by Erica Monroe
“I am glad to hear she likes it.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, for at least then he could tamp down on his desire to reach out for her. He’d go slowly with her, remain patient.
“Nights like these should be appreciated, not spent inside the cottage,” Poppy mused. “I so seldom have a chance to enjoy the little things, like good weather or a book.”
“It is a night for lovers,” he blurted.
She opened her eyes, tilting her head so that she looked up at him. “Pardon?”
“What I mean is,” he started, issuing a silent prayer that he’d figure out what he meant as he was speaking, since he surely didn’t know now. “It is the kind of night poets write sonnets about, besotted by the fanciful quality of a London without fog or rain.”
She smiled again, and he let out a quick breath of relief that he hadn’t botched this entirely.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” she quoted glibly, grasping at a handful of muslin on her skirt and giving a little twirl. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”
This side of her enchanted him. Serene and uninhibited, reciting Shakespeare from memory because such eloquence deserved to be given wings by her honey voice.
“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.” He took a step toward her, and another, until he stood next to her. So near that he might brush his fingertips against that enticing lace if he could be so bold.
She didn’t retreat. Watching him intently, she gave another swish of her skirt, daring him to come closer but not brave enough to issue a real invitation.
“And summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” he whispered, sliding his hand around the left side of her waist. Not putting enough pressure to pull her toward him, but a gentle suggestion that she might rest her hand against his chest and lean into him. “Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm’d. And every fair from fair sometimes declines.”
Poppy released her hold on her skirt. The fabric settled back into place, as if nothing had passed between them. But he felt the change in the stiffening of her body against him, this emergence of sadness.
“That’s what I don’t like about Sonnet Eighteen,” she replied. “Everything must end. There’s no way around it. The happiest moments in our lives are cut woefully short and we can never get back to them. Look at Anna, or that woman you found before.”
“Ah, but as the bard says, ‘Thy eternal summer shall not fade,’” Thaddeus replied, his fingers light against the curve of her waist. Unsure if she’d tell him to desist, but wanting to be close to her, to quell the sorrow in her green eyes.
“Is that not true with a loved one?” he asked. “Shakespeare speaks of more than physical beauty. You may grow old, you may change, but your intrinsic personality shall remain constant. I find a woman with intelligence far more enticing than a comely chit with air for her head.”
She laughed hollowly. “You say that now, Sergeant, but I think if you were presented with a diamond of the first water, you’d seize upon her far quicker than the shy bluestocking.”
“I’d never tire of you.” His voice came out as a rasp, for she’d shifted so she was now flush against him.
Her hand came to rest high on his chest. Thumb on his collarbone, her lower arm across his heart.
Could Poppy hear how hard his heart thudded? He was a boy back at Eton, taking his first tumble with the barmaid at the Bitter Pill.
Her waist fit against him, positioning her against his arousal, yet she didn’t move from him. Didn’t shy away like a young maiden. She’d been married before, he reminded himself.
His fingers traced the line of her spine, rubbed against the lace, before he held his hand flat against her back to support her. “Don’t you see, there’s but one woman I want? You.”
She shook her head. “You couldn’t want me. You shouldn’t want me. I’m not a summer night, and I’m not a happy moment that won’t fade away.”
He inclined his face, so that their noses were almost touching. “Do you ever think that sometimes things work because they’re not supposed to? That as much as we struggle to contain life to the proper strictures, it cannot be restrained?”
“Those strictures are in place for a reason,” she whispered, her words tingling upon his skin. “When you go against society, you pay the price.”
“Is that what happened to you?” He didn’t understand the haunting darkness to her eyes, the way she shrank inside herself.
She turned her head away from him. “I married a soldier. He died. The rest is irrelevant.”
Thaddeus doubted that was the end of the story. Maybe it wasn’t even the story. But as much as he wanted to know the truth, something stopped him from solving the puzzle. For the first time, it wasn’t the thrill of discovery that interested him, but that she be the one to tell him.
He shifted, bringing his hand up to her chin to turn her face back to him. “It doesn’t matter. What you did in the past. Who you were then.”
“I’d like that to be true,” she sighed. “If only for a night, at least.”
“So, let it be.” He pulled her that last bit of distance to him. Ducked his head down so that they were eye level, and as her breath sucked inward in anticipation, he laid his lips upon hers. Soft at first, tentative. But he couldn’t leave her, and what had been originally intended as the slightest brush of lip against lip became a consuming kiss. An embrace, as he sank his mouth on top of hers, covering those lush lips with his own.
She moved against him, returning his kiss with an equally consuming affection. Press to press, flaming his body. The moan that tore from her lips hardened his cock almost as quickly as her kisses had. He longed for that sound. He wanted to store it in the back of his mind to replay repeatedly so he could know for sure that he, a restrained, bookish man, had made Poppy Corrigan moan so loudly people turned in the street to stare at them.
“Poppy,” he breathed, her name the most flawless word he could imagine. He seized her mouth again, brought his lips upon hers with the air of a conqueror. She was a case he’d solve, and yet that somehow made her more appealing.
