Scandalous Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novella

by Christy Carlyle

  Scandalous

  Wager

  A Whitechapel Wagers Series Novella

  by

  Christy Carlyle

  Scandalous Wager

  Copyright: Christy Carlyle

  Published: January, 2014

  Publisher: Entice Publishing

  The right of Christy Carlyle to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

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  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at www.christycarlyle.com or @writerchristy.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter One

  London, September 1888

  Whitechapel was different at night.

  Elizabeth Ainsworth was used to spending her days surrounded by the district’s noise and crowded bustle—the chorus of costermongers calling out their offerings, rickety drays bearing their burdens across cobblestones, and the chatter of bedraggled children that followed her, and every other passerby, begging for a coin. But the night noises of raucous laughter, angry shouts, and the music of a distant squeezebox weren't as familiar. Even the streets she was accustomed to walking in London’s daylight haze felt foreign and unfamiliar in the dark fog of night. Every aspect of the place stoked her anxiety.

  The smells were much the same though, putrid but comfortingly familiar. Over time Lizzy had grown used to the noxious combination of refuse and horse manure that seemed to overflow half the gutters. Fog and smoke filled the air most days, and when the sun did shine on the East End, it only highlighted the layer of grime that coated the buildings and clothing of those who inhabited the teeming streets. She never expected to emerge clean from a visit to Whitechapel. As she preferred walking to any other form of transport, her practical boots and the hem of her skirt always took the worst of it.

  Her mother read the newspapers and believed criminals and ruffians were all that was left in the crowded district. Lizzy was not blind to its dangers, but she had been fortunate to meet mostly downtrodden, hardworking people during her time as a teacher at the charity school on Rutland Street. The young men and women who came to Tregard School, or sent their children to attend, were hungry for knowledge and eager to improve their lot in life.

  Volunteering her time at the school was challenging, bone-wearying work filled with long days spent on her feet and long weekends engaged in marking work and planning for the coming week, but it made her feel useful. And with a police inspector father and a mother who had served with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea, how could they blame her for wishing to find purpose in her own life? Now that she had found her niche, that purpose she sought, nothing would deter her from it. She could not imagine an endeavor more satisfying than teaching others to read or calculate sums and observing the joy and confidence they found in achieving the skills.

  As she continued walking, Lizzy lifted the collar of her cloak higher, covering her bare neck against the crisp autumn air. She’d walked Cannon Street a hundred times, in rain and sun and the thickest of fogs, to seek out her father at the H Division police headquarters on Leman Street. But now, on a nearly moonless night, she found it the darkest street she’d ever traversed. The gaslights seemed to shed no light here, as if they’d never been lit at all.

  Fear chipped at Lizzy’s resolve, yet it wasn’t a fear of the night or the crime-infested streets of the East End. It was fear of what he might say when she asked him. Fear he would laugh in her face. And a shiver of dreadful anticipation at the possibility he might agree to her scandalous bargain. The thrum of need that thoughts of Inspector Ian Reed inspired kindled with every step she took.

  She couldn’t turn back and face a lifetime without passion. This was her only choice. He was her only choice. Her only chance before she succumbed to spinsterhood, gave in to it like some women capitulated to loveless marriages. It was far better to be a spinster than a miserable wife. And with her work to keep her busy, she was certain she would not miss the companionship of a husband. It was only the thought of a lifetime without passion, the notion of never experiencing it even once, which had given her the courage to sneak out of her father’s house this night and seek the man she desired.

  If she could have one night of passion with Ian Reed and still maintain her independence, she would be luckier than any betrothed miss. Did not some of her suffragist friends eschew marriage altogether? After leaving their fathers’ homes, they argued, why invite another man to control their comings and goings, to relegate them to household duties and prevent them from being useful to society at large.

  None imagined having both—a husband and a useful purpose outside of the home. Lizzy was not certain it was possible either. Her own mother had given up her nursing work shortly after Lizzy’s birth and later, when Sara came along, there was no question of her continuing on at the infirmary. Mama seemed to find contentment in the roles of wife and mother, but Lizzy could not imagine being satisfied with such a fate. She could not imagine a life without her work.

  She was close now. His rooms were just off Wellclose Square, not far from police headquarters. Her father often remarked on Reed’s practical choice of living so close to the station. Reliable, he called him, and hungry for advancement. Her father admired Inspector Reed’s ambition, and she’d often heard him say that Reed would rise quickly up the ranks at the Metropolitan Police. He had been a favorite of her father’s from the moment he’d joined the CID in Whitechapel.

  Lizzy thought back to the first moment she’d seen Detective Inspector Reed. Her father had brought him home to dine with the family. Papa had brought home other young men, promising police officers or freshly minted detectives who might make a good match for Sara. Lizzy knew they weren’t invited for her sake. She could never catch a man’s eye when her sister Sara was in the room, and at four and twenty she was well past what most men considered a favorable age for a wife. And, really, she was content to believe marriage was not her fate.

