by Louisa Trent
LILAC
Louisa Trent
www.loose-id.com
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Lilac
Louisa Trent
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © June 2009 by Louisa Trent
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ISBN 978-1-59632-969-0
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Christine Pacheco
Cover Artist: Christine M. Griffin
Prologue
New York, 1870
“And the bare-knuckle, heavyweight, prizefighting win goes to…”
In the center of the ring, the referee held up Sean Griffith’s clenched fist.
“…the Hell’s Kitchen Killer!”
Three hours after the ninth-round knockout of his opponent, Dapper Dan O’Toole, the spectators’ frenzied shouts still thundered in Sean’s battered skull. His blood still pumped hot through his veins.
And why not?
On top of the world despite being half-dead on his feet, and bloody fucking rich with the cash purse burning a hole in his pocket, here he was, a poor Irish thug, strutting down Fifth Avenue with Millicent Tower, the most beautiful girl in all of Manhattan, draped on his arm.
Full of himself and his win, he patted her tiny hand with his huge monster paw and crowed, “Ah, Millie, me sweet colleen, I plan on going far. You just wait and see if I do.”
Smiling hurt his dented mug. But what the hell and why the hell not, he smiled anyway. There was plenty to grin about. He might not be handsome, but he still had all his teeth. And though his nose sported a newly broken bone compliments of a tricky left jab not ducked in time, his ears showed no signs of cauliflower. And he had Millie at his side. What more could any man want?
Well, maybe a wee cold pint of ale or two.
Liquoring up at a crowded public tavern would wait for later. After pushing that son of a bitch Dapper Dan to the ropes, Sean was in the mood for a private celebration with the high-class lady who would soon be his wife.
Now that he could afford to buy her a proper gold wedding band, he was popping the question to Millie that very evening.
A wee bit punch-drunk, he tapped his tweed flat cap with two scarred fingers and then kicked up his run-down heels, dancing a lopsided jig along the sidewalk, dragging the ladylike Millie along with him.
Christ, he could hardly see, what with his eyes half-swollen shut and all, but what remained of his gaze was all for her, the beautiful socialite hugging his side. “I got plans, Millie. Big plans. And as of tonight, I have the means to make them come true.”
Whistling “The Rising of the Moon” under his breath, he twirled his soon-to-be-fiancée around the gas lamp’s wrought-iron pole. In the mellow streetlight, her fashionable presence bedazzled him.
What a rare looker Millie was! A real stunner. A knockout by anyone’s description.
“Killer,” she cried, a little out of breath, “not in all my born days have I ever known anyone like you.”
Of that, he could be sure.
A girl who routinely dined with the likes of Astors, Vanderbilts, and Carnegies, and those other filthy-rich toffs of Millionaire’s Row, would never ordinarily associate with a poor, scrappy tough from Hell’s Kitchen, where it was either join a gang for protection or fight to stay alive. On filthy docks, in dark tenement halls, along railroad tracks, and between slaughterhouse yards, Sean had taken all comers and earned a reputation for shrugging off pain. Just his Irish luck, Millie had watched him slug it out six months earlier in a fancy athletic club in her part of town and liked what she saw.
She was bound to like him better after he quit the pugilism circuit and went respectable.
Tomorrow, Sean was telling his no-account, self-serving puke of a manager to stuff the rest of that year’s fight roster up his hairy arse. No more illegal back-alley brawls and river barge matches on the Hudson for him. No more substituting his Irish face for a punching bag.
Some other hungry mick would have to take the poundings. This greenhorn’s days of providing someone else with a meal ticket were finished. The same went for riding his coattails to the bank.
Sean Griffith was done being used.
Tomorrow, the Hell’s Kitchen Killer was turning his back on the sporting exhibitions that drew street toughs, professional gamblers, and city dandies like maggots to rotting meat. Tomorrow, his brain would make his fortune, not his fists. Tomorrow, he was going legit.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, Sean was telling Millie he loved her and wanted her for his wedded wife.
It was late, well past midnight, when they entered the Towers’ mansion through a private side door, a stone wall and a grove of elms screening them from carriages rolling by out on the avenue. Millie’s folks were in Europe for the summer, and she had dismissed the servants for the evening, which meant they had the swanky marble and gilded palace all to themselves.
That was what Sean thought, anyway. But then, he thought a lot of things before seeing the smooth-looking stranger waiting inside Millie’s front parlor.
His golden girl turned to him and batted her lashes, her big eyes as blue as the Wedgwood saucers stacked in the dining room sideboard. “Killer, may I present you to a good friend of mine…”
Fuck no! Not tonight. No good friends tonight. Tonight is for us, just you and me.
Millie continued the introductions. “…Mr. Gerald Strand, of the Fifty-first Street Strands. If all goes well, he may be able to assist you in your future endeavors. He knows everyone who is anyone in the city.”