He glided his hand down her back, squeezing her perfectly rounded bottom in his hand. And as she leaned into him, he kissed her with every ounce of passion he possessed, desperately clutching at a reality that included Poppy.
Until she pulled back, freeing herself from his embrace. He’d forgotten he meant to be a gentleman. Damnation, he’d forgotten his own name. Her lips were reddened and plump from his kisses. She drew back from him.
“That was amazing,” he said.
“Aye.” Stunned, she laid her ring finger on her lips, as if trying to ascertain through touch how this had all happened.
He started to reach for her, anxious to have her in his arms again. She jumped back, shaking her head quickly. “That can never happen again, do you understand? This...this thing, I cannot do. I have responsibilities. Duties. People who depend on me.” Another step away from him, out into the street. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared.
He’d spooked her. Damn it to hell.
“Poppy,” he implored. “Poppy, please, I don’t want to take you away from your family. I’d like to court you.”
“Court me?” she repeated with disdain.
“Yes?” He was no longer confident.
Worry lines etched deep in her forehead. “Thaddeus, darling, you can’t possibly mean that.”
“But I do,” he protested.
“No, you don’t.” Her lips were set in a straight line, allowing no deviations. No changes. She turned on her heel, taking that final step into the street. “If I see anything unusual, I’ll send a message to you.”
And with that promise, she was gone like the balmy wind.
11
Guilt.
It was a strange emotion, a double-bladed sword that sliced through one’s throat with alacrity. How could she justify her lapse in judgment? Agreeing to help Knight trap
the Larkers had been sound reasoning but letting him kiss her...that had been madness.
An all-consuming madness that had swept her away yesterday. She’d been willing to be condemned to Bedlam as long as it meant being with Thaddeus.
Thaddeus. She couldn't go back to thinking of him as Knight. That was too formal.
She breakfasted on dry bread and cold mutton. Chewing mulishly, Poppy reached for another hunk of the crusty bread, breaking off a piece. Through the windows, the sun streamed into the cottage on Finch Street. Edna was outside, ostensibly sweeping the porch but really flirting with Jimmy in 2B, who had taken a liking to her. Even stalwart Edna was not immune to this season of love.
Damn the weather! It was to blame for all of this.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
She’d slept fitfully. Not more than two hours at a time. The slightest noise roused her, for she wavered in that half-awake state where everything carries a blurred, dismal edge. Without Moira in the crib in the corner, her room had felt emptier.
Poppy rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the kink in her muscles from sleeping so awkwardly. When she’d finally dozed off, her wicked mind had to set to work replaying the kiss. Her palms had been pressed against Thaddeus Knight’s chest again, investigating the way his muscles rippled underneath her fingers, for his body was toned from patrolling the streets. In his arms, she’d felt at home, secure.
He’d nipped her bottom lip, drawing it in between his teeth. He’d kissed her as if he was the key to her lock. She gave in, gave in willingly, because he’d find out all of her secrets eventually.
The dream scene had changed, and he was stretched out across her bed. He lay before her, erect and ready. She wanted to have him buried so deep inside her he’d erase the memory of Edward completely.
She’d gone to him, slipping her dress off, but Thaddeus had faded beneath her.
Like Edward, he’d left.
Now, she stood up from the table. A cold hand might as well have been wrapped around her gut. She couldn’t shake the dream. Any damn part of it.
This couldn’t continue. She had become a logical woman, and logical women most certainly didn’t go around kissing Peelers. Police officers were the very devil.
A knock sounded through the cottage. Thank God, Daniel had come to drop off Moira, and some semblance of normalcy would return to her life. It was Sunday, and that meant she was free of the factory today. She hurried to the door, flinging it open.
Atlas Greer stood in the threshold with Moira nestled in his arms. Accompanying Atlas was one of his couriers, who carried a bag of groceries.
“’Ello luv.” Atlas leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Danny asked me to come by. He had to go down to the docks early this morning. Bugger responsibilities, I told him, but he didn’t agree with me, of course.”
Poppy took the bag of groceries from Atlas’s man, thanking him for his assistance. Atlas dismissed the courier and followed her inside the cottage. He closed the door behind him.
As Poppy brought the groceries over to the counter, Atlas set Moira down on the blanket by the door. Moira tottered eagerly toward the stack of blocks in the corner.
Poppy gave the bag a skeptical glance. “Dare I see what’s inside?” Though carrots and potatoes protruded from the top, with Atlas, the King’s crown jewels could be lining the sack bottom.
“A bit of vegetables and beef this time.” Atlas tapped his nose contemplatively, watching Moira. “Growing like fresh mud on a lark, isn’t she? Be a brilliant diver soon if you’d let me take her on a job...”
“Absolutely not. Moira won’t be involved in anything illegal.” Poppy held up the carrot she’d been unloading from the bag and aimed at him as though it were a pistol. “And I’d shoot you if you tried. You know I would.”
Atlas grinned cheekily. “Didn’t know you could shoot, actually. Your new sister been teaching you?”
Poppy nodded. “Though to tell you the truth, I haven’t progressed to the actual shooting yet. We’ve covered loading the pistol and storing the powder when not in use.”
“Fancy that,” Atlas whistled. “But don’t get your bonnet strings tangled. I’d never use Moira on a job without your permission.”
