Secrets in Scarlet

by Erica Monroe

  He didn’t belong to her alone, and he never would.

  “You will. You are good at your job.” So good that he continued to pursue the Larkers, whether or not he had the support of his inspector. So good that she couldn’t dismiss the danger that surrounded him as another fable, no matter how much she longed to.

  A lopsided smile creased his lips. “You think I’m going to change the world, don’t you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I hardly think that. But you do yourself credit by trying.”

  “Why, I do declare, Poppy Corrigan, I think you’ve reached a philosophical breakthrough,” he joked.

  “None of that,” she said, echoing her earlier words to Moira. A part of her wanted to return to how she’d originally thought of him: rude, nosy, and false. It had been easier to dismiss him before she’d realized the goodness inside him: every attempt to reach out to people like her, lost in these rookeries, was out of selfless desires.

  That made him far more inaccessible to her. He needed to be strong for the people, not a real, breakable man.

  “I’m sorry for stopping by unannounced,” he said. “But after breakfast with my family, I needed to see someone with sanity.”

  “Ah,” she nodded, as though every day she was considered “sane.”

  “No matter how often I tell my mother I am fully self-sufficient and able to choose my own mate, my mother has made it her life vow to find me a wife.” Thaddeus frowned, until he looked at Moira, padding toward them. “Why, Miss Moira, I do predict you shall be speaking in sentences before June. When you do that, I shall bring you a sweet to celebrate.”

  June. That was three months from now.

  She gulped down all the words she yearned to shout out: that she longed for him to still be here then, that she wanted him, and she hoped it might last a while, even if she knew that was lunacy. Instead, she picked the most concrete of his statements to focus on.

  “These women who your mother picks for you, are they all in your social class?” she asked, knowing full well the answer.

  Thaddeus tilted his head to the side, considering. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “I see.” She saw far too much: she’d been right when she’d figured his family would never accept her. What was the point in continuing this, in being close to him?

  He looked away from Moira, directing his attention on her. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are aware that I am not your social equal?” What should have been a simple fact became questionable with him, for he had that strange way of viewing people that skewed far more toward equality than the second son of a second son of a bloody earl should have had.

  He blinked, surprise flitting across his face before he settled back into a more bland expression. He’d not expected her to be so bold.

  “It occurred to me, yes,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “But what does it matter, Poppy? I’ve no use for milksop debutantes. When I tell them what I do, their faces either fall—I’m not respectable enough—or they turn this wretched shade of puce, like I’ve informed them I have seventeen mistresses and I keep them all shackled together in a tiny harem built out of twigs.”

  She burst out laughing, for the image struck her as outlandish yet undeniably him. “You have such lovely turns of phrase.”

  He tugged at his neckcloth. “You understand my meaning. I need a strong woman, one who is bold and intelligent.”

  I need someone who isn’t you, she heard, for she couldn’t come to grips with his profession. Couldn’t shake the image of him dead in a back alley from her mind. Couldn’t stop wondering if she was putting her family in danger.

  “Thaddeus,” she began, intending to tell him this connection between them simply wouldn’t do. “I’m afraid—”

  No. She paused. That wasn’t the right wording at all. What could she possibly say to make him understand? She set Moira back down on the blanket and went to tend to the tea, for at least that gave her time to think.

  The tea had steeped. Poppy poured the piping hot liquid into the two mugs, grimacing at the chipped rim of one cup where Moira had knocked it off the table. She kept that cup for herself, pushing the newer one toward Thaddeus.

  “The Gentleman Thief was here, wasn’t he?” Thaddeus cast a thoughtful glance toward the firewood, the loaf of bread on the counter, and the tin of tea on the mantel. Good tea marked with the maker’s name. Better tea than she’d be able to afford on factory wages.

  She folded her arms over her chest, careful to keep her expression as blank as his. “When you said you wouldn’t investigate my friends, I didn’t realize that meant I had to tell you their whereabouts.”

  “I’m not asking so I can arrest him,” Thaddeus clarified. “I made a promise to you, and I keep my promises. Call it more of a professional curiosity. I met him, if you recall, when I helped Daniel.”

  He frowned, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat. “I wish you’d trust that I could help you, Poppy. I don’t know what happened to you before to make you think all men are scoundrels, but I assure you, I have your interests in mind.”

  How could he know her interests when he didn’t really know her?

  She pursed her lips. To him, trust was a natural reaction, bred out of the closeness he thought they shared. He expected it, and in return he’d give it to her. When he eventually found out she’d lied to him about Robert—dammit, if he found out—that’d make her betrayal ten times worse.

  “I do believe you’ll hold to your promise, but I make it a point not to trust anyone,” she said, trying to sound worldly. “You’ve been down Brick Lane. You know what this place is like. You get off your guard, and suddenly you’re dead outside a factory, like Anna.”

  Thaddeus scrutinized the loaf of bread, the carrots, and the peas she had placed by the kitchen table. When he turned back to her, his lips smashed together tightly. His arms were locked in at his sides, his posture suddenly far more formal than it had been.

  “I’m happy Greer is taking care of you,” he said, a strained note in his voice she couldn’t quite identify. “I, ah, didn’t realize exactly how close you two were.”

