He stopped before her. She expected some violence. She was ready to return it with a vengeance.
He reached out. His fingers settled upon her shoulder with such a power that she nearly cried out. But then she was crushed against him. And when his thumb lifted her chin and his lips settled upon hers, she gave up the concept of a fight in less than a second.
Longing swept through her with lightning speed, with shameful fervor. She parted her lips to the deep wet depths of his assault, and returned the volatile force of the kiss. She felt his hands, molding her against him, touching her. Beneath his trousers she felt the force of his arousal, and it only caused her to feel a weakening in her knees, a drastic need to shed any of the barriers between them. It was ungodly to want someone so badly. To not care in the least about propriety, to not even realize the manner of the sin to be committed. And yet . . .
She felt the length of his fingers against her. Amazingly quick, and adept. She was breathless, gasping, reaching for his cravat, his waistcoat . . . scarcely aware that her clothing was being strewn as well, bit by bit, falling in a trail across the floor as they broke to discard some other piece of cloth, met and dueled with lips and teeth and tongue again, moved . . . discarded, and at a last, hit the bed with all flesh bared to one another, lips locked once again in a kiss that held both fury and need, defiance and argument, and sheer wild sensuality.
What happened then was quick.
And desperate.
And still . . . so complete.
She felt him all over her. His hands . . . those long fingers . . . trailing, sweeping, brushing the length of her. Cradling her breasts, teasing the nipples, until she felt the very hardness of them herself, taut, craving ever more attention. The caress of his tongue obliged, until passing farther—and always, against flesh that seemed to scream and screech, so sensitized that the slightest breath was an erotic seduction—against the terrain of her body, savoring for seconds the terrain of her belly and hips. His touch, a step ahead, a brush . . . an intimate probe, sensation that nearly tore cries from her lips, stopped only by the renewed assault of his mouth against hers, until it departed down the length of her flesh again, inundating her with a liquid blaze, centering upon the very center of her arousal, drawing, evoking . . .
She nearly screamed again, but he was above her, and within her, and again, it was the fever of his mouth that swallowed her cries, while the volatile power of his length moved within her, and then it seemed that there was nothing, nothing on the earth except for him, and the intoxicating realm in which they reached and surged, swathed in the swirling rise of sensation, seeking, needing . . .
And skyrocketing.
The world became ablaze with light; sweetness saturated the length of her, touching every finger, toe, soaking through to her mind. Her hair was a tangled damp mess, curled between them. His body was hard and vibrant still, even as he remained within her, the aftermath creating little tremors within them both as passion and their climax took due course. Body against body, the force and weight of him remained. And for long moments, she wavered between reality and dream, wishing that she could curl against him, rest her head, rest her soul, and let sleep creep over her now, there, where she was sheltered, in his arms.
But he withdrew. She closed her eyes, not wanting to meet his. But she sensed that he wasn’t seeking her out, but rather, that he had thrown his legs over the side of the bed, and was running his fingers through his hair.
“Sorry,” he said briefly, as if he had bumped into her on a stairwell.
She winced, but turned away, said nothing. Surely, there would be more. There had to be more between them.
But there wasn’t. He rose. She heard him dressing.
And then. “Truly, forgive me, my lady. I had no right. My temper was unduly provoked by the fear and horror in the streets. I’ll take care not to invade your privacy again.”
Then he was gone.
* * *
Mireau was truly at a loss.
He had the cab take him to Moorhaven first, but when he saw that Lord Jamie’s coachman was there, he quickly changed his mind. The child was going to get hungry.
All right. He had to get her out of the City of London.
He needed some things for her, and definitely, more money. And so he instructed the cabbie to take him to Mayfair.
With relief, he saw that Justin had not returned. He hesitated. Hold the cab and leave the child in it?
He couldn’t.
Swearing, he hurried from the cab with the baby, praying no neighbor would notice. In the house, he ran straight into Clayton.
The slender, ever perfect butler-valet stared at him, and then, to his amazement, broke into a smile. “A babe, Monsieur Mireau?”
“Clayton . . .” Mireau thought fast. “Oh, God, Clayton, may the Lord forgive me! The wee babe is. . . mine. Her mother has recently departed, and God forgive me my sins! I can’t have them fall upon her.”
Clayton arched a brow high in his gaunt face. He looked at Mireau as if he were a total reprobate. But then he sighed softly. “The sins of the father should never be visited upon a poor wee babe!”
“God help me, man! What can I do? I’d never have anyone know. Ah, look at her, Clayton! She’s a sweet innocent.”
“I might have an answer, Mireau.”
“Yes?” Mireau was hopeful.
And Clayton sighed. “I’ve three sisters. They live north of the city, far north, in a bit of a cottage in the woods.”
“Would they . . . care for her? I’d earn the money for her upkeep. I’d . . . I’d give up dreams of writing. I’d get a . . . egad, I’d get a real job!”
Clayton reached for the baby. “Pack some things, Mireau. I’ll get this wee precious thing a bite to eat, appropriate for her size, and write you a note.”
“Bless you, my good man!” Mireau hadn’t really intended to go on his knees to the butler—they just gave.
