The Copper and the Madam (4 page)

She nodded, and a gasping sob left her
throat. Rory smoothed her hair with a slow, gentle caress as he
held her next to his heart. The beat pounded loud and strong in a
comforting rhythm. Never had she felt so protected.

Rory took a step back, cupped her face, and
stared down at her. With a gentle swipe of his thumbs, he brushed
her tears away. She must look a fright. His lovely, greenish-hazel
eyes softened. “There now, darlin’.”

He lowered his head, and his lips brushed
hers. The kiss was gentle, sweet, but tasted of the promise of a
deeper passion. A low, ragged groan tore from Rory’s throat.

His gaze stayed firm as he backed away. “I’ll
see you in the morning. Get some rest, lass.”

He left her study.

Rhiannon touched her tingling lips with her
fingers. Rory had kissed her—and it was as glorious as she had
dreamed.

***

Rory’s boots pounded the cobbles as he headed
toward Tyers Street and The Blind Cupid. The early morning haze
still hung in the air. The streets seethed with eager vendors
hawking their wares. Nearby chimneys belched black coal smoke.
Specks of soot settled on passersby’s shoulders and on the washing
hanging in abundance in every alley. Rory caught a whiff of the
nearby Thames—sewer, stagnant water, and rotting fish filled his
nostrils.

Regardless, Lambeth was not terrible as far
as policing went. It had one of the lowest crime rates of all the
boroughs of the city. The district had a solid mixture of people
from the very poor to the working class to the burgeoning middle
class. They stayed in their own neighborhoods and rarely mixed
except perhaps in the pubs and brothels. His own residence bordered
the edge of Lambeth where the more respectable populace lived. Not
to say crime did not occur, it did, just not with the frequency of
say, Whitechapel. The murder last night proof enough that Lambeth
was not immune to violence.

He strode past the former site of the
Vauxhall Gardens. The centuries-old entertainment area had once
occupied plush grounds near the Thames. Low-cost housing now stood
on the site. Rory had no memories of it. The gardens had closed in
1859, a few years before he moved to London with his mother when a
babe. A steam tug blasted its whistle as it pulled barges of timber
up the Thames. A pieman sang out his selling song.

After he left Rhiannon the previous night,
Rory had stopped by the Kennington Station where Cian dutifully
waited. As expected, the constables had found nothing, but were
returning to the scene that morning to investigate further. He had
arrived at his own place past two in the morning to find sleep an
elusive concept. A combination of things, no doubt. A murder always
disturbed his slumber. Brutal waste of life.

Also, holding the abundant madam in his arms
filled his thoughts.
Jaysus, the kiss
. Mild, but it affected
him. He didn’t kiss as a rule, much too personal, and took up too
much time when he could be fucking. He knew little of
relationships, and cared little to learn of them. The only one he’d
ever witnessed was between Donovan and his wife. Mutual respect,
trust, and love filled their home. They laughed together, and
aye—cried. They shared everything. He wanted all that and more, but
who in his world could give him these rare gifts?

Rory planned on marrying someday, but at
thirty-two, what was the rush? Scotland Yard’s positive outlook on
family men for promotions was the principal reason he would
consider marriage. Surely a tradesmen’s daughter from a decent
upbringing would be an entrant for a wife. Why not someone from the
middle classes? A barrister’s daughter. Aye, as one of the youngest
detective sergeants with the Metropolitan Police, he made a good
candidate for matrimony with a well-bred young lady. He’d kept his
sordid background secret, lied to all and sundry that his parents
had died and he came to London to live with an old maiden aunt who
had since passed. People accepted his fabrication, as he was well
spoken and intelligent. Why he confessed all to Rhiannon…?

Rhiannon moved into his thoughts as he
climbed the stone steps to the front entrance of The Blind Cupid.
No, a madam would not be considered a good match by the department.
There could be nothing between them. Yet, when his lips touched
hers, he’d been unable to stop the desirous moan from leaving his
throat.

One of her bullyboys nodded to Rory and
opened the door. Jacob escorted him to the same private dining room
they occupied last night for supper and announced his arrival.
Stepping back, he closed the door, leaving Rory alone with
Rhiannon.

