He’d not even had to mention that her Sunday best wouldn’t do for a parish in Whitechapel. She’d emerged from her room wearing a gold and green striped high-necked morning gown that might have been the simplest in her trousseau. Her hair was pulled back into an uncomplicated braided knot and her hat and veil were suitably staid. Still she was the most superbly dressed woman in the congregation.
And the most desirable.
The sermon had nothing to do with the pleasures of the flesh, or the sins of seduction. Indeed, it was a rather sedate ecclesiastical exploration of personal generosity that’d set his libido to humming like the ceaseless vibrations of bumblebee wings. Not overshadowing things per se, but always there on the periphery, waiting to strike at the most inopportune time.
Perhaps that word, generosity, was the impetus for decidedly less room in his trousers.
If the last couple of days had taught him anything, it was that he’d a generous wife. One with a generous mouth, generous curves, and an adventurous spirit. Her appetite for food had returned with a surge and, along with it, other appetites demanded to be indulged.
He had only to reach for her and she was there, her arms winding around him with a tempting smile. She read his need like a sage, intuiting if he felt wild or languorous, deviant or tender. She denied him nothing and brought ideas of her own to their lovemaking that both astonished and thrilled him.
He looked over to where her gloved hands were folded primly in her lap over the placid tones of her skirt.
Last night those hands had been miraculously wicked. She’d insisted upon undressing him in the lamplight of her chamber. Purred with appreciation as she explored every inch of his skin with her elegant, wandering fingers. Her rather innocent delight gave way to illicit desire, and by the time she’d made her way below his waist he’d been nothing but a cauldron of boiling lust, his nerves in absolute anarchy. She’d requested to stroke him to completion, as she was curious about the male sexual experience and couldn’t concentrate on it when she was also being pleasured.
A request he would have been an imbecile to deny.
He’d returned the favor, of course, his sense of gratitude and chivalry not allowing him to stop until she’d shuddered with exhaustion and begged him for mercy.
God, how he’d enjoyed their play, but he hadn’t actually been inside her last night.
He missed her.
He’d missed her when he’d left her bed to prowl her father’s warehouses at the docks. He’d missed her when he’d fallen into his own bed after only removing his jacket and shoes.
He missed her now, even as she sat next to him, her arm rubbing his occasionally, creating sparks between them he was surprised other parishioners couldn’t see.
This was what he’d feared all along.
Attachment. Sentiment. Bloody befuddlement.
Before he’d discovered the truth.
As the organ played the closing hymn and her clear, sweet voice mingled with that of the congregation, Morley sat quietly, chewing on his thoughts. Pondering his misgivings rather than any forms of grace.
At first, when he’d thought her a weakness simply because his body responded to her, the situation still seemed somehow manageable. Now, he didn’t just want her.
He…liked her. Dash it all.
As they stood in the back of the line waiting to file out of the church, she slipped her arm through his and tilted her head to gift him with a winsome smile.
She was like a spring garden against the grey stone. Vibrant and lush. Full of sunlight and sometimes rain. Always inviting, shamelessly flaunting her blossoming beauty, tempting him with pink petals of—
Goddamn and blast, could he not think about her naked for two bloody minutes?
Catching his scowl, she tugged at his arm and said, “Don’t let’s be grumpy, it’s too beautiful a day.”
“I’m not grumpy,” he argued, grimacing at the ironic note of irritation in his voice.
“Hungry, then? I know I’m famished.” She pressed a glove to her stomach, a gesture becoming more familiar the further along she became.
He wasn’t particularly hungry, not for food, at any rate. But it suddenly became imperative that he provide her sustenance.
Over the past fortnight, his cook had given up on satisfying Prudence’s increasingly obscure gastronomic whims. Which was just as well because his wife, being of the upper classes, had never much had the opportunity to sample London’s culinary delights. Ladies were not allowed by some ballocks code of superior conduct to eat in public houses or dine at restaurants or clubs.
The working class, however, rarely shared such compunctions.
Morley found himself often hurrying home from Scotland Yard at the day’s end, eager to garner a report of just what madcap craving would decide their supper. As soon as his carriage pulled into the mews, she’d sweep out in her pelisse and hat, and announce something like, “Your child is demanding salt. And onions, I think. Just mouthfuls of flavor and sauce.”
“Onions, you say?”
“Mmhmm.” She’d nodded rapturously. “And cracking large chunks of succulent meat.”
“My child is an unapologetic carnivore?” he’d asked with a lifted brow.
She’d cocked her head and looked up to the side as if listening, before revealing. “Undetermined…I believe that last requirement is all mine.”
That conversation had prompted him to drive her to Manwaring Street, where East Indian bazaars and spice markets magically unfurled with the dawn alongside eateries serving flavorful curries and savory meats and cheeses roasted in tandoori ovens.
They’d eaten with their hands, sprawled on cushions like ancient royalty whilst tucked away in a quarter of a city where they might have been any avant-garde couple. After, she’d insisted upon a constitutional back through the evening market where she’d purchased a pair of earrings and wildly impractical shoes.
