Page 2 of The Seduction of Viscount Vice

“I see. Well then, I guess it is time for me to corner our wee intruder and ask him a few questions.”

Nell folded her arms and shook her head. “Pah. String him up, you mean. Or dip him in syrup and stake him atop an ant hill.”

“Lady, your mind is a dark and frightening place. If I were thirty years older, I’d propose immediately.”

Her lips twitched. “Cease your blathering and go. I expect a full report.”

Vice nodded and strode away.

Ducking into an antechamber, he reached out and slid his fingers beneath a nondescript candelabra resting on a small side table. With a faint click, a door opened and he leaped up the narrow stairs two at a time until he reached a small room, unfurnished except for a stool and a telescope. After swiftly fitting the telescope to a carefully carved-out space, he began to scan the ballroom.

“Where are you, you pox-ridden parasite?” he growled, his gaze leaping from footman to footman.

Rage bubbled like a volcano ready to erupt. The sanctuary of Fallen had been breached. And the cunning alley rat wearing a uniform sewn in the house livery suggested a great deal of forward planning: a close study of fabrics, trim, and style. No way in hell was this a prank or a protest by some militant churchgoer…

Vice’s search came to an abrupt halt.

There.

Nell’s description had been sufficiently detailed, bless her. The bastard in question hadn’t set down his tray of apple tarts on the dessert table as ordered. Instead, he ambled around the ballroom offering them to guests, the perfect cover to spy. Was he employed by one of the scandal sheets? There did seem to be a certain watchfulness about him, his gaze resting too long on both the guests and his surroundings.

Well. He’d be getting a story, all right. The story of how a scrawny lad disguised as a footman had invaded Fallen, was discovered, and had ended his night in an East End alley with two broken legs. It wouldn’t matter what excuses or bribes he offered. Vice had heard them all from whining aristocrats who had scaled balconies and trees, worn fake masks, even pretended to be laborers just to get inside.

Fallen was a haven for its owners and members, a place to enjoy every pleasure in absolute luxury, safety, and discretion. And no way in hell was anyone, let alone a sniveling, wet behind the ears, fucking Englishman, going to get away with violating that.

The lad had been clever and lucky so far.

But his luck was about to run out.

…

She was playing the role of her life.

Smiling in triumph, Mairi MacNair barely resisted the urge to dance a solitary reel. Her bold and reckless plan to disguise herself as a Fallen footman—and discover firsthand what made the legendary English pleasure club the best—had succeeded. After weeks of traipsing behind real footmen to observe their mannerisms and livery, crouching behind trees or pretending to clean carriages just so she could spy on the lavish Portman Square townhouse, she could report back to her employer, Yvette du Bois.

One month ago, they had arrived from Paris because Yvette’s popular gentleman’s club, Worldly, was being elbowed out by newer, richer, and better-located competition. They had planned on reopening the club here in London as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Mairi’s discoveries could mean delays. The stories they’d heard didn’t begin to describe the reality of Fallen; the establishment owned by three men appropriately named Sin, Devil, and Vice was pure elegance and splendor. Thick Aubusson rugs lined the hallways, the walls were done in cream silk, and the paintings looked like they belonged in a museum. As for this Midsummer-Night-themed ball, it was as professional as any theater production she’d seen: an enchanted forest with deep green foliage, giant silver urns of flowers, silk-flamed bonfires, and a raised dais displaying two velvet-covered gold thrones.

But her efforts would be worth it. Yvette had promised a handsome reward for detailed information. No longer would Mairi be desperately lonely, always behind the scenery attending to props and costumes like she had for ten years at the previous Worldly. No longer would she be stifled, forced to obey the house rules that insisted she be an invisible nobody. Instead, she would be the leading lady, strutting around in wickedly scandalous costumes, seducing the audience into lauding her with bouquets and applause and coins, experiencing the heady rush of being pleasured in public. But most of all, if Worldly was a magnificent success, her debt to the woman who had saved her life would finally be repaid.

“My lady? Will you have some more champagne?”

Mairi almost stumbled at the question, then laughed at her own foolishness. Of course the other footman wasn’t talking to her. He thought she was a lad. They all did. Not only was her livery an exact replica, her uncommonly tall, slender figure made the disguise even more believable. Besides, she had discarded her title long ago. Airs and graces neither paid the bills nor kept a stomach full, and they were rather superfluous for a Scottish earl’s ruined and forgotten daughter.

“Ooooh, is that one last apple tart I see?” said a high-pitched feminine voice. “Come here, boy, let me divest you of it.”

Inclining her head, Mairi walked over to the enviably curvy and dark-haired woman dressed as some sort of fairy. “Here you go, ma’am. Fresh from the kitchen and right nice.”

“My favorite,” the woman said with a sigh, snatching it up and taking a large bite.

“Is there anythin’ else I can do for you?”

“Well, you could share a little gossip about Vice. There’ll be a coin for your trouble.”

Damnation.

Panic flared. Though she’d spent countless hours sewing her costume and spying on footmen, she knew few intimate details about the three owners. The talk in Paris had been mostly club-related—the startling level of erotic excess, the variety, the secret membership list, and the glamor. All things greatly appreciated by the French. “Er…not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

“Don’t be coy. I’m not spying for the scandal sheets, and I’m not angling for a wedding ring. I already have a husband. What I want to know is the man behind the nickname. I believe Vice is finally going to be mine later this evening, and it must go well. What does he enjoy besides fucking onstage? Perhaps toys as Sin does, or being caned like Devil?”