Quietus

Men were not immune from the allure of flesh. Vincent Phantomhive was no exception. An affair snuck between the pages of a greater story should be effortlessly covered up; yet, things are not always so easy.

Vincent was by no means a model Englishman. Despite the outstanding reputation he portrayed to the general public he was well-aware of his less than ideal vices. He lied, cheated, and stole with the best of criminals; truly, it was a necessary behavior. To catch the filth that plagued the Queen's kingdom, he had to become filth himself.

Using people had become second nature. He was blessed with charming wit and an endearing smile—or so his sister-in-law told him—and he used those traits to the fullest. His body was merely a tool to assist in most circumstances and he did not regret using any measure necessary to ensure his victory. Ah, but then, he hadn't considered the consequence presented before him.

It had been a minor case, one that concluded without mess. He had posed as a drunken noble looking for a night away from societies pressure. A part he played well; after all, it was the truth. A lie, or rather an alibi, was just that until the veracity was allowed to bring life to the illusion. As it was, one could argue that while he was not who he claimed to be, but one could not argue that he held heavy burdens and expectations.

The delinquencies had started two months before his engagement to Rachel Dalles. A move he had planned in order to both establish an heir and to solidify his alibi to his peers. The girl in question wasn't terribly bright, or particularly interesting, not like her sister was. She'd serve his purpose well. It wouldn't do to have his future wife catch onto his nightly activities, would it? No, she was a kindly thing—a little air-headed, but that was all the better—who suffered from respiratory issues. The likelihood of her interfering with his work was less than ten percent.

He knew it was the right choice, and yet, and yet—

It was only human for Vincent to mourn the chance of an interesting marriage.

He would not be blessed with a strong-willed woman, like his sister, nor would he be able to partake in the intelligence and humor previously given by a smitten Angelina.

Such were the things he sacrificed for his Queen to prosper.

Regardless, the case was a clean one. He had stumbled into the whorehouse where he had suspected the next murder to take place and was immediately waylaid by the Madame of the establishment. He had paid a sum that hadn't lightened his pockets in the slightest and then told to select whichever woman placated his urges. And he, not one to disappoint the expectations of others, readily accepted the generous offer.

Vincent was a noble first and foremost. He was born into wealth and he would continue to acquire it; so, he reasoned, he would only have the finest available. One by one women were dropped in his lap and taken away just as quick. If he was honest, he had been a little disheartened at the wanting selection.

But he retained patience. The best, as he's come to acknowledge, was habitually saved for last. The final participant had been twirled out covered in silks and gold. Curiously well decorated for the home she resided. The Madame had cooed softly in his ear. New, she had told him; young, she sighed; exotic, she moaned.

The Madame's words, for what they were worth, paled in reverence to the child.

He had wasted no time in hiding the tiny thing beneath the sheets of his given room; desperate to be the only soul to lay eyes on her bare flesh, if but for only a moment. The stark contrast of his pale skin to her rich tone was mouth-watering.

(—He had started requesting his coffee be taken with milk, just to remember his forgotten conquest.)

Vincent had worshiped the newly converted woman well into the morning. He took great care in sliding the gold bands off that lovely skin. Sunk his fingers into the mass of curls that tickled his shoulders and pulled her body to writhe against his own. The salt of her sweat against his tongue would linger for days after. The taste of it more satisfying than the sweetest victory.

The man behind the murders was little more than a pest. He hadn't been apart of anything bigger than a local band of thugs. Hardly worth remembering.

But months after, he still remembered her.

The fight she had put up had been minuscule, merely enough to spark his desire into something more than passing fancy. Her lips, which had started stained red, slowly lost color as he took them against his own time after time. Vincent adored each welt and mark he had inflected upon her skin. The sight of brown fading into blue and purple had been enough to encourage his continued roughness.

Those were the mere painful impulses of an unmarried man.

Now, he considered eyeing the band that rested on his left ring finger, such thoughts were cause for shame. Not on his part, of course, but on his wife's' for failure of satisfaction. Vincent smirked. If his sister heard such, however, he'd be sure to get an earful.

Recalling the past would do him no good now. Not when the previous object he had coveted so yearningly was standing proud at his doorstep. Time had not been kind to the woman, but then again, neither had he.