The scents of cooked bacon, fresh coffee, and
pastries emanated from a feast laid out on sideboard. Bleedin’
hell, his stomach rumbled at the delicious scents. Dressed in a
dark red morning gown and white wool shawl, Rhiannon waved toward
the food.

“Help yourself, Kerrigan.”

“Smells inviting. I will if you join me,
Rhiannon. You need to eat. Come on, darlin’, sit. I’ll wait on
you.”

Rhiannon pulled the shawl closer about her
shoulders and sat in the nearer chair. Rory swallowed hard. Her
ample breasts were on full display for once; usually she wore gowns
buttoned up to her neck. His heated gaze roved over the milky white
mounds. Sweet Jaysus, to hell with breakfast, he wanted to feast on
her tits. His cock roared to life, so to hide the bulge in his
trousers he began to heap piles of food on a plate. With his free
hand, he buttoned his long coat before he faced her.

“Eat all of this, Rhiannon.” He set the plate
before her.

She sighed then reached for the coffee pot
and poured them each a cup. Gathering his own foodstuffs, he sat.
Dark circles, visible even under her makeup, proved she hadn’t
slept well. Last night he had not informed her of the details of
the murder. When she identified Gordon at the morgue, he’d been
covered up to the neck with the canvas sheet. He had to be thorough
and officious, no matter how upsetting the facts were.

Rhiannon picked up her fork and nibbled some
of the shirred eggs along with a piece of ham. Silverware clattered
on the ironstone plates as they ate.

“I need to know if anyone has caused any
trouble at The Blind Cupid, made any threats against you or your
people.”

Rhiannon shrugged. “Not lately.”

“But there have been incidents.”

She sipped her coffee. “Yes, there have. I
have tightened up the list of my clientele. I am very thorough. I
do not let just anyone wandering in off the cobbles use my
services.”

Rory bit into a piece of toast. “Tell me of
these incidents. I don’t care how long ago they occurred.”

She frowned. “Why, Kerrigan?”

“Because, not only was Gordon’s throat slit
in a brutal manner, but his tackle mutilated and the name
Rea
carved into his side.”

Rhiannon dropped the coffee cup, and it
smashed on the thick-planked floor. Jacob entered the room without
knocking, his fists clenched.

“It’s all right, Jacob. I was clumsy.” She
knelt, grabbed a cloth, and mopped up the mess.

She sat, took a deep breath then narrated a
number of incidents through the years. Most were mild and hardly
warranted a murder as a response. A few of the happenings were a
little more serious in nature. No wonder she kept her muscle-bound
bullyboys nearby.

“Repeat the woman’s name again?”

“You mean, Lila Jenner?”

“I’ll be damned. About five years ago I did a
background and reference check on her for Lord Stonecliff.”

Rhiannon shook her head. “You know the Beast
of Stonecliff?”

“Well now, darlin’, the unfortunate man was
scarred in the Boer War. He does not deserve such a name. I
assisted the baron with a few unsavory episodes and entanglements
while he lived in London before the war. Haven’t heard from him
recently, but now that I think on it, I moved and never gave him my
new address here in Lambeth.”

Rhiannon grinned. Lord God, his insides
tumbled from the sheer delight of seeing her smile.

“Allow me to bring you up to date then. She
and Stonecliff have been happily married for five years. They have
a son and another child on the way.”

Rory nodded. “Good. All the peace and content
in the world to them both. I am not one for letter writing, but
I’ll drop Stonecliff a line soon.” He took a sip of coffee. “Back
to the incident at The Blind Cupid. Tell me again.”

“The event happened close to six years ago.
When I interviewed Charles Embry, the Earl of Southen, he acted as
a perfect gentleman and had references from a duke, a long-time
customer. He assured me his sexual needs were simple and staid. I
believed everything he told me.” Rhiannon paused, picked up her
fork, and played with the bits of egg still on her plate. “I had
used Lila in a couple of mild orgies. I thought sex with a boring
earl would pass quickly enough. We did not know he smuggled in a
riding crop and rope under his long coat. He tied Lila facedown on
the bed, and while he penetrated her, he whipped her senseless.
He’d stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth so she could not
scream.”