The next night had called for cabbage and fish of all things, so he’d introduced her to Russian cuisine. The night after that, she’d given the rather innocuous request for lamb, however the precedent had been set. Morley had whisked her to a Greek establishment where lively men had danced to rousing music, delighting her to no end.
It alarmed him how much enjoyment he gleaned from these outings of theirs. How, for entire hours, he’d forget everything that threatened their future happiness and lose himself in nothing more extraordinary than a conversation.
His wife held little in the way of personal prejudices and was endlessly curious about, and appreciative of, the traditions and people he introduced her to. She’d a rare gift for observation, carefully and cannily picking out the subtleties and nuances of culture whilst doing her best to not offend. She never remarked upon the perceived class of the neighborhoods to which he’d taken her, nor did she make anyone she met feel like less than the most interesting person with which she’d ever held a conversation.
All of her attention was absorbed by whomever was speaking, and he noticed she’d the kind and genuine way about her that garnered them little extras of gratitude wherever they went.
It was why he’d dared to bring her to St. Dismas. Because this was the floor upon which he and Caroline had often slept in the winter. In the borough that’d whelped him and abandoned him.
He’d not been to the parish since before his wedding, and he knew Vicar Applewhite would be bereft he’d not been invited to the wedding.
They’d almost made their way down the aisle as the old blind priest stopped to bid every family a personal farewell, and to cover his anxiety, Morley leaned down to ask Prudence, “What does the little fiend crave for luncheon, I wonder?”
She made a pensive sound. “Do you remember three days ago when we sampled those sautéed Chinese noodles?” She swallowed before continuing, and he’d the notion she’d salivated.
“I do.”
“Something like that, but not exactly that.”
Instead of clarifying, he allowed her
to work through the conundrum, having learned that she’d arrive at a specific flavor and texture eventually, and his job would then be to provide it.
“Butter,” she finally announced. “There must be butter. And… maybe cheese.”
“Pasta?”
Her mouth fell open and her eyes twinkled like sunlight on the South Sea. “Pasta,” she breathed. “Ingenious suggestion.”
“Angelo’s on the Strand, it is,” he decided, realizing that his own stomach grumbled emptily at the thought. “Francesco serves this white wine and butter dish with garlic and scallions—”
She grasped his arm with undue dramatics. “Cease tormenting me or I’ll expire before we arrive.”
He adopted a sly, teasing smile. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about the fresh loaves of—”
“Morley?” Vicar Applewhite turned his face in their direction, the tufts of his hair sticking out in a riot of copper-grey as his grin unfurled a gather of teeth yellowed with age. “Morley, my boy, that you?”
Morley took the blindly offered hand and pressed an envelope into it. “Vicar,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late this month. There’s extra in there. Just have Thomas count it out and he can take some home to Lettie and Harry, as I know they’ve likely covered expenses in my absence.”
“You know them well.” The envelope disappeared into voluminous robes with the swiftness that bordered on sleight of hand. “I’m sure you had good reason and…well, you’re not beholden to our upkeep.”
“You know I am,” Morley murmured, very aware of how still his wife had become as she watched the exchange with interest. “But I do have reason. I’d like to introduce you to…my wife, Prudence Morley.”
Out of sheer habit, she curtsied to the blind man. “How do you do, Vicar Applewhite? I was very moved by your words today.”
The Vicar’s features lit with an almost childlike radiance of unadulterated glee. “Oh my God! My happy day! I’ve had many prayers go unheeded, Lady Morley, and I’d given up on this rascal hitching himself to anyone ages ago.” Before she could reply, he turned back to Carlton. “I heard we’d a new voice in the congregation. Like that of an angel. Pure and sweet and good. What a blessing. What a blessing! Praise be.”
Disconcerted and embarrassed by the man’s effusive emotion, Morley pressed his cold hand to the back of his heating neck. It’d become concerningly evident to him that his marital status—or lack thereof—had been more disturbing to those in his sphere than he’d ever have guessed. And among those who claimed to care for him, they unanimously approved of his selection of spouse.
“We’d stay and visit…” he began uncomfortably.
“No, no, I’ve tea with the Brintons as soon as they call around to collect me, but you must visit soon. You must tell me everything.” He turned to Prudence, both hands reaching for her.
She took them in her gloved fingers, squeezing fondly as if they’d known each other for a lifetime.
“There always seems to be plenty of demons in this world of ours. And not enough angels. I’m glad our Cutter’s found his own.”
Morley excused them and hurried her to the main thoroughfare, hoping she’d not caught the old man’s slip of the tongue. He hired them a hackney, as he rarely brought his own carriage to this part of the city, and lifted her in, instructing the driver to deposit them at Angelo’s.
She swayed silently on the overwrought springs of the cab as she subjected him to a thorough study before saying, “My sisters and I were raised by borderline zealots, as evidenced by our virtuous names. However, I wouldn’t have thought you a religious man.”
He looked out of the window at their dismal surroundings, hardening his heart against every over-thin waif or shifty-eyed reprobate. “I don’t know that I am,” he said honestly. “But others believe with such confounding fervency, don’t they? I attend to observe them, I think. To learn what they love. Or what they fear. To watch the rapture on their faces and wonder what it must be like. To believe in something so vast. So absolute. To trust…” He broke off for a moment, returning his entire attentions on her. “To trust…in anything.”