She was nothing like his fantasies remembered her to be. Gone was the youthful freshness of her body, the lush color sucked from her very being leaving behind a pale imitation of the girl she once was. The list of imperfections continued: dry matted hair, cracked and stained teeth, lack of proper attire, etc., etc.

The woman could have passed for the slaves that rotted away in the streets.

But then again, perhaps her unsightly appearance had less to do with his exposure and more to do with the parasite cradled in her frail arms.

Vincent wanted nothing more to do with her. He had been prepared to order the doors closed, to shut the reminder of his humanity out, but when those eyes—those lovely russet eyes— pleaded with him, he found himself hesitating.

"My lord, please," A much more mature and aching voice pled, "please. I know you— you were that man." She whispered and shifted her hold on the infant, "You held me on my first night." She had the audacity to come closer to him, "Take her. You must. I cannot take her back there; she is part of you, and she is yours."

He recoiled. This whore had the nerve to suggest—

(—he wouldn't see it. Any similarities could be denied, altered.)

—that he would stoop so low?

"I'm sorry Miss, but I believe you have the wrong man." He smiled condescendingly.

Vincent had to act quickly. She was more than liable to cause a scene if the tension traveling from her throat to her jaw was any indicator. She would scream, and cry, and ultimately disturb his staff from their pre-assigned duties. And that simply could not be, after all, no matter how much one trained his employees, tongues would still wag freely.

"You don't understand—" she wheezed, as if the words pained her. Perhaps they did.

"Say I do indulge you," he cut her off, "what do you expect from me? Money? An estate? Name your price and rid yourself from my home."

"Nothing! I want nothing from you my Lord, believe me." The babe shifted uneasily, their tiny face scrunching up in agitation, "I'd love nothing more than to be rid of you. But I will not last long. Yes, my time is limited." She murmured as she swayed, a habit, he observed. "If I am to go, then my girl will not be spared, she won't. They'd take her my Lord, abuse and enslave her. I do not wish that fate upon any, much less my own." He was sympathetic, most definitely, but he was not moved. Not when his own standing hung in the balance of a beggar woman's words.

"Many suffer such a fate, what makes the child any different? Why should she be pardoned?" If he saved everyone; man, woman, child, then where would the cycle end? He was incapable of protecting the world from maltreatment. Nor did he want to. Selfish he may be, but offenders were the rubbish that eventually padded his pocket and supplied a comfortable living.

"Because," the beggar whined in a tone that was not dissatisfying to hear, "she is your daughter! Think, my Lord, what would the public think? A bastard daughter, born from London's very own Watchdog, laying with every Tom, Dick, and Harry to cross her path. The shame!"

"They'd never know." He countered, his fingers twitching for his pistol, which rested snugly against his hip, "And if, by some chance, the truth would come to light; who would believe a whore? A lesser man here and there may try to topple me, but I think we both find that I can be very… persuasive, given the opportunity."

It seemed that his words had finally hit home. The prostitute stumbled back, tears choking her voice as she stared at him in horror. It was not the first nor the last time he'd see such a face. Ah, he watched with narrow eyes as she staggered into his chest, it seemed that the woman still had more to say.

"You… you, you, You!" She stammered, "Despicable! Heinous! Perverted! Bastard of a man! I should have known that the bollocks that hung between your legs were merely for show!" Her chest heaved with the intensity of curses she spewed. Honestly, he was a little aghast. Such a horrific mouth. "May you burn, my Lord! I hope the flames of your sin consume everything you hold dear!"

"Vincent, my love? Will you not let your guest in?" His spine stiffened. A small hand danced on his forearm. A blonde head soon rested tenderly against his shoulder. "The poor dear looks exhausted; practically dead on her feet, don't you think?"

"My dear," He tutted softly, his hand touching along the small of her back, "I will be finished here shortly, why don't you wait for me in the parlor?"

"Nonsense, I am your wife. I will welcome your guests properly. I've already instructed Tanaka to fetch refreshments. Come. Let's get you off your feet, love." She ushered the uninvited guest in. Vincent was left to follow behind, wondering when his gentle wife had become so bold. Was she angry at him, perhaps? He could think of no alternative.

