Justine, page 5
“Then kindly show me to this maven of deception’s address. That will be sufficient.”
“And pass up the opportunity to see you out of widow’s weeds? I think not.”
Before Justine could do more than let her jaw drop in outrage, Mr. de Lucey turned to her, abruptly serious. “This is my reputation on the line, too. If I’m caught sneaking you into Bella’s masquerade ball, she’ll never forgive me. She is far too powerful to risk pissing off.”
Justine didn’t wince at his crude language. She’d likely hear worse before this misadventure concluded.
“You’re that certain she’s innocent?”
“Of murder?”
Justine nodded.
“I am so sure you’ll find nothing to incriminate Bella for murder that I’m willing to personally escort you into her home to prove it. I’ll help you search. I’m that certain you won’t find anything.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. When she didn’t respond immediately, he raised one eyebrow.
“I suppose you have a deal, Mr. De Lucey.” She begrudgingly offered one gloved hand. They shook on it. He placed his hand on the small of her back, subtly guiding her. An intimate gesture that sent butterflies swarming through her midsection.
“I cannot wait to see how you look in nothing but silk,” he said casually. Justine stumbled. “Come, now, you’re going to have to toughen up if you want to pass muster this evening.”
What had she gotten herself into?
CHAPTER NINE
“Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
Darius kept a tight grip upon the widow’s elbow as he steered her through the crowd. Mrs. Erskine had set this in motion. Now that she was getting what she’d asked for—no, demanded—she seemed ready to run.
That wasn’t going to happen. She’d accused Belladonna of the most heinous act imaginable, and even if Justine Erskine couldn’t stand being around him, she was clearly hell-bent upon proving her misguided case.
Bella might not view Justine as a threat, but Darius recognized a dog with a bone when he saw one. She’d been too foxed to listen to him last night. He still owed her a debt of gratitude, and he could repay it by taking charge of the widow problem for her.
Besides, when had spending time with a beautiful woman ever been a hardship? Darius thought cynically.
If he could show Justine the truth of the House of Virtue, she would understand that Belladonna was motivated by kindness and money, not murder. Whereas revenge was clearly what motivated Justine Erskine, and she’d somehow grafted her rage and grief onto the countess.
Bella had enough enemies already. One could tip the balance into disaster, for all of them. Him. The Flowers. Half the aristocracy, too. There was simply too much at stake to ignore Justine outright.
Therefore, he would assist her, with the intent of showing her how very wrong she was.
With his reputation on the line, what was left of it, they were going to do things the right way. If there could be said to be anything “right” about infiltrating a madam’s house of ill repute in order to collect evidence that she was a murderess.
There were any number of things wrong with this scenario, as a matter of fact. Which was precisely the reason why Justine needed an excellent disguise, along with instruction on how to comport herself.
She was going to get an eyeful tonight. She couldn’t go around exclaiming about all the wicked things people were doing—and they would be engaged in the most salacious behavior imaginable—like a prude.
“You’re not kidnapping me, are you?”
“Why would I do that, Mrs. Erskine?”
“To prevent me from finding out the truth.”
“I’ve already decided to assist you in your frankly boneheaded endeavor. Don’t be so dramatic.” He paused. “Unless you want to be kidnapped?”
Justine glared.
Darius grinned.
He led her down a side street and onto a less busy corridor lined with storefronts, including a bookstore with Kiefer’s Fine Books painted in gold lettering that turned his companion’s head as they walked past. They passed one marked Bristow & Sons Fine Tailors, went to the end of the block, and entered a shopfront.
“Madame is not—oh, it’s you, Lord de Lucey.”
“That’s my brother, Alexander. As the spare, I remain a mere mister.”
He’d played this game with Edna Gaston’s assistant before. The girl was slow-witted but sweet-natured, as well as overly respectful. She barely glanced at his companion. “Madame is upstairs. She doesn’t have a client.”