  So she watched the parade of hopeful young men that graced their dining room table and smoked a pipe afterwards with her father with minimal interest and all the detachment she could muster. Though kind, well-scrubbed, and faultlessly polite, none of them were for her. Their gaze lit only a moment on her plain brown hair and eyes before fixing themselves on the golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty of Sara. Sara was marriageable and possessed all the attractions men desired. Unfortunately, Sara was as picky as Lizzy was plain, and none captured her attention as she did theirs. None had truly captured Lizzy’s attention either until the night her father introduced them to Inspector Ian Reed.

  His dark beauty literally stole her breath away and she’d ducked out of the drawing room to cough and choke and attempt to tame her stam
peding heart. Foolish, ridiculous feelings assailed her. Her mind raced and her body throbbed with an ache she’d never felt before. Panic struck too. She was no Sara. There was nothing about her that would set a man swooning or cause him to fancy her. She could not draw, embroider, or even carry on a polite conversation. Her tendency to mention politics always raised eyebrows or resulted in glares from her mother or father, letting her know she had overstepped the invisible boundary between charming young woman and bluestocking.

  She would never have her pick of this man or that. But Lizzy had never wanted this man or that. Only Ian Reed sparked wild emotions in her.

  She’d peeked around the drawing room doorway and spied him firmly ensconced between her mother and sister on the settee. Papa was holding court, telling some story about Inspector Reed’s valiant work while sparing himself none of the glory. The way he told it, he had pulled the man out of obscurity and turned him into the most promising detective Scotland Yard had ever seen.

  Reed sat quietly and humbly accepted Papa’s profuse praise. Yet he also appeared slightly embarrassed and a bit lost, as if he’d been dropped into their company unexpectedly. He took regular sips of the cordial Papa had offered, and Lizzy enjoyed watching the movement of his mouth against the glass and the way he sometimes licked his bow-shaped upper lip after swallowing a bit of the concoction.

  Then he looked up and saw her there, listening furtively, lurking around the corner as if she didn’t belong. His eyes were so dark. For a moment she thought them black, but then the fireplace kicked up, brightening the room, and she noticed a hint of amber in their depths. His brows and lashes were dark and stood out in striking contrast against his pale skin. He wore his hair long, as detectives were allowed to do. It curled at the ends and curved in shiny black waves around his face. His clothes were neat and well cut, nearly as well tailored and fine as her father’s best. And his mouth. She could not look at his mouth—his wickedly full, perfectly shaped lips—without licking her own. As she stared at his mouth, burning to know how it would feel against hers, against parts of her body no man had ever seen, it curved upward into a grin.

  He’d caught her staring. Her gaze shot up to his eyes and she found he still watched her. His gaze burned into her, melting her. Damp heat pooled between her thighs. Though separated by the space of the Ainsworth drawing room, it was as if they drew near each other, suspended between her father’s drone and Sara’s silly giggles.

  Her mother broke the spell, calling Lizzy’s name and insisting she join them, entertain them. It was a tried and true ritual when the Ainsworths had guests. Lizzy played the piano and Sara accompanied with her sweet, high voice.

  Lizzy agreed. How could she do otherwise? She’d strode toward the piano, crossing near Ian Reed, much closer than was necessary. His gaze was still on her. She felt it like the lightest touch against her skin. Sitting at the piano, waiting for Sara to take her place, Lizzy looked back at him.

  He’d lost interest in her. He was watching Sara as she practiced scales and prepared to sing.

  Then an extraordinary thing happened. Sara, always so sure in her notes, soaring higher than a human voice should, lost her pitch. She sounded out a squeak and then a deep, low octave warble, as if she was singing round a mouthful of wool.

  When Lizzy looked up to see about Sara, she caught him smiling. It was only a flash of straight, white teeth, but it transformed his face, maintaining all of the night-dark beauty and adding a hint of boyishness.

  What if she saw that same smile this night, laughing at her ridiculous request, just as he’d found amusement in her sister’s poor singing?

  She rapped on the door of his lodging. She half expected a landlady to open and turn her away. Most landlords did not allow their single gentlemen to have women callers. But there was no landlady.

  The door creaked open and Ian Reed stood before her, just a hairsbreadth away, smelling of soap and clean linen, his black hair slightly damp and his skin smooth and freshly shaven.

  She didn’t get a word out before she heard her name on his lips and felt his warm breath against her face.

  “Miss Ainsworth.”

  His tone belied shock and disbelief at her presence on his doorstep so late at night. No proper woman would be at his door at this hour. He ushered her in, closed the door behind them, and slid the lock in place.

  “Is your father unwell?”

