Private Passions Read online

  ‘Oh, yes? And no tragedies?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Robert smiled. ‘Life brings enough tragedy of its own to my pillow. I don’t need Hamlet moping about in my bed as well.’

  The woman smiled; a soft, open smile, just for a moment, like clouds parting to reveal the sun. For a moment Robert simply stood, bathing in its unexpected light.

  When she spoke, he almost jumped. ‘Kiss me.’

  ‘... What?’

  ‘That’s my price.’ The woman looked him up and down, as if thoughtfully assessing. ‘Yes. A kiss. Kiss me.’

  Robert moved forward without thinking about it. As he moved closer, his thoughts muffled by her scent, suspicion stopped him in his tracks.

  She was clearly a well-to-do woman. Perhaps she was similar to the women he’d met under different circumstances… women who saw him as an interesting object, rather than a complete man.

  It didn’t matter, or it shouldn’t matter, what she thought of him. But Robert realised, with a jolt of surprise, that it did.

  ‘Allow me to guess. You’ve never been kissed by a man of my colour before. How desperately exotic.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a refrain I’m beginning to find increasingly sharp on the ear.’

  ‘No, you idiot. I’ve never been kissed by a criminal before.’ The woman pushed her spectacles upward, allowing Robert a glimpse of her eyes again. ‘And given my age and class, my chances were getting more and more remote.’ She put her hands behind her back, tilting her face a little upward. ‘So that’s my condition. One kiss, for my continued silence.’

  Robert found himself increasingly drawn to the woman’s lips; the slight twist to her mouth, the daring pout. If one kiss was really all it took, to keep his secret…

  No.

  ‘Being kissed for one’s criminality is as insulting as being kissed for one’s skin.’ He took a step backward. ‘So try again. Do better.’

  ‘... Alright. You… you fascinate me.’

  ‘Museums are fascinating. First folios are fascinating. Try harder.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ The woman clenched her fists. ‘Because of what you said. Will that suffice? You are the most exciting event of my day. Perhaps even my week. Let me seal it with a kiss.’

  She seemed to be telling the truth. Telling it with much less assurance than she’d said anything else. Robert felt his heart softening; the word adorable rose treacherously to mind…

  ‘Accepted.’ He stepped forward. ‘Come here, and—’

  Her lips met his. The world ceased spinning.

  Robert had kissed a multitude of women. Every possible kiss, from the shyest peck to the most lascivious lip-work imaginable, he’d experienced more than once. But this one? This kiss?

  It was his first kiss, all over again. His very first kiss, full of all the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the fierceness—and oh, God, the excitement. The raw, deep tug of excitement at his core, in his heart, down to the very tips of his fingers.

  He almost broke away. It was too strong, far too strong—a firework disguised as a candle flame. If it went on for much longer he’d find himself clutching her, pulling her to him, murmuring things that no sensible man would dream of saying to a woman that he didn’t know. The passion in her; the clumsy, impetuous way her mouth met his… it felt more dangerous than anything he’d undergone today. So intoxicating, so divine, that it had to be fatal.

  Yes. He had to stop. So when she stopped, pulling away abruptly, Robert felt robbed of both his reason and the higher ground. He leaned forward, needing more of her, but her hand on his chest restrained him.

  Slowly, without uttering a word, the woman reached up to her spectacles. She removed the thin, shining frames, placing them with utmost delicacy on her desk, before turning back to him with a business-like nod.

  Then her arms were around his neck, her lips on his, her body pressed against his own with far more urgency than before. Good. Lord.

  This was definitely the time to gently pull away, make both excuses and apologies, and launch himself out of the window. Quite why he was leaning into the kiss, turning and pushing the strange young woman against the desk as he tangled one hand in her hair… well, it was inexplicable. Inexplicable, but definitely something he wasn’t going to argue with.

  God, she was lovely. Lovely enough to make him foolish; to make him unsure of his body, of the energy racing through him. He would hurt her if he pulled her tighter to him—or would he? Her enthusiasm, her untutored ardency, made him ready for anything and scared of everything. He could have her here, or against the wall, or on that soft, rose-scented feather-bed that lay only a stone’s throw away…

  But no, she was pushing him away, and quite firmly too. Panting, wide-eyed, her lips and cheeks flushed, the woman regarded him as one would an entirely new creature.

