a pleasure club. See for yourself!”

  His heart thumping so hard it would surely burst from his chest, Vice reached out, took the cream parchment, and unfolded it. And the truth burned his eyes.

  Christ. No. No!

  Abandoning all protocol and twisting away from the Prince Regent, he yanked the investigator’s envelope from his jacket pocket. Tearing it open, he began to read.

  Black spots danced in his vision, but phrases leaped out at him like tiny bonfires.

  Madame Yvette du Bois previously owned a brothel and entertainment club in Paris called Worldly.

  MacNair, Ramsey, and Olivier are her longtime employees.

  A few days ago, said three employees purchased a large quantity of pleasure toys from a warehouse in Blackfriars.

  Grand opening scheduled for tonight, June 30.

  That. Fucking. Liar.

  Pressing a closed fist to his mouth lest he unleash a roar of pure rage, Vice fought to regain a sense of composure. Suddenly, everything was so very clear. Mairi’s spying, both here and at the Castlereaghs’. Her interest in staging shows and audiences. The public interludes they’d had. All the time, she had been gathering information to put him and Sin and Devil out of business. And he had succumbed to her lies and careless charm and casual gifting of her body like the greenest of lads. Like he was seventeen again.

  Self-loathing coursed through him like acid. How could he have been so blind a second time? So unreservedly fucking daft?

  Vice turned back to the prince and bowed low. “My sincerest apologies, your highness. I was terribly misinformed.”

  “Quite all right, dear boy. It happens,” said the prince in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. Then he perked up, his eyes gleaming. “Wait, I have a capital idea. Why don’t you and Sin accompany me to Worldly? What a hoot that would be. You could see the competition for yourself, meet the owner and her staff. Oh, do say you’ll join me. Actually, I insist.”

  “I’d be more than happy to, sir,” said Sin. “Unfortunately, Vice must stay here and see to business—”

  “No.” Vice’s tone was dead and frigid even to his own ears. “You stay here, Sin. I will go to Worldly.”

  Prinny clapped his hands together. “Splendid. Well, come along then. If we leave now, we’ll be only a bit tardy. Certainly hope they’re not like Almack’s and lock the door at eleven o’clock! Standing outside and yowling is quite beneath one’s dignity.”

  “Indeed.” Vice shrugged off Sin’s grip on his arm and walked toward the main door of Fallen with their royal patron. “Will we need to fetch Mrs. Fitzherbert from her townhouse?”

  “Kind offer, but she is already at Worldly. She and a few of her dearest friends fashioned themselves some perfectly charming masks for the occasion.”

  “Masks?”

  “Oh yes. They’ve taken a leaf out of your book and insist that everyone wears them. Not the same style with a number embroidered like yours, though. All the guests can wear whatever kind of mask they like. Damnation! What am I going to use? Not at all appropriate to wear my Fallen mask there, I think.”

  So cold inside he thought he might never be warm again, Vice procured each of them a plain domino mask.

  Minutes later, he and Prinny were on their way to Charlotte Street.

  …

  Worldly was officially open for business.

  Plainly dressed newspaper men and lavishly outfitted lords and ladies poured through the candlelit front entrance. They all wore masks, some plain black demi-masks, others elaborate confections of feathers and paste jewels. There were even a few shaped in the heads of animals like lions and a snarling wolf. Yet as Mairi watched, resting her shoulder against the wall of the antechamber, she struggled against a wave of emotion threatening to make her sob.

  She and Ramsey and Olivier had achieved a near miracle to get the townhouse ready. It looked beautiful—walls draped with silk, each fantasy room with its own color and décor depending on the land it represented. France was gilt furniture and Celestial-blue accents. Persia was deep jewel tones, soft carpets, and oversized floor cushions. China encompassed intricately carved rosewood pieces, woven mats, and lucky red accents. Siberia was a winter wonderland of silver, snow-white, and thick furs. The main ballroom was a tribute to Great Britain—oak furniture, hanging candle lanterns like those at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, heavy lace tablecloths, and a ribbon-draped maypole in one corner.

  Yet what should have been a victory didn’t feel like one. She missed Iain terribly, and the lies and half-truths she’d told him would burn forever on her soul. Especially after that night. Waking in his brawny arms with his big, hard body curled around hers, utterly sated and refreshed after the best sleep she’d ever had, had been wonderful beyond words. Just for a moment, she had desperately wanted the theater of them together like man and wife to be real.

