Ways to Be Wicked (7 page)

Sylvie was speechless.
Passing fair?
When earlier she had been “beautiful”?

“It’s called work, Miss Chapeau.
Travailler,
I believe they call it in your language. Or perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the concept?”

The weight of the accusation landed full force on her chest, made what felt like a veritable crater in it; indignation and anger sizzled up out of it, robbing her of breath.

Everything she valued in her life—the soft bed she rose from in the morning, the sound of hands put together in applause, the flowers brought to her each night at the end of a performance, the barbs of the girls in the dressing room born of awe and envy, and the quiet adulation of most of Paris and the devotion of a man like Etienne,
everything
—had been forged from discipline and commitment and grim determination. In other words: from work. What could this. . . this...gilded
street ruffian
possibly know of the sort of sweat and pain required to make people forget themselves as they watched you, to make them soar inside when you danced for them?

She—of the quicksilver, hand-waving, shooting-star temper—was nearly paralyzed by fury.

“You know nothing of me, Mr. Shaughnessy.” Her voice was low and taut.

“And whose fault is that, Miss Chapeau?” Pleasantly said. As though the waves of righteous indignation pouring from her were naught but a summer breeze.

She remained incredulously silent.

“Does that mean you
do
know how to work?” He said it patiently, into her silent green glare.

“Yes, Mr. Shaughnessy,” she managed ironically. “I warrant I could teach
you
a bit about work.”

He gave a short laugh then. “Oh, I’m certain you’re quite correct, Miss Chapeau. Consider my work, for instance. It’s no trouble at all to order lovely girls about. Mere child’s play, in fact. I shall look forward to my lesson about
work
from you. Now: you need to wear what The General tells you to wear, do what he tells you to do, smile, and play nicely with the other girls. Do you think you can manage to do that, or will you be leaving now?”

She listened to his words, but for some reason the words “passing fair” were the ones that scraped away in her mind like a trapped thistle.

Funny, of all the things this man had said, this one for some reason bothered most.

She wondered if he would truly send her packing if she refused; she sensed he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he purported to be, and it was tempting to take that risk, to call his bluff.

Passing fair,
indeed.

Then again, perhaps he was the sort who trifled idly with novelty and tired of it quickly. A man with his face, even bereft of his. . .
singular
...charm would certainly be able to view women as offerings on the groaning side-board of life. Tom Shaughnessy was like a mirror in which the world was reflected backward, different, brand-new, infuriating. Invigorating as a bolted glass of whiskey, and probably just as dangerous and addictive.

All right. So she cherished her pride.

But she
needed
money.

“When will I be paid?”

Was it just the changing light of the day passing through the theater? Or did relief soften his expression briefly?

“When you’ve performed onstage for our audience, Miss Chapeau. Until then you are an apprentice, and living upon the charity of the White Lily. Will you be staying, then?”

Sylvie Lamoreux, an
apprentice,
living upon
charity?

“Will you be staying?” There was a faint note of urgency in his voice now. She wondered whether it was concern about her imminent departure or about whatever appointment it seemed she was keeping him from meeting, judging from his one impatient glance at his watch. Perhaps he financed these theaters with the highway-men’s spoils, and he was on his way to meet Biggsy Biggens to sort through his take.

“I shall stay. I shall”—she took a deep breath, and still she couldn’t deliver the word with anything other than irony—“dance.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke. Her vanity decided to interpret it as relief.

“Very well, then. And when you return to rehearsal, you may wish to apologize to The General. He predicted that you would be trouble. Perhaps you’ll be able to convince him otherwise.”

His tone, and the quick grin that accompanied his words, told her he had no confidence whatsoever in her ability to do so.

She didn’t disabuse him of that notion.

“And when you are done, Sylvie, please ask Josephine to show you to your room. I’ve asked her to see that you get something to eat. I won’t have you starving.”

She stared at him. He stared back at her patiently.

“Thank you,” she managed at last with some dignity, and pirouetted neatly to bravely rejoin the hostile little flock of females.

She couldn’t help it. She glanced back just once, to see if he was admiring her exit.

But he wasn’t. Oddly, he was looking down at his fingers again, and she could have sworn his expression was haunted.