  ‘Well.’ Her voice was huskier, warmer somehow; Robert watched her as she cleared her throat. ‘I… yes. That—that was…’

  ‘Unexpected?’ Robert restrained a smile. ‘But you did ask me.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I did.’ The woman absent-mindedly ran her fingers up to her throat, tracing along her collarbones. ‘My goodness.’

  ‘You can ask me again.’ Robert moved forward, his thighs enveloped by her skirts. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I would.’ The boldness of the woman’s words sent a thrill up Robert’s spine. ‘But you are meant to be fleeing for your life.’

  ‘I’ll start valuing my life much more cheaply, if it means moving away from you.’ Robert smiled. ‘And I doubt I’ll get the chance to return.’

  ‘It’s precisely because you won’t return that I asked what I asked.’ The woman reached for her spectacles, her voice growing more placid with each passing moment. ‘Time to leave, criminal. The same way you came in. Run left as soon as your feet touch the ground—the henchmen will be waiting in the shadowed corners, so run for the light.’

  ‘What’s your name? Tell me your name.’ Robert wrapped a hand around her waist; her sudden breath rippled through him. ‘Your name, woman of means who makes Jack Swift do her bidding, or I’ll have to ask you to kiss me again.’

  ‘Sir, did you really not hear the desk drawer opening? I have a pistol, remember.’ Warm metal pressed against the small of Robert’s back. ‘I’ll ask you nicely to step away.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ Robert leaned forward, whispering in her ear. ‘Ask me.’

  For a moment the woman was still; he wondered, briefly, if he’d gone too far. Then, with a harsh sigh he couldn’t quite interpret, she sank against him; her body yielding, soft, delicious as her lips brushed against his neck…

  He couldn’t help it. He closed his eyes, lost in the moment—and stopped, disoriented, as she whirled him around. He was suddenly the one against the desk, a pistol pointed at him, just as he had been when he arrived.

  ‘Time to leave.’ The woman smiled sadly. ‘I hope I never see you again.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I can flirt with danger a little while longer. Perhaps a week or two longer.’ Robert sprang onto the desk, leaning against the window frame. ‘I know better than to visit here… but if I were to meet you in some other place, quite by chance?’

  ‘You know better than to flirt with danger. Meeting somewhere else?’ The woman sniffed. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  A cool dismissal, or a challenge? Robert wasn’t sure, but he knew which option he preferred. He crouched down, beckoning her closer. ‘And what will you give me, if I manage it? A kiss?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ The woman gravely shook her head. ‘Considerably more, I imagine.’

  Robert couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well then… if I am to run away, I should take a little more advantage. Criminals, you know.’

  He leaned further forward, his lips touching hers for a last moment of sweetness as she gasped. His heart leapt in his chest; how strange, this weakness around her. How sad, that this was goodbye.

  But it didn’t have to be. What was a little more danger, anyway?
r />   ‘Until we meet again.’ With a smile, and a bow, he leapt free.

  Gripping the drainpipe with one hand as he slid down to street level, he ran for the light as soon as his feet touched the ground. Within moments he was back on a well-trodden street, as normal a man as anyone else… apart from the wide smile on his face.

  He pulled out the crumpled piece of newsprint he’d managed to swipe from her desk mid-kiss, unable to wait, half-questioning if he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. No. There it was, in black and white, with deep green flourishes in an elegant, unmistakeable female hand.

  Galley proofs, unless he were mistaken—the final copy of a newspaper item, before it went properly to print.

  The only people who would possess such a thing were editors, or writers. There were no female newspaper editors in London, that he had heard of, and only a few female writers, all constrained to idle jottings about motherhood or household management.

  None were allowed, for example, to write about the salacious, near-criminal activities of the aristocracy. None were permitted to write screeds of damning, hilarious accusations about the most powerful men and women in the country—accusations that were discussed in Parliament, as well as any number of private establishments.