Nonetheless, she betrayed nothing as she fussed over their visitor. She acted as a model wife should, offering hospitality and subtly asking about tender wounds with a kind demeanor. There was more to his little wife than he expected. How strange. He covered his mouth to hide a chuckle. Rachel guided him to sit next to her, her expression expectant, "I hope the trip here was pleasant. We do not get many visitors you see," his wife hummed, "so I hope you forgive my excitement." Her eyes seemed to look straight through him, "We have some things to discuss, don't we? Start from the beginning, if you would, dear."

"I—yes, thank you." She seemed at war with herself, "Believe me, I would not have dared to burden you with such a thing if I could." She spoke softly, as if she were not before them but rather trapped in a place unreachable. "Three years ago, I had been abducted from my homeland. I was enslaved for months, tossed about from ship to ship until I was deposited here. You must understand, my life was forfeit from the moment I touched British soil." Venom dripped from chapped lips and she merely glanced down at the steaming cup set before her, "I was saved from an early death because of how I look." A tranquil smile, "I was given to a brothel." Rachels breath hitched and he could feel her small fingers dig into his arm.

Vincent should have closed the door sooner. Maybe then he could have spared his wife from such painful information. "That's…" Rachel shook and if Vincent had the nerve to glance over, he was certain he would find tears.

"Hold your worries, my Lady. It is because of the Lord Phantomhive here that I am able to speak with you today. I owe more than I could ever hope to give. And yet, more I must ask of him." The woman hesitated, her teeth biting into her cheek. "Your Lord bedded me, and saved me from a much worse fate, so I beg that you do not hold such a thing against him."

"I'd never." Rachel commented sharply. He was unaware if that was truly how she felt about the matter but now wasn't the time to broach the subject. "I am aware that my husband is not mine alone. I am only glad he was able to help."

"An angel, you are, miss." She cleared her throat, "I am under no illusions that you do not know what a happens during a union between man and woman." To prove her point further, she shifted the child, holding her up and allowing the both of them to scrutinize the toddler.

It was a cute thing that shared many features with her mother. From the curly hair to the dark skin and pouting lips, right down to the sliver of red he caught peeking out beneath one drooping eyelid. But if one took the moment to look, there was undeniable evidence of his hand. He could see himself in her cheeks and nose, and he lamented over the beauty mark under her eye. It was in the same spot as his own.

"She's beautiful." Rachel gasped, "May I…?"

At that moment, Vincent felt something that might have been remorse. The woman, pathetic as she was, looked both relieved and horrified to hand her child over. They both knew that the moment the baby left her arms, she wouldn't be getting her back. Respect—or something akin to it—burned at his chest when the burdened lady placed the child into his wife's arms. Her hands shaking only slightly. A tremendous task completed without complaint. Her thin fingers toyed with one ink curl before removing her person completely from his wife's personal space.

"How cute," His wife rasped as she pulled the babe close to her chest. Her body swayed to an invisible tune and she worshiped the vision swaddled in dirty purple cloth, "It would be no burden to take the dear in, in fact," Rachel chuckled, "I don't think you'd be able to pry her from my arms."

And the gavel fell. He had no chance in refusing the toddler now. The verdict was set-in stone. Even if he still wanted to say no, he'd never forgive himself of robbing Rachel of the chance to nurture. What a headache. He wanted nothing more than to rid the parlor of the guest and retreat to his study.

"I am… most fortunate then. I feel secure in leaving her to your protective and capable hands. It is much to ask for, but please look upon her favorably." With that she bowed, looking to all the world ready to run away and hide her grief.

"Wait! Before you go—" Rachel dropped all pretenses of hospitality, her eyes sad and determined all the same, "—her name, please." And Vincent couldn't help but wonder what his darling wife planned for the bastard child.

A cracked tongue licked dry lips. "Shabine, Lady Phantomhive."

She was promptly excused from the premises; a carriage a given curtesy, a final farewell to aid what was most likely her final days.

"Shabine," Rachel spat, "What an abysmal name to give such a lovely girl."

"Oh?" That was rare, his wife rarely showed annoyance much less disdain, "Why do you say so?"

