Her Husband's Harlot (34 page)

"Sleep,
my love," he said. "We will talk in the morning."

Helena
opened her eyes. In the dim light, she blinked at the
brocaded bed hangings for several moments before she recognized her own bed
chamber. She had no idea what time of day it was. Her slumber must have been
deep, all consuming, because her mind seemed to be having a difficult time
adjusting to wakefulness. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Oh, the dreams she
had had—such vivid, aching dreams ... She turned her head on the pillow.

A
single red rose lay on the table next to her bed. Beneath it was a letter,
addressed to her in her husband's untidy scrawl. Heart thudding, she sat up and
reached for it. Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. Six lines instead of
three this time. The first sentence began, "
An Ode to My Wife's
—"

Helena's
eyes widened at the bawdy verse; she felt her cheeks flame, even as warmth
seeped elsewhere. She gave a choked laugh. The man wasn't going to win any
literary accolades, that much was certain. But, Lud, he did have a wicked sense
of humor and the most amazing hands ...  Flopping backward onto the pillows, she
gazed dreamily up again at the canopy of swirling golden flowers.

Last
night at Vauxhall, Nicholas' loving had been selfless, tender beyond words. He
had coaxed pleasure from every nook, every cranny, and asked for nothing in
exchange. She had been so caught up in the maelstrom of sensations that she had
not given thought to how she might return the favor in kind. Truth be told, she
had experienced no thoughts at all—just a rapture that melted her bones like
butter on fresh baked bread.

Their
lovemaking had been rather one-sided, but she would be sure to see that
oversight remedied as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, she wondered where
Nicholas might be at this moment. She yawned. What time was it, anyway? Sitting
up again, she reached for the bell pull.

The
chamber maid appeared straightaway, as if she had been waiting for the summons.
Bobbing a curtsy, she set a tray down by the bed. "Good afternoon, milady."

"Afternoon?"
Helena asked. "What time is it, Mary?"

"'Tis
half-pas' two, milady. You slept yourself a sound one las' night." Mary
drew open the curtains, and a colorless afternoon light filled the room. "'Is
lordship says you was not to be disturbed."

"Where
is my husband?"

"'E
left wif the crack o' dawn this mornin'. Business, 'e said. I o'erheard Mr.
Crikstaff remind 'im o' the ball this evenin'. 'Is lordship said 'e'd meet you
there."

Lord
and Lady Hayfield's ball, Helena remembered. She had not been enthused at the
prospect, but with Nicholas as an escort the event suddenly sounded divine. A
perfect start to the rest of her marriage. Smiling, she sipped on the cup of
chocolate and nibbled on a pastry as Mary lit the grate. Bessie entered
carrying linens and clothing.

"Good
afternoon, my lady," Bessie said. "Ready for your bath?"

Helena
soon found herself relaxing in hot vanilla and citrus scented suds. As Bessie
massaged soap into her hair, Helena rested her head against the towel draped
over the edge of the tub. Cooling slices of cucumber covered her eyes, and
water lapped against her shoulders in a lulling tide. She drifted into another
world. A world full of colorful dancers, whirling round and round. She was
standing on the edge of the dance floor looking on. When the music stopped, the
dancers parted into two lines, one on either side of her.

Nicholas
stood at the opposite end.

Impeccable,
gorgeous, his presence dwarfed the dance floor. He strode between the lines of
dancers toward her, the soles of his polished Hessians slapping against the
floor. When he stopped in front of her, she could hardly breathe, so fierce was
the possessiveness in his gaze.

"May
I have this dance?"

It
was not really a question. The moment she went into his arms the room faded.
She did not know how long they danced, five minutes or an eternity, for she lost
count of time. The only beating was that of her heart and his as they moved
together in perfect unison. They did not speak, and such was the flawlessness
of the moment that they did not need to. For once, she could read his thoughts,
and he, hers.

They danced
through an open door. The room was a blur of red and gold as he spun her around.
They came to a halt against a desk, her thighs backing into the wooden edge.
With fearless joy, she pulled his head down and kissed him. Open mouthed, her
tongue mating with his. She could feel his desire for her, and it fanned her
own. Tugging free the hem of his shirt, she ran her palms beneath the linen, along
the contoured planes of his chest and the jutting ridges of his abdomen. How
strong he was, how she savored the contrast between the iron muscles and wiry
hair.

He
encouraged her explorations with harsh breathing and guttural sounds torn from
the back of his throat. Emboldened, she went to her knees so that she was eye
level with the top of his trousers. One by one, she freed the buttons along the
hidden placket, watching his face as she did so. His eyes were half-lidded, his
mouth taut with anticipation as she exposed his manly flesh. He was built like
the statue of the satyr, long, thick, and hard as marble.

Groaning,
he pushed himself into her hands. She began to pump him, the delicious friction
heating her palms. His hips moved faster and faster, and beneath her skirts her
pussy dampened and clenched in shared excitement. She loved him this way, when
he abandoned himself to savage pleasure. When he surged heavily, shouting out, she
was saturated with infinite satisfaction.

She
stood, words of love trembling upon her lips.

His
face was relaxed, his eyes searching. He reached out a finger to touch her
cheek. To her shock, she felt not the warmth of his touch, but the press of
velvet against her skin.

He
was looking at her, but seeing the mask.

"Who
are you,
mademoiselle
?"

Helena
came to with a start, her heart pounding. Water sloshed around her in the tub.
Steam clouded the bathing room. Bessie was humming a low melody as she arranged
a dressing gown on a hanger. She turned when she heard Helena sitting up.

"You
fell asleep, my lady," Bessie said. "It must have been quite an event
last night."

The
maid clucked her tongue as she brought over a towel.

"And
a grand ball in but a few hours. You had best keep your strength up, my lady.
Who knows what excitement tonight will bring?"

