Wicked Little Secrets (14 page)

“Of course.” She cocked her head and flashed her dimples again. “Make the bad men who pushed my father around go away. Make that terrible woman leave my aunt alone. Make John…” Her throat tightened. She couldn’t finish… a faithful husband.

“I’m sorry,” he said and squeezed her fingers. They stood silently, touching. He lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her knuckles. “We will make everything better.”

She heard the clerk’s footsteps against the floor planks in the hall and leapt apart from Dashiell as the clerk pushed the door open with his back.

He held four tomes in his arm which he set on the table. Vivienne took the chair beside the clerk. Dashiell closed the door and walked to the other side of the table.

From the number of cases in each volume, Vivienne despaired that half of England must go to trial every year. Finding Jenkinson would take all day, and she had to sneak back into the Ladies’ Flower and Garden Society in thirty minutes. However, the clerk scanned through the pages like some fleet-fingered Apollo of paperwork.

“Ah, here is one,” he said after a minute. He slid the book over to Vivienne.

Adele Jenkinson, accused of assault upon a Maxwell Cain of Finsbury.

Maxwell
Cain
: I be Maxwell Cain of Finsbury. I ’ad finished me dodger and was coming out Taggart’s boozing ken that darky and heading back to my crib next to 104 Ironmonger Row, when I saw yon prisoner standing in the plate of meat, calling ANNE WHITCOMB a fusty luggs for prigging her cove.

Judge
Bertis
: This is a British court of law. I demand you speak proper English. Now what did you say?

Maxwell
Cain
: Aye, what I said.

Court
Reporter
: The Prisoner was calling ANNE WHITCOMB names for stealing her lover.

Judge
Bertis
: And who is this ANNE WHITCOMB? Is she the proprietor of 104 Ironmonger?

Maxwell
Cain
: No, Govna, MRS. HANNAH STONEGATE. She’s the su-pouch.

Court
Reporter
: Landlady.

Judge
Bertis
: Just how many women live at this address?

Maxwell
Cain
: Evlenet. But they be feeles and pals.

Court
Reporter
: Twelve, but they’re sisters and cousins.

Judge
Bertis
: Yes, of course they are.

Maxwell
Cain
: So Mrs. STONEGATE comes out and tells yon prisoner to hop the twig. Yon prisoner lugs the su-pouch’s strummel real hard. I tries to tip, but the dimber–mort gives me a floorer in the twiddle-dwiddles, and when I was down she wallups me in me lobb. So I—

Judge
Bertis
: Enough of this low, thievish cant. How many times have you come before this court, Mr. Cain?

Maxwell
Cain
: Five as a jack-sprat. Earth as a cull.

Court
Reporter
: Five as a boy and three as a man.

Adele Jenkinson—Acquitted—Aged 20

Vivienne marked the place with her finger and closed the cover to read “Second Session, held April 1827.” Vivienne slid the book across the table to Dashiell. “Around the time of the diary entry,” she told him.

He leaned back in his chair and pressed his thumb to his temple. He read slowly, his brow creased with concentration as if he were memorizing the words.

“Ah yes, another one,” the clerk said. “A most interesting case.”

Vivienne took the book and began to read.

ADELE JENKINSON was indicted for stealing a silver rattle of 5 pound value that belonged to Mr. Simon Fox’s baby.

Mrs. Mary Fox
: I was visiting me husband’s family on Tottenham. Me husband’s brothers do love to argue. Thunder and crockery, they will argue about the very color of the sky. And such language! Not proper for my baby BELLA’s ears. I’m raising her proper, I am. So I took her strolling on Oxford Street.

Judge
Bertis
: And what day did this occur?

Mrs. Mary Fox
: I was just coming to that detail, I was. ’Twas the afternoon of June 7th. I was pushing me BELLA along in her little baby carriage her father made for her. She was jiggling her little rattler—she just adores it. It is silver with pretty red ribbons and comes all the way from her dear grandmama in York. Whenever she cries, and she rarely does, darling thing, I always give her the precious rattle and that quiets her good, it does.

Judge
Bertis
: Please try to keep to the details pertaining to the crime.

