Bianca giggled, her whole body tingling. “What will you do to me when you have me on my back?” she asked, meeting his eyes with a sultry look.
He stared unflinchingly back at her. “I’ll hook your knees over my shoulders and eat your pussy until you’re dripping, and then I’ll fuck you hard until you come,” he said in his cockney accent.
Bianca caught her breath, aching with desire. She loved it when Jack talked dirty to her. The dirtier the better.
“I’ll sink my cock so deep inside of you, that when I come you’ll feel it in your throat,” he went on.
“And I’ll scream your name and make you forget every other woman you’ve had,” she whispered in return.
“You already have,” he growled, leaning toward her for another kiss.
Bianca was hot, rippling with desire, and contemplating lifting her skirts and unbuttoning his trousers so that they could put each other out of their years-long misery when a door creaked open at the far end of the alley.
Instantly, the two of them jumped apart. Jack stood straight, doing his best to hide the bulge in his trousers, as Bianca smoothed her skirts and brushed a hand along her hair. And while it was only a scullery maid who stepped out into the alley with a bucket full of something, it was too close a call.
“I have to go,” Bianca whispered, taking a step toward the alley’s entrance.
“Yes, you do,” Jack agreed in a rough voice, staying where he was.
With one final, wicked glance at him, Bianca giggled and dashed out into the street. The light was still dimming, but she felt as though the sun was shining down on her as she hurried the rest of the way to Marlowe House’s front door. She was certain the few people around her could see lust painting all her features pink, that they could see exactly what she was thinking and how badly she wanted to throw caution to the wind with Jack. Life would have been so much easier if she were middle-class or Jack where an aristocrat. Well, perhaps not, but at least they could marry and carry on as much as they wanted to without everyone feeling the need to comment on the propriety of the match.
“And just why do you look as though you’ve come out of a furnace?” Bianca’s mother, Lady Katya Campbell, asked as Bianca rushed inside and headed up the stairs.
So much for trying to bolt to her room before being noticed. Bianca stopped a few steps up, turned, and headed back down to face her mother. “I had to run all the way from Tavistock House to get home before the sun set,” she said, praying her mother would believe her.
Her mother crossed her arms and stared down her regal nose at Bianca. Katya Campbell was and had always been a beauty, but in a handsome, angular, commanding sort of way. And she’d lived enough to know how to read the signs of a woman who had been kissing a man. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me it was the wind that put rouge on your lips?”
“It was, Mama,” Bianca insisted, blinking innocently, as if her mother’s doubt offended her. “Why must you accuse me of impropriety over the tiniest thing? Running makes one overheat. Cold turns one pink. Did you have to endure this kind of scrutiny from your own mother?”
“Of course I did,” her mother said, her eyes going wide at Bianca’s impertinence.
“Yes, but you were not a grown woman when you endured it,” Bianca insisted, tilting her chin up.
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “You think you’re a grown woman?”
Bianca’s frustration bubbled over and she blew out an impatient breath. “No, I do not. Not when I am forced to live at home and be subject to the same rules I lived under when I was but twelve. I am twenty-three, Mama, the same age you were when Natalia was born.”
Her mother continued to study her with narrowed, calculating eyes. “If you would settle down and find a suitable husband, you wouldn’t have to live under my rules for another day.”
“We both know where I stand on that issue,” Bianca snapped back, crossing her arms.
“And we both know what sort of man constitutes a suitable husband or an unsuitable one,” her mother said just as quickly.
Bianca’s shoulder sagged as the frustrating impossibility of the situation bit at her.
Her mother’s expression softened and she stepped closer to Bianca. “I’m not a complete gorgon, my dear,” she said, resting a hand on the side of Bianca’s face. “I know how desperately the strictures placed on women these days chafe for you.”
“Do you, Mama? Do you really?” Bianca asked, wanting to jerk away from her mother’s hand.
“Yes,” her mother answered frankly. “You’re too much like me.”
It was a compliment, even though it stung. Bianca didn’t want to glow under the praise, but she admired her mother so much that to be compared to her felt good.
“You’re too much like me,” her mother said again with a sigh, taking a step back and resting her hands on her hips. “Which is why I have a proposal for you.”
“A proposal?” Bianca asked, cautiously lifting one eyebrow.
“I am willing to admit that you need your freedom. The world is an ever-changing place, and you are a uniquely modern woman. The old standards of femininity and docility are not for you.” Her mother gave her a particularly knowing look.
“No, they are not,” Bianca agreed. “I am a new model woman.”
“You are.” Her mother nodded. “But you have so much to learn about how to navigate life against the grain. Therefore, after giving it some consideration, I propose the following.”
Bianca leaned forward, excited by the feeling of expectation her mother’s words gave her.
“I will give you the use of my St. John’s Wood flat,” her mother said.
Bianca’s jaw dropped. “You still have the St. John’s Wood flat?” Bianca had only been to the flat a handful of times and not for years. Her mother had never said so outright, but the flat had been the location of every one of her mother’s affairs over the years. It was located in a part of town frequented by artists and writers and where many of the great and mighty men of society housed their mistresses. The area wasn’t exactly disreputable, but it wasn’t fully approved of by society either.
