A Perfect Gentleman (32 page)

He looked around. Strickland seemed to be guarding the door, but Blanchard was not in the room. There was a stain on Lady MacAfee's carpet that Stony would not look at, but the blackguard was gone.

“He went out the window,” Gwen volunteered. “I hoped he'd break his neck, but no such luck. We said that dear Ellianne took ill and found her way here to rest. No one needs to know the cad was in the room at all. I might not be able to explain why, to protect dear Ellianne's reputation, you know, but Godfrey Blanchard will never be invited to a decent home again, I swear.”

He would be invited to pistols at dawn the next time Stony saw his face in town. “But how did you explain my presence on the floor? I assume others came to look when they heard a commotion.”

“Oh, you tripped over the cat, dear.”

“Does Lady MacAfee have a cat?”

Ellianne answered with a weak chuckle. “She will by tomorrow morning.”

He returned her smile, still making no effort to rise. Why should he, when he was more comfortable than he'd been in years? In fact, he pretended to be weaker than he was. He groaned and said, “Gwen, why don't you ask for a pot of tea? I think I would recover faster then, rather than with a glass of wine.” Which would take less time to fetch. “It is cool here on the floor.”

“Heavens, we can have tea at home, dear. And if you are cold, perhaps you should get up before you wrinkle dear Ellianne's gown. Do you not think we should…? Oh, I see. Tea, of course. I'll just go find one of the servants, shall I?”

“Leave Strickland at the door, will you? The other side of the door.”

When she left, leaving the door slightly ajar to prevent any more gossip, Stony reached up and brushed a tear from Ellianne's cheek.

“You are the bravest woman I know. A regular trooper, my friend Captain Brisbane would have said.”

She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. “No, I am not brave at all. My knees were shaking so hard I shall have bruises in the morning.”

“But you never let that dastard see your fear.”

She started to sniffle again. “I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.”

“That's the Miss Kane I know. Tough as steel. A lot prettier, of course.”

She shook her head. “But I am not tough at all; you know that.”

He knew, all right. His head was resting on a lilac-scented cloud, not a bed of nails. “Of course you are. You've got bottom, my girl. And that's pretty too.”

Not even his teasing could keep her eyes from filling up.

Still on the floor, his head still in her lap, Stony fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. He always carried an extra when he was with his stepmama. “Please, sweetings, don't cry. I don't know which is worse, the sight of blood or the sight of a woman's tears.”

She reached for the smelling salts Gwen had left behind. “You are not going to swoon again, are you?”

He laughed. “I should think I have humiliated myself enough for one night.”

“You were very brave when you needed to be.”

“Until the Blanchard bastard spilled his claret. That was a flush hit, incidentally. Excellent science, my dear.”

“Excellent card playing, you mean. If not for the generosity of the others, my reticule would never have weighed enough. But you would have rescued me.”

“If I had been in time. Lud, you thought I was brave? I nearly panicked when I saw Gwen and Strickland without you. If a footman had not seen a tall red-haired lady come this way…” He did not want to think what might have happened otherwise, if he had been five minutes later, or her purse five shillings lighter.

Neither did Ellianne. “Will you kiss me?”

Stony feared he was still light-headed. “I must have hit my head on the way down. I thought you said—”

“I did. I need to replace a terrible memory with a better one. I want to believe that not all kisses are brutal assaults.”

“In that case, for the sake of your future recollections, I suppose I can make the sacrifice.” He flashed a bright grin. “Better yet, why do you not kiss me?”

“Me? I couldn't.” The idea was appalling—and exciting.

“Of course you can. You'll see; you'll do just what you want. Make your own memories, sweetings.”

She leaned over and brushed his lips with hers.

He smiled. “That won't stick in your mind for an hour. Try again. I'll shut my eyes if that will help.”

This time when she bent her head, he rose to meet her. His mouth was partly open, warm, soft, gentle, with no threats, no pressure, no sense that he was taking, only giving. No, he was sharing, sharing the magic, sharing the current that flowed between them like tender lightning.

Ellianne put her arm under his head, supporting him, and he wrapped his around her neck, warming her with his body, with his heat. His lips parted further, so she let hers open more and their tongues touched, a surprise, a shock, a shiver that coursed through her. She let her own tongue explore, licking at the wine taste, the slight trace of smoke. She stroked his teeth, the corner of his mouth, the softest flesh at the inside of his bottom lip.

Stony groaned and met her tongue with his, darting, dueling, defeating his intentions of letting her be the leader. He must not force her, must not rush her. God, he must have her!

His tongue showed her what he craved, the ancient rhythm and eternal joining. She met his thrusts with groans of her own, with a hand stroking over his chest and his neck and his cheek. His other hand crept up her side until he touched the top of one perfect breast, above the low neckline of her gown.

She gasped, but did not halt the kiss or pull back or push his hand away. She let her own hand wander, touching his brow, learning the shape of his ear, feeling the slight roughness at his jaw where his beard would soon need shaving again. Still, their tongues met in the dance of love.

His fingers pushed beneath the fabric of her gown, beneath her shift, beneath her corset, so he could touch the peak of her breast, making the nipple as hard as he was. She was making those little mews of pleasure, right in his mouth, and the sound was reverberating through his bloodstream, pooling in his groin until he worried that he could, indeed, humiliate himself worse this night.

Ellianne's bones were melting; her brains were rattling in her head. No, that was Gwen, diplomatically rattling the tea tray outside the door. Ellianne quickly sat up, letting Stony's head sink back into her lap and his hand fall to his side.

Before the door opened all the way, Stony reached up and brushed back a stray lock of her flame-colored hair, then let his fingers stay to caress her satiny cheek. “You see? You do need me.”