Millie made the announcement all hoity-toity like, as if the information was supposed to mean something to him, as if her nattily attired friend’s social pedigree and connections were supposed to impress him.
Bullshit. Sean had his own ambitions, and he never asked anyone for handouts, never went to anyone with his hat in his hand. Her family’s money meant nothing to him. The same went for Gerald…of the who-the-hell-cared-where-he-came-from…Strands.
Gerry could go take a hike. Sean wanted his soon-to-be-wife all to himself. There must be a bed in this mausoleum somewhere…
But the nattily attired gent went and stuck out his soft, manicured hand, and what could Sean do but stick out his own bruised knuckles right back at him?
; “I watched you fight this evening, Killer,” Gerry confided after the shake. “I admire the beauty of your athleticism.”
Athleticism?
Prizefighting was a combat sport. Each win cheated death and bankrolled his way out of the slums. The beauty of hammering his opponent into the mat had never once crossed his mind.
At a loss to know what to do or say next, Sean sniffed the clotted blood back into his broken nose and looked to Millie for guidance.
Seeing his confusion, she placed her palms on his chest and kissed him, right on his split lips, right there in front of Gerry, a kiss more passionate than any previous kiss she had ever given him. That passionate kiss left Sean scratching his head.
Though not a virgin their first time, always before, Millie had been a mite standoffish, a coolness Sean accepted without question. Lust, after all, was the province of common folk, not society types. Knowing she was too good for him, he settled for whatever crumbs of affection she tossed his way.
Now this. What was he supposed to make of that passionate kiss?
“Shall we get comfortable then, gentlemen?” Millie said and presented her back to Gerry, who undid her buttons and hooks like he was an old hand at undressing her.
Christ.
Sean, boyo, what the hell is wrong with ye?
This was one hit he should have seen coming. But blinded by love, Sean supposed, he had missed all the warning signs.
The fight circuit had its fair share of camp followers, both male and female. Most fans just wanted to trade handshakes. Others asked for memorabilia. A few looked for notoriety by association, a claim to fame once removed. Getting laid counted there.
Sean knew how that went. Until Millie came into his life, he had never turned down an offer.
Looked like she wanted something from him too.
What the hell, and why the hell not?
He had a win to celebrate. And a fuck was just a fuck. Just another piece of himself to give away.
Down to her underpinnings, Millie pouted prettily at him. “Killer, stop being such a dullard and undress.”
Big for his age and fully developed, Sean had his first girl at thirteen. He had screwed regularly ever since. In prizefighting circles, male and female admirers were never scarce.
He thought Millie was different. He had loved her, for fuck’s sake. And she seemed to love him. Even in the squalid tenements where he grew up, love meant something.
Not to her.
Two piles of clothing were lumped in close proximity on the floor, one belonging to an important gent, the other the property of the fickle woman who had never loved him.
“We could have such an amusing evening, the three of us,” Millie purred. To emphasize the sort of amusement she had in mind, she ground her bare pussy against the bulge in Sean’s trousers.
What the hell, and why the hell not?
The three of them ended up on the floor. Understanding the part he played in all this, Sean unfastened his poor-man’s wool trousers and got himself out. After applying a spit and a polish to his cock, he slid into Millie’s ass while Gerald rushed her pussy with a familiarity that would never have come with any mere acquaintance. Two cocks, one fancy, one not so fancy, rubbed together inside her, only a bit of muscle and one big lie separating them.
Soon, Millie and her important society friend were screeching like kelpies. Figuring he had nothing much to holler about, Sean pulled out without ejaculating and stood. After wiping all reminders of Millie away with the tail of his shirt, he massaged his throbbing balls for Gerry to see.
And just like Millie had, Gerry liked what he saw.
Sean had been down this road before, and he smiled in understanding at his adoring fan. “Want it, Gerry? Up for blowing the Hell’s Kitchen Killer?” He flexed his hips, a cocky pump that brought his erection up high. “Come get it.”
Gerry did. And how, he did. All while the second fiddle, Millie, looked on.
Evidently, the socialite thought she had two beaus to string along. As it turned out, she had none.
His cock in Gerry’s mouth, his prizefighter’s hands clenched in Gerry’s hair, Sean let his grunt and groans and guttural, shantytown curses explode in the room as he exploded down Gerry’s throat. Sean rode out one orgasm after another and enjoyed every one, but when midnight chimed, he walked away from his two admirers.
Yesterday, he had been satisfied with whatever crumbs of affection Millie threw his way. But that was yesterday. Today was the start of a brand-new day, and he was done being anyone’s patsy. Here on out, when someone hurt him, he would no longer clench his teeth and fight nobly through the pain. Here on out, when someone hurt him, he would get even. Not a clean sort of getting even either. Not like in a prizefighting ring. A dirty, underhanded, back-alley sort of getting even, the kind of evening the score that Hell’s Kitchen taught its thug inhabitants.