“You’re giving me a home of my own?” Bianca asked, her question coming out in a high squeak.
“For two nights a week,” her mother said, raising a hand in caution. “And only on a trial basis.”
“But I can live there?” Bianca’s eyes widened. “I can sleep there and entertain my friends there and everything?”
“You may sleep there no more than one night at a time,” her mother clarified. “And you may entertain the friends I approve of only.” She paused before adding, “Absolutely no male company of any kind,” in a slightly louder voice.
“What about Rupert?” Bianca asked, a sly grin forming on her lips.
“Not even Rupert,” her mother said. “You may use the flat as a female retreat only. Two, non-consecutive nights a week.”
Bianca’s heart ricocheted around her chest with joy. Her thoughts instantly flew to Jack, to the way he kissed her and the wicked things he promised to do to her.
“What about the days when I’m not spending the night there?” she asked, pulling herself to her full height as though negotiating a trade deal. “Could I, for example, invite the May Flowers over for tea while we plan our activities.”
Her mother considered. “I suppose that would be acceptable. But,” she rushed on before Bianca could ask anything else, “there will be two keys to the flat. I will give one to you, but I will keep the other one. I can and I will inspect the flat and drop in unannounced, perhaps in the middle of the night, to make absolutely certain you are abiding by the rules.”
“Oh, thank you, Mama.” Bianca burst with joy, springing forward and throwing her arms around her mother. “This is wonderful. This is perfect. I will prove to you how responsible I can be and you will give me the flat on a permanent basis, I’m certain.”
Her mother laughed, even as she hugged Bianca. “One thing at a time, my d
ear. I am dead serious when I say I will be monitoring your activity at the flat.”
“I will be a perfect angel, Mama, you’ll see.” She broke away from her mother and started back to the stairs. “I will not let you down.”
She turned and dashed up the stairs, her energy renewed a hundredfold. The St. John’s Wood flat would be the ideal place to meet Jack and to finally make him her lover. That was what the entire place was designed for, after all. It hardly mattered that she was plotting to deceive her mother and break her rules the moment they were set. After all, she had no intention of being caught.
Chapter 2
Jack Craig did not work his way up from running errands for the madams that owned the brothels where he grew up to Metropolitan Police officer to one of the youngest Chief Inspectors Scotland Yard had ever had by accident. He’d spent almost every waking hour of his nearly thirty-five years working, learning, and proving himself, and it had paid off.
“Bring me the report on convictions for assault in the last five years,” he called out to one of the clerks as he strode through the main section of the office for his division of Scotland Yard, back straight, attention focused on the handful of papers already in his hands. There had to be a clue to the identity of the ringleader of the gang that had attacked and nearly killed Fergus O’Shea in past records.
Clerks jumped out of his way, nodding to him with respect as he made his way through the office and to the hall where his private office stood. Several police officers, many of them older than him and from loftier backgrounds nodded and stepped out of his way as well. Not bad for a wretch from the slums of Clerkenwell.
“Your tea, sir.” Smiley, the starry-eyed young man he’d hired as his dogsbody scurried up behind him with a steaming pot and a mug.
“Thank you, Smiley.” Jack glanced up from the reports he was studying long enough to acknowledge the man. “Could you put it on the desk?” he asked as they turned the corner into his office.
“Yes, sir.” Smiley rushed ahead of him to set the tea on the corner of the desk. He then gathered and straightened the stacks of paper and notebooks already on the desk, lined up the collection of pens that rested on the blotter, then dusted off the chair and swiveled it toward Jack, all before Jack could reach his desk.
Jack glanced up again with an amused grin. “Smiley, I’m not a nob. You don’t have to treat me like the Queen.”
“It’s no trouble, sir. Whatever you need, sir.” The man lived up to his name as he smiled up at Jack.
It was no surprise that the young man was so enthusiastic in his duties. Jack had plucked him out of the same gutters he’d grown up in, just like he had several other members of his staff. He wouldn’t be where he was currently if the policemen who patrolled his neighborhood in Clerkenwell hadn’t given him a chance when he was young, so he was devoted to giving other young boys who showed potential a chance of their own.
“Take a break,” he told Smiley as he tossed the reports he’d been reading onto his desk then sat. “Fix yourself some tea.”
“Yes, sir,” Smiley bobbed and bowed.
“Then see if you can find me those conviction records I need,” Jack added with a wink.
“Anything, sir.” Smiley backed out of the room, nodding several times, as though Jack really were royalty.
The notion was ridiculous, and Jack chuckled to himself as he reached for his tea. He was the sow’s ear that couldn’t be made into a silk purse or anything closely resembling one. He was the son of God only knew who, born in an upscale brothel deep in the heart of a questionable neighborhood in northeast London. His mother had drunk herself to death when he was almost too young to remember her, but he had been raised with love by the other whores at Mrs. Farringdon’s. He credited every one of those magnificent ladies with instilling in him the work ethic that had helped him to rise, and for keeping him on the straight and narrow in a neighborhood where he was expected to end up on the opposite side of the law from where he was. All it had taken was one nightmarish evening watching a street gang break into Mrs. Farringdon’s to beat and rape the women he considered his mothers for him to dedicate his life to bringing those men to justice and protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.