Chapter Six

C
OMBINED, THEY COULD HAVE FINANCED
the English army twice over, yet there was only a title or two among them: Lord Cambry, a baron; George Pinkerton-Knowles, who’d amassed a fortune in shipbuilding; Major William Gordon, Viscount Howath, a few others. They’d inherited the money, or they’d earned it, or they’d all but stolen it through some legal means. But all that mattered to Tom was that they had it, enough of it to ensure that they were often bored and restless and in search of novelty. Enough of it to ensure they had power and status and connections, should it become necessary to call in a few markers in order to achieve his grand goal. And they’d backed him before, taken a risk on the White Lily, perhaps as a lark, and Tom had earned their investment back for them more than three times over. And since he’d done this once, naturally they were interested to hear if he might do it for them again. Tom had been invited to meet with them at Major Gordon’s club. From there they would go on to their dinners, and then, very likely, to the White Lily.

Good brandy and better cigars had created the sort of bonhomie necessary for them to loosen their purse strings; the smoke in the air wreathed lamps and full, flushed faces.

Pinkerton-Knowles had in fact unbuttoned his coat, and his unfettered belly rested comfortably on his lap. “Talk to us, Shaughnessy,” he urged.

It had never occurred to Tom to feel intimidated by any of them. It had never occurred to Tom to want to
be
any of them, which was precisely why they more or less liked him, and more than one of them fancied they wanted to be
him.
He didn’t try to be anything he wasn’t, and he clearly took such great pleasure in who he was—part Irish, rumored part Gypsy, unapologetically a bastard—that they envied him and enjoyed his company.

He wouldn’t be welcome to court their
daughters,
but they envied him and enjoyed his company.

“Gentlemen.” Tom rose. Slimmer than all of them, taller than all of them, and far, far better-looking than all of them, their heads craned up. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me today.”

“No, thank
you,
Shaughnessy, for my Melinda. And Melinda sends her thanks, as well,” the major called out. A chorus of laughter rose up. Melinda had spent some time in the employ of the White Lily before she’d been persuaded to become the major’s much-coddled mistress.

Thoughts of Melinda and the major’s particular brand of happiness made Tom’s thoughts veer to a seemingly innocuous moment at the White Lily, and Miss Sylvie Chapeau. It had been barely a touch, something he’d done out of flirtation so many times before, so easily, so casually. He hadn’t expected to find the texture of her skin so. . . well,
achingly
fine. She’d seemed all pride and steel and fire and wit; perhaps that was why the discovery that her skin was vulnerably soft had been so startling. But the discovery, for some reason, had made him feel strangely awkward and uncertain—which irritated him, as he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt awkward or uncertain about anything.

“Give my regards to the fair Melinda,” Tom said with mock solemnity, and reached for his glass to lift. “I’m delighted I could contribute to the happiness of two such fine people.”

“To Melinda and the major!” the group roared in unison, and tossed back the balance of their glasses. A series of
thunks
followed, glasses landing on the table again.

“To the business at hand, then,” Tom intoned formally. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s safe to say that the White Lily has greatly contributed to our collective . . .” he paused for effect, “. . .
happiness
and well-being over the past few years. And in light of his earlier confidences, I believe the major, in particular, would concur.”

Much rumbled laughter and muttering. “Hear, hear!” the major said with feeling.

“Fine job of it, Shaughnessy. Earned my money back twice over. You’ve a gift for this sort of thing.”

More concurring rumbles.

Tom accepted their tributes with a modest nod. “And no man could ask for better partners in business than yourselves, gentleman. Which is why I’ve invited you here this evening. I’d very much like for you to be the first to hear of...” he paused strategically, and lowered his voice a fraction, “. . . an exclusive opportunity.”

Pinkerton-Knowles delicately stifled a belch with a palm. “Opportunity, Shaughnessy? What sort of opportunity?”

“Why, simply an opportunity to participate in one of the boldest, surest, most lucrative endeavors you’ll no doubt encounter in your lifetime,” he said mildly. “Shall I go on?”

They were silent now and as attentive as hunting dogs, all bonhomie quenched in favor of the businessman and adventurer in each of them.

