Detective Giovanni sniggered. “By that, I assume you want to know what happened before he hit me over the tête with his freakin’ walking stick.”
“Of course that’s what I wish to know.” She smoothed a wayward ostrich feather on her velvet evening cloak, unaccustomed to wearing such an outlandish garment. “Were you able to ascertain how he came to be in possession of Emmaline’s locket?”
While it was a simple enough question, Lettitia was surprised that it met with a lengthy silence.
“Yeah. And you’re not gonna like the answer,” Detective Giovanni said at last. “It seems the good constable pilfered the locket from a dead prostitute named Martha Tabrum.”
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, aghast. “When did the poor woman expire?”
“When was the poor woman murdered is the more accurate question; the answer being August the seventh.”
“The very same day that Emmaline disappeared,” Lettitia murmured, at a loss to comprehend the connection. “Whatever could it mean?”
Detective Giovanni shrugged. “Maybe Emmaline owed this Martha Tabrum some money and gave her the locket to pay off the debt.”
“Given the value of the locket, my sister must have owed the woman a considerable sum,” she pointed out. “Although it doesn’t explain why Emmaline disappeared.”
“Well, we know that your sister was last seen in the Whitechapel area, which is where Martha Tabrum was murdered. Maybe Emmaline witnessed the murder and decided, for her own safety, to lay low for a while.”
As the ramifications of his hypothesis took root, Lettitia’s breath caught in her throat. “Then there is a very real possibility that Emmaline is in imminent danger.”
“I won’t lie. It’s a distinct possibility. I’m hoping the police commissioner can fill me in on the specifics of the murder.” When she raised a questioning brow, he elaborated by saying, “According to Tinsdale, the police commissioner oversaw Martha Tabrum’s murder investigation.”
Perplexed, Lettitia shook her head. “Sir Charles Warren? But that makes no sense. Why would Sir Charles concern himself with a slain Whitechapel frail? Such matters are usually handled by the local constabulary.”
“That was my thinking too,” the detective concurred with a nod. “Which is why I’m anxious to speak to Sir Charles.”
“More than likely, he will be in attendance at Lord Wortham’s soiree,” she said absently, still trying to decipher the connection between Emmaline and the unfortunate Martha Tabrum.
“If he’s at this shindig, I’ll be able to rake him over the coals.”
“Surely, even you would not be so rude,” she admonished. “One does not ‘rake over the coals’ a knight of the crown.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be the soul of discretion.”
“Hah! That will be the day.”
Wearing a petulant expression, the detective folded his arms across his chest. “You’re making a joke, right?”
“No, I am not,” she answered succinctly. “Your—how shall I phrase it?—your brashness is an integral part of who you are. Moreover, it defines you as a man.”
Detective Giovanni snorted derisively. “If that’s how you think of me, I don’t stand a snowball’s chance.”
“Your meaning eludes me, sir.”
“Okay, how’s this for being brash?” Without warning, he moved to her side of the carriage, seating himself a few inches away. “I surrender, Lettitia. I fought the hard fight, but you slew me with your drop-dead beauty.”
“Your audacity, sir, knows no bounds.”
“Hey, I just paid you a compliment,” he grumbled. “Don’t I at least get a sweetly murmured ‘thank you’?”
Finding his silly game most unnerving, she said, “Why should I thank you for paying me a patently false compliment? As any of my acquaintances will tell you, I am far and away no beauty.”
“I want names.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to know who these so-called acquaintances are so I can set ’em straight. Hell, Lettitia, don’t you ever look in the mirror? Without a doubt, you are one of the most exotically beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
“But my mouth is too large,” she informed him, thinking his definition of beauty odd, indeed. “And my nose, it… it turns up at the end.”
Her last comment caused Detective Giovanni to run the tip of his index finger down the length of her nose. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? And those are the very things that make you so unique looking. All right, I admit it: the cookie-cutter blonds like Emmaline get all the attention. But you’ve got the kind of looks that keep men wondering.”
