The Copper and the Madam (11 page)

Southen smacked his cane against the wall,
and the carriage rolled away. If he could slip in undetected when
the merchants made their deliveries, he could hide himself until
later. His acquaintance and frequent visitor to The Blind Cupid,
the Marquess of Blaine had given him a detailed drawn map of the
layout of the multi-storied house, even down to the secret
passageways and rooms.

That fat fucking bitch would pay for his
injuries and deep humiliation. The thought of retribution hardened
his cock. Might as well put his arousal to good use. He ran his
hand down the front of his trousers and groaned.
What will it be
tonight?
A ripe young man or a woman?

Southen smiled. Perhaps—both.

As Rory stood before the desk of Inspector
Carlson, it made him realize how much he missed working for
Frederick Abberline, a man who’d been thorough and taken his duties
seriously. Rory admired Abberline and emulated him in all ways,
down to his dress and deportment. The man had a sound, analytical
mind, so he’d learned from the best. Too bad Abberline had retired
from the Metropolitan Police. How he could use his insight on this
case.

The man sitting before him was no Abberline.
Inspector Robert Carlson acted rather indifferent unless it
concerned his own ambition. The man spent all his time sitting at
his desk. Rory filled him on the details of what he’d found out the
last couple of days.

Carlson sat back in his chair and tented his
fingers. “And Scotland Yard should be concerned about this—why? A
male bang-tail and his whoremonger bitch hardly merit the use of
precious police resources.”

Rory took two steps forward, but stopped
himself. The desire to vault the desk and pound the shite out of
this bastard raged through his mind. Red hot fury pumped through
his veins.

“We will want to stem the sort of panic the
ripper case wrought on the city. Look how many careers that
destroyed. I, for one, have no desire to be prosecuted in the
press. I doubt you do either, Inspector. Let me handle this
quietly. Give me a few trustworthy constables, and Cian O’Connor,
and I will see this through.”

Rory waited for Carlson’s response, confident
hinting of bad press and possible censure from the higher-ups would
give the man pause.

“Very well, Kerrigan. But may I remind you,
Southen is a peer of the realm. Conduct your inquiries with the
upmost discretion. I will have no complaints cross my desk
regarding the earl.”

Rory nodded and left the office before he
said something he would regret. Cian waited for him by their
desks.

“Well? What did the puffed-up gobshite say?”
Cian asked.

“Discreet inquires, caution, and all the rest
of that blather. We proceed as planned. What did you find out about
Hyde Park Corner?”

“The fecker hasn’t been there. The staff
sounded surprised to hear he might be in London. I pretended to be
a collector for one of the gambling establishments. They didn’t bat
an eye, so his nibs must do a fair bit of it. We can make a list
and start visiting a few, shake the tree. Same with the brothels,
but I am betting this bugger is picking up his fun from the
alleys.”

Rory had already come to the same conclusion.
Southen would not go to a brothel to acquire his thrills. Too high
profile, and the prossie’s disappearance would not be dismissed,
especially after what happened at The Blind Cupid five years
before. He’d been effectively banned from other well-known
establishments. However, some poor alley rat would not be missed
for ages, if at all. Yet, he’d picked Gordon. Had Southen known the
lad was hers?

“Take Johnston and Smith and get them started
on the gambling hells. Then pack a bag and come to The Blind Cupid.
We’re staying the night.”

Cian’s thick eyebrows rose in question. “Oh,
aye?”

“Aye. I’ll not hear a word on my sleeping
arrangements either. My business.”

A sly smile curved about Cian’s lips. “Aye,
Sergeant.”

Cian moved away toward two constables they
trusted. Rory glanced at the window outside. The sun had begun its
slow descent between the buildings. A stab of worry curled his
guts. No evidence existed to link the earl to any of this.
Speculation, coincidence, and conjecture. He could be chasing the
wrong man. If it weren’t for the name “Rea” carved into Gordon’s
side, he never would have gone down this road. It was almost as if
the murderer left a calling card. Why? Rory knew why. The same
reason Jack the Ripper sent letters and other grisly mementos. Ego.
A sense of empowerment and righteous conviction in their
actions.

Rory grabbed his case and headed for the
door. No one would hurt Rhiannon. He would guard and protect her
until he breathed his last.

