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“There is no hurry,” she said. “Take your time. And read it when you are alone.”
“Thank you.”
Aphrodite waved a hand again, dismissively. “I will send you word when you can come and see me next time.”
“Thank you, I have very much enjoyed—”
But it seemed that Aphrodite was bored with her now, for she cut through her words quite abruptly. “Dobson will show you out, mon chou. Do not forget what I have said.”
“No, I won’t forget. Goodbye, Madame.”
Dobson was waiting in the hall, dressed in his red coat and ready for the evening trade.
“I’m to see you safely into a cab,” he said with a wink. “Miss Aphrodite’s instructions. She is very particular where your safety is concerned, miss.”
Vivianna had sensed that, too, and it puzzled her. Just as many other things about Aphrodite puzzled her. Perhaps the red leather book she now held in her hands would answer some of those questions.
“Have you been long in her employ?” she asked Dobson as they waited for one of the street errand boys to fetch a hansom cab from the stand.
“Nearly eight years now, miss. I knew her afore all this, but I did not find her again until eight years ago.” He looked at Vivianna, suddenly solemn, and she saw the love in his eyes. Love and devotion, the giving of one’s heart. All the things that Aphrodite had warned her against just now, over tea and macaroons.
“Ah, here comes the cab, miss.” He handed the errand boy a copper and opened the cab door for Vivianna. “Take care, now.”
“Thank you, Dobson.”
Her throat was unaccountably tight, and her eyes unaccountably full, as Vivianna left Aphrodite’s behind her.
Sergeant Ackroyd fell into step with Oliver as he was strolling home from an evening of drinking and gambling and visiting loose women. Well, not the latter. Loose women did not seem to attract him since he had met Vivianna. He kept hearing her voice in his head, telling him to behave himself. Unfortunately, she then spoiled it all by kissing him and sitting on his lap.
Nice fantasy, though.
“I ’eard our friend has been makin’ inquiries about Candlewood. Whether tearin’ it down is legal.”
Oliver turned to look at Sergeant Ackroyd’s profile, but could hardly make him out. The alley was very dark, and p
robably unsafe, but the policeman seemed to blend into it.
“He’ll find it is entirely legal,” he said.
Sergeant Ackroyd nodded. “So ’e was told.
“There was somethin’ else, yer lordship, you might ’ave an interest in. Yer know the name Celia Maclean?”
Oliver stiffened. Sergeant Ackroyd obviously knew every sordid detail of his life. “Yes?”
Celia had been ruined because of him. Oliver had spoken to her after Anthony died, he had offered to marry her, but she had refused. She had told him then that she hadn’t wanted to marry Anthony, either. Celia wasn’t the usual sort of girl. Her loss of reputation hadn’t seemed to bother her much. She had once told Anthony that her father kept trying to marry her to men she didn’t love—but Anthony being Anthony, he hadn’t thought the comment applied to him.
“Word is ’er Italian teacher made ’er an offer, and ’er father, thinking ’e’d never get ’er off ’is hands, said yes.”
“Good God.” Oliver tried to think. Did that mean Celia had been plotting to marry the Italian all along? Poor Anthony. He had loved the girl, and she hadn’t loved him. She had wanted to be ruined—he should have known it at the time, but she had caught him at a weak moment. He’d arrived home, the worse for drink, and she had taken him by surprise. Oliver wasn’t making excuses for himself—he would always blame himself for what happened—but this new piece of information at least relieved him of the guilt for Celia’s ruined reputation.
“Looks like yer off the hook, then, yer lordship,” Sergeant Ackroyd said, looking pleased.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
He thought again of Vivianna. She wasn’t like Celia, not really, but there were similarities. That same unconcern with society’s rules, that infernal curiosity, that determination to have her own way. But whereas Celia seemed to have landed on her feet very nicely, would Vivianna?
Of course, there was the question of her real motives. She had been more than willing in the coach, but now, in the chill of evening, he had to ask himself if she was just a very good actress. She certainly wanted Candlewood. Would she give herself to him, bargain with her body, to have it?
