The Copper and the Madam (8 page)

The skin of his inner thigh burned, as if her
hand still caressed and explored. His long coat hid his aroused
state. His cock had been hard for the last several hours.
Proceeding in a slow manner would be agony, but Rory would keep his
promise. He would not fall on her as a rutting beast might, as
tempted as he was to do that very thing.

The difference in her appearance astonished
him. A very attractive woman, who hid behind the brashest and most
brazen of disguises. Her abundance of flesh did not disgust him. He
found her sensually appealing with her pleasingly plump curves; he
did not consider her fat at all. He wanted nothing more than to
show her how much she affected him. Moved him. Aroused him.

The door opened, and Rhiannon entered. Rory
rose to his feet and pulled her chair out. She wore a simple
evening gown of light blue that complemented her milky, flawless
skin and her cornflower blue eyes.

Rory took his seat, and the innkeeper and his
wife bustled in with the food. Sliced roast turkey, roasted
potatoes, asparagus, and carrots. Their glasses filled with white
wine, Rory waved the eager couple away.

He raised his wine glass. “To us, Rhiannon.
Our journey is just beginning.”

She did not raise her glass. She stared at
him, her eyebrows raised as if ascertaining whether he spoke the
truth. Bloody hell, would she ever learn to trust him? Rhiannon
reached for the stem and lifted the glass, a shaky smile on her
countenance. Well, she tried, he’d give her that.

They ate in peaceful bliss for several
moments. The late afternoon sun had moved around the side of the
inn, sending shadows across the wood floor. Birds twittered in the
giant oaks outside the window.

“How did you come to buy The Blind Cupid?” he
asked.

A plaintive sigh left her throat. “For five
years I worked at a few establishments. At age twenty, I landed
with Lydia Garrison, known as Mistress Cherry. She owned The
Garrison Gate.”

Rory nodded. “I’ve heard of it, but never
been.”

She continued, “Lydia, for whatever reason,
liked me. She took me under her wing, taught me everything I had to
know about running a whorehouse. At first, I did not really care
about learning such a thing; but at least I did not have to service
as many men. I soon saw the opportunity. Yes, I could make a lot of
money, but also a chance to do some good, however insignificant.
Lydia was very ill. I had no idea. She died of syphilis four years
later. Imagine my surprise when I learned she had left me the
business and a substantial amount of money. I sold The Garrison,
brought a few people with me, and took my time searching for a good
neighborhood for my own brothel. I wanted a place to call my own, a
smaller, more private location in a better district.” Rhiannon
exhaled. “I suppose I could have taken this money and retired in
comfort in a small town in the country. But I did the math; it
would not have been enough to sustain me for more than fifteen
years. I also had people who relied on me for their very existence.
So I decided to do the one thing I had been trained to do. I chose
Lambeth because of the mix of classes. And so, ten years later,
here I am.”

Rory absorbed the information. “For five
years you were a whore, from age fifteen to twenty, is that
correct?”

“Yes,” she replied, her gaze hard and cold.
“I despised every minute of it.”

Well, he couldn’t blame her. He had seen
firsthand the way men treated whores. For years, he’d watched his
own mother used and abused. And did he behave any better? His own
sexual experience had consisted of monthly ruts against a wall for
quite a few years. A release, nothing more. He treated the prossies
with a minimum of respect, but after he left them, he did not give
them another thought.

“Rhiannon, you want me. You said so. After
everything that has happened, are you able to enter into a
relationship with a man? While I want us to gradually move to a
physical connection, I want more. We are already friends, are we
not?”

Rhiannon stabbed her fork into chunks of
potato until they fell apart. She frowned, not a good sign. Perhaps
she wanted to thrust the fork into his chest.

“Yes. Friends. Rory, all I can say is I will
try.”

“That’s fine. Eat your dinner, darlin’. After
we are finished, I’ll make my way to the pub, and you should head
upstairs and get a little rest. I will be sleeping in the bed with
you, Rhiannon. I will be touching you, but nothing more. I want to
hold you in my arms. Can you let me do that?”

She lifted her head. Her lashes were moist.
“I’ll try.”