  As she went toward her daughter, she regarded him out of the corner of her eye warily. “He’s my brother’s dearest friend. Why does it matter?”

  Kneeling next to Moira, Poppy gathered the girl into her arms, kissing the top of her head. The babe struggled against her hold, frantically reaching for the doll. Poppy plucked the doll from the blanket with her free hand, giving it to Moira. Pleased, Moira leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder, now content to observe Thaddeus from this new vantage point.

  Thaddeus looked up from his study of the groceries, his eyes fastening on Moira. “It is quite natural to want companionship.” His voice sounded gargled. “I should have accounted for this.”

  “What are you nattering on about?” She scowled. “You keep asking me all these questions, and I don’t like it. I told you before, my past is my past. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He blinked. “I’m talking about your relationship with Atlas Greer, of course. I shouldn’t have kissed you last night. I should’ve known you were involved with him when you bargained for his safety.”

  If she told Thaddeus that Atlas courted her, Thaddeus would insist they kept their partnership strictly professional. That’d be the end to these troublesome—but so wonderful—kisses.

  Yet she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him again. Not about this.

  She shifted Moira in her arms, so that she could look him dead in the eye. “The relationship I have with Atlas is fraternal, I assure you.”

  Thaddeus exhaled loudly, his cheeks pinking. “I’m relieved. And ah, embarrassed.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.” Her tone was flat, her words holding enough punch on their own. “If I had been courting Atlas, don’t you think I would have told you? I wouldn’t have let you kiss me. Not that I should have kissed you, and actually,
I’m glad you are here so we can discuss that—”

  Growing irritated by her mother’s curt tone, Moira latched onto a loose curl, twisting the red hair between her fingers and giving a pull. “Ow!” Poppy exclaimed, prying her hair from Moira’s hands and tucking the lock back behind her ear.

  A smile tickled the corners of Thaddeus’s lips. The ninny was trying not to laugh.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Also, I don’t need anyone to ‘take care’ of me, do you understand? I thought I’d made that plenty clear. I’ll help you with your investigation, but this, I can’t do.”

  He opened his mouth to speak. She braced herself for another eloquently worded plea, for everything he said seemed to be eloquent, the product of many years spent reading dusty textbooks. She should be intimidated by that, for her knowledge was far more practical than academic.

  Should be—but instead she wanted to lean into him, to catch every word that fell from his lips as though it was gospel.

  He was a good man, and he couldn’t possibly survive in her world.

  Moira snatched at her hair again, her face scrunching up in annoyance when Poppy ducked away in time. Letting out a fierce cry, she balled her fists up. Her lower lip stuck out sullenly.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw Thaddeus wince at the shrill shriek, but he was otherwise unruffled. “Time for a rest?” he inquired.

  “I should think so,” Poppy agreed. “I’ll go put her down for a nap.”

  She crossed the short distance of the main room to her bedroom. Thaddeus waited by the fire, his gaze following her. As she opened the door, her stomach tensed with something akin to disappointment. No, that couldn’t be it; she couldn’t have wanted him to follow her in. What did she think, that he would toss her to the bed and ravish her with her child’s crib in the corner of the room? She was a mother now.

  Wantonness should be far behind her.

  Poppy set Moira down in the crib, tucking the blanket in around her. She ran a hand through the babe’s short, fuzzy red locks, so soft against her fingertips. “My sweet little one,” she murmured. “You know that I love you, don’t you? That I would do anything to protect you?”

  Moira shifted in the crib, her eyes half closed. She yawned, balling her fingers up in the blanket.

  “That’s why this can’t be,” Poppy continued. “I made you a promise that you’d know stability. That you wouldn’t be in danger.”

  “Mama,” Moira protested, reaching out for Poppy.

  “I’m here.” Poppy kissed the tips of her forefinger and index finger, pressing them to Moira’s brow. “I’ll always be here.”

  Moira continued to watch her. Poppy stood there for a moment longer. Protected by the sides of the wooden crib, Moira was safe.

  Someday she’d grow up and she’d start to ask questions about her father.

  Poppy swallowed down dread. She’d cross that bridge when she had to, and not before. There were enough problems to sort out currently...starting with the devilishly handsome Metropolitan Police sergeant lingering outside the door to the room.

  Shutting the door behind her, Poppy came out into the living room. Moira fussed at her absence, but in a few moments, she’d fall asleep. She always did.

  Poppy rubbed her hands against her arms, up and down, trying to bide the chill that had settled low into her spine. Someday, this would all be for naught, and she’d be standing in the middle of a room like this one wondering where she’d gone so wrong.

  It was unavoidable, as unavoidable as this confrontation with Thaddeus had become. From that first moment in the alley, to her visit at his townhouse and then that damnably perfect kiss. They’d been set in motion by forces outside of her control, but the outcome—breaking away from him, was the only thing she could imagine.

  “She’s asleep.” Poppy kept her voice down to not wake Moira.

  Thaddeus nodded.

  “Maybe you should go,” Poppy suggested, with no real feeling. She didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want to give up on him. For the first time in two years, she felt appreciated.

