Scandalous Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novella
Read Scandalous Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novella Online
Authors: Christy Carlyle
Scandalous Wager
Copyright: Christy Carlyle
Published: January, 2014
Publisher: Entice Publishing
The right of Christy Carlyle to be identified as author of
this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted
without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book
in any format.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
ebook
may not be resold or given away to other people. If
you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it
and purchase your own copy.
Thank
you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at
www.christycarlyle.com
or @
writerchristy
.
London, September 1888
Whitechapel was different at night.
Elizabeth Ainsworth was used to spending her days surrounded by
the district’s noise and crowded bustle—the chorus of costermongers calling out
their offerings, rickety drays bearing their burdens across cobblestones, and
the chatter of bedraggled children that followed her, and every other passerby,
begging for a coin. But the night noises of raucous laughter, angry shouts, and
the music of a distant squeezebox weren't as familiar. Even the streets she was
accustomed to walking in London’s daylight haze felt foreign and unfamiliar in the
dark fog of night. Every aspect of the place stoked her anxiety.
The smells were much the same though, putrid but comfortingly
familiar. Over time Lizzy had grown used to the noxious combination of refuse
and horse manure that seemed to overflow half the gutters. Fog and smoke filled
the air most days, and when the sun did shine on the East End, it only
highlighted the layer of grime that coated the buildings and clothing of those
who inhabited the teeming streets. She never expected to emerge clean from a
visit to Whitechapel. As she preferred walking to any other form of transport,
her practical boots and the hem of her skirt always took the worst of it.
Her mother read the newspapers and believed criminals and ruffians
were all that was left in the crowded district. Lizzy was not blind to its
dangers, but she had been fortunate to meet mostly downtrodden, hardworking
people during her time as a teacher at the charity school on Rutland Street.
The young men and women who came to
Tregard
School,
or sent their children to attend, were hungry for knowledge and eager to
improve their lot in life.
Volunteering her time at the school was challenging, bone-wearying
work filled with long days spent on her feet and long weekends engaged in
marking work and planning for the coming week, but it made her feel useful. And
with a police inspector father and a mother who had served with Miss
Nightingale in the Crimea, how could they blame her for wishing to find purpose
in her own life? Now that she had found her niche, that purpose she sought,
nothing would deter her from it. She could not imagine an endeavor more
satisfying than teaching others to read or calculate sums and observing the joy
and confidence they found in achieving the skills.
As she continued walking, Lizzy lifted the collar of her cloak
higher, covering her bare neck against the crisp autumn air. She’d walked
Cannon Street a hundred times, in rain and sun and the thickest of fogs, to
seek out her father at the H Division police headquarters on Leman Street. But
now, on a nearly moonless night, she found it the darkest street she’d ever
traversed. The gaslights seemed to shed no light here, as if they’d never been
lit at all.
Fear chipped at Lizzy’s resolve, yet it wasn’t a fear of the night
or the crime-infested streets of the East End. It was fear of what he might say
when she asked him. Fear he would laugh in her face. And a shiver of dreadful
anticipation at the possibility he might agree to her scandalous bargain. The
thrum of need that thoughts of Inspector Ian Reed inspired kindled with every
step she took.
She couldn’t turn back and face a lifetime without passion. This
was her only choice.
He
was her only choice. Her only chance before she
succumbed to spinsterhood, gave in to it like some women capitulated to
loveless marriages. It was far better to be a spinster than a miserable wife.
And with her work to keep her busy, she was certain she would not miss the
companionship of a husband. It was only the thought of a lifetime without
passion, the notion of never experiencing it even once, which had given her the
courage to sneak out of her father’s house this night and seek the man she
desired.
If she could have one night of passion with Ian Reed and still
maintain her independence, she would be luckier than any betrothed miss. Did
not some of her suffragist friends eschew marriage altogether? After leaving
their fathers’ homes, they argued, why invite another man to control their
comings and goings, to relegate them to household duties and prevent them from
being useful to society at large.