“You’re a dumpling,” he told the shopgirl, who ducked her chin and blushed.
“Anything for you, Lord de Lucey!”
She might have something of a tendre for him.
“Do all women fall at your feet?” the widow asked snidely. She flipped her veil up.
“Jealous?” He winked. Mrs. Erskine’s gaze again narrowed into venomous green slits. Before she could make a snippy comment, he ushered her into Madame’s parlor.
“Darius. Who have you brought with you this time?”
Shit, they should have thought of a false name for Justine instead of bickering the entire way here.
“I am Miss Jessica Erwin,” Justine said smoothly. “You may call me Jess.”
A knot in his midsection loosened. Jess was close enough to the first syllable of her name that she wouldn’t have to risk forgetting and not responding to it. Perhaps this escapade wouldn’t end in total disaster.
“What needs doing?” The seamstress began unpinning the widow’s hat and inspecting her face. “Hm. Everything. How much time do you have?”
“A couple of hours.”
The admission earned him a sharp glare.
“For the countess’ masquerade ball this evening?”
“Indeed.”
“You’re lucky I’m not with a client right now.” She pinched Jess’ chin and tilted her face this way and that. Although she was short, fiftyish, and stout, Madame radiated authority. “Good bones. We’ll emphasize her eyes and lips. No one will recognize her once I’m done.”
“Can we do anything about her hair?” Darius asked.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s recognizable, and Bella isn’t stupid. She’s seen you before.”
“Not up close,” Justine protested.
“She is a very observant woman. You’ll be masked, of course, but as Darius says, the countess has a sharp eye. I assume you’re not actually a widow and you don’t wish your husband to know you’re stepping out on him. Can’t blame you, Miss Erwin. Darius is a handsome lad.” She beamed at the so-called “lad,” who smirked. “Half these old codgers can’t even get their pricks hard enough to stick it in,” Edna continued, squinting at Justine’s countenance. “Could go either way. Darker red or lighter, almost to blond.”
Justine cast Darius a beseeching look.
“It’s temporary. Don’t worry. You’ll look like your old self by Christmas service as long as you follow my instructions. Your husband will never know.”
Edna didn’t wait for a response. She whipped aside a curtain and began rattling pots as she mixed whatever she used to create her magic. A pungent odor of sulfur suffused the room.
“There’s no one better at transforming one’s appearance than Madame Edna,” Mr. de Lucey said. Seeing the protest form on Justine’s lips, he cut her off by saying, “You do want this to work, right?”
Justine sighed. “I suppose.”
“Then we’d best get started.”
To kill time, Darius went out to a pub he used to frequent, and still visited upon occasion. He was not entirely surprised to discover his old friend Max Tremaine, the sixth Duke of Ardennes, tucked in a corner of the bar, in heated conversation with Silas Huntley, whom Darius knew only by acquaintance.
“I’m telling you, Max, this investment is worth a fortune.”
“A filament light bulb,” Max said dubiously. “You’re seriously pulling your entire inheritance out of the bank to wire it to an American inventor?”
“Not quite all of it,” Huntley protested. “I’ve allocated bonuses to the staff, too.”
“I’ll wait until there’s a market for this stupendous new invention before I put a farthing into it,” said Max. “Seems like the kind of tomfoolery my ward would invest in.”
“With what funds?” Darius dragged a chair over and sat in it backward. “Isn’t she a pauper?”
Max had been strangely fixated upon the young woman who was now his ward ever since Darius had met him at university.
“Indeed. Emma is as poor as a church mouse,” Max drawled.
“Suit yourself,” Silas shrugged. “This Edison bloke will make his investors rich, and I want to get in at the outset.”
“I don’t know where you find out about these newfangled inventions, Huntley. Can’t deny you’ve made a fortune,” their third companion, Lord Pindell, mused.
“I read the news,” Huntley sipped his pint, a smug smile playing on his face.