He found no condemnation in her, but an infinite sadness. “You do not go there to find grace? To find God?”
He made a caustic noise. “I’ve never understood the words. But, I think, I go there in case He might find me. If I’m standing in the right place. Maybe an answer to all this madness will fall on my head.” He gestured to the city and the world beyond it.
To his surprise, a laugh bubbled from her, warming the moment. “Considering how much sinning we’ve been doing lately, you might do to fear a bolt of lightning instead.”
In spite of himself, he chuckled along with her. “I’m not familiar with all credences and commandments but I’m fairly certain we’ve not been sinning since we married.”
“I don’t know,” she said from beneath coy lashes. “It feels rather wicked to me.”
If this had been his coach, he’d have gathered her to him and shown her the meaning of the word wicked.
“St. Dismas.” She tested the name. “The penitent thief.”
He shifted in his seat.
Smoothing at her skirts, she smiled to herself. “I confess I’d initially assumed you took me to this church so no one would recognize us, but now…I think I understand.”
He shook his head, wishing he’d never taken her there at all. What had he been thinking? That he’d wanted to reveal the part of himself he blamed for her debauchment? Had he wanted to see if she’d hold a handkerchief to shield her nose against the stench of the wells and pumps he used to draw his drinking water from? If she’d shy away from the hard-working class and earnest people that lived in poverty alongside the criminal element?
If so, it was an unfair test. Although, one she’d passed with perfect marks.
“There’s nothing to understand,” he informed her with as much dispassion as he could. “I attend St. Dismas monthly. I’m their patron, you see. Applewhite shelters and tends to many of the hungry and naked children in this part of the city. One of the few true Christians I’ve ever known. I finance his mission to take some of Whitechapel’s unwanted boys and help them find a direction. A trade. A means of survival.”
“Because—”
“Because crime and violence are born of poverty and cruelty,” he explained. “The more means a man has to provide survival for himself and his kin, the less likely he is to succumb to vice or villainy.”
“And because the Vicar once did the same for you?” Her gaze, as her assessment, was frank and open, and Morley wanted to shrink from it.
This was what he’d come here to tell her. Whom he’d come to introduce her to.
So why now did he hesitate?
Because he’d always had the upper hand in this relationship, he realized. It wasn’t comfortable to give her something she could wield against him.
Across from him, the daylight slanted into slick iridescent blues glimmering from the absolute darkness of her hair. “You told me once that you’d grown up with the accent you used as the Knight of Shadows,” she said. “The same accent the Vicar has, and everyone here.”
“So I did.”
“Farah mentioned you had secrets…and the Vicar, he called you Cutter.”
His heart erupted into chaos as he watched her braid the strings of his past together without him saying a word.
“Is that your name? Cutter. Are you the penitent thief?”
He retreated back toward the window, watching as the years fell away between that time and this. A blond boy stood on a corner with his black-haired friend, assessing which pockets would be full. Which punters would be easily fleeced.
“It’s who I was,” he admitted reluctantly, staring into the hard, hard eyes of that boy in his past. Eyes that’d seen nothing but oppression and desperation, set into a face that only knew the touch of another human being as a quick box to the ears or a heavy punch to the face. A body thinned with ever-present hung
er and strengthened by hardship and labor.
Deadeye.
“I was a pickpocket and thief bound for a prison cell until one night…” He hesitated as the boy on the street corner lifted his finger to his cracked lips to hush him.
Don’t tell her. Don’t trust her.
But…what if she could understand where he’d come from? What he’d lost.
What he’d done.
What if his admission repulsed and terrified her? What if she told? She’d have the final secret. One that could rip his entire life to shreds and dump him right back into the gutter.
If he didn’t hang for it.
“One night…the Vicar took me in and gave me a place to stay when I had none,” he explained lamely, vaulting over the most important parts. “He was the one who nudged me to reinvent myself through documents I’d receive when joining Her Majesty’s Regiment. And upon my return from war, he handed me the paper wherein there was an advertisement for men of my physical build and prowess to wear the uniform of the London Metropolitan Police.” He sent her what he hoped was an unconvincing smile. “The rest, as they say, is history.”
“That was truly wonderful of him,” she murmured, extrapolating what she could from his vague memoir. “And so you repay him for his kindness with a monthly stipend?”
Morley seized upon the opportunity to distract her from the entire conversation.
“I give him the entirety of my salary as Chief Inspector,” he revealed.
She visibly blanched, her mouth falling open as she gaped at him as if he’d ripped off his skin to reveal a demon. “But…but…how do you…?” Good breeding caused her to shy away from conversations about money. To know a man’s work, even one’s husband, might be considered vulgar. He pinpointed the moment she made peace with that vulgarity.
“I always wondered how you, even on a Chief Inspector’s salary, could afford such a lofty address,” she said. “Even my father has mentioned his government pay wouldn’t cover food for our horses, let alone our houses. He’s always implied our money comes from his land and shipping company.”
A Dark and Stormy Knight Page 17