Rhiannon dashed a tear from her cheek. “Oh,
lord, the blood. By happenstance, Jacob passed by and heard the
sounds of the crop hitting her skin. He broke the door down. Lila
lay unconscious, her back in shreds. Jacob, Nigel, and Desmond took
the earl out back and gave him a beating to rival the one he gave
Lila. His leg never mended properly, I hear. Desmond smashed the
man’s fingers with the steel-rimmed heel of his boot and told the
bastard, ‘You’ll never hold a whip again.’ It’s a wonder my lads
didn’t stomp the life out of him. Last I heard, he’d left London
and slithered back to whatever country seat he holds. We have not
heard from him since.”

Did his smashed fingers function enough to
grasp a knife? Would a man hold a grudge for five years?

“Did he threaten retaliation?”

Rhiannon thought for a moment. “Yes, but I
didn’t take it seriously.”

“You have any idea if he liked men?”

Rhiannon shook her head.

Over the years, Rory had concluded that if
two consenting adult men wished to enjoy each other, all the best.
However, he had imprisoned a few men for such an offense when he
had no choice. Why would an earl move from whipping a woman to
slitting the throat of a man he’d just fucked? Rory’s gut alarm
began to fire. This earl would be as good a place to start as any.
If he’d learned one thing since joining the Metropolitan Police
fourteen years before, his gut never steered him wrong.

“Kerrigan?”

He gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry
darlin’. Just thinking. Do you want to go to the hospital now and
make the arrangements for Gordon? Did he have any family?”

“We were all the family he had,” she replied,
wiping a tear from her eye.

The past two days had their emotional high
and lows for Rea. As she’d promised, Gordon had a dignified
send-off complete with funeral horses wearing plumes of back
feathers, a decent coffin, and a plot in a shaded area of the West
Norwood Cemetery.

Through it all, Rory Kerrigan had stood at
her side in support. Sitting alone in her study after the funeral,
she gazed out the window. She smoothed her black bombazine gown.
Many questions had flickered through her mind since she’d heard of
the brutal murder. Some phrased by Rory. Why was Gordon working off
the books without her knowledge? He had no appointments the night
he’d been killed. She discouraged working outside the brothel more
for safety reasons than the loss of income for herself, unless the
clients were vetted and approved by her. Perhaps Gordon had sought
a little male company for his own pleasure. Why was her name carved
into his skin? Was Rory correct? Had the murderer known the lad
worked for her?

A chill curled around her heart. Could it be
that depraved Earl of Southen? Jacob told her that when he smashed
the door down, the earl had been covered in Lila’s blood and at the
ready to penetrate the unconscious girl’s ass. He was cackling with
a maniacal mirth that bordered on terrifying even in its retelling.
Lila never knew about the near sodomy, and Rea had not been about
to reveal the details to her. After she nursed the poor young woman
back to health, she sent her off to Queens College to study be a
governess, all expenses paid and called the incident closed.

Since tossing and turning in her bed the
previous night, she decided to tell Rory after the funeral. When
she relayed the additional information of Southen’s brutal attack
on Lila, his face had darkened to a furious shade of crimson. Rory
grasped Jacob’s arm and pulled him away from the others. The
conversation between them became intense as they spoke in hushed,
quiet tones, their heads close together. Jacob gesticulated wildly,
his arm arching in a whipping motion, as if acting out the scene.
Rory stormed off, and she had not seen him since.

Rea glanced about her study and frowned. She
never cared for it, even though she’d decorated it as she did
herself, with dark reds and burgundy shades. The room stood as a
grim reminder to the life she lead, one fraught with uncertainty
and danger, and now—murder. Along with garish furniture and
paintings, a marble sculpture of a couple having oral sex sat on
the sideboard. The room screamed “madam” and “brothel,” which was
what she wanted to convey. She should go to her own room, which
reflected her personality more than this showy, counterfeit space
did. Her bedroom gave her the private sanctuary she craved,
allowing her to lower the mask and be at peace. She could use that
protective shelter right now. Anything to forget the horror of the
past forty-eight hours.

As she stood, Jacob knocked and entered.
“Desmond Glover to see you.”