“Gentlemen, I give you the”—Tom, a showman to his bones, whisked aside the fringed velvet curtains at the window, and light flooded in, revealing his beautifully rendered sketch propped upon an easel there—“‘Gentleman’s Emporium.’ A theater, a gentleman’s club, a gaming
heaven,
special entertainments. . . all housed on several floors in one elegant building. Imagine, if you will, if the White Lily were wed to White’s, if White’s were grafted to Gentleman Jackson’s, and—if one is an exclusive, private member—where one may dine privately with beautiful women after an evening’s entertainment.”

“Only ‘dine’?” someone repeated, sounding disappointed. A few hoots rose up.

“Only dine.” Tom sounded sympathetic. “What you manage to persuade her to do
after
you dine is another thing entirely, of course”—he paused while laughter and teasing jests rippled around the room—“and you will need to find other accommodations for such things, as the Gentleman’s Emporium’s current plans do not include them.”

A diplomatic way of saying, No, he was not opening a brothel.

“Wish I had
your
powers of ‘persuasion,’ Shaughnessy.”

“And
I’m
glad that you do not,” Tom shot back.

More laughter. Which then died away, leaving a thoughtful silence as they considered what Tom had just said.

“And the property?” the major barked. “Build or buy?”

A little thrill of excitement spiked in Tom. Specific questions such as these indicated genuine interest. “Buy, renovate,
and
build. I know just the property. Needs a fair amount of work, but behind me”—Tom motioned to the artist’s rendering—“you can see how it will look. I invite you to inspect it more closely.”

They gathered around the illustration, spent some time in solemn silence, perusing it, then fired questions at him. About location, and licenses, and time lines, and sopranos (no: no sopranos). He answered them deftly.

And then, when the questions ebbed to a trickle, they resumed their seats, gazing at the drawing, considering. Tom looked levelly at them, patiently awaiting the next and most important question, because if someone asked it, it meant the interest had gone beyond idle; it had taken root. If
he
brought it up, it placed him in a position of vulnerability.

It was the major who spoke. “I might as well be the one to ask it, Shaughnessy. How much do you want from each of us?”

Bravely, Tom told them.

The silence that followed was the sort that follows a kidney punch.

“Good God, Shaughnessy,” the major rasped when he’d recovered. “It’s a brilliant idea, granted. If anyone can make a go of it, I think it’s you. But you don’t need to buy a barouche for your wife or send a boy to Eton, or to Oxford, and I do. And the
money
...”

“Your boy is but five years old, is he not, Major?” Tom asked smoothly. “I imagine your investment will have doubled itself by the time he’s of Oxford age.”

A laugh rose up, amused and gently mocking the major for his lack of fiscal nerve.
Good.
They were beginning to recover from their shock, beginning to hear the faint siren song of a good gamble. And no doubt would be amenable to negotiating now.

“But Tom’s boy wouldn’t be going to Eton or Oxford even then, would he? You’re a lucky bastard, Tommy, no offense. Have to give them a decent start in life, you know, but children are bloody expensive.”

More laughter.

Tom was far too comfortable with who he was and what he’d accomplished to care much what anyone said about him, and it
was
absurd to think that the son of an Irish-Gyspy hybrid bastard might go to Eton and Oxford and muck about with the sons of proper gentlemen.

So he did laugh; a showman, he knew what was necessary to sell his proposal and was willing to do what the moment required. But though it was true, had always been true, he was distantly amused to find that suddenly nothing about the comment amused him.

It was time to seize control of the situation once more, which was part of his strategy. He strode to the curtain, pulled it closed, symbolically and abruptly cutting off the vision of potential riches and pleasant masculine «mayhem.

“Gentleman, thank you for joining me today. I’m looking for a very small and select group of investors, men of vision whom I trust, and naturally I thought first of you. Nothing would please me more than to continue to contribute to your wealth and happiness. . . not to mention add to my own.”

Appreciative laughter.

“But the owner of the property in question shall require an answer from me within a fortnight, as he has others interested in purchasing it. Please do give it some thought, ask any questions you wish—you know where to find me—”

“Follow the trail of women!” someone who’d had a little too much brandy blurted.