Damn. This would not be easy by any stretch
of the imagination. He would not give up, his determination more
firm than ever. Such damage wrought. As to their future prospects,
he did not want to think that far ahead. First, he had to see if
she would even tolerate his touch. If she couldn’t, better to know
right away, then he could leave before his heart became
engaged.

Rory cut into the turkey and took a bite. Too
bloody late. His heart had become more involved in this situation
than it should be.

Rory had been in The Thirsty Duck for more
than an hour. The small, quaint pub featured a low-beamed ceiling
and a dozen rough-hewn tables, chairs, and benches. Against the
wall stood the bar, with shelves of dusty liquor bottles behind it.
A roaring fire crackled in the medieval looking hearth. The floor
to ceiling stone fireplace had a couple of battered shields hanging
above the mantel. When he entered, the place grew silent. They soon
forgot his presence after he bought everyone a few rounds of mild
bitter.

He nursed his glass. He was not a beer man.
The occasional whiskey and glass of wine comprised the extent of
his imbibing. Alcohol dulled the brain, and Rory would not let any
vice interfere with his sharp skills of deduction.

He scanned the interior. Dark wood walls and
floors matched the bar and counter. Gas lighting hissed overhead,
but the flickering gas plumes were not enough to illuminate the
place. A thin layer of sawdust covered the floor, no doubt to
absorb anything the working men dragged in.

The landlord pointed out Constable Henry
Freeman playing darts at the opposite end of the pub. No more than
seven inches over five feet, his physique revealed he spent many
nights drinking ale. His straight posture, despite the extra weight
he carried over his belt, showed he could be ex-military. Not a
total buffoon, then.

When Freeman finished his game, Rory picked
up his beer and sauntered to the end of the pub.

“I will play a game.”

The man’s eyebrows arched. “You know how to
play darts? Excuse my doubt, your lordship.”

Rory set his beer on the table and removed
his greatcoat and hat.

“I learned not only to drink, but play darts
and cards with a modicum of skill in a quaint tavern not far from
Oxford University. Would you care to make a wager? Loser to buy the
next round of drinks.”

Freeman raised an eyebrow. “Not for the
entire pub, surely.”

Rory laughed. “No. Just us. A few beers, a
little conversation. And cut the ‘lordship’ please. Blackburn will
suffice.”

“Very well, sir…I mean, Blackburn. Please,
take your turn.”

Over the next hour they played three games,
Rory won two out of three, but the contests had been close. The man
possessed a certain skill. They took a seat at the corner table,
and Rory waved the landlord over and placed his order.

“Did you serve in the Army, Freeman? You have
the bearing and presence of a man in uniform.”

The man’s chest puffed out in pride. “I did.
The Boer War. The Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry, made sergeant.”

“My friend, Baron Stonecliff, served with the
Royal Artillery. A captain injured in battle, disfigured
actually.”

Freeman shook his head. “Poor blighter.”

The landlord returned with the drinks, and
Freeman paid him.

“I can imagine being a constable in this
sleepy country setting is quite different from what you saw in
South Africa.”

“Aye, that it is, but Lincolnshire is not as
peaceful as you may imagine.”

Rory nodded. “So the groundskeeper at Southen
Estate informed me. You had a murder not long ago.”

Freeman thudded his mug on the table with a
good deal of force. “Blast that man. Gossips like an old woman
hanging over the fence. Aye, we had a murder.”

“Well, do not leave it there. Were you able
to catch the killer?”

“No. The victim was a young lad, rumored to
be a bit of a Mary. Found him in the ditch, his throat cut, and his
body mutilated. Still have nightmares over it.” Freeman took a long
drink.

Jaysus. Same as Gordon. The coincidence had
his gut alarm clanging with decided force. No possible way to tie
it all together, unless Southen confessed. No chance of that
happening. But deep in his gut, he knew it was Southen. The man
came back to his country estate to lick his wounds after being
beaten and humiliated. Meanwhile, his bloodlust and thirst for
revenge grew, so much so, he slaked it on a poor local lad. The
kill must have given him confidence and a taste for more blood,
enough to head back to London and take his retribution on
Rhiannon.