“Up, up, my fellow!” Clayton protested.
“No one must ever know,” Mireau said.
“The note will not identify you as her father,” Clayton assured him. “I’ll say that she was an orphan. But hurry. You’ll have to take your cabbie . . . it will be a very expensive ride.”
“Whatever the price.”
“Hurry, then!”
Mireau raced up the stairs, quickly gathered money and a few goods that might be pawned, and hurried back down the stairs.
Clayton had bathed the girl, cleaned her wee clothing as best he might. She was happy, smiling, saying a few words, laughing as Clayton helped her down a glass of milk. She carried a crust of bread in her tiny hand.
Clayton looked a bit like a jester, playing with the child. But his smile evaporated to a look of sheer sternness and censure as he greeted Mireau again. “They’re lonely up there. Never married, and make their way with a fine garden and a few good animals. They brew a few medicinal teas and the like. ’Tis very small; the wee lass will do well, and be dearly loved, I daresay. But you! You will mend your ways!”
“By God above us, I swear I will!” Mireau vowed.
“No more sinning!”
“Ever!” Mireau vowed.
“And you will support her!”
Mireau crossed himself. “As the Lord God is my witness!”
“Take her, then, hurry. Lord Justin may return at any minute.”
With his precious little bundle, Mireau fled.
* * *
Maggie lay in misery for the longest time without moving.
Then, at last, memory of the child surpassed the tempest she was feeling, and she bolted out of bed.
She washed and dressed in a frenzy. When she burst back out into the hall, she was dismayed, for once, to see that Arianna was there.
“Good evening, Stepmother,” she said sweetly.
“Arianna.”
“Will you be coming down to dinner?”
“I . . . no. Not tonight. I’m afraid I need to speak with my brother. At the May
fair house.”
“Ah, yes. Your brother.”
“Arianna,” she said with a sigh, “please, don’t despise Justin on my account.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Of course you do! He was at the funeral . . . at the wedding, at the wake!”
“Of course, you’re right; how silly of me.” She smiled. “I had thought that we might talk tonight.”
“I would love to sit down and actually talk!” Maggie said, dismayed. Here she was, the stepdaughter she was supposed to love and guide, actually wanting to talk to her! And she couldn’t take advantage of the situation. “I have to go to Mayfair House . . . but I’ll be back. Perhaps we can have a long conversation later?”
Arianna nodded. “Indeed. I believe there’s much I really need to learn about you.”
Maggie smiled. Then, anxious, she turned and fled down the stairway.
“Madam, shall I assume there’s to be no normal seating for dinner this evening?”
At the bottom of the stairs, Maggie turned. Mrs. Whitley again. She forced a level tone to her lips. “Please, speak with Arianna and find out what she would like to do. I’m going to my brother’s house. Don’t concern yourself with me.”
Ignoring Mrs. Whitley, she headed to the kitchen. Darby was there, the good man. “Darby, I must get to my brother’s house, quickly, please.”
“Certainly, my lady. Right away!”
He folded his paper. Maggie saw the headlines.
“Jack the Ripper Stalks the East End!”
Another read, “War on Warren!” A smaller caption went on. “The bungling police commissioner must do what’s right and resign!”
“A bad time, my lady. A sad time,” Darby said, shaking his head.
“I know, Darby.”
“I know your heart, my lady, but it would be a wise time for you to stay as far away from the East End as you can!”
“Of course, Darby,” she said absently.
They went out; Darby brought the family carriage around.
Maggie was so nervous that she chewed her thumbnail as they drove. When they came to the house at Mayfair, she ran out of the carriage before Darby could help her. Bursting into the house, she cried, “Clayton!”
“My lady!”
He appeared from the area of the kitchen and stared at her expectantly.
“Clayton, is my brother here?”
“No, my lady, he’s still down by the Parliament.”
“Mireau?”
“He did come by.”
“And?”
“He’s gone off . . . a bit of a holiday, perhaps.”
“Gone off?” she gasped.
Clayton narrowed his eyes, studying hers. He took a step toward her. “I would know . . . it would be quite impossible . . . my lady!” His voice was but a whisper. “The wee babe, she isn’t yours, is she?”
“No!” Maggie gasped. “No, no, but I’ve . . . sworn to protect her. She is mine now, my responsibility.”
Clayton shook his head sadly. “Monsieur Mireau does not deserve your love and patronage!”
“What?”
“He dallies, and you are willing to pay the price.”
“Clayton . . . you really don’t understand.”
“It’s not my place.”
“Clayton, please! Do you know where Mireau took her?”
“Come into the kitchen, my lady. I believe I can enlighten you . . . but I believe I’m entitled to some enlightenment as well!”
“Is the baby . . . is she all right?”
“Right as rain, and soon to be swaddled and loved by the sweetest of women.”
“Who?”
He smiled. “My sisters!” he said proudly. “But now you! You may be a countess now, m’lady. Tonight, however, I think you owe your dear old butler a few words!”
There was nothing else to do.
She followed him into the kitchen, and soon forgot that she had ever promised Arianna that she would return to Moorhaven and talk with her that evening.