  But she couldn’t abandon Yvette, not when the debt hadn’t been fully discharged. She owed the Frenchwoman a successful opening night at the very least. And in just under an hour, her long-held dream of bei
ng the leading lady instead of the drudge in the shadows would finally be a reality. Her first costume for her first performance, a short, sensual play about a French dancer being kidnapped and ravished by an English highwayman, hung from several brass hooks behind her. As soon as she put on that costume and gained the love and appreciation of the audience, surely her decision to leave Iain wouldn’t be the worst in history.

  Surely.

  About to step out and join the crowds, Mairi stilled as she watched a lone woman alighting from a hackney cast furtive glances left and right, then walk toward the front steps. The guest wore a pale peach gown and a golden Venetian mask in the shape of a cat, but there was something very familiar about the shade of her golden hair. Not to mention the flesh of her neck and the rosebud of her mouth looked altogether too fresh for a pleasure club patron. Bloody hell. It couldn’t be Iain’s baby sister. Could it?

  Narrowing her gaze, Mairi marched forward and held out her hand. “Welcome, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” replied the young woman, her effort to disguise her Highland burr admirable but thoroughly unsuccessful. “Just through here, is it?”

  “I think not.”

  “Er, I beg your pardon?”

  Mairi circled her wrist and tugged Lady Helena Parkton into her dressing antechamber. “What on earth do you think you are doing, Hellion?”

  The girl’s mouth dropped open. “What did you just call me?”

  “Hellion. Because it seems absolutely nothing has changed in a decade. Do Lord and Lady Parkton know you are attempting to run amok? Does your brother?”

  “Oh my God…yes, it is you! Lady Mairi MacNair!”

  “Quite,” said Mairi in her best attempt at a headmistress voice to quell the excitement in Helena’s.

  The young woman’s shoulders immediately slumped, and, as she pulled off her mask, Mairi blinked. Good grief. Helena had looked beautiful arriving at the Castlereaghs’ ball, but close up, she was exquisite. Iain was right to be uneasy if she was always this daring.

  “That was not a promising quite, Lady Mairi. And of course I wasn’t planning to run amok, obviously. Just watch for a bit and then leave before anyone knew I was even here.”

  “And why do you think for a moment that I would let you do that?”

  Helena glared at her. “Really? The lady who ruined herself with a viscount to end her engagement to an earl and then ran away to France with a footman has turned puritan?”

  “My actions were foolish in the extreme. Trust me on that,” said Mairi with a heartfelt sigh. “I lost everything I held dear.”

  “But now you have it back again.”

  Her eyes burned. Helena knew nothing. “To some extent. But I’m twenty-nine years old, not eighteen. Don’t be a featherbrain, sweetheart.”

  “Pah. You are as much a hypocrite as Vice. Do you know how many homes I’m not welcome in because of him? Yet he won’t let me within twenty feet of Fallen. I thought you, at least, might have some sympathy. I wasn’t planning to take part. Just look inside, have a glass of champagne, and maybe watch a show. Please, Mairi. I don’t want to be one of those twits who goes to the marriage bed knowing nothing. It’s so demeaning.”

  She winced. “Your mother will talk to you before your wedding night.”

  “Nonsense. She is as stuffy as my brother when it comes to me knowing anything even a wee bit naughty. Please, Mairi. May I just watch some dancing? Then I’ll go straight home.”

  Gritting her teeth, Mairi turned her severest look on the girl, but she could feel herself weakening. Bloody hell, it was 1814. Why young ladies still had to be completely ignorant when it came to the bedchamber, she had no idea. And Helena was well old enough to be wed. “I’m going to be onstage soon. You can help me dress and watch my performance. Then you leave; no temper, no grumbling.”

  Helena squealed and hugged her fiercely. “Mairi! You’re splendid. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

  “I already do,” she mumbled. “Now undo my buttons, if you please.”

  Soon after, Mairi peered in the looking glass and, despite everything, anticipation was building. Her legs were encased in sheer black stockings and tied with red rose garters. Her meagre breasts had been made to look quite curvy with the assistance of stays with discreet sewn-in padding. The final part of her costume was an old-fashioned green gown with several petticoats to make it flounce.

  “Stop woolgathering!” said a sharp voice behind her. “You are due onstage.”

  Mairi smiled. “I’m nearly ready, Yvette. Two minutes.”

  “Oh, that gown is going to look wonderful!” Helena clapped her hands in delight.

  Taking a calming breath, Mairi held up her arms, and Helena and Yvette slipped the gown over her head. It swished down to her waist. Then stopped.

  Frowning in dismay, she gently tugged at the fabric. Then harder. But it was stuck at her hips.

  “Here, let me try,” said Helena anxiously.