Mrs. Mary Fox
: Sorry, sir. Mr. FOX is always saying that I do carry on. So, I was strolling along, happy as a lamb in spring, and she, the prisoner there, comes up and, pretty as you please, rips the rattle from my BELLA’s mouth. Well, I would have none of that, thank you very much. I chased her and ran her over proper with me baby carriage. Then, seeing no other ways to restrain her, I sat on her. Two other kind ladies, shocked that a grown woman would steal my precious babe’s rattle from her own sweet mouth, sat on her too, all of us calling out for the watch.

Nigel
Pickard
: I am the inspector of the watch. I did find three women, including MRS. MARY FOX, sitting on the prisoner and a silver rattle belonging to MR. FOX’S BABY on the prisoner’s person.

Judge
Bertis
: MRS. JENKINSON, this is disgraceful.

Adele
Jenkinson
: What are you going to do then, Govna? Spank me?

Guilty—Aged 20—Transported 17 years

She checked the cover. The trials were from the fifth session in September of 1827—about the time Adele’s backside had been replaced by another’s. She gave the book to Dashiell. When he was done reading, he raised his eyes to hers and tapped the page with his index finger.

The clerk searched the books for another ten minutes but found nothing more. Dashiell gave the man two shillings as Vivienne whispered her thanks. Her face had turned pale, and she clutched onto Dashiell’s arm.

He led her out to the hall where the servants were still bringing food into the dining room. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?” he asked.

“It’s all so ugly.”

He wanted to draw her to his chest and kiss her worried eyes, caress the tension from her muscles. But all he could do was take her hand and gently rub her palm, his eyes locked on hers.

“Lord Dashiell!” a rich male voice resounded.

They jumped apart.

Teakesbury stood not three feet away, his eyes glittering, his hands resting on the gold mongoose head of his cane. He was all decked out in black robes. A short wig was perched on top of his head. “Oh, bloody hell,” Dashiell muttered.

The solicitor’s gaze slid from Dashiell to Vivienne, and the back of his jaw pulsed. “Lord Dashiell, you’ve brought a lady to Old Bailey during a murder trial,” he chided. “Really, you have the manners of a yahoo.”

Dashiell clenched his teeth. “Now I don’t think this has any—”

“Let me apologize for Lord Dashiell’s appalling conduct,” the solicitor said to her, performing a neat bow. He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m Robert Teakesbury, solicitor. I say, your eyes are a beautiful pale green”—his smiled turned wry—“like ivy covered in icy snow. Miss Vivienne Taylor, correct?”

Dashiell’s fists balled. He reminded himself that punching a solicitor at Old Bailey was never a good course of action.

She glanced between him and Teakesbury, her brows crumpled with suspicion. “H-how do you know me?”

“Dashiell spoke highly of your beauty last evening.”

She flashed Dashiell an annoyed look.

“I can say that his description doesn’t come close to capturing your radiance.” The solicitor linked his arm through hers. “I hope you don’t take it amiss if I ask what business brings you to Old Bailey. Surely a gentle young lady such as yourself hasn’t come to see a gruesome hanging?”

“I-I just wanted to read about some of my uncle’s trials in
The
Proceedings
,” she answered. “I, um, chanced to meet my aunt’s neighbor, Lord Dashiell.” She smiled, trying to hit a light note but sounding very out of tune. “Such a pleasant surprise.”

“For God’s sake, Dashiell, you should have taken her to my office,” Teakesbury admonished. “I have copies of
The
Proceedings
. Let us go there now.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” she said, politely trying to untangle herself from the man’s hold. “I found what I wanted, and now I really should go home.”

“Well, let me escort you to your carriage,” he said. “There is no reason to go back through the main entrance. I shall take you out another way.”

“No, thank you. I walked here.”

“You walked!” Teakesbury bellowed. He shot Dashiell a blistering glare as he drew her under the protective black vulturelike wing of his robe. “Come, I shall send you home in the safety of my carriage.”

Vivienne tried to step back. “But—”

“I insist,” he said, keeping her captive. “It’s not safe here for a sensitive young lady.” He began to lead her away. She looked over her shoulder at Dashiell, her eyes pleading “help me.”

