The Copper and the Madam (2 page)

Rea had a secret. She had yearned after Rory
for years. What possible interest would the lean and muscular,
good-looking Irishman have in the short, fat owner of a
whorehouse?

At six-and-a-half feet in height, with broad
shoulders, narrow waist, and legs that seemed to go on forever, he
appealed to her in all ways. Rea also liked he did not follow the
current style of hideous whiskers so many men sported of late. Rory
remained clean shaven, every sculpted plane of his handsome face
visible and ready to be admired.

Rory smiled. He took off his hat, ran a hand
though his layered, reddish-brown hair, and then moved to the
sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. As he turned toward her, he
sipped his drink and inspected the impeccably set table.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Rea. Crystal,
china, candles, fancy silverware—what’s the occasion?”

She motioned for him to take a seat and Rea
poured herself a glass of red wine from the decanter on the
table.

“It is the last meal we will share,
Kerrigan.”

He laughed with a deep-throated, husky sound
that caused sparks to skitter along her spine. “Give over,
darlin’.”

“The reason for these dinners no longer
exists,” she said.

“I don’t follow.”

“Desmond is a man grown of twenty-three
years. You have ample proof he has not been mistreated. I taught
him to be a gentleman; he can read and write and converse
intelligently. Besides, he’s done a runner.”

“To hell you say. Really?”

Rea filled him in on what her coachman
relayed.

“Maybe the lad has fallen in love.”

Rea laughed at his absurd statement. “Oh,
please. Love? In one night? I cannot imagine.”

Rory took another sip of his whiskey. His
greenish-hazel eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You don’t
believe in love, then?”

God, he is serious
. The room grew
warmer all of a sudden.

“Considering the profession I am in? No, I
don’t believe in love. And after everything you’ve seen, Kerrigan,
I am sure you feel the same.”

Rory reached for the linen napkin and snapped
it open, laying it across his lap. He didn’t answer her. Instead,
he caught her in his searing gaze.

“If this is to be our last meal alone, there
are a few things I would like to know about you. Things you have
refused to tell me through the years. What is your real name?”

He didn’t ask for much. His face showed the
seriousness of his inquiry, his usual teasing tone for once not
apparent. What harm could it do? She would not see him alone
again.

“My name is Rhiannon Davies.”

Rory sat back in his chair.
“Rhi-
ann
-non.” He rolled her name over his tongue like a
caress. His slight Irish lilt gave her long-lost name new life. “I
like it. You’re Welsh, then? I believe Rhiannon a figure in Welsh
mythology, a goddess, aye?”

Rea stood and pressed the bell on the wall to
signal Jacob to commence serving. She sat and took a fortifying
drink of wine. Rory Kerrigan had a brain in his head. He could do
anything. Why had he chosen to be a copper?

“Kerrigan, what is the point of rehashing
ancient times? Yes, I’m from Wales, but so long ago I hardly
remember it. I know nothing of Welsh mythology. We’ve managed these
last eight years to avoid conversation about our pasts. I believe
we should continue to do so.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know
about me. Ask away, Rhiannon.”

Jacob entered with a platter and placed it on
the sideboard. While he carved, Rea leaned in and whispered, “Don’t
call me that.”

Rory whispered back, “Aye, I will. But only
when we are alone.”

As Jacob ladled the vegetables and meat onto
their plates, Rea’s cheeks flamed hot in indignation. She never
should have told him her real name. Rory tucked into his meal. God,
how pitiable, she even enjoyed the way he ate.

Jacob left and closed the door behind
him.

“We will not be alone again after tonight, so
there is no need to use my name.” She speared a piece of roast beef
with her fork and chewed. Ask him anything. Very well, she
would.

“When did you come over from Ireland? Where
did you live?”

Rory’s iron-hard stare swept over her. “I’m
the bastard son of a poor Irish serving girl. I have no idea of my
da’s identity; she never said. My mother came to London when I was
still a wee babe, seeing her family threw her out. She settled in
St. Giles, where all the poor Irish wind up. She became a whore. I
spent my childhood watching her suck cock for two shillings a
shaft, first in our dirty room then, later, when we lived at a
whorehouse. By the time I turned nine years of age, I had seen my
own mother perform depraved acts with men that no child should
witness. To this day, I cannot stand for a woman’s lips to touch my
cock. Is that what you wanted to know, Rhiannon?”