  “I haven’t had my tea yet,” Thaddeus said with a frown.

  She sucked in a breath, her resistance fading further. Why did her head always feel so muddled around him? She couldn’t launch a concrete attack when he was this near to her.

  “Take your tea,” she sighed.

  His brows furrowed with concern. “Poppy, if you truly want me to go, I’ll go. I don’t need tea. I don’t want to be an imposition.”

  “You’re not imposing.” For once, she told the truth. Having him around was a highlight in her day, no matter how little any of it made sense.

  “Then why do you want me to leave?”

  No matter how hard Poppy tried to push Thaddeus away, he stayed. A little tendril of doubt formed inside her—would he stay even if he knew her secret? I have always found Claudio an absolute buffoon, he’d said.

  So, there was a chance he’d stay through that too. He’d marry her and raise Moira as his own because he’d feel that was his obligation. And he’d give up his job; sell off that part of him. Each day would dawn, and he’d lose a little bit more of himself in their union. Until eventually, he’d hate her and everything about their love.

  She wasn’t sure what a worse fate was: his death or him detesting his own life. Either way, she had nothing more than destruction to offer him.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Poppy glanced at the clock above the mantel. “It’s not that I want you to leave, but my companion will be back soon. She went to collect the washing from the rest of the neighborhood.”

  He rose, going to the kitchen to add sugar into his tea from the canister on the counter. He dropped in four lumps. Confound him. He didn’t know how scarce sugar was, how expensive it’d be to replace because he’d never had to fight for food in his life.

  She didn’t follow him into the kitchen. Rather, she hung back by the fireplace, foolhardily believing that if she put some distance between them, she’d feel at rights again. Sipping at her unsweetened tea, the warmth flooded her throat. Strong, bitter, resilient, a tea that would give her strength. A tea that would keep her steady in resolve.

  “You’re concerned about how it’d look for me to be here with you alone.” Thaddeus mulled over the idea, tapping his chin with his forefinger. “You know, that’s the first time anyone’s said that to me since I joined the Met. When I’m interviewing people, in my blues, no one considers me a man, really. I’m an instrument of the law.”

  Poppy bit her bottom lip to stem the tide of words threatening to burst forth and proclaim that she couldn’t see him as anything but a man. An attractive, virile man who in the span of one week had sunk so deep into her soul she didn’t know how to extricate him. You haunt my dreams, she wanted to whisper. You’re everything that I’ve ever wanted, but nothing I should have.

  So, she didn’t look at him, staring instead inside the mug of tea, as though the murky brown liquid was truly fascinating, more than him baring his heart to her.

  It was no use. She saw him there too, his chin with the endearing cleft, his solid arms, those hard calves encased in breeches that made her want to reach behind him and cup his arse.

  “I don’t imagine that’s true. Surely they can look past the uniform.” Her voice gave her away, lower, huskier. The voice of a woman aroused and too sinful to be shamed by it.

  He came closer to her, not stopping until he was leaning over her shoulder. “No one has but you.” His voice was low, stripped raw, doing things to her core that were certainly heathen.

  This was madness.

  “I—” She started, hoping that the proper words would come to her, and finding none.

  His hands fell to her waist, spinning her around to face him. In a second, his lips were on hers in a kiss that challenged all her preconceptions. A kiss that claimed her entirely as his, no matter how she might protest. She’d been his from that first damn meeting in the alley. Always his.

  His lips
on hers, shattering her, for he was everywhere at once. Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head closer to her to deepen their kiss. His hand slipped down to her chest, palming the underside of her breast. She squirmed against him, scooting so close to him she’d have been joined to him if she were any nearer. The muslin of her gown, so worn she usually had to wear a pelisse over it for warmth, was now too heavy. Too constraining. She wanted to be free.

  His hand slid down to her breasts, cupping one in his palm. Arching her back, she let out a little murmur of approval. She thought not of propriety, but of the sheer bliss of him touching her. Of him.

  With a growl, Thaddeus brought his mouth down to that stretch of bare skin before her bodice began. When she’d originally bought this dress in the rag and bone shop, she’d thought it too scandalous—but the price was good, and she needed another dress. Now she praised the dressmaker to the high heavens, for his lips covered her skin, leaving heat wherever he’d kissed. An all-consuming heat, a heat that’d take away her pain, leaving only this memory.

  He’d managed to scoot her bodice down a bit more. The fabric gave easily, allowing him access, for even her dress wanted him. His thumb and forefinger worked at her neckline, edging it down until the top of her breast showed. He ran his thumb against her chemise, stroking just roughly enough on her already sensitive skin. And she longed for more, wanted him to undress her in the middle of her damned cottage, when Edna could walk in at any moment.

  Growing frustrated with her bodice, he moved back upwards again. He laid scorching kisses to her neck, sucking on that delicate space under her ears. She moaned, moaned because everything felt so perfect. So perfect, so wonderful. How could she be so wicked? Oh, she didn’t care.

  Thaddeus traveled up still, brought his lips back to hers. And she was equal fire to his inferno, kissing him back with all the passion she possessed. Biting at her lip, he took it between his teeth. He nipped, grazing clumsily.