Chapter 14
The man who sat across from Arianna called himself Heath. Jeremiah Heath. He was tall, broad shouldered, with strange dark hair that seemed to stand straight up, but then, it was very short, and certainly had no customary cut which she was familiar with. But what he had was dark, and after he removed his cap, she studied his face as they spoke, playing it all as she went along.
“I have no family. I lost my mother years and years ago. My father died recently. He was a tailor in Birmingham. Well, at least, he worked for a tailor in Birmingham. He kept us alive. Friends suggested that I might find work in London, so . . . here I am. I’ve looked on the West Side for a domestic position, but . . . the grand ladies don’t seem to be inclined to hire me.”
He assessed her with his very strange dark eyes.
“Look, I’ve come to you because in the short time that I’ve been here, I’ve seen what happens to young women. I’m not looking for a place with any . . . I’m not looking to work in a brothel. I have some talent as a mesmerist, I believe.”
“You have some talent, all right,” he muttered. “And I’m not looking for a whore. They’re a ha’penny a piece around this place. Granted, not many so young and so fresh. And I don’t give a whit about your so-called talent as a mesmerist. I do need that you keep your mouth shut, that you can play a part, and that you turn a blind eye if you don’t like what you see.”
Arianna smiled to herself. “Are we going to take some of those rich old buggers?” she demanded.
“Exactly.”
She inched closer, leaning toward him across the table. “What if... what if someone comes who expects to be taken? I mean, don’t the bobbies get in on it, now and then—plainclothesmen?”
“Um. And would-be outraged, honest, upright citizens. As it happens, I’m rather hoping to see one I know again. A few, in fact.”
“Really? What if one were a . . . woman?”
His eyes gave her chills. “Why, there are places where such ladies can be taken down a peg.”
“So, is there a . . . place, a house, where we work?”
He shook his head. “We go to places. And avoid being found when it’s over.”
“I’m to be a thief?”
“You’ve a problem with that?”
“Not in the least. I’m quite excited, but . . . quite seriously, I read a newspaper article once about a night when a man was killed, when a woman exposed a fraud, and there was a huge upset. I believe a few are still rotting in Newgate now!”
“I think that I’ve put together quite a fair team,” Jeremiah told her. Smiling, he hiked a brow, suggesting that she look around.
The pub was crowded with men and women alike. It reeked. Men from the slaughterhouses were there, those from factories, and all about. Women drank gin and moaned about the problems of working the street.
And still, Jeremiah’s men were evident. They lolled against walls, sat at the rickety tables, or leaned against the bar. She noted them all for particular reasons. One, they were wary, watching the others around them. Two, as soon as Jeremiah had indicated them, they were all looking at her. Three—they had a certain look about them. Young, strong, sharp, and with a certain glint to their eyes that assured her they would stop at nothing.
A little tremor trilled through her. She was making a mistake. In this crowd, someone could get killed. But in time, Lady Maggie would hear about Jeremiah Heath. And she would come to a séance. And when she tried to show that he was a fraud . . .
He might kill her.
Again, her heart fluttered. Did she really want the woman dead? Last night, she’d run out on her, and never even returned to talk. Of course, it was true that Arianna had merely wanted to probe her for some personal information. But . . . it might have been a chance for the lady to try to redeem herself in her stepdaughter’s eyes.
Apparently, she hadn’t wanted that chance very badly. Her own world had been far too important to her.
Wh
at could possibly be so important, now that Charles was dead?
Arianna very purposely hardened her heart. This was the course she had chosen. And nothing could change the fact that her father had married, and died that night.
If it came to it . . .
Lady Maggie had killed her father, as surely as if she had brought a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.
And still, she wasn’t the type of woman such a business usually killed. There was a market for such fine specimens as her stepmother.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?” Arianna said.
“You ever betray me, and you’ll wish you were dead, long before you reach the peace of that state, do you understand?”
“Of course!” she said irritably. “You can trust me—as long as you don’t cheat me!”
He sat back. “I don’t think I have a mind to cheat you.” He lifted his hand. The ruffians who had lazed around the pub straightened themselves and stood, and came to stand by the table. “Here you have Matthew, Luke, and John. Seriously, those are their names. Sebastian, Raoul, and Garrett.”
“Hello,” Arianna said.
They lifted their caps and gave her strange grins. “This here, fellows, is Annie.”
“Annie,” they said in unison.
“She’s going to be helping us out. I’ll train her to be the guide.” He offered Arianna a grim smile. “Hannah told me that you had a friend. What’s she know about this?”
“Nothing, except that I was looking for work.”
“Hannah said you had a working girl’s accent. I don’t hear it.”
“I was actually able to take some really good lessons with the tailor’s daughter. When I first came here, naturally, I wanted to blend in. I was afraid to do anything but.”
Jeremiah Heath seemed to accept everything she had to say. “Well, then, if your friend was staying with you, she’s not now.”
“I can’t leave her on the streets, not when . . . not when there’s a madman on the streets!”
“You keep your peace about others or you don’t work with me.”
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