His wife stood, her hair cascading down her shoulder and tickling the child's nose, "It's not specifically derogatory in nature, however, when I was a girl I remember a servant or two with the same name; At first I had assumed it was a cultural thing, you see. When I asked, the truth was a tad more horrid than I had imagined. The name is usually given to ascribe mixed heritage—kind of like the word Mulatto."

That would explain the anger then.

"It would be no inconvenience to change it if it displeases you."

Rachel shook her head, "I dislike it; nevertheless, it is the name her birth mother provided, and I will respect that. Preferably, I'd have a birth certificate drawn up, but I don't think that would be appropriate however much I'd like it to be." Much more logical than he expected from her. Vincent was glad he wouldn't have to go through the trouble of shattering her hopes. He'd play along for now, since it would keep Rachel busy and charmed. He was under no illusions that they'd manage to keep the child a secret; and—Vincent side eyed his wife; he didn't expect Rachel to allow such in the first place.

Angelina would have to be told certainly; if not because of the bond between herself and her sister, then for private check-ups. Francis too, would have to be informed, because hiding such a thing would only end in disaster.

"Thank you, for permitting this." His wife brushed against him and he allowed himself to be taken with her newest perfume, "I will take care of everything, so please do not stress my Lord."

Searching for any hint of weakness, he was happy with her surprising resolution. Vincent would permit her involvement in the project and would supply whatever she needed. He was curious of how she would go about raising the child. "Very well. Allow me to fetch some help for you, dear. I'll be in the private study; I ask that you do not disturb me."

"Very well." Rachel placed a kiss on his cheek, "If, for whatever reason, you do not show yourself by dinner I'll send Tanaka up with a tray."

"Thoughtful, my wife is." He teased in return.

True to his word Vincent leased five maids and two stablemen to his wife's hand. He had made it perfectly clear to the lot that they were to be sworn to upmost secrecy—as if his staff would dare to speak upon the activities that festered in the Watch Dog's home—and any loose lips would result in immediate termination. The shiny penny added onto their pay was simply an extra boon. More would have to come later; a nursemaid, for one, would be useful he was sure. After all, his wife could flounce about as she'd like but once the sun set, she was just that: his wife. And oh, how Vincent detested to share.

As he stepped foot into his private chambers he was immediately consumed into his work. Grabbing a fresh ink well and the stack of crisp paper to his left, he pondered on the best course of action. He could be blunt and informal, nay, his sister would associate such actions with offense. Perhaps it would be smarter to apologize for his misgiving first, and then grovel before her feet. His sister was the one woman whom he was loath to attract contempt. She was far too dear to his heart.

Dearest sister,

He signed primly, exhaling as each letter curled across the page.

It is most unfortunate that I must share such news so soon after our last correspondence. I must admit something to you; and I wish sincerely that you do not hold my foolishness against me, nonetheless I am ever aware of my faults and just as liable to error as the next gentleman. You have been groomed just as finely as I, if not more so, and I will speak truthfully to you as you are the only one who should ever understand my plight. My position in standing to the Queen has always come first—and thus, so will my career. Undercover as I was, I could only act within the role I was given. I hope you can forgive me for so brutishly extending the family tree as I have. Your niece looks forward to meeting you Francis, it has been far too long since your last visit. Feel sympathy for your older brother, will you not? For the sake of indulgence, I hope to see you soon.

With care,

Vincent Phantomhive

It was short. And vague, at best. That was all that he could permit himself to do—should the letter get "lost" then he'd have a scandal on his hands. Something that he simply did not have time to deal with in his busy months. If anything, he could hope that it only promoted a swift travel on her part.

She'd be displeased, he knew, but she'd also be moldable. She would hate him for the disgrace he sired but be moved by his act of kindness. Not many would willingly keep a bastard, even less would agree for it to be brought up in their own home. He was under no delusion that Rachel would let the girl grow distant from their home once children of their own would arrive. Vincent was sure that she'd insist on raising them side-by-side. She'd treat the child as if she were her own and put her through the rigorous duties of being a noble girl. They'd be worthless in the long run, but they were a whim he'd grant even so. Perhaps, if she proved faithful and diligent, he'd allow her to marry off a fellow of his staff and have some impression of a normal life. If not… there were many ways of one to dispose of a body.

He folded the letter and sealed it with the family crest.

Prologue End
Current Arc: Childhood
Part:1/3