  None, apart from one… one with a very unique pen name.

  ‘My goodness.’ Robert tucked the piece of newspaper into his waistcoat, a wide smile on his face. ‘The lady is a Viper. The Viper.’

  Lavinia Dent waited. She watched, still and unblinking, before running to the windows as soon as she deemed it safe.

  Looking attentively at the bustling street below her, her eyes ran with quick, professional detachment over each figure in her line of sight. When her gaze alighted on a particular tall, dark figure walking with deliberate nonchalance through the afternoon crowds, her stare softened.

  On any other woman, such a look could be described as moonstruck… but Lavinia Dent prided herself on never being struck by anyone. Even if the object of her dreaming eyes was quite deliciously handsome.

  Almost foolishly handsome, in fact. All the most creative Greeks, with all their sharpest chisels and grandest blocks of marble, hadn’t managed to carve anyone as magnificent as him.

  You kissed him. Her conscience, judgemental at the best of times, seemed to be as shocked as the rest of her. You… kissed him.

  You. Kissed. Him.

  You asked to kiss him.

  ‘Stop it.’ She scolded herself, briefly biting her lip, before leaning out of the window. Producing a small red handkerchief from the depths of her sleeve, she knotted it around the drainpipe before whistling piercingly through her teeth.

  Turning away from the window, smoothing her skirts, she moved to her desk. By the time a small, dirt-smudged boy dropped panting onto the rug, the red handkerchief tight in his fist, Lavinia was as placidly composed as she had been before the mysterious stranger had arrived in her bedroom.

  Well. Almost as composed. As she dropped a coin into the boy’s palm, opening her desk drawer, Lavinia realised that her fingers were trembling.

  ‘Be proud of me, miss. It’s the first time in two weeks I’ve been the fastest.’ The boy smiled proudly. ‘I had to kick Grabber in the shins to make it up the drainpipe first, but he’ll live.’

  ‘As usual, Masher, your vim and vigour fill me with pride.’ Lavinia took in the boy’s appearance, quickly making sure there were no starving shadows under his eyes or consumptive coughs, before continuing. ‘I need information. As always. And if possible, I need you to follow a man.’

  ‘Depends on the man, miss.’ Masher shrugged. ‘What does he look like?’

  Like a sinful dream. Like a devil in disguise; a man who would convince you to do anything. Especially forbidden things. Lavinia pursed her lips, wondering how to give a description that was any kind of help. ‘Well… I suppose…’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am.’ Masher’s face took on a slightly guilty look. ‘Is it the cove that I saw climbing down the drainpipe I used?’

  Lavinia privately thanked God for her lack of blushes. ‘Are you paid to make connections, Masher?’

  ‘Well yes, ma’am. If you think about it.’ At the sight of Lavinia’s face, Masher stopped. ‘But I’m not thinking about it. And I’m not making any connections to do with your bedroom, ma’am. None at all.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Lavinia tried to sound as frosty and forbidding as possible. ‘Connections at street-level only. So you saw the man?’

  ‘Oh yes. Black chap. Fancy.’ Masher smiled. ‘Lovely blue coat. He told us he stole it from a circus.’

  ‘I see. You—you know him.’ Lavinia leaned forward in her chair. ‘So tell me everything. All that a crown will give me.’

  ‘Can’t, ma’am.’ Masher clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t know nothing.’

  ‘But you just—you’re telling me that you have no information about this man whatsoever.’ Lavinia looked severely at the boy, who didn’t even have the decency to flinch. ‘A man that you clearly know—and yet you know nothing about him at all. Not even his name.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ The boy shook his head, looking with intense interest at the pattern of Lavinia’s rug. ‘Not a sausage.’

  Lavinia sighed, trying to control a knot of unwelcome anger building in her chest. Her network of street youths was the best paid, the most coddled, the most pampered—she’d even brought them off of the streets and into clean, well-paid orphanages, after a day of weeping prettily to her father—and this was the first time, the very first time, that one of them had failed her. Not only failed her, but actively impeded her.