A fierce wave of emotion rolled through him.
He wanted to protect her, keep her close. Christ, he’d never had
these feelings for a woman before, not even his own mother. Rory
took a drink.

“Bad enough killing the lad, but desecrating
the body? The man must be unhinged,” he stated.

“Aye, my thoughts exactly.” Freeman replied.
“All but cut the lad’s cock off. Churned my guts, it did.”

Rory sat back. It
was
Southen. He knew
it with every fiber of his being. He patted his coat pocket where
he kept his Bulldog revolver. He would protect Rhiannon at all
costs.

***

Rea tried to nap, but to no avail. She
replayed Rory’s words in her mind. He wanted more with her than
friendship. He wanted them to become physical. Wasn’t that what she
wanted? Yes and no. When she sat next to him on the train, curled
against his hard, muscled torso, her insides had turned to custard.
She reacted to Rory; she always did. The scenarios had played out
in her mind for the last several years in her nighttime dreams and
wistful daytime imaginings. Her logical mind held her back. She did
not like sex. Granted, her initiation into the act had been a
brutal rape. One did not recover from that easily, if at all. All
the men who came after were rutting pigs.

Lydia told her one night while they had tea
that sex between a man and a woman could be tender, passionate, and
caring. Rea had laughed at that assessment, but Lydia waved her
off. “If you can find a man who puts your needs and wants above all
else, including his own, then hold onto him for dear life. If you
can find a man to trust with your body and your mind, but
especially your heart and soul, then you are truly blessed.”

Rea dismissed her prattle at the time as
romantic nonsense, but was it? She moved to the window and glanced
into the lane below. The sun had set. A few men staggered out of
the pub and continued down the road. She smoothed her hands over
her rounded stomach and curvy hips. She wore nothing but a shift;
her small carpetbag could not hold much else besides the blue gown
she brought. How freeing it felt to be without the encumbrance of a
wig, heavy makeup, and stays. She ran her fingers through her hair.
It touched her shoulders, shorter than she liked, but her locks had
to fit under the wigs she wore.

Rea sat on the edge of the large bed they
would both be sleeping in. A shiver ran down her spine. She both
dreaded and desired the prospect. How would she ever be able to
sort out her emotions and trepidations? Could she trust Rory? Truth
be told, she already did. He proved to be more capable, forthright,
and honest than most men. Very well.
All
men in her
acquaintance. Giving him possession of her body and, more
importantly, her closed-off heart was another matter.

Rory entered, red in the face no doubt from
the drink, the not disagreeable odors of tobacco and beer on him.
He took off his hat, tossing it to a nearby chair. He gave her a
heated gaze, and nodded. His coat fell to the floor with a heavy
clunk.

“What was that?” she questioned.

“My gun.”

“Can I see it?”

“Ah, darlin’, how I wish you were asking to
see something else.”

She flushed at his naughty, teasing tone.
Rory reached down to his rumpled coat and handed her the revolver.
The gun felt heavier than she thought it would be. Her fingers
traced over the mother of pearl handle.

“I thought coppers didn’t carry guns?”

Rory took it from her and laid it on the
table by the bed along with his timepiece. “The constables do not,
however, detectives are allowed if they choose. Since the ripper
case in Whitechapel, I decided when I made detective, I would carry
one.”

“You worked the Jack the Ripper case?”

Rory chuckled, and then began to undo his
vest. Talking and watching him undress had an intimacy that made
her swallow hard. Rea’s fantasies ran rampant. If they were
married, she would be waiting for Rory to come home from work, just
like this—she shook her head to clear the nonsense.

“I was one of many constables working the
case under Inspector Abberline and one of the first officers on the
scene when they found Mary Kelly—” His hands stilled on the
buttons, and Rea could see the dreadful memories haunt his
expression.

“That must have been terrible,” she
whispered.

“More terrible than I hope you could possibly
imagine,” he rasped. “Horrific. I never thought one human could do
that to another. She’d been torn to pieces, her heart—” He coughed,
and then continued to fumble with his vest. “Enough. Come over
here, Rhiannon, and finish with the buttons. I think I had one too
many bitters.”