***

Rea paced her bedroom. No man had been in her
private haven before. A small fire crackled in the marble
fireplace. Her cozy room became her place of escape from the life
below stairs. Here she could pretend she was not Abbess Rea, madam
of The Blind Cupid. Rea, the peddler of vice and flesh.

A light knock at the door interrupted her
thoughts. Caroline opened it, and there behind her loomed Rory. He
held his case in one hand and his hat in the other. Rory stepped in
the room, and faced Caroline.

“My man will be arriving shortly. Detective
Cian O’Connor. Will you see him settled downstairs?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Caroline backed out of the room, and with a
soft snick, closed the door behind her. Rory dropped his bag and
tossed his hat on the chair by the fire. He opened his arms, and
Rea ran to him. He folded her into his embrace, his nose nuzzling
the top of her head.

“Dare I hope you will be forgoing the wigs in
future?” he teased.

“No, at least not while I am working
downstairs. But for you—yes.”

Rory pulled back and ran his fingers through
her hair. “So soft and beautiful. I love this shade.”

Rea smiled at his complimentary words. She
stepped back.

“Would you like something to eat, or drink? I
do have whiskey in the decanter if you wish.”

“No, love. I don’t often drink. Sometimes go
a week or more without one. Eat? I am tempted to make a naughty
suggestion, but for now, I will settle for a sandwich or soup. I’ve
had no supper.”

Rea pressed the buzzer on her wall, then
reached up to remove Rory’s coat. She laid it over her arm and then
picked up his hat and motioned to the chair.

“Have a seat, Rory. Relax.”

“God above, I could get used to this,” he
murmured as he lowered himself in the chair.

So could she. The domestic intimacy caused
tears to cluster on her lashes. She blinked them back. She had shed
more tears the last couple of days than the previous twenty years.
Rory opened such a river of vulnerable emotions that the dam on
them would never close again.

Rory grasped his hands around her waist. The
heat from his touch seared her skin through the flimsy blue
nightdress and matching dressing gown. She squealed as he pulled
her down on his lap. He nuzzled her neck, laying feather light
kisses along her jaw line. His attentions made her insides scorch
and melt.

He cupped her breast with his large,
masculine hand, his thumb stroking her erect nipple.

“Bloody hell, I ache for you….”

Another knock at the door. Rea rolled her
hips across his erection until he moaned. She laughed and hopped to
her feet. Opening the door a crack, she gave Caroline instructions,
and closed it again.

Cian leaned against the kitchen wall waiting
for the cook’s arrival. So Rory would be staying in the madam’s
room? Well, he should be happy for the bloke, grab a little joy
where you can find it, however brief. Aye, something he should live
by and all.

He straightened when soft footfalls reached
his hearing. Cian removed his hat and ran his hand through his long
locks.

The young woman, though slight, stood
straight and gave him a defiant lift of her chin. She did not
flinch from his intense gaze. She wore a plain gray dress with a
starched white apron. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight
knot. He made an exaggerated bow. “Detective Cian O’Connor,
Scotland Yard. And who might you be?”

“Caroline Greenwood. I am the cook here.”

“Oh aye, just the cook? Sure you don’t work
above stairs in between meals, then?” He winked.

“Even if I did, I would not be servicing the
likes of you!” Caroline fumed.

Cian slapped his thigh and laughed heartily.
“Saucy kitchen wench, I like it. Can you cook as well as you
converse, or is your cooking as tart as your tongue?”

Caroline picked up a ladle and waved it under
his crooked nose.

“You will never find out, you Irish bastard.
The sergeant said to see you settled. Behind the pantry is a small
room with a cot. It’s good enough for you!” Her face flushed,
enhancing her pretty features.

Cian pulled out a chair and sat down, laying
his hat on the table in front of him.

“I’ll be staying right here, Miss Greenwood.
Standing guard for a bit, as it were. Is that stew you’ve got
boiling in the pot?”

“It is. I suppose you want some.” She
sniffed.

“If it is not too much trouble. I also could
do with a drink. My mouth is as dry as a crust. Do you have some
ale thereabouts?”

“You will take a mug of tea and be happy
about it. First I have to take a tray up to Sergeant Kerrigan. You
can wait,” Caroline snapped.