  Why? What was so very special about this man, apart from the way he looked? Apart from the way he’d made her feel when he’d looked at her, eyes dancing, as if they already shared an untold number of secrets…

  ‘Ma’am? Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lavinia increased the severity of her stare. ‘At least tell me why he’s off-limits, Masher. Have I been outbid? Or is he a dangerous character?’

  ‘More dangerous than you, ma’am? No.’ Masher risked a cheeky smile. ‘He’s… he’s one of us, ma’am. And you know we protect our own.’

  Lavinia tried to reconcile the man’s elegant manner with the boy’s words, and shook her head. ‘You cannot possibly be saying that he lives on the street. Or in an orphanage.’

  ‘Well no, ma’am. No-one knows where he sleeps. But… but he looks out for us.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Looks after us.’

  ‘I look after you!’ Lavinia rose, closing her desk drawer. ‘It’s thanks to me that you sleep in warm beds and have enough food to eat! I pay you for every piece of gossip you bring me!’

  ‘And all of those things are very fine, ma’am, and we thank you for it—but it makes us your staff, ma’am. The man you’re looking for—he’s a brother.’ Masher’s defiant eyes brooked no argument. ‘You won’t get a peep out of any of us. And if you want the streets to keep talking to you, ma’am, I suggest you stop asking.’

  Lavinia put her hand to her brow, taking a deep breath. Masher’s words had hurt her far more deeply than she wanted to admit to herself, let alone express. The boy was correct, of course… it was a transactional friendship she shared with London’s underclass, rather than the kinship she’d imagined.

  A foolish fantasy. One of many she kept living in, in order to sustain her double life.

  ‘Alright.’ She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘We’ll put him aside for now. But the gentleman who left my house mere moments ago, with a black coat and a moustache… does he fall under your protection too?’

  ‘No.’ Masher folded his arms. ‘But I can’t tell you anything about him, ma’am. And given your… well, line of work… I thought you’d know him already.’

  ‘Well I don’t, for goodness’ sake!’ Lavinia put her hands on her hips, throwing her head back. ‘So why can’t you tell me about him?’

  ‘Because he really is a dangerous character, ma’am. More dangerous than
anyone I’ve ever met.’ Masher’s voice shook. ‘His name’s Swift. Jack Swift. And if you know what’s good for you, ma’am, I’d stop at his name.’

  ‘Jack Swift.’ Lavinia turned the name over in her mind, trying to remember where she’d heard the name before. The boy was right; it wasn’t new to her. ‘You know I won’t stop at his name, Masher.’

  ‘I know, ma’am.’ The boy sighed. ‘This is going to be like that business with Lord Carstairs, isn’t it?’

  ‘I do hope so, Masher.’ Lavinia smiles. ‘Do you remember what happened with Lord Carstairs?’

  ‘There are still ballads about what happened to Lord Carstairs, ma’am.’ Masher folded his arms. ‘Everyone likes singing the bit about the potato being shoved up his—’

  ‘I can imagine, Masher.’ Lavinia held up a hand, silencing the boy. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘I’ll save your ears, ma’am.’ Masher stood to attention. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’ Lavinia waved him away, trying to maintain her poise despite feeling disconsolate. ‘Nothing else. Keep the coin, though.’

  She sat glumly as the boy climbed out of the window, trying to knit together the disparate strands of thought floating through her mind. The morning had seemed manageable, doable, easy—and then he had burst into her bedroom.

  She indulged in a small smile, thinking about the business with Lord Carstairs. Her readers had enjoyed learning about the man’s peccadilloes, including various extra-marital dalliances… and they’d pored over the descriptions of how hateful he was to his poor cook, who had to endure his repeated advances despite being both married and pregnant. A group of lads had been so very exercised by the story—which she’d made sure was entirely factual, the man’s name hidden with the flimsiest of anagrams—that they’d set upon Lord Carstairs as he’d walked home from the theatre. Set upon him, it turned out, with a basket of the type of vegetables his cook had to spend all her time preparing.

  Lavinia’s smile grew wider as she thought about the potato. Masher must have heard only the first part of the ballad—the chorus involved a very surprising carrot.