Page 22 of The Seduction of Viscount Vice

“You must be mistaken, sir,” replied Vice, desperately attempting to stay upright when it felt like he’d been sucker-punched. “Worldly isn’t competition for Fallen, it’s a private theater. Supper and dancing and one-act plays.”

Prinny’s gaze narrowed. “I most certainly am not mistaken! Says right here on the invitation it is a pleasure club. See for yourself!”

His heart thumping so hard it would surely burst from his chest, Vice reached out, took the cream parchment, and unfolded it. And the truth burned his eyes.

Christ. No. No!

Abandoning all protocol and twisting away from the Prince Regent, he yanked the investigator’s envelope from his jacket pocket. Tearing it open, he began to read.

Black spots danced in his vision, but phrases leaped out at him like tiny bonfires.

Madame Yvette du Bois previously owned a brothel and entertainment club in Paris called Worldly.

MacNair, Ramsey, and Olivier are her longtime employees.

A few days ago, said three employees purchased a large quantity of pleasure toys from a warehouse in Blackfriars.

Grand opening scheduled for tonight, June 30.

That. Fucking. Liar.

Pressing a closed fist to his mouth lest he unleash a roar of pure rage, Vice fought to regain a sense of composure. Suddenly, everything was so very clear. Mairi’s spying, both here and at the Castlereaghs’. Her interest in staging shows and audiences. The public interludes they’d had. All the time, she had been gathering information to put him and Sin and Devil out of business. And he had succumbed to her lies and careless charm and casual gifting of her body like the greenest of lads. Like he was seventeen again.

Self-loathing coursed through him like acid. How could he have been so blind a second time? So unreservedly fucking daft?

Vice turned back to the prince and bowed low. “My sincerest apologies, your highness. I was terribly misinformed.”

“Quite all right, dear boy. It happens,” said the prince in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. Then he perked up, his eyes gleaming. “Wait, I have a capital idea. Why don’t you and Sin accompany me to Worldly? What a hoot that would be. You could see the competition for yourself, meet the owner and her staff. Oh, do say you’ll join me. Actually, I insist.”

“I’d be more than happy to, sir,” said Sin. “Unfortunately, Vice must stay here and see to business—”

“No.” Vice’s tone was dead and frigid even to his own ears. “You stay here, Sin. I will go to Worldly.”

Prinny clapped his hands together. “Splendid. Well, come along then. If we leave now, we’ll be only a bit tardy. Certainly hope they’re not like Almack’s and lock the door at eleven o’clock! Standing outside and yowling is quite beneath one’s dignity.”

“Indeed.” Vice shrugged off Sin’s grip on his arm and walked toward the main door of Fallen with their royal patron. “Will we need to fetch Mrs. Fitzherbert from her townhouse?”

“Kind offer, but she is already at Worldly. She and a few of her dearest friends fashioned themselves some perfectly charming masks for the occasion.”

“Masks?”

“Oh yes. They’ve taken a leaf out of your book and insist that everyone wears them. Not the same style with a number embroidered like yours, though. All the guests can wear whatever kind of mask they like. Damnation! What am I going to use? Not at all appropriate to wear my Fallen mask there, I think.”

So cold inside he thought he might never be warm again, Vice procured each of them a plain domino mask.

Minutes later, he and Prinny were on their way to Charlotte Street.

…

Worldly was officially open for business.

Plainly dressed newspaper men and lavishly outfitted lords and ladies poured through the candlelit front entrance. They all wore masks, some plain black demi-masks, others elaborate confections of feathers and paste jewels. There were even a few shaped in the heads of animals like lions and a snarling wolf. Yet as Mairi watched, resting her shoulder against the wall of the antechamber, she struggled against a wave of emotion threatening to make her sob.

She and Ramsey and Olivier had achieved a near miracle to get the townhouse ready. It looked beautiful—walls draped with silk, each fantasy room with its own color and décor depending on the land it represented. France was gilt furniture and Celestial-blue accents. Persia was deep jewel tones, soft carpets, and oversized floor cushions. China encompassed intricately carved rosewood pieces, woven mats, and lucky red accents. Siberia was a winter wonderland of silver, snow-white, and thick furs. The main ballroom was a tribute to Great Britain—oak furniture, hanging candle lanterns like those at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, heavy lace tablecloths, and a ribbon-draped maypole in one corner.

Yet what should have been a victory didn’t feel like one. She missed Iain terribly, and the lies and half-truths she’d told him would burn forever on her soul. Especially after that night. Waking in his brawny arms with his big, hard body curled around hers, utterly sated and refreshed after the best sleep she’d ever had, had been wonderful beyond words. Just for a moment, she had desperately wanted the theater of them together like man and wife to be real.

But she couldn’t abandon Yvette, not when the debt hadn’t been fully discharged. She owed the Frenchwoman a successful opening night at the very least. And in just under an hour, her long-held dream of being the leading lady instead of the drudge in the shadows would finally be a reality. Her first costume for her first performance, a short, sensual play about a French dancer being kidnapped and ravished by an English highwayman, hung from several brass hooks behind her. As soon as she put on that costume and gained the love and appreciation of the audience, surely her decision to leave Iain wouldn’t be the worst in history.