Cian leaned back in his seat and gave her a
dazzling smile. Hell, he enjoyed this banter; she fired his blood
as no woman had done for many a year.

“Darlin’, I can wait all day for you. Anyone
ever tell you that when you’re angry, you are a pretty wee thing?
Your lovely eyes flash like blue fire.”

Caroline faced the stove, hiding her response
to his words. She ladled out the stew into a bowl and placed it on
the tray. After adding bread, cheese, and a mug of tea, Caroline
rushed from the room and headed upstairs.

The cook did more than fire his blood. She
might be small and delicate in face and form, but inside a
passionate woman lurked. She stirred all manner of thoughts in him.
His cock twitched in response. Aye, aroused. He pushed back from
the table and stood in the doorway. Moments later, Caroline rounded
the corner and stood before him, the top of her head barely
reaching his chin.

“Let me pass, Irish.”

“I will…for a kiss.”

“I’ve no time to bandy words with you, nor
play silly games. Let me pass.”

Cian lifted her chin with two fingers and met
her gaze. “This is no game, Caroline. Not at all.”

He lowered his head, and his lips brushed
past hers. Cian cupped her cheek and deepened the kiss, his tongue
flicking at the corner of her mouth. Caroline stiffened in
response.

“Open darlin’, let me in.”

Heaven help him, she did. Cian groaned and
pulled her next to him. He hardened further. He cupped her arse and
pulled her in tight next to his throbbing erection. A soft moan
left her throat and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed
him back. Oh feckin’ hell, passionate, just as he surmised.

Southen curled his lip in distaste as he
observed the couple. After a trip through Whitechapel and a quick
fuck in his carriage, he’d decided to head back to Lambeth. Taggart
mentioned the sergeant had returned, with a case, no less. So he
was spending the night. Taggart also reported a brawny, dark-haired
man entering the back entrance. The fellow described to him by his
butler when he stopped at his townhouse earlier fit the description
of the burly brute who now pawed the woman in the kitchen. Southen
knew this man was also a detective and had been asking questions
about him this very day. The coppers were not as incompetent as he
thought. Though, he couldn’t resist the little clue he left carved
on the pretty boy. They must have made the connection. Time to
act.

He dismissed Taggart with a bag of coin and
instructed his coachman to wait fifteen minutes. If he did not come
back out, he was to leave and return at first light and park down
the lane out of sight.

Finding the back entrance unlocked, Southen
had slipped in and ducked between the crates in the small room off
the kitchen.

The detective was making a meal out of the
cook, and she returned his kissing and groping quite
enthusiastically. They were occupied, good. Southen tested the
tread on the back stairs off the small storage room. He knew,
thanks to the map, these stairs led to the second floor where the
madam had her office and private room. Behind the wall were the
passageways and rooms where he could hide for the night. He tapped
the knife and length of rope hanging from his belt. Tucking his
cane under his arm, he held onto the banister and crept up the back
stairs. Pain tore through his leg, but he pushed on. The damned
copper and the cook wouldn’t hear him over their moans, at any
rate.

Southen paused on the stairs when the woman
said “we shouldn’t” in a low voice and heavy footsteps moved
towards the back entrance. The bolt slid home with a snap.
Too
late, you incompetent idiot
. A chair scraped across the floor.
The burst of passion had fluttered out for the time being. The
copper thanked the cook for a meal. As conversation broke out
between the two, he continued on his journey.

The anticipation of exacting his revenge at
last made him as giddy as a school boy.

Tomorrow, the bitch would be his.

Rory wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin on
the tray. The hearty stew took the edge off his hunger for food at
least. Unlike the rooms downstairs, which were decorated in a
garish and gaudy fashion, hers had muted, light green fleur-de-lis
wallpaper, an oak dresser and matching four-poster bed. A few
Parisian rugs on the oak floor added to the tasteful decor. In the
corner sat a cream colored, overstuffed velvet chair and next to it
a bookcase filled with expensive, leather-bound fiction and
non-fiction titles alike. Rhiannon’s blue dressing gown hugged her
body tight, caressing her ample, shapely hips and abundant tits.
His desire for her exceeded even his own expectations. The feelings
were far more than physical. They had revealed so much of
themselves to each other. The bond between was them potent and
real. Would the connection hold beyond the here and now? Did he
want it to? He would be contemplating marriage at some point.