Bloody hell
. Far more information than
he wanted to share. Rory threw back the rest of his whiskey. The
burn sizzled all the way down his throat and settled in his gut
with a welcome and fiery blast. He waited for her censure, or
worse, her pity.

Rhiannon didn’t offer any. She ate a few
forkfuls of food then laid her utensils across her plate. “When did
your mother die?”

“When I was twelve, the cholera. By that
time, she had become a gin-soaked wreck.”

Rhiannon picked up her utensils and continued
eating, so he did the same. After some moments, she asked, “What
became of you then?”

“Do you mean, did I wind up like Desmond? A
pickpocket, a thief in the rookery, or did I sell my body to
debauched men who liked young boys? No, I escaped that fate, thanks
to the priest at the church of St. Giles in the Fields. I guess he
saw something in me worth saving because he placed me in the
charity school where I learned to read and write. When I became old
enough, the priest and a well-meaning copper offered me a choice.
Go work for one of the many gin makers or distributors or go with
Constable Donovan, who agreed to put me up in his home and sponsor
my employment with the growing Metropolitan Police. I chose
Donovan.”

Rory shoved food into his mouth before he
confessed any more of his wretched beginnings. St. Giles stood as a
squalid cesspool of humanity and had for close to two centuries.
The talk of demolishing the slum had gone on for decades, though
they had started with clearances and evictions this past year. What
did it matter? The dregs of society would move into other slums and
continue as they had been.

The eighteen months he lived with Donovan and
his young family had been the closest thing he’d experienced to any
normalcy. They’d welcomed him with open warmth. Christmas had been
magical, his first one—ever. Roast goose, mince pies, and presents.
No one had given him any gift before, not even at the charity
school. He was sixteen and he cried like a damned babe. Even though
you had to be twenty years of age to join the police, Donovan
pulled a few strings and signed him on at eighteen. To that day, he
still celebrated Christmas with the Donovans.

Rhiannon watched him with close scrutiny. No
doubt his every emotion played out on his face. He had to admit, he
liked her name. From now on, she would be Rhiannon to him. Rory
reached for a piece of bread and sopped up the last of the
gravy.

“Delicious, as always. Time for dessert. The
usual room?”

Rhiannon lowered her head. “Yes. Cora
awaits.”

Rea waited a few moments after Rory’s exit,
then rose. When she bought the multi-story structure ten years
before, she had extensive renovations done to suit her needs
including secret passageways behind the walls that lead to small,
private rooms where the business of sex would be transacted. Rea
touched a corner of the panel, the wall opened, and she made her
way down the shadowy passageway and entered a small room. The
hidden area had been built for the express purpose of observing
others having sex. A good number of her clients enjoyed such
doings. Turned out, she did as well. Licking her lips, Rea peered
through the peephole and observed Rory take Cora against the wall
with no preamble or finesse. He rucked up her skirts, fumbled with
the opening to his trousers, and thrust into her high and deep.

For as long as she’d been watching Rory fuck,
he did not kiss or touch, just rutted one of her girls either bent
over the chair or, as in this case, standing upright. Same thing
every month, without fail.

Rory had his back to Rea; his hips pounded
furiously. Cora’s mouth opened in an O of ecstasy. As always, he
stayed fully clothed.

Rory’s husky grunts matched his powerful
thrusts. Cora cried out. She did not fake her climax. Cora
shuddered, clutching Rory tight. She never did that with other men
in Rea’s many observances. One last push, then Rory tore out of
her. He didn’t use sheaths, but then, he never spilled his seed
inside any of her girls either.

The act concluded in a manner of minutes, but
took long enough for Rea’s insides to tumble in yearning. She
wanted to be the woman taken in such a wild, lusty way by Rory
Kerrigan. He filled her dreams every night. Why he appealed beside
his obvious physicality puzzled her. Men were pigs. However, she
perceived more in Rory. A sense of justice, a deep-rooted honor
that went beyond his occupation as a copper. He radiated danger and
wore a hint of carnal sensuality as a second skin.