“ ‘Wondering?’ ” she breathlessly repeated, the conversation having unexpectedly veered into uncharted waters.
His lips curved in a devastatingly seductive smile. “Ever since you first showed up at the Nine-four precinct, I’ve been wondering what you’re hiding behind those stormy gray eyes of yours. You make out like you’re so stiff-laced and proper, but every now and then, I glimpse this fiery spark in your eyes. And then I know—” his voice lowered, the ardent tone washing over her like a lover’s caress— “that beneath the prissy clothes and the buttoned-up gloves, there’s a woman waiting to be set on fire.”
A charged silence filled the carriage. Several moments into it, unable to suppress her reaction, Lettitia burst out laughing. “Really, sir!” She reproachfully tapped him on the shoulder with her closed evening fan. “I believe you are the one who does too much reading. The way you wax poetic, one would think you are a character in a Lord Tennyson novel.”
To her surprise, he took the gibe in stride, smiling good-naturedly. “And here I thought I was laying the smooth moves on you.”
“And why, Detective Giovanni, would you want to do that?”
“Before I answer your question, given how much time we’ve spent together these last two days, can’t you start calling me by my first name?”
His request took her by surprise. After so brief an acquaintance, to relax social conventions in so blatant a manner was unthinkable. Moreover, it would be utterly improper, inappropriate, and—
—And as she silently compiled all of the reasons for not giving her consent, Lettitia heard herself say, “Very well… Mick.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“That is not the point,” she retorted, flustered that she’d so readily agreed to break the rules of proper etiquette.
“Then what is the point, Lettitia? And before you answer, please tell me that you have a nickname.”
She primly folded her hands together, thinking this business with first names had gotten out of hand. “I take it that you mean a pet name?” When he nodded, she said, “I do not. And the point I was trying to make is that we should conduct ourselves in a manner appropriate to our stations.”
“Now where’s the fun in that?”
“ ‘Fun’?” she parroted in an incredulous tone of voice. “Need I remind you that we are grown adults? Such amusements are best left to children.”
“Adults can have fun, too,” he countered, his voice having dropped to a husky rumble.
“Unless it has escaped your notice, as adults it is incumbent upon us to exercise a full measure of decorum in our—”
Giving her no advance warning, Mick suddenly covered her mouth with his, effectively silencing her rebuttal.
His lips—smooth, warm, and curiously tender–moved across hers with devastating effect. Tossed into a tempest, Lettitia mewled softly as Mick cradled a sturdy hand around the nape of her neck. Holding her thus, he was able to insinuate his mouth more fully over hers. Quite shockingly, he poked his tongue at the crease between her lips, as though he were beseeching entry. Somewhat hesitantly, she opened her mouth, at first alarmed, then thrilled, by the intimate exploration that ensued.
Once, long years ago, she’d been kissed by the village parson. That chaste foray into the mysteries of the flesh was, in retrospect, a poor primer for the c
arnal delights of Mick Giovanni’s kisses.
Fearful that she’d make a fool out of herself, Lettitia hesitantly nudged her tongue against his. The moan that immediately rumbled deep within his chest emboldened her. Before she knew it, their two tongues were slithering together in a provocative duet, a rhythmic parry and thrust. With each jab of his impudent tongue, she met the challenge, imbued with a wanton courage that, until only a few moments ago, she didn’t know that she even possessed. And with that newfound courage, years of pent-up passion rushed to the fore.
Wrapping her arms around Mick’s shoulders, she felt the buttons of his waistcoat prod her breasts. For a brief instant, the impress of those buttons against her hardened nipples caused her a moment’s panic, and Lettitia was afraid that their passions might take them down a road from whence there was no return. No sooner did she entertain that fear than she willfully shoved it to the wayside.
With a ragged breath, Mick pulled his lips away from hers, abruptly ending the kiss.
Completely undone, Lettitia collapsed against the velvet-tufted seat with a soft thud.