“Or look in the arms of Bettina at the Velvet Glove at midnight!”

Tom grinned. “And if I don’t hear from you within a fortnight, I’ll assume you’ve decided to invest your money elsewhere. Hope to see you at the White Lily tonight, and”—he lowered his voice—“I’d like you, my friends, to be the first to know that we have the most
extraordinary future
production planned.”

In unison, the men leaned forward, grown men all, eager as children.

“Tell, Tommy!”

“I’ll give you a hint, gentlemen. Just one word, so remember it.” They waited, leaning forward more steeply. He waited a strategic moment, then leaned forward, mouthed it

sotto voce. “Venus.”

“Veeenusss,” someone repeated slowly, sounding awed.

“Spread the word,” Tom said. “You’ve never seen anything like it, and you’ll never forget it.”

Apart from inventing and singing a naughty French song to Miss Sylvie Chapeau, the day had been one of unrelieved strategic challenges. The moment he returned from his meeting with investors, Tom decided he ought to talk to Daisy, just to get it over with. She often took her supper in her own dressing room before the evening’s entertainments—she never joined the girls for rehearsal—so that’s where he headed.

How should he approach this? Somberly? Sternly? Brightly? It would be a delicate task, no matter how he went about it, as Daisy was as canny as she was buxom, and they knew each other almost too well. Long years of familiarity, contempt, triumph, and tragedy had created the fabric of their friendship, which was worn and warm as a quilt. Frayed and well used, nibbled about the edges by moths perhaps, but useful and cherished in its way.

“I want to be Venus, Tom.” Daisy said it very calmly the moment he set foot in the room.

Damnation.
Who on earth would have gotten to her so quickly? How did she
know
? It could not have been The General. He considered the men in that smoky room he’d exited a mere hour ago and cursed all of them, for clearly one of them had somehow communicated with Daisy. Daisy was shrewd enough to know that the very fact that the show hadn’t been mentioned to her meant Tom and The General had something else in mind.

“Oh, now, Daize, don’t you think you should give the other girls a chance to shine?”

“Why?” she asked flatly.

The answer to this, as Daisy well knew, was that she was getting older. The flesh beneath her chin was loosening, her posterior was more than a shade wider than ample, her costumes required letting out on a regular basis now, and her majestic bosom was succumbing a little more each day to the tug of gravity. She knew it, Tom knew it, The General knew it, and Daisy, cruelly, wanted Tom to spell it out for her and knew he never, ever would.

Bloody woman.

“Because I need to keep them employed, Daisy, and if I give one or two of them an opportunity to shine, it helps to keep the peace.”

This was at least partially true, and Daisy knew this, too. He saw amusement and wry admiration flicker in her eyes.

“Which girl, then? That Molly chit? She ’asn’t the
presence
for it.”

“Presence”? When had Daisy begun using words like “presence”?

It was time to be stern. “Daisy, the White Lily thrives on novelty, you know that as well as I, and quite simply, using a different girl is a business decision. And should the show fail—”

“It can’t fail, Tom,” Daisy interrupted firmly. “Which is why I want to be Venus. It’s a marvelous idea, and The General is a gen...”

She stopped herself suddenly and swung about to face the mirror, completing a circle of rouge on one cheek, her fingers fussing in her hair, which trailed down over one shoulder.

“The General is what, Daisy?” Tom asked innocently.

“A jester looking for a court.”

“Mmm. Odd, I could have sworn you were about to call him a ‘genius.’ ”

“I would no sooner call that wee tyrant a genius than you’d turn Quaker, Tommy.”

“Quaker is about the only thing I haven’t been, Daisy. I’m thinking of giving it a go.”

She smirked at him in the mirror. “Don’t change the subject, Tommy. You know I’m perfect for the role of Venus.”

Tom knew nothing of the sort. He looked at Daisy and tried to imagine a great oyster shell creaking open to reveal a plump pearl of a dyed redhead instead of the lithe creature Botticelli had painted and that he and The General envisioned. There was no getting around it, really. He couldn’t allow it to happen. The fortunes of the theater depended greatly upon it; his own fortunes, and his dream of The Gentleman’s Emporium rode greatly upon it.