Sensing a conflict, Darius deftly steered the subject back to Max’s favorite topic. “How is Miss Willis these days? Still vexing you?”
Max scowled. “She’s biding her time at that horrid school my father sent her to.”
“Didn’t she matriculate?” Or whatever girls did upon completing finishing schools.
“I’m never going to be rid of her unless I drag her home for a Season.”
Darius didn’t get the sense that Max wanted to be rid of his ward. He liked teasing her too much. One of these years, he was either going to push the poor woman to murdering him in his bed, or marry her. Either outcome seemed plausible.
“What brings you to the City?” asked Pindell before Max could launch into one of his diatribes about his stubborn ward.
“Holiday shopping,” Darius lied. These men knew about Belladonna’s House of Virtue, but Max didn’t frequent the place. He didn’t know whether Pindell or Huntley went there. They hadn’t been regulars back in his day, but there weren’t many reasons for a group of aristocrats to be in London’s commercial district this time of year.
This wasn’t the first time he’d felt trapped between Bella’s set and the decent society he’d been raised in. His nightmare was the prospect of them finding out about the true nature of his affiliation with Bella.
Yet this was the first time he’d shared a drink with friends in quite some time. Relaxing this way felt refreshingly easy. When they left, he paid the bill and returned to the shop to check on Justine’s progress.
“I’m starving,” she said the instant he walked into the room. Only it came out more like, ahm stahvink due to the clownish paint on her hair and face.
“No talking!” Madame Edna barked. “You can turn right back around, Mr. de Lucey, and go fetch some pies from the shop on the corner.” She frowned at her torture victim, whose hair was slathered in a foul-smelling concoction. Darius had to be impressed with Justine’s dedication to her cause. “We should have had you eat before we did your lips. No matter. We can stain them again.”
“I’ll have—” Justine started.
“No talking!”
“But—”
Darius chuckled and went back out into the wintery evening for warm pies. He returned with a half-dozen, and after offering the shop assistant first pick, he took the rest upstairs. In his absence, Madame was drying Justine’s newly-brightened hair with a pair of modified fireplace bellows. The clownish paint was gone.
“How did you achieve that?” he asked.
“A mix of baking soda and hydrogen peroxide, followed by a concentration of lemon juice mixed with a softening cream. You have to let it sit for a long time.”
“Those pies smell delicious—”
“No talking!” Edna motioned for him to offer her the pie box. “Eat. Then we’ll redo your lips.”
Justine examined the offerings and selected one. Carefully, she bit down, flashing white, even teeth. She ate neatly, brushing crumbs from the stained robe Madame had swaddled her in. The bright teal paint that had been smeared on her eyelids while her hair was cooking in a chemical bath was gone, leaving a stain on her lids that softly accentuated their shape and hue.
Darius caught himself staring and redirected his attention to the box of pies. Madame had selected hers and was devouring it over a sink full of stained rags. He chose two pies and ate them while leaning against a sturdy table piled with jars and fabric samples. The room was a cross between that of mad scientist’s laboratory and a seamstress’ workshop, cluttered with half-empty jars of astringent-smelling stuff. Madame specialized in custom dyes and hand-crafted lingerie that only London’s wealthiest clients could afford.
“Hair done,” Madame declared. “Let’s fix your lips and get you dressed.”
Justine went to the mirror to examine her new style. “I’m blond!”
“Not quite. It’s just a bit brighter than your natural shade.” Madame examined her handiwork. “The cream we stained your cheeks with changes the contours of your face. With a little powder over it, the effect will be completely undetectable. We’ll soften the eye shade, too. You’ll also be wearing a mask, which will help to conceal your identity. It is, after all, a masquerade ball, if a debauched one.”
Darius couldn’t stop staring at the coils of hair pinned to the back of Justine’s head. In two hours, she’d been transformed from a dowdy widow into a stunning courtesan.
He swallowed.
Madame winked.
“Wait until I’m finished with her. She will be gorgeous.”
