Leo saw it, and his hands clenched into fists as though he were longing to throw a punch. “I’m not going to let him get away with that.”
“Yes, you are,” Vivian said. She didn’t let go of his arm. “You’re going to calm the hell down and stop trying to start a fight.”
A muscle jumped in Leo’s jaw. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“You keep saying you want to help me, Leo, but you can’t do that if you don’tlisten,” Vivian pleaded. She knew he meant well—Leo always meant well. But that wouldn’t do her any good if he made an enemy of Hattie Wilson and her boys. Over Leo’s shoulder, she nodded at Bruiser George, hoping he would get the message and leave. To her relief, he gave his hat a mocking tip and disappeared into the hall.Vivian looked back at Leo. “I’m telling you right now what I need. Are you going to do it or not?”
At last, she felt him stop straining against her grip. “Whatever you say,” Leo agreed through gritted teeth. Vivian could hear the anger still simmering below his words. She hoped none of it was directed at her. “What did he want?”
“I owe Mrs. Wilson a favor.” She wanted to rub at her wrist but resisted. If Leo saw her do that, he would just get all riled up again. “And that youcanhelp me out with, because I think it’s going to be a two-person job.”
That got his attention; Leo finally stopped glaring after George and turned to look at her. “What kind of job?”
Vivian glanced around, feeling exposed. Her break should have been long since finished, and someone might start looking around to see where she’d got to if she stayed tucked in the corner any longer. “I need to get back to work. But if you’re still—” She swallowed, hating that she could feel her face heating, even though her embarrassment seemed stupid in the face of everything else. “If you’re still planning to spend the night, I can tell you then, and we’ll come up with a plan.”
Leo sighed. “If I’m still welcome, then, yes. Count me in. But when all this is done,” he added, “if I see Bruiser George again, I’m going to smash his face in.”
Vivian let out a shaky laugh. “When all this is done, be my guest.”
NINETEEN
Four Days Left
Vivian hesitated, then, before she could talk herself out of it, rang the bell on the house’s lower door. The hulking gray stone of the mansion’s front loomed over her, making her feel small and unimportant. But maybe that was a good thing, this time. Maybe everyone else there would think so too, and they wouldn’t guess what she was planning.
Vivian hoped that if anyone saw her shaking, they would think it was just from the cold spring wind. Nervous, she rang the bell a second time.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” The young maid who yanked the door open glared at her. “Ain’t you got no patience? Took me all of five seconds to come trotting down the hall, and you’re already clamorin’ and complainin’—That must be the dress for Mrs. Morris, then, yes? It looks like a dress box.”
The last question was said without pause for breath, and it took Vivian a moment to catch up. “Yes,” she said at last, her voice comingout too loud. She cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s right, dress delivery for Mrs. Morris.”
“I’ll take it.” The maid held out her hands.
Vivian swallowed. “Is Mrs. Morris available? I’d like to check the shoulders and hips to make sure she’s satisfied.” It wasn’t quite a lie—many customers wanted one last fitting before they accepted the delivery. But it hadn’t been in Miss Ethel’s instructions for this particular delivery. Vivian didn’t know whether that was because Mrs. Morris didn’t care for the practice or not.
Her question was met with a weary sigh. “Well then, don’t just stand there, for goodness’ sake. Might as well throw the coal out with the trash as keep the door open for every cold breeze to blow right through…” Still grumbling, the maid, who looked all of twenty but sounded like she had the soul of an eighty-year-old great-grandmother, led the way to the kitchen stairs. There was an old clock in the hall; Vivian glanced at it as they went past, noting the time.
And then she kept looking around as she was led up, the dress box still clutched in her hands and the black bag that held her seamstress’s kit a heavy weight hanging from her arm. The house was not as large as some of the upper-class mansions where her deliveries had taken her, but what it lacked in size it made up for in gaudiness. Nearly everything that she could see was gilded, enameled, or hung with shivering crystal drops. Beneath her feet, the black-and-white marble tiles were nearly hidden under bright silk rugs, and if there wasn’t a painting on a wall, there was a mirror instead.
The entire effect was horrible, and Vivian bit her lips to keep from smirking as they made their way up the stairs. She had been in houses so opulent that they felt like enormous jewel boxes, places where she longed to simply lie down on the carpets because they were so luxurious. But most of them had some taste to their furnishing. This house had none.
The Morrises, she suspected, were new money. She wondered ifthat had something to do with why Mrs. Wilson was targeting them and, if so, how.
Vivian realized she was falling behind the maid. Shaking her head, she hurried to catch up. It was none of her business why Hattie Wilson wanted something from these folks, and wasting time wondering about it would only get her in trouble, one way or another. All she needed to worry about was finding that letter and leaving without anyone the wiser.
And at least the house looked nothing like the Buchanans’ home. Vivian had been shaking as she lugged the dress box uptown, unable to stop thinking about what had happened during the last delivery she had made. Even remembering the sight of Leo, sprawled out and sleeping deeply on the floor next to her bed after a late, anxious, excited night of planning, couldn’t erase the memory of Huxley Buchanan, dead in his study, of the feel of his blood on her hands. Even now, the thought made her shudder.
“So it’s true, he had a natural daughter tucked away somewhere?”
The voice drifted out of an open door ahead of them, followed by delighted laughter. The sound was jarring against the backdrop of her grim thoughts, but at least it shook the memories loose and helped her remember where she was.
“Not just one,” a second voice said, making no more effort than the first to be quiet. “Apparently there used to be two of them, though the other one died or something. It was just the one he left the money to. Nearlyallof it,” the second voice added with relish. “Can you imagine Evangeline’s fury?”
Vivian’s steps slowed again before she remembered to act as though the gossip meant nothing to her. They were talking about Buchanan.
Of course they were. These people likely moved in the same circles, or similar ones. Why wouldn’t they discuss the scandals of Huxley Buchanan’s life and death?
Vivian glanced at the maid, but the girl’s face was impassive. Eithershe didn’t care about the gossip, or she was so used to it that she didn’t bat an eye.