*****

Nicholas
was no stranger to death. One could not come up in the rookery without witnessing
the mortal end. Yet, in all the times he had encountered death, it had been an
oddly vital thing. Dying had been fresh, drawn with blooms of scarlet and newly
stilled flesh. Its horrors paled in comparison to this, the death of decay.
This death was old, cased in bloated blue skin and crusted in violet-black. The
once familiar face was now shreds of rotted skin and gutted eye sockets, the
refuse of rats come and gone. Buzzing over the straw pallet, the flies provided
the only shroud.

The
room in the bowels of the flash house was ill-ventilated and the size of a
linen closet. Upon receiving Kent's missive this morning, Nicholas had come
immediately to the decrepit wood structure deep in the heart of the rookery.
Kent's man Caster had led him inside and down the narrow, twisting passageway
below the main floor. Here, the ceiling hung low, and the walls were cracked
and blotched with yellow. The smell was that of a butcher's shop, several days
past cleaning. Nicholas bit back a surge of nausea.

Kent
looked up from his crouching position next to the body. "Are you certain
you wish to be present, my lord? Perhaps you would care to wait outside in the
carriage."

"How
long has he been this way?" Nicholas said.

"Two
days, mayhap three," Kent said. "The body has passed the initial stage
of stiffness."

"And
the cause of death?"

"Different
for each of the victims, if they can be called that. Bragg here appears to have
bled out from the knife wound in the gut. There is no excessive blood spill in
the room, so I would guess he received the injury in a pub brawl or some other
dispute and dragged himself here to die. My men are searching above stairs for
signs of an altercation."

"That
will be like searching for flies in a rubbish heap," Nicholas said dryly. He
gestured to the second body at the back of the room. "And this one?"

"Ah,
yes, our second victim." Kent rose and took the few steps over. The corpse
lay on its back, the lone object on the dirt floor. It was difficult to see
anything aside from the blackened flesh. The face had been entirely burned, its
features obliterated by fire. The only spot of color were the tufts of hair,
singed at the roots but blooming into ginger-colored tips.

"Now
this one was definitely done here," the police man said. With his boot, he
nudged the side of the body. Nicholas could see the large dark stain soaked
into the earth. "Given how charred the corpse was, I had Dr. Farraday take
a look. In the good doctor's opinion, this man was dead several days before
Bragg and killed prior to being burned. Notice the laceration along the neck? Made
by the blade we found in Bragg's boot."

Nicholas
felt a sickening pity. "Gordon?"

"Likely
so, given the hair color and the fact that he had gone missing around the same
time. Poor fellow had his throat cut before being set aflame. Not a pleasant
way to die, I would imagine. A brutal end to a brutal life."

"But
why burn a body after he's dead?"

"Why
do some murderers kill with poison, others with a blade, and yet others with a
pistol?" Kent shrugged. "There is meaning in the act of killing that
we cannot understand. Passion or hatred can render a man's actions
inexplicable."

"And
the motive?" Nicholas asked quietly.

"Love
or money, usually. In this case, given there was no love lost between the
stepbrothers, I would wager money was the culprit. But you need not take my
word upon it, my lord. Come this way, if you please."

Nicholas
followed Kent, taking cue from the taller man to duck his head under the low beam
as he exited. He felt relief at leaving the cramped space, though the hallway
was narrow and smelled of vomit. Kent turned right and stopped in front of a
door sealed with a padlock and chains. He withdrew a heavy key from his pocket.

"Found
it on Bragg," he said by way of explanation.

After
the chain clanked to the ground, Kent pushed open the door.

"Ah,"
Nicholas said.

This
room was more spacious than the previous, though just as cramped. Crates and
sacks piled upon each other floor to ceiling. Nicholas examined the nearest
barrel; he ran a finger over the familiar black stamp of Fines and Company.

"A
fine rum, that one," he said.

"Spirits,
tobacco, sugar, tea—there's a veritable trove inside this room. Of course, 'tis
but a fraction of what has been pilfered, but it will serve as evidence. From
what I have gathered of the inventory, Bragg was an equal opportunity thief.
Yours is not the only company represented—there's Milligan, Hottswald, Pendergrast
to name a few."

"So
you believe Bragg masterminded this whole scheme?" Nicholas still found
the notion difficult to believe, although the proof loomed in incontrovertible
stacks before him.

"He
had help. We found on his person a ledger containing names of men to whom he
paid weekly wages. My men are investigating those names as we speak.
Apparently, Bragg had his employees infiltrate all the companies along the
docks. Once they were in, the rest was easy enough."

"All
it required was one good idea on Bragg's part," Nicholas murmured. "Yes,
I suppose that is possible, even of him. But what of Gordon? Why did Bragg kill
him?"

"Gordon
is listed on the ledger. Bragg sent him to work for you. I believe all went
well for awhile, and then Gordon lost nerve. I questioned his mistress at the
brothel again. She claims that prior to the night your warehouse was ransacked,
Gordon had been rambling on about having enough and wanting out."

"So
he went to his stepbrother and asked to be released from his duties,"
Nicholas said slowly.

"Yes,
but he was relieved of much more." Kent's lips twisted. "He paid for
that moment of conscience with his life."

They
stood silently for a moment.

"I
have something else, my lord." His light eyes darting around to ensure
they had privacy, Kent withdrew a slip of crinkled parchment. "I found
this on Bragg. I suppose he was preparing to exact his payment."

Nicholas
looked down at the familiar looped ink.
Five thousand pounds or your secret
is out.
He crumpled the note in his fist.

"The
night you were shot, the only man you saw was Bragg. Perhaps he altered his
voice. Perhaps your injury distorted your senses," Kent said. "We found a pistol in the other room. It appears to have been recently discharged."