“Now what was that you were saying about a full measure of decorum?” he inquired with a wicked grin.
“Er, yes, decorum.…” Head spinning, she pulled a much-needed breath of air into her lungs. “In truth, the thought escapes me at the moment.”
“Maybe this will help jar your memory,” Mick said as he took hold of her right hand.
In the golden glow of passing street lamps, Lettitia watched, entranced, as he began to unbutton her glove. His movements slow and purposeful, he removed the long length of satin, dropping it onto the carriage floor. He then raised her bare hand to his mouth, his tongue etching a silken pattern onto her palm. A moment later, he placed that same hand over his left breast, enabling her to feel the insistent pounding of his heart.
“In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re having a detrimental effect on my blood pressure.”
“I… I… had no idea,” she somehow managed to utter.
“How about we cause a full-blown coronary? Hmm?”
She had no ready reply, unable to make sense of his gibberish. Furthermore, he didn’t seem to expect a reply, having busied himself with peeling away her other glove. Negligently tossing it onto the vacant seat, he pressed his lips to her exposed palm, gently nibbling the fleshy mound.
Lettitia gasped; the sensation was exquisite.
“Umm, Tisha, you taste so good,” he murmured against her bare skin.
Hearing that, she gave a start. “ ‘Tisha’?”
Mick raised his head, a mischievous smile on his lips. “After that kiss we just shared, you don’t really expect me to address you as Miss Merryweather?”
“Of course not. But—”
“ ‘Lettitia’ is too snooty sounding,” he said over her objection.
“Yes, but ‘Tisha’?”
“It’s your new pet name for when, you know, I’m petting you,” he whispered just before he inserted her middle finger into his mouth and began to suckle it.
Her objection to the pet name was instantly forgotten. Luxuriating in what was fast becoming a most blissful experience, Lettitia closed her eyes. Betwixt and between euphoria, she felt a shuddering sort of tumult that radiated from, of all places, the very private area where her legs converged. Intensely pleasurable, each pulse was tighter than the one that preceded it.
When the carriage came to a sudden stop a few moments later, Lettitia’s eyes flew open. Unthinkingly, she jerked her finger out of Mick’s mouth.
“End of the line,” he said, leaning over to give her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. “And please tell me that I can get a rain check?”
“I… I don’t know what that means,” she sputtered, her entire body suffused with heated embarrassment. It had not dawned on her until that moment that she and Mick Giovanni had shared intimacies that should rightly be enjoyed only by a man and his lawfully wedded wife. Even then, she wasn’t so certain.
Gently moving his finger over her kiss-swollen lips, Mick smiled tenderly. “I’m asking if we can later pick up where we just ended.”
She nervously fiddled with the clasp on her evening cloak. While she was woefully ignorant in matters pertaining to carnal knowledge, even she knew where such intimacies would ultimately lead.
“You’re awfully quiet, Tisha.”
“I, um—”
Mercifully, a footman opened the carriage door, delivering Lettitia from a most awkward predicament.
* * *
Since his evening jacket was a Fred Astaire cutaway number with tails, Mick had no choice but to don the satin-lined cape. It was either that or walk into Lord Wortham’s swank soiree with a hard-on the size of an Italian sausage.
Never would he have guessed that the prickly Lettitia Merryweather would prove so incredibly passionate. When he’d sucked her finger, she’d looked like she’d been on the verge of a full-blown orgasm.
Extending an arm, Mick assisted Lettitia from the carriage. As she brushed against him, he caught a whiff of lavender in her elaborate hairdo. That, in turn, gave rise to a particularly naughty fantasy, one that started with him removing her hairpins one at a time and ended with him tying her to a four-poster bed with his necktie.
Christ. Mick blinked several times to clear the erotic vision from his mind’s eye.
“Sir, your hat,” Lettitia said, nodding toward the open carriage door.
With a resigned nod, Mick retrieved the squashed black hat from the carriage. Popping it open, he unceremoniously plunked it onto his head. “I’m telling you straight up, I feel like Abe Lincoln wearing this thing.”