  But even with the younger woman’s help, the gown dropped less than half an inch.

  “Oh, Mairi.” Yvette pursed her lips in distaste. “You have gained weight, the cardinal sin for a performer. I warned you about idleness and gluttony, did I not?”

  “But that is impossible,” whispered Mairi. “I’ve been doing all sorts of carrying and lifting and running around. And refusing dessert.”

  “I thought you actually wanted this chance. But look at your derriere. So large! I am very disappointed.”

  Helena bent down, turning the fabric inside out and inspecting the gown. “Could we unpick and let it out a little at the seam? Hmmm. It actually looks like it has been taken in—”

  “Are you a seamstress, mademoiselle?” snapped Yvette.

  “No…but the stitching is crooked, see? And the thread a different color.”

  Mairi froze in sick horror and met Yvette’s cold eyes in the looking glass. “You didn’t do that to my costume…did you?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” said the Frenchwoman, but her gaze shifted sideways. “It’s not my fault if a performer is lazy and ill-disciplined and eats like a piglet. And now I must find a replacement—the last thing I wanted on opening night. After everything I’ve done for you. For shame, Mairi.”

  A sob caught in Mairi’s throat as the last part of her world collapsed. “You…you were never going to let me perform, were you?”

  Yvette tilted her head and sneered. “A woman as tall as a man? Who likes to wear breeches? You were useful in gaining the information. And the sewing and cleaning. But on my stage? I think not. Go. Go attend to the props and mend costumes. That is the only thing you are fit to do.”

  And with that, her employer stormed from the room.

  Mairi’s legs buckled, and she sank to the floor, tearing off the gown and hurling it away. “No.”

  Helena sniffled loudly as she crouched beside Mairi and wrapped a light robe around her. “Oh, Mairi. I’m so sorry. That evil, evil woman. I would tear every one of those stupid curls from her head and stab her with a hundred needles.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mairi lied hoarsely. “But you should go. Before anyone sees you without your mask on. Before Iain—”

  “Please, do continue,” said an ice-cold male voice. “Before Iain what?”

  Oh, God.

  Mairi didn’t even need to look up to know he was here—and blindingly furious.

  All at once, her heart shattered.

  …

  Vice hadn’t thought his anger could burn any hotter than it had while traveling here with the Prince Regent. The future king was so disconcerted, the man had given him a hasty smile and scooted away as soon as they walked through Worldly’s front door.

  He’d been about to enter the large front parlor and take a closer look at the décor—an ode to all things British. But then he’d heard two very, very familiar female voices down the hallway, and his temper had turned volcanic explosion.

  Helena, his virginal and decidedly unworldl
y sister, was here. Surrounded by jaded, bored, and spiteful society men and women at a damned pleasure club. Worse, this wasn’t the infinitely safer, iron-clad contract environment of Fallen with its expertly trained footmen and him, Diaz, and Sin all keeping a stern and ruthless eye on proceedings, but one with totally unknown rules and boundaries.

  Was there no end to Mairi’s lies and betrayals?

  “Hello, Iain,” said Mairi, her voice so thready he could hardly hear her.

  She sounded broken and looked all wrong, too, sitting on the floor with her shoulders hunched and arms curled around her long legs. Fuck. The fact that he even noticed, the fact that it caused him pain, only infuriated him more. “My name,” he replied in a lifeless voice, one he barely recognized as his own, “is Vice. Or my lord. As I told you at Fallen when you first reappeared. I don’t know how you lured my sister here. Actually, I don’t want to know any more of your revolting schemes. But Helena and I are leaving. Immediately. If I have to drag her away.”

  Helena gasped. “You’ll do no—”

  He didn’t say a word, but his gaze must have said plenty, for abruptly his sister went silent and bowed her head.

  “Don’t make a scene,” said Mairi quietly. “For her sake. Nobody knows who she is. She wore a mask coming in, and there hasn’t been a hint of trouble. But if you do that, they’ll guess.”

  Damnation. She was right.

  Vice nodded brusquely. “Is there a rear door we can leave through?”

  “Yes,” said Mairi, and she got to her feet. Helena also stood up, and after putting her cat mask back on—one that he had brought her home from a trip to Venice—she curled an arm through Mairi’s. His sister’s solidarity with a near-stranger rather than her own brother, especially after everything Mairi had done, felt like another stab to the gut.

  He followed the two women down the hallway toward the back of the townhouse, clenching his fists at the profuse apologies his sister whispered.

  “My carriage is waiting,” said Vice to Helena, ignoring Mairi completely. “You will go and wait in it, and I will be out in a few minutes to take you home. Understand?”