None imagined having both—a husband and a useful purpose
outside of the home. Lizzy was not certain it was possible either. Her own
mother had given up her nursing work shortly after Lizzy’s birth and later,
when Sara came along, there was no question of her continuing on at the
infirmary. Mama seemed to find contentment in the roles of wife and mother, but
Lizzy could not imagine being satisfied with such a fate. She could not imagine
a life without her work.
She was close now. His rooms were just off
Wellclose
Square, not far from police headquarters. Her father often remarked on Reed’s
practical choice of living so close to the station. Reliable, he called him,
and hungry for advancement. Her father admired Inspector Reed’s ambition, and
she’d often heard him say that Reed would rise quickly up the ranks at the
Metropolitan Police. He had been a favorite of her father’s from the moment
he’d joined the CID in Whitechapel.
Lizzy thought back to the first moment she’d seen Detective
Inspector Reed. Her father had brought him home to dine with the family. Papa
had brought home other young men, promising police officers or freshly minted
detectives who might make a good match for Sara. Lizzy knew they weren’t
invited for her sake. She could never catch a man’s eye when her sister Sara
was in the room, and at four and twenty she was well past what most men
considered a favorable age for a wife. And, really, she was content to believe
marriage was not her fate.
So she watched the parade of hopeful young men that graced their
dining room table and smoked a pipe afterwards with her father with minimal
interest and all the detachment she could muster. Though kind, well-scrubbed,
and faultlessly polite, none of them were for her. Their gaze lit only a moment
on her plain brown hair and eyes before fixing themselves on the golden-haired,
blue-eyed beauty of Sara. Sara was marriageable and possessed all the
attractions men desired. Unfortunately, Sara was as picky as Lizzy was plain,
and none captured her attention as she did theirs. None had truly captured
Lizzy’s attention either until the night her father introduced them to
Inspector Ian Reed.
His dark beauty literally stole her breath away and she’d ducked
out of the drawing room to cough and choke and attempt to tame her stampeding
heart. Foolish, ridiculous feelings assailed her. Her mind raced and her body
throbbed with an ache she’d never felt before. Panic struck too. She was no Sara.
There was nothing about her that would set a man swooning or cause him to fancy
her. She could not draw, embroider, or even carry on a polite conversation. Her
tendency to mention politics always raised eyebrows or resulted in glares from
her mother or father, letting her know she had overstepped the invisible
boundary between charming young woman and bluestocking.
She would never have her pick of this man or that. But Lizzy had
never wanted this man or that. Only Ian Reed sparked wild emotions in her.
She’d peeked around the drawing room doorway and spied him firmly
ensconced between her mother and sister on the settee. Papa was holding court,
telling some story about Inspector Reed’s valiant work while sparing himself
none of the glory. The way he told it, he had pulled the man out of obscurity
and turned him into the most promising detective Scotland Yard had ever seen.
Reed sat quietly and humbly accepted Papa’s profuse praise. Yet he
also appeared slightly embarrassed and a bit lost, as if he’d been dropped into
their company unexpectedly. He took regular sips of the cordial Papa had
offered, and Lizzy enjoyed watching the movement of his mouth against the glass
and the way he sometimes licked his bow-shaped upper lip after swallowing a bit
of the concoction.
Then he looked up and saw her there, listening furtively, lurking
around the corner as if she didn’t belong. His eyes were so dark. For a moment
she thought them black, but then the fireplace kicked up, brightening the room,
and she noticed a hint of amber in their depths. His brows and lashes were dark
and stood out in striking contrast against his pale skin. He wore his hair
long, as detectives were allowed to do. It curled at the ends and curved in
shiny black waves around his face. His clothes were neat and well cut, nearly
as well tailored and fine as her father’s best.
And his
mouth.
She could not look at his mouth—his wickedly full, perfectly
shaped lips—without licking her own. As she stared at his mouth, burning to
know how it would feel against hers, against parts of her body no man had ever
seen, it curved upward into a grin.