Damn.
Dashiell gritted his teeth to keep several profanities from escaping. Yes, Teakesbury was a pompous arse, but if anyone could make quick and quiet work of a miscreant blackmailer like Jenkinson, it was he. Dashiell shrugged, relinquishing Vivienne to the solicitor’s power.

Dashiell followed behind as they passed through a narrow corridor leading to the side exit. Teakesbury pushed the door open with his cane, letting her and himself pass, then let go. The door, weighted by a chain, swung back and Dashiell jumped to miss being slammed in the face.

“Good heavens!” she cried, turning and trying to reach Dashiell, but Teakesbury hurried her along.

“Be careful there, old boy,” the solicitor said. “You need to watch what you’re doing.”

Seven

Dashiell trailed Vivienne and Teakesbury on the way to the man’s office on Fleet Street. It was a dark, paneled affair with a high arched ceiling, a cross between a cathedral and a cave. On the back wall, the double doors were closed, concealing his inner office. In the center of the room, clustered around a Delft ceramic fireplace were a round cherrywood table and two leather wingchairs.

Teakesbury slid open one of the pocket doors. “Albert,” he called out in a bright voice. A young clerk, presumably Albert, strolled into the room with an awkward gait that looked as if he were constantly on the verge of tripping. He was about eighteen with lanky limbs, a long, square chin, and dark hair that flopped into his eyes. He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth gaping, staring at Vivienne.

“Albert, would you be so kind as to fetch some tea and my carriage.” Teakesbury spoke slowly and with strained politeness. “Remember our discussion about appropriate steep times.”

“Yes, sir.” Albert shook his head, as if waking, and ambled to the side door he had entered, muttering to himself, “tea, carriage, remember steep times.” When he turned to take one last peek at Vivienne, he slammed into the door jamb. His ears turned red, and he stumbled over his own large feet trying to flee the room.

“I have to be nice to him,” Teakesbury explained. “He’s the prime minister’s nephew.” He gestured to one of the chairs. “Won’t you make yourself comfortable, Miss Taylor?”

Vivienne sat like a polite hostage, her hands locked together in her lap, pointy boots together. Behind that demure façade, Dashiell knew she was fuming.

Teakesbury pulled up the other chair, leaving Dashiell to loiter about the glass bookshelves lining the walls. The solicitor possessed an eclectic collection of fossils, Roman coins, and fragments of Greek pottery. He prided himself on his oriental manuscripts. One was open, showing two men painted with luminous blue skin sitting before a flowering tree and smoking from a hookah. No doubt, the solicitor had gathered them during his time in India.

“You have a nice collection,” she remarked. Dashiell didn’t know why but hot jealousy surged through him that she would admire another man’s artifacts.

“Do you enjoy antiquities?” Teakesbury asked her. He crossed his legs and leaned his head on his hand, his index finger running up his cheek. Dashiell didn’t like the predatory gleam in the man’s eye.

“Very much.”

“My collection is much bigger than his,” Dashiell interjected.

The attorney lifted a brow. “Thank you for that keen observation, but alas it is not size but quality that matters.” He turned back to Vivienne. “And I can see Miss Taylor is a lady who prefers quality.”

“I say, Teakesbury, that is a fine portrait of
your
wife
,” Dashiell said, gazing up at a painting of a nondescript blond woman holding a flat-faced, fluffy kitten, gazing at the viewer with soulless, vapid eyes. Mrs. Teakesbury’s eyes, that is; the cat’s were quite intelligent and very much annoyed.

Teakesbury’s smile didn’t diminish a fraction. “I commissioned Sir David Wilkie to paint it a few years before he died. You can see his craft, his art, is at its pinnacle—”

“I’ll say. He really captured the likeness of that kitty.”

“—very different from the amateurish portrait that you unfortunately purchased the other evening.”

Dashiell stifled the desire to point out that he would rather buy a thousand ravishing yet flawed Italian Viviennes of five-pound value to decorate his bed chamber than one priceless masterpiece of Teakesbury’s bland wife and her cat. Although the feline had its appeal.