“You look like a gentleman, and that’s all that matters.”
Mick glanced at the imposing, four-story brick mansion. “Ready to party?”
“Since when did ‘party’ become a verb?” Lettitia retorted. As she took hold of his crooked arm, she suddenly gasped, clearly mortified at seeing her own bare hand.
“Trust me, the dress looks better without the gloves,” he said reassuringly as he escorted her up a short flight of steps.
“That is beside the point. A lady does not go out in public without her gloves.”
“So be a rebel and buck the system,” he challenged.
Just then, the front door swung wide open.
For one hilarious instant, Mick thought they’d been invited to a costume ball: a footman, outrageously attired in a mulberry-colored frock coat with matching knee breeches, stood on the threshold. Even more comical than that, the poor smuck wore a maroon and gold striped vest and had a white Founding Father wig on top of his head.
“And I thought I looked goofy,” he muttered under his breath.
As they entered the humungous foyer—bigger than some New York City apartments—the gilt pillars and red-striped wallpaper had the luxe look of a high-end bordello. The only things missing were the purple velvet couches and scantily clad ladies of the night.
Keeping that “brash” observation to himself, Mick helped Lettitia remove her evening cloak, handing it to yet another footman. He then turned over custody of the stove pipe hat, glad to get rid of the damned thing. Noticing the expectant expression on the footman’s face, Mick grimaced, unfastened the Zorro cape, and hoped for the best, his wayward cock still in a state of semi-arousal.
You’d think at my age I’d be able to keep the damned thing under control. Of course, Lettitia’s truly awesome dress with its plunging neckline didn’t help matters. Whatever kind of underwear she had on, it made her waist look teeny-tiny and her breasts high and mighty.
As they weaved their way through the milling crowd of well-dressed partygoers, Mick scoped out the joint. In a large room to the right, a black-suited quartet played some drippy classical music. In an equally expansive room to the left, long tables covered with pristine white cloths were loaded down with platters of food; the only music emanating from that room was the sound of popping champagne corks and forks scraping again
st expensive china plates.
A footman approached with a tray full of champagne-filled glasses. Mick snatched two of them, handing one to Lettitia.
“To new beginnings,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
Glass in hand, Lettitia stared at him, a stricken expression plastered on her face.
“Hey, what gives?” he asked in a lowered voice. “I haven’t been here long enough to commit any fox paws.”
“ ‘Fox paws?’ ” Her brow crinkled in confusion. Then, an instant later, her lips curved upward. “I think you mean faux pas.”
“I knew that. I just wanted to see you smile.”
“I didn’t realize that I wasn’t.”
“Not since we got here,” he informed her, starting to worry that he might have overstepped his boundaries back in the carriage.
“An oversight, I assure you.” Craning her neck, Lettitia peered around the room. “I trust that, if I leave you alone for a few moments, you won’t get into too much trouble?”
“Hey, trouble is my middle name.” Just as he expected, the comment incited a look of abject horror. Mick chuckled and said, “Just kidding. Don’t worry about me. I think I’ll stake out the food table.”
“As you like,” she said with a queenly nod. Sweeping up her dress train in her left hand, she headed toward the music room.
What I’d like is to hit the “Reverse” button. Because somewhere along the line, he’d screwed up. Where, he had no idea. If Lettitia hadn’t wanted him to kiss her, all she’d had to do was utter the magic word no. But she didn’t do that. Instead, she’d whimpered and moaned and soul-kissed like she couldn’t get enough of him.
Deciding that the female mind was truly unknowable, Mick followed a group of men into a back room that had obviously been set aside for their half of the species. The cigar smoke, brandy snifters, dark paneling, and bear rug tacitly proclaimed: No Women Allowed.
Casually strolling through the clustered groups of black-suited men, all of whom, himself included, wore variations on the same theme, Mick quickly realized that his fellow partygoers were discussing the hot topic of the day—Jack the Ripper.
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