He’d caught her staring. Her gaze shot up to his eyes and she
found he still watched her. His gaze burned into her, melting her. Damp heat
pooled between her thighs. Though separated by the space of the Ainsworth
drawing room, it was as if they drew near each other, suspended between her
father’s drone and Sara’s silly giggles.
Her mother broke the spell, calling Lizzy’s name and insisting she
join them, entertain them. It was a tried and true ritual when the
Ainsworths
had guests. Lizzy played the piano and Sara
accompanied with her sweet, high voice.
Lizzy agreed. How could she do otherwise? She’d
strode
toward the piano, crossing near Ian Reed, much closer than was necessary. His
gaze was still on her. She felt it like the lightest touch against her skin.
Sitting at the piano, waiting for Sara to take her place, Lizzy looked back at
him.
He’d lost interest in her. He was watching Sara as she practiced
scales and prepared to sing.
Then an extraordinary thing happened. Sara, always so sure in her
notes, soaring higher than a human voice should, lost her pitch. She sounded
out a squeak and then a deep, low octave warble, as if she was singing round a
mouthful of wool.
When Lizzy looked up to see about Sara, she caught him smiling. It
was only a flash of straight, white teeth, but it transformed his face,
maintaining all of the night-dark beauty and adding a hint of boyishness.
What if she saw that same smile this night, laughing at her
ridiculous request, just as he’d found amusement in her sister’s poor singing?
She rapped on the door of his lodging. She half expected a
landlady to open and turn her away. Most landlords did not allow their single
gentlemen to have women callers. But there was no landlady.
The door creaked open and Ian Reed stood before her, just a
hairsbreadth away, smelling of soap and clean linen, his black hair slightly
damp and his skin smooth and freshly shaven.
She didn’t get a word out before she heard her name on his lips
and felt his warm breath against her face.
“Miss Ainsworth.”
His tone belied shock and disbelief at her presence on his
doorstep so late at night. No proper woman would be at his door at this hour.
He ushered her in, closed the door behind them, and slid the lock in place.
“Is your father unwell?”
It was natural he would think her visit related to her father. It
was the only connection between them. Except for her inability to keep Ian Reed
from her thoughts.
“My father is well, Inspector Reed. Thank you.”
His rooms were small—just two rooms separated by a doorframe
without a door. A suit lay on his bed, a brush discarded beside it. She had
interrupted his household chores. Sparsely furnished, the room’s only true
adornment was his collection of books, some in a neat row on a shelf, others
stacked on a wooden chair, and two lying on a small table near his bed. His
love of books and literature, his intelligence and voracious curiosity, had
become clear during his visits to Lizzy’s home. She also loved to read, and it
pleased her to see that books were all the decoration his rooms required.
But the room’s simplicity only highlighted the scandalous nature
of her visit. Here was a man doing his nightly duties, snug in his cozy rooms
surrounded by works of literature and tomes of knowledge, and she was going to
ask him to spend his time on sin.
“Please sit, Miss Ainsworth.”
Lizzy lowered herself into the straight-backed chair he indicated.
“Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to have one
myself.”
He tidied as he made his way across the tiny room, hanging his
suit on a hook near the bed and placing the brush in a drawer.
“Yes, thank you, Inspector Reed. I would—”
Her thoughts scattered as she watched him pour steaming water from
a kettle into a chipped white teapot. He reached for two cups from a high
shelf. As his shirt pulled tight, she savored the outline of his muscular body
beneath the cloth. Even in his overcoat or the suits he wore on visits to her
home, it was easy to suspect he possessed a fine physique, but she had never
before been afforded such splendid evidence.
“Ian.” She hadn’t meant to speak his name aloud. It came out in a
throaty whisper as she tested it on her lips, savoring it on her tongue.
His black head snapped around and he shot a look straight at her
mouth. Shifting her gaze to his eyes, she fancied she could hear his heartbeat
but then realized it was her own, thundering in her ears.