“What’s this I hear about you demanding to see records of past convictions?” Martin Poole, his assistant, asked as he walked into the room.
Jack finished his sip of tea and put the mug down. “They’ve got to be in there somewhere.” Jack launched into business. “The men who attacked Lord O’Shea were professionals. Most of them have been in and out of jail for petty crimes and similar assaults.”
Poole shrugged and shook his head as he stopped by the corner of the desk. “So you know they’ve already been convicted. What good will rehashing all that do?”
Jack leaned back in his chair, its familiar creak an echo of the gears turning in his head. “We still don’t know the names of two of the attackers, including the ringleader. There’s a fair chance the ones we do know have worked with them in the past. They might have been tried and convicted with those men as well.” And they still didn’t have any firm connections between the attackers and Denbigh, though Jack knew there was one.
Poole grinned and sat on the edge of the desk. “Well, you’re in luck, because I’ve got a lead for you.”
Jack sat straight. He liked the triumphant gleam in his assistant’s eyes. He liked the man’s initiative. Martin Poole would have his job someday, that was certain. Someday soon, Jack hoped. He’d had his eyes on a promotion to Superintendent ever since he’d been made Chief Inspector. The only way he wanted to go was up, because up was the only place he would be able to be with Bianca.
“What do you know?” he asked, fighting off the wave of heat that shot through him at the smallest thought of Bianca. Work was not the time to indulge in the memory of the way her hand had felt around his cock or fantasies of all the ways he wanted to make love to her once they finally had the chance.
Poole’s grin widened. “You’ll like this. It’s right up your alley. Literally.”
“Go on.”
Poole stood and faced him like a schoolboy giving a report to the headmaster. “A certain Dick Brickman was in attendance at a rather raucous party thrown at Aphrodite’s Den last night.”
Jack’s chest tightened. Aphrodite’s Den was one of the more popular brothels in the same neighborhood as Mrs. Farringdon’s. He knew most of the girls who worked there as if they were cousins.
“Apparently, Brickman paid for the whole thing. After a copious amount of alcohol was consumed, Brickman’s tongue loosened and his pillow talk turned to bragging about the money he’d made on a job for a hoity-toity noble.”
Jack sat straighter. “Did he mention Denbigh?”
Poole’s confident expression faltered. “Not by name, but it’s likely Brickman is your man.”
The elation Jack felt at the idea propelled him straight out of his chair. “It’s got to be him,” he said as he rounded his desk. “Pull up whatever information we have on Brickman. I want to know his every move for the past several months, the past year.” He reached for his coat on the coatrack by his door and turned to Poole while he put it on. “Go back further than that. I want to know where he’s been for the past several years, what kind of mischief he’s been up to. I’ll head over to Aphrodite’s and—”
“Hold up just a moment, Craig.” The sonorous voice of Jack’s boss, Sir Edmund Henderson, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, stopped him before he could straighten his jacket. “You’re not going anywhere until we have a little chat.”
Jack took in the seriousness of Sir Edmund’s expression, the expensive cut of his suit, and the folded newspaper in his hands. Or rather, just the Society section of the newspaper. A deep wariness settled like a rock in Jack’s stomach. He turned to Poole and nodded.
Poole jumped toward the door, acknowledging Sir Edmund with respect, before dashing out into the hall. The rock in Jack’s gut grew heavier
as Sir Edmund closed the office door behind him and turned to Jack with a frown.
“Have you seen today’s paper?” he asked in a foreboding tone, presenting the folded newspaper.
Jack took it gingerly. “I don’t generally read the society pages,” he said, knowing his boss wouldn’t see that as any sort of excuse for what he would find there.
He shook open the paper and immediately spotted what Sir Edmund must have seen, probably because the paper had been folded in a way that drew his attention straight to the gossipy article.
“Lady Bianca Marlowe, sister of the Earl of Stanhope and step-daughter of the Marquess of Campbell, was seen yet again in the company of a certain Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard. While their meeting could very well have to do with official police business regarding the savage attack of Lord O’Shea this past summer, it is the opinion of this society-watcher that far more is afoot, since it appears the connection between the unlikely couple dates back several years. Is this what the flower of British womanhood has come to? Have the harpies of modernity corrupted our finest young ladies so irrevocably that they would consider middle-class policemen as likely suitors?”
Jack finished the article with clenched teeth, anger at the pettiness of those who thought they were better than the rest welling within him. He cleared his throat and handed the paper back to Sir Edmund without a word.
“I don’t need to tell you that the reputation of Scotland Yard requires its chief officers to be without moral reproach, do I?” Sir Edmund asked.
“No, sir,” Jack replied as evenly as he could. “But I did not expect you to put any stock in gossip.”
“Is it gossip?” Sir Edmund stared down his nose at Jack. The man had always respected him, but he hadn’t forgotten where Jack came from.
“Lady Bianca and I are friends,” Jack answered. “I’ve known her and her family for years, since her father-in-law called on me to assist in an investigation nearly five years ago.”
It’s Only a Scandal if You’re Caught Page 2