Rory wiped clean and tucked himself back into
his trousers. He cuffed Cora playfully on the chin and tossed her a
coin. She caught it in her fist and gave him a smile and a cheerful
salute, and then left the room. Even though Rea offered him the
services of her brothel for free, he always tipped the girls.

He faced her direction, standing with his
hands on his hips. A slow, sly smile curved his lips. He
winked.

Rea gasped, clamped her hand over her mouth,
and took two steps back. He couldn’t have known she watched—did he?
Surely not
. She chanced another glance. He winked again then
threw back his head and laughed. Placing his hat on his head, Rory
strode from the room and slammed the door.

She gripped her hot cheeks in mortification.
Would he be waiting for her back in the private dining room? Rea
stood frozen in place for close to an hour. Cora serviced two more
customers in that time. Rea stayed flat against the wall, the
salacious moans filling her ears.

Rory Kerrigan must be long gone. She stepped
into the dark passageway and moved toward the entrance to the
dining room.

“Did you enjoy the show, darlin’?”

Rory stepped out of the shadows, the uneven
illumination making it impossible to tell his mood. His voice was
neither teasing nor angry but flat and devoid of emotion. What a
surprise to discover this dispassionate side of Rory.

Furious rage overcame her embarrassment. “You
have been out here the whole time? Who told you? By God, when I
find out who it is, I will toss them out into the street—”

“Easy, Rhiannon. You forget, I’m a detective.
I can observe a place for hours. Standing in this hall was no time
at all to me. Besides, no one had to tell me anything. Well, that’s
not quite true. Someone informed me ages ago you like to watch. So
I began to wonder. It did not take long to find your hidden door.
How long and why?” Annoyance deepened his voice.

Caught good and proper. What should she tell
him—that the only way she could feel anything at all was to observe
others having sex? And that watching him gave her the greatest
pleasure she had ever experienced? She shook her head. “It is my
private business.”

She turned to stomp away, but Rory reached
out and clasped her arm.

“Not so fast, Rhiannon. What you invaded was
my
private business. How. Long?” Barely banked fury colored
his tone.

“Three years. Let me go.”

Rory pulled her against him. He clutched her
arm tighter and she winced.

“Now, you will tell me why.”

Hot tears blurred her vision. “Fine. Maybe
it’s the only enjoyment a fat, lonely whoremonger can acquire.”

Rory clasped both her arms and glared down at
her. His eyes danced with emerald fire.

“Do not call yourself fat, not in my hearing.
I know portly when I see it, and you’re not it, darlin’. You have
ample curves, aye. Fat is rolls, waddling when you walk, and ten
steps have you breathing hard.
That
is fat.” He trailed his
hands down her arms and rested them at her sides. After a few
moments pause, they moved over her hips up to her waist. A groan
tore from his lips. “Curves, Rhiannon. Luscious, succulent curves.
Breasts a man could happily get lost in. Don’t get me started on
your arse.”

Well
. Heat lingered across her body
where his hands roamed. Rory stopped below her breasts, his thumbs
brushing the undersides. He caught her earlobe between his teeth
then his tongue whorled her ear. A lustful shudder quaked her all
over.

“Next time you want to watch me fuck, sit in
a chair in the room with me. Don’t hide in a broom cupboard with
holes drilled into the walls, you follow?” he breathed.

Rea couldn’t speak, so she nodded. His warm,
soft lips brushed her cheek, and then he stepped back.

“Send word when you see Desmond. Otherwise,
I’ll see you next month.”

Rea blinked. “What? Desmond is no longer in
my employ. There is no need to check on him.”

“Jaysus, Rhiannon. Do you really think I have
been coming all these years to check on Desmond? I knew after
eighteen months he’d be fine. And no, I didn’t come for the free
supper and the free rut, though they were welcome. Think on
that.”

He squeezed her cheek, and strode past her
down the passage to exit through the room where they had
supper.