Something told Sean that Millie would never again look at Gerry through the same romantic eyes. Something told Sean she would have a lot of explaining to do up and down Millionaire’s Row. Because something told Sean that Millie’s good friend Gerry was the sort who would do anything to get his own name in the limelight, the kind of celebrity-seeking fan who would suck and tell. And those types of stories tended to get out—
All over Manhattan.
Laughing with a vengeance, Sean let himself out of the mansion and never once looked back.
Chapter One
New York, 1885
Miss Tegan Ellis arrived at the front entrance to Sean Griffith’s Gothic Revival-style mansion on the bluffs of the Hudson River with a completely open mind. No petty hypocrisy for her. No narrow view of the world. She was quite prepared to give the wealthy robber baron the full benefit of her doubt.
Then she saw the satyr door knocker.
Well! No one could ever call her a prude. And she defied anyone to accuse her of a limited perspective. Still, even a tolerant person such as she could not help but wince. After all, the pointy-horned satyr was mostly naked. Naked! Most vulgar. And that grin. Lord, she had never seen anything quite so lewd as that grin. Not to mention the…
On a shudder, Tegan briefly closed her eyes. Then, bracing herself, pretended not to notice its offensively thrusting projection.
From her extensive readings on the subject of Greco-Roman myth, she knew the part-man, part-goat door knocker represented unrestrained revelry. All well and good to decorate one’s front door with whatever symbolism one pleased. And she would never equate bad taste with poor conduct. Not exactly. Though, in her learned opinion, an argument might be made that a questionable choice in door knockers did indeed reflect poorly on the soundness of a person’s judgment. Long and short, she could only conclude that the outrageous stories swirling around Mr. Griffith might possibly be true.
If the satyr’s hugely erect member was any indication, the egregious tales were most certainly true.
Tegan shook her head and clucked her tongue.
Oh, tssskk! And tssskk again. There were limits. Limits! This went beyond the pale.
Smoothing a gloved hand over her puckered mouth, to flatten her moue of disapproval, and assiduously avoiding the man-goat’s ten-inch woolly phallus, to avoid picking up any mythological fleas, she dropped the repellant brass door knocker on its pointy-horned head. Then she drew herself up and squared her shoulders.
There could be no doubt about it. Her condemnation of Mr. Griffith rested on firm footing, a moral high road that all civilized society must take. Sly allusions to Greco-Roman symbolism aside, flaunting an obscene door knocker on one’s front door flew in the face of common decency.
And the half-naked satyr was but the tip of the iceberg.
Purportedly, the industrial magnate engaged in weekly orgies at this very estate.
Orgies!
Parties that featured grape peeling and heavens only knew what other dissolute activities. Certainly, she could not even begin to imagine what went on behind this closed door. But of this s
he was quite, quite sure—someday, Mr. Griffith’s degenerate pleasures would spell his destruction. May she only witness his fall into disgrace!
Pooh on witness. She had traveled all the way from Pennsylvania to New York to give Sean Griffith a big, fat push.
Sour orgy grapes? Sanctimonious fiddle-faddle?
Hardly.
Behind raised hands, everyone talked about the industrialist’s unsavory predilections. Not her. That sort of thing was beneath her contempt. She never indulged in unsubstantiated gossip, nor did she believe everything she heard. Whether the robber baron did, in actuality, ruin virgins for sport, or send innocent misses into swoons with his cold-blooded stare, or, in fact, make a habit of seducing nuns—all that was neither here nor there. Even now, even after witnessing for herself the depravity of that brass satyr door knocker, she would not sink so low as to spread filthy rumors about Mr. Griffith behind his back. Instead, she would confront the gentleman—a loosely applied term here—with his excesses and take him to task for them.
To his face, she would offer Mr. Griffith the favor of her constructive criticism on his private life. From there, she would apprise him of his grave responsibility toward the people who depended on him for their livelihoods. Namely, the immigrant labor force he exploited, the downtrodden employees on whose backs he had stepped on his climb to the top.
Oh, she could go on and on with a litany of his sins. The point was, after their little tête-à-tête, he would hopefully come to his senses. Perhaps then he would give less time over to his various sordid amusements and concentrate more on his business concerns.
Such as Central Coal Mine, the company he had owned for the past twelve months and shamefully neglected.
He would not put her off. No sirree! They would have their talk. Though Mr. Griffith was not expecting her, her lack of appointment made no difference. She would remain on the grounds of his estate, camped out on his doorstep if necessary, under the satyr’s obscene leer if need be, until the notorious robber baron granted her a private interview.
No inconvenience. After all, she had no place else to go. And no means of getting there even if she did.