“Perfect. Precisely what we need.”
“I cannot imagine the scandal if the recently-deceased Opposition Leader’s daughter-in-law were caught cavorting at his arch-rival’s annual holiday masquerade ball, with London’s most notorious playboy,” Edna said.
Justine paled. Her beseeching gaze shot to his.
“You won’t tell Bella who I’ve brought, will you?” Darius had long practice with deploying his considerable charm to influence women. His ability had saved him from ruin. He used it now, popping a dimple and giving Madame his most roguish grin.
“Only if she asks,” the woman declared sweetly.
“I’ll pay for your discretion.”
Darius shushed Justine with a stern look. She needed to let him handle certain matters, and this was one of them. If he couldn’t get her to accept his help navigating a world he knew intimately and she knew not at all, they were both doomed.
Edna waved him off.
“I do not take bribes. Nor will I cross Countess Oreste. You should have asked whether I’d keep your secret in advance, instead of trying to get one over on me, young man.”
Justine rolled her eyes. Darius shot her another quelling glare. This was neither the time nor the place for her to argue.
“I won’t tell as long as Bella doesn’t ask, Mr. de Lucey. Come, ‘Jess,’ let’s get you dressed.”
Obediently, Justine followed. Darius plopped onto a velvet-covered settee beside a table overflowing with ladies’ magazines. He picked up a months-old copy of The Lady’s Treasury and skimmed a story about dealing with one’s mother-in-law while keeping one ear attuned to the voices coming from behind the curtain.
Justine was arguing. Again.
“Stop fighting me. I know what women wear at the House of Virtue. Or don’t wear, rather. Now put this on.”
“I thought it was a house of reform,” Justine replied tightly. Darius smiled. She was so damn sure that the world could be divided into good and bad. Part of his motivation for helping her was that he wanted to show her that life couldn’t be sorted into two neat columns. Ideals were all well and good, but living was a messy business.
One’s beloved and admired father, for example, might prove to have been monstrously cruel toward one’s mother. The mother who’d been anxious and distant during his childhood had loved her children enough to endure years of marital unhappiness simply to remain near them.
The world was grayer and more muddled than the self-righteous crusader wanted to admit.
By the night’s end, he would force her to make that admission. Or he was going to have to eat crow, but he was confident that Bella wasn’t a murderer.
“The House of Virtue is a reform home, in a way,” Edna explained. “Women who leave 9 Dove Street are not permitted to return. Therefore, they make sure they’re good and ready to exit the world’s oldest profession before they go. It’s more effective than imprisoning them for a time and giving them a lecture upon their release. That’s my view.”
“Debatable,” Justine muttered.
“The countess’ methods are unorthodox and somewhat deceptive, but she gives women a way out of whoring on their own terms. Not many people understand that.”
“What if they want to stay?”
“Then she gives them a safe place to ply their trade for as long as they want to pursue it.”
“But don’t you think—”
Bored with the women’s debate over whether whores should be allowed to exist, he crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He must have dozed off for a few minutes, for he sat up when the ladies mentioned his name.
“Let the man decide, for once. You don’t have the right perspective. Darius?”
Justine’s huff of annoyance made him smile. The curtain rattled on its pole. He whistled as she reluctantly emerged, scowling, and crossing her hands over her breasts.
“I can’t wear this.” Justine declared flatly.
“Why not?” Darius asked with deceptive casualness.
“Because it’s too…”
He cocked one eyebrow.
“Decadent!” she exclaimed, turning away in a belated attempt to disguise her obvious discomfort.
The ensemble was, indeed, gloriously sensual. The deep red complemented her newly-lightened hair. The silk glided over her delectable body, inviting a man to wrap one arm around her narrow waist and skim his fingertips down the swell of her hip. The plunging bodice drew the eye downward, following the vee of pale skin framed by vivid fabric where it cradled lush twin globes tented by pert peaks…