Atlas stood by as she placed the food in the cupboards. He appeared at ease, slouching against her countertop. Poppy knew that if she moved to the left suddenly, he’d follow her movement as if he’d expected it all along.
The Gentleman Thief saw everything.
Sometimes she wondered if Atlas knew everything too.
“Thank you for the groceries. I shan’t ask who you stole them from.” Poppy patted his hand, observing Moira out of the corner of her eye. The babe had fixed upon Atlas with wide-eyed wonderment.
“Oy now, I haven’t nicked food in years,” Atlas reproached her. “Crime pays me better than that. I’m not going to steal from people who’d go hungry at the loss. The market stall’s where I get my meals, as you do.”
“Thank the heavens.” She pressed a hand to her forehead in mock relief.
“Sassy lass.” Atlas pulled the last item from the sack: a sheep made of rags and stuffed with sawdust. He went over to Moira’s blanket, stooping to present her with the toy. “Did you think I forgot you, Miss Moira? You should know your Uncle Atlas will always bring you something.”
Moira seized upon the sheep, wrapping her small hand around its middle. “Tan too!” she exclaimed, her smile threatening to envelop her apple blossom cheeks.
“She means thank you,” Poppy explained. “She hasn’t quite managed to grasp the ‘k’ yet.”
“’Tis a hard sound to make.” Atlas knelt down on the blanket beside Moira, crossing his legs in front of him. “But I’ve no doubt our little miss here shall get it far earlier than the rest of the tots, aye, Moira?”
“Tan too!” Moira repeated, waving the sheep at him.
Atlas ruffled Moira’s red hair. Poppy leaned back against the counter, watching them both.
“Saw Jane last night,” Atlas said. “Cyrus has been by the Boars again, of course. Bloody bounder doesn’t get Jane doesn’t want a thing to do with him. I swear, the mills bashed out his brains.”
Cyrus Mason had helped Kate and Daniel in their investigation into the dockworker’s murder, so Poppy tolerated him, but she certainly didn’t trust him. The pugilist was loud, bad, and dangerous to know.
With one hand clasped around the sheep, Moira reached for Atlas’s shoe. She tugged it once, twice, a petulant pout darkening her pretty face when the shoe wouldn’t come off in her hand. Sensing an impending temper tantrum, Poppy started to go toward them, but Atlas held her off.
“Come now, Miss Moira,” he said in a singsong voice. From the sleeve of his coat, he pulled a richly colored silk handkerchief. “Do you know what this is? Would you like it? I’ll give it to you if you’re silent while your mum and I have a chat.”
Moira snatched the cloth from him, wrapping it around her fist. She dropped it down on the top of the block stack and then picked it up, absorbed in her new game.
Atlas rose from his spot on the blanket and crossed to the chair by the fire. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began, attempting a casual tone and falling miserably. “Did anything ever come of your visit to the pig that saved Danny?”
Poppy sat down across from him on the settee, her throat suddenly dry. One look at Atlas’s face told her he already knew the answer to his question but wanted to hear it in her own words.
“I went and apologized to him.” She kept her tone guarded, trying to feel out how much he already knew.
“Having a sense of decency is all well and good, but you might consider what it means to be under their eyes again,” Atlas cautioned. “Do you think I like that truncheon-swinging grunter knowing what I look like? Of course not. I worked damn hard for this anonymity.”
“He’s not a grunter,” she objected, too slowly realizing she’d given Atlas exactly what he was looking for.
Poppy stiffened, drawing herself up to her full, inconsequential height. “You needn’t lecture me.”
“I can’t help it, lass,” he sighed. “You’re wanting to rush headfirst into the fire. I already had to fish one of you O’Reillys out. Must you make me do it again?”
“I’m not Daniel,” she pointed out.
Atlas stood, walking to where Moira sat on the blanket. “I know you’re not, but I worry. Moira’s a good girl, you know?”
Poppy’s heart squeezed. “The best.”
For a moment they both observed Moira play in silence. Fervor took hold of Poppy’s heart whenever she was with her daughter. Love, serenity, protectiveness, sometimes even annoyance when Moira became fussy, all were amplified.
Before the Larker case, Poppy had felt relatively safe in this little corner of Spitalfields. She could handle the everyday vices. Her associations with Atlas and Jane had kept her protected. Now, with Anna’s blood smeared against the wall of the factory, she didn’t feel so secure anymore.
“Did Jane say anything about the Larkers?” she asked.
Atlas nodded. “Chapman’s looking into them, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Zacharias Baines would rather cut out his own liver than reveal his sources for counterfeiting. His reticence does indicate something though, I think.”
“So, you think Thaddeus was right. They’re counterfeiters.” She didn’t bother to feign surprise. Somehow, she had a feeling Thaddeus was rarely incorrect about anything.
Atlas eyed her skeptically. “So, the Peeler is Thaddeus now.”
“Oh, don’t you start that again,” she chided him, rolling her eyes.
“Like it or not, I’m going to watch out for you.” Atlas shrugged, undeterred by her scolding. “I’ll keep digging into your Larkers too.”
“Thank you,” Poppy said.