  It was natural he would think her visit related to her father. It was the only connection between them. Except for her inability to keep Ian Reed from her thoughts.

  “My father is well, Inspector Reed. Thank you.”

  His rooms were small—just two rooms separated by a doorframe without a door. A suit lay on his bed, a brush discarded beside it. She had interrupted his household chores. Sparsely furnished, the room’s only true adornment was his collection of books, some in a neat row on a shelf, others stacked on a wooden chair, and two lying on a small table near his bed. His love of books and literature, his intelligence and voracious curiosity, had become clear during his visits to Lizzy’s home. She also loved to read, and it pleased her to see that books were all the decoration his rooms required.

  But the room’s simplicity only highlighted the scandalous nature of her visit. Here was a man doing his nightly duties, snug in his cozy rooms surrounded by works of literature and tomes of knowledge, and she was going to ask him to spend his time on sin.

  “Please sit, Miss Ainsworth.”

  Lizzy lowered herself into the straight-backed chair he indicated.

  “Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to have one myself.”

  He tidied as he made his way across the tiny room, hanging his suit on a hook near the bed and placing the brush in a drawer.

  “Yes, thank you, Inspector Reed. I would—”

  Her thoughts scattered as she watched him pour steaming water from a kettle into a chipped white teapot. He reached for two cups from a high shelf. As his shirt pulled tight, she savored the outline of his muscular body beneath the cloth. Even in his overcoat or the suits he wore on visits to her home, it was easy to suspect he possessed a fine physique, but she had never before been afforded such splendid evidence.

  “Ian.” She hadn’t meant to speak his name aloud. It came out in a throaty whisper as she tested it on her lips, savoring it on her tongue.

  His black head snapped around and he shot a look straight at her mouth. Shifting her gaze to his eyes, she fancied she could hear his heartbeat but then realized it was her own, thundering in her ears.

  “Would you call me Lizzy?”

  He smiled that smile, disarming and lovely, boyish and yet seductive. No man should be allowed such a smile.

  He approached and handed her a cup of tea.

  She sucked in her breath and held it until he was seated across the short expanse of the room from her.

  “Lizzy.” He said her name and then paused, as if he had said more and she should take his meaning clearly. “What possessed you to come out at such an hour? And to Whitechapel? Alone? It is dangerous at the best of times, but now… No woman is safe in Whitechapel now. ”

  If the voice had not been Ian Reed’s low, rich tone, Lizzy might have thought she was listening to her father speak. There was a more than a hint of chastisement behind his words, and lately she had heard little but warnings from her father about her activities in Whitechapel. Though he worked in the East End himself, he had saved to purchase their family a spacious home far outside its boundaries. Almost daily Papa urged her to find charitable work closer to town.

  “I’m here to see you, of course.” She saw a flicker of amusement on his face after she’d spoken, but it slipped away so quickly she could convince herself she’d imagined it. It seemed he never allowed himself mirth for long. He opened his lovely mouth as if to question her, but she took a deep breath and continued. “I have something to ask of you, Inspector Reed. Ian.”

  She could no longer meet his eyes and studied her hands,
folded tightly in her lap, as she forced the rest of the words out. “And something to offer.”

  He didn’t speak, but he made a sound, a slight murmur, as if talking to himself under his breath. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “And what is it you ask and offer, Lizzy Ainsworth?”

  His name on her lips set her already rapid heartbeat skittering. Lizzy shot up from her chair. Body roiling with emotion, she could not sit, could not contain the nervous energy coursing through her.

  Ian stood too, as a gentleman should.

  She hoped he wasn’t too much of a gentleman.

  He stood patiently and watched her. She could always sense when his eyes were on her.

  Every time she began to speak the words, her tongue grew thick in her mouth. She swallowed and then swallowed again. The words wouldn’t come, though her body hummed with unspoken desires. If only he were a mind reader, like those tricksters with their crystal balls and tea leaves.

  He moved closer and it took all her strength not to reach out to him, touch him as she’d longed to do since the night they’d met.

  “You seem distressed and you’ve come to me. How can I help?” He reached out then. Lizzy felt his hand, warm and heavy on her arm.

  “I...” The words were there, waiting to burst from her, but once they were out, she could never take them back.

  “What is it?” His fingers closed around her arm and he drew closer. She was enveloped in the scent of him—shaving soap and a unique musk all his own—and dizzy at his nearness.

  “I shall never marry.”

  The words stunned him. She could tell by the look on his face and the way his body recoiled, almost as if she’d struck him.

  She closed the distance between them again, emboldened now that she had begun. “I will never have a husband to love me. To share...” The words stuck again.

  “Lizzy.” She heard pity in his tone. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

  She held her hand up to him. “No, please. I must finish.” She hadn’t meant to touch him, but her palm grazed his shirt front. Boldly, she let her hand rest against his chest.