Ellianne stood up so suddenly his head bounced on the carpet. “I knew you'd say that!”

Chapter
Twenty-Four

London was in a taking. No one was speaking of anything else. Ellianne and Stony and Lady MacAfee's cat were hardly mentioned. It was the murders that were on everyone's lips, in all the newspapers. They were even mentioned in Parliament as a disgrace and a call for an official police force.

Another woman had been found, her throat slit, her hair shaved off. Wig shops were searched, known bladesmen were rounded up, to no avail.

This fourth young female was a serving girl at Lord Sandercroft's. He was screaming loudest for the instant capture of the fiend. He had daughters, he said; he had maids who went on errands at night. He had a pretty young mistress who was too afraid to unlock her door, but he did not say that. He added to the reward money.

The other servants at his house reported that Maisy had been walking out with a toff, a swell, a gentleman. The girl had been secretive about her lover, meeting him around the corner, but she'd boasted of his gentility.

A gentleman committing these heinous crimes? One of the quality's own? Impossible!
Sir John Thomasford did not think so. A title was no guarantee against brutality, he told Ellianne, and she had to agree, thinking of Blanchard. High birth certainly did not exclude low behavior. Goodness, her own actions—and her own desires, even if she never acted upon them—were of questionable morality. Her mother would never have condoned such unladylike behavior as smashing a gentleman's nose, although her father would have applauded heartily.

Her conduct with Blanchard was the least of it. Ellianne blushed just thinking about the rest. Her father would not have approved, not at all. Ellianne did not even approve, and she was relishing the memory even as she took tea with Sir John in his office, her maid waiting properly just outside.

He mistook the shiver that ran through her. “There is nothing for you to fear, my dear Miss Kane,” he told her. “The killer does not prey on decent women. The four victims were all females who sold their favors, not innocent maidens.”

Ellianne was feeling less innocent by the day, but she ignored those qualms to say, “But what of the serving girl? Her friends said she believed her gentleman suitor had honorable intentions.”

“What, a gentleman marry a mobcapped trull? The wedding bells rang only in her ambitious mind. I'd swear. The wench was taking money, by Jupiter. She was nothing but a whore.”

Sir John's vehemence surprised Ellianne, and so did the way he spoke of the poor murdered girl. Whatever Maisy may have done in her life, she did not deserve such a death. Still, Ellianne could sympathize with Sir John, too. His frustrations must be eating away at him like a tumor. All his knowledge, all his science, all his examinations of the victims could not give Bow Street a solid lead to follow.

They knew the killer was above average height. He was right-handed, and owned a stiletto. He knew his victims, so he must have enough blunt to hire the expensive doxies. Oh, and he had a steady hand, for the women's shorn heads had fewer cuts and scrapes than a gentleman received from his valet during his morning shave. In fact, one of the newspapers was demanding that Bow Street investigate every barber and gentleman's gentleman in town. Sir John said that was a waste of time, but he could give no other avenues for them to pursue, and the defeat was killing him, too.

He was gaunt and hollow-eyed, and his long hair hung against his waxen cheeks in stringy locks. He smelled of the morgue, and used words a gentlewoman was never supposed to hear.

Perhaps, Ellianne thought, Sir John had to convince himself the dead girls were unworthy of his regard in order to excuse his failure to find their killer. He had to blame the women for their deaths, rather than blame himself for not stopping the murders. She also considered that, if the victims were beneath contempt, Sir John did not have to feel so sorry for them, the way Ellianne did.

Every woman deserved some respect, in life and in death. Stony had shown her that. Not all women who plied the trade had a choice, other than casting themselves into the Thames or starving in the gutter. Some were even led astray by passion. The serving girl might have accepted a few coins from her beau, but what if she really loved him, really thought he would marry her? Then he was the unscrupulous one for stealing her chastity, not she. She was guilty of poor judgment, surely not an offense to die for. Half the women in Town could be accused of the same stupidity, trusting a man's words when his sexual satisfaction was at stake.

Ellianne felt sorry for them all, and sorry for the dedicated scientist whose investigations bore so little fruit. Even now, he could not seem to warm his hands, cradling the hot teacup instead of drinking the sweetened brew.

Ellianne could sympathize, but she could not make herself accept his invitation to dinner the next day. She was promised to Lady Wellstone, thank goodness, so she did not have to lie. She felt guilty enough planning to attend Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens while Sir John was immersed in death.

Gwen thought they ought to be seen, to counter any gossip that might have arisen from her supposed illness and Stony's supposed fall. Ellianne was looking forward to the evening of music and fireworks and the famous, heady punch served in the private boxes. Although the dark walks were closed for the safety of the highfliers who nested there, Ellianne imagined Stony asking to accompany her down one of the less traveled paths. Who knew what fireworks might follow? No, she could not think of such things, not now, not ever.

She shook herself, and endured more remorse at her wayward thoughts. Her troubled feelings were no help to the murdered girls, though, or to the killer's next victim. Instead of guilt and useless grieving, she added still more to the reward at Bow Street. Then she spent the rest of the afternoon at the Wellstone Home for Girls, where she really could make a difference. Aunt Lally was already there, teaching some of the girls to knit. There was always a need for caps and mittens, she swore. And money.

Speaking of which, Mr. Lattimer called later that afternoon. He apologized, but he could not pursue her private investigation any further. Every available Bow Street man was being assigned to the Barber Murders, as they were being called.

As Ellianne wrote a final check, she told the Runner that she was not ready to give up hope.

Neither was Mr. Lattimer. He asked if he could call on Miss Kane.