Page 9 of A Vocation of Violence
But I didn’t live a life like that. Not like these people.
Jorah lowered his head until his lips caressed my ear, his touch scorching against my skin. “Forgive the intrusion, Fiona, but once tonight’s festivities are well underway, we can disappear. And my bed and body will be all yours.”
The promise, whispered with the intimacy of a secret pact, should have soothed the sting of rejection, yet it only served to deepen the wound. For it was not the promise of what was to come that pained me, but the stark realization of what would not be—a quiet night where the ghosts of my past and the specter of Jack the Ripper could be forgotten, if only for a few hours.
“Then it is settled,” Vivienne declared, her smile bright as she surveyed our little gathering, blind to the shadows creeping at the edges of my consciousness.
“Settled,” I echoed, my voice hollow as I forced a smile to match hers.
“You’ll wear one of my evening gowns, of course.” Her laughter was like the tinkling of fine crystal, and it chafed against my already frayed nerves. I glanced down at the simple garmentthat covered my shoulders—a far cry from the silken finery draped over her lithe form.
“I appreciate your generosity, but I’ve no need for—” My protest faltered, for she had already turned, summoning the young maid, who materialized as if conjured by the very air of expectation that Vivienne exuded.
“Claudia, be a dear and fetch the emerald satin from my latest collection. The one with the lace overlay. Our Miss Mahoney here will outshine the moon itself,” she instructed the girl, her voice threaded with a command that left no room for dissent.
The doe-eyed maid curtsied and hastened away, leaving me to reckon with this unforeseen turn of events. A gown. A party. A night where the façade of normalcy would be as flimsy as the silk I was to be swathed in.
“Miss Bloomfield-Smythe, I fear I am ill-suited for such revelry,” I murmured, my gaze dropping to my worn hands—hands that knew more of blood and grime than ballrooms and gaiety.
“I insist you call me Viv.” Vivienne’s hand fluttered to rest upon my arm, her touch featherlight yet somehow anchoring. “Consider it a boon from me to you. After all, we women must support each other in this world dominated by men and their brutish pursuits.”
The weight of her gesture pressed upon me, the unspoken obligation wrapping around my ribs like the laces of a corset, tightening with each breath. The rich hue of her gown gleamed in the lamplight, a stark contrast to the dark shadows that seemed to cling to my soul.
I was supposed to spend the night either making love to Jorah or hunting Jack.
Not…this.
I would love the opportunity to connect with Darcy, though a party in his honor was the last place in which we could swim in the deep lake of our nostalgia together.
“Will you not seize the chance to cast aside your shadows, even if only for an evening?” Jorah’s voice, soft and coaxing, drew me back from the precipice of my thoughts.
I stood there, torn between the desire to flee into the anonymity of the night and the yearning to step into the light, however briefly. Could I dare to embrace the respite offered, or would the pretense simply serve to underscore the grim reality of my existence?
“Very well, Miss—er, Viv,” I said at last, a sense of resignation settling over me like a shroud. “I am more than honored to accept your generous offer.”
“Exquisite,” she breathed, satisfaction curling her lips, and I wondered if this was a scene she had orchestrated—a play in which I had unwittingly been cast as the reluctant ingenue.
With Vivienne’s offer hanging in the air like the heady aroma of night-blooming jasmine, I felt an invisible tether pulling me toward a destiny I was not sure I wanted to meet.
“I think you will enjoy yourself,” Jorah said, his voice smooth as silk yet heavy with unspoken promises. “It shall be a night to remember.”
“You’ll have the first dance,” Darcy threw in by way of sweetening the pot. “The second dance,” he amended after Vivienne stomped on his toe.
I offered them a tight smile, my fingers absently tracing the intricate needlework of the shawl that had drawn Vivienne’s teasing compliment earlier. The fabric seemed to whisper secrets of its own, secrets that could dance seductively on the edge of revelation in the glow of the upcoming festivities.
“I can’t see how I could refuse,” I said with a smile summoned from Lord-knows-where.
Finally, I glanced toward Night Horse, who remained conspicuously silent, his somber gaze fixed upon a point somewhere beyond the room’s gilded confines. His lethal presence served as a stark reminder that not all that glittered was gold, and not all revelries ended when the music stopped.
He was a part of the night, especially at the Velvet Glove.
“Shall I see you all settled, then, and Fiona can dress in your rooms, Viv?” Jorah asked, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You plucked the thought from my mind,” she replied, tucking her arm into Darcy’s as Jorah led the way.
I fell in line behind Vivienne’s bustle, minding the length of her train as we climbed the gilded stairs, feeling the weight of my choice settle upon my shoulders like a mantle. As they all began to discuss the logistics of the evening, I paused on a stair midway up, allowing myself the luxury of apprehension.
“You look like you’re climbing to the gallows,” Night Horse said from alarmingly close behind me. Closing the space between us, his warmth momentarily dispelling the chill of foreboding that didn’t belong to a night such as this.
