She wanted to make the most of it. “I shall see about gathering more information on the note,” she told him. “In the meantime . . .”
But when she leaned forward to kiss him, Richard stopped her. “Wait. I had something to say to you about Kendal.” His grip on her shoulders tightened. “Don’t be alone with him if you can help it.”
Anne froze.
There won’t be any servants to save you from my bed.
The memory of Kendal’s hands came once more, unbidden. Unwanted. How emotionless he was about it, as if she were but something he had bought at auction, there for his inspection.
Take off your clothes.
Anne flinched, drawing in a sharp breath. You’re safe. You’re safe now.
“Anne?” Richard asked softly. “Has he—”
“He came by, yes.” She spoke carefully, her tongue nearly tripping over the tremor in her voice. “The servants were able to help me.”
“Jesus.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “It kills me to leave you here. Do you understand that? Anne?”
“Yes. I do.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, not when he looked as if he were pleading with her. But no, she had to stay. Until she uncovered her father’s secrets, she had to stay. “Please, just . . . tell me what you’ve found.”
His jaw tightened, and she knew he was holding back his anger. She appreciated that restraint — and his trust. He wasn’t the type to control her, even when he wanted to protect her most. “I’m still looking into a few things. Have you ever visited his estate? Or his London house?”
“The London house a few times, and I visited his estate once with my father.”
“Were there any children at either place?”
“Not that I recall.” She thought back. “The silence was disconcerting. Kendal maintains a loyal skeleton staff for his privacy, but I remember thinking it odd that I couldn’t hear anyone moving about at either place. When I remarked on it to my father, he said it was a fine thing. That staff should not be heard while they went about their duties.” She could hardly stop the disgust from entering her voice. “Why do you ask about children?”
“I managed to get a name out of St. Vincent. One of Thorne’s men tracked the connection down, and it seems Kendal has adopted a number of children from orphanages in the East End. Discreetly, of course. He hires a man named Malloy to collect them from the rookeries. Children who wouldn’t be missed if they were never seen again.” Richard cupped her cheek. “Anne . . . what I find may not end well for your father. Are you prepared for that?”
Anne shook her head. “No. But I have to be.”
Richard pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart.”
Her thoughts swirled in a complicated cacophony of emotions and longing. Perhaps she was a fool for wishing that her father had shown her any kindness at all. What would her life be like if he had any regard for her as a daughter? How different would she be?
But no, these were questions that better belonged in fiction. The truth was harsh: her father did not love her. He had sold her. She was but an instrument, there to be used as he wished. Anne often wondered if his quest for money and power had rendered Stanton Sheffield incapable of love at all.
Yes, it was better to discard such hypotheticals. When the time came for Stanton to be punished for his crimes, Anne did not wish to think on sentimental ideas that had no basis in her reality.
Here was the more apt notion, based on her present: a future without Richard. One in which she married a duke who loathed her and remained some tool for her father’s convenience. Hard to swallow, but that was more real than some saccharine fantasy in which her father loved her.
After all, he never had.
As if understanding her inner turmoil, Richard stroked along her spine. He whispered soft words of comfort. For she was no instrument to this man. She was a woman, and she was his equal, and he treated her as such. He trusted her. He taught her to trust. Her future with him was worth everything.
Anne held him close. Their time was so limited. He was hers for these few hours before the sun came up over the city. She would not waste these precious moments with thoughts of her father, or Kendal, or some hypothetical future.
Here was what mattered: this man. Their kiss. When she took his face in her hands and touched his lips softly with her own. Yes, this moment was important. It was vital.
Not just a kiss, no.
This was what it felt like to be alive. He was not some notion of survival, but a reason to live.
Her reason.
“I need you,” she whispered against his lips. “I need you now. Tonight.”
“Yes.” His response was short as his mouth came down on hers once more. He treated her gently now, as if he understood how much she needed his touch, his comfort. Just him.
But when she breathed, “Fuck me,” Richard pulled back.
He stared down at her, stroking a thumb across her cheek. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
She frowned. “No?”
“No. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you.”
“Richard . . .” She couldn’t stop the wonder from entering her voice.
For no one had ever said that word to her.
Anne Sheffield had never been loved.
“Yes.” He kissed her again, so softly. “I told you, I’m a great deal more than fond. I love you.” His laugh was husky. “I think I fell in love with you the night you burst into my home.”
Anne smiled. “How prickly I was.”
“Brave,” he murmured. His blue eyes were luminous as he stared down at her. “So bloody brave. The bravest woman I’ve ever met.”
Before she could respond, he was unbuttoning her dress with a quickness that hinged on desperation. His need inflamed her, and she responded in kind. Men’s clothes were easier; there were fewer layers to reach skin, and she thanked god for it.
She had him naked quickly, and in those brief seconds before their bodies met, she admired the beauty of his form. The way the shadows emphasized his musculature. The way the light caught his eyes and she could see the desire there.
Desire for her.
“I love you,” he said, pressing her down to the bed. His body was warm as it stretched over hers. “I love you.”
Their mood softened. He took his time, kissing her slowly and deeply as his hands explored the shape of her. She savored it; this was the first time they had been nude together since the cottage. They rolled across the bed, stroking and licking and kissing and biting. Anne had a vision of them spending hours like this — in a future where they had more time. She took note of things she longed to give more attention: the muscular span of his chest, the bones of his hips, that line at his pelvis that she desired to lick down to . . .
His cock, that was the word he had taught her. She would lick his cock, as well.
“You’re thinking something wicked,” Richard said with a smile as he rolled on top of her. “Tell me what it is.”
Anne’s own smile matched his. “Perhaps it’s a secret.”
“I want to know all your secrets,” he said, nipping at her lip. “Tell me.” She groaned as he rubbed that male appendage against the wet core of her. “Tell me.”
“Mmmm . . .”
He rubbed again. “Tell me . . .”
“Richard, please.”
“Tell me what you were thinking, and I’ll give it to you.” He pushed again, rolling his hips against her heat, then he retreated once more. “Do you want this? Yes?”
Anne could take his torture no longer. She pulled him down to her and whispered in his ear, “I was thinking about getting down on my knees and taking your cock in my mouth.”
Richard groaned and dropped his head to her shoulder. “Jesus.”
Anne was laughing now. “Is that a yes?”
“Later. Make a note of it. I need to be inside you. I need to—”
He made some helpless noise when she lifted her pelvis and took the tip o
f him inside her.
Anne cried out as he shoved the rest of the way in. It gratified her that he desired this as much as she did, that he was just as helpless to resist. Her pleasure built as his thrusts alternated between slow and fast, gentle and hard.
Anne could never get enough of him, of how he felt moving over her, within her. He whispered her name as if it were some revelation, an answer to a question he’d wondered for ages. His breath shuddered out of him, timed with the urgent staccato of his hips.
Then he was whispering something to her — a plea. Come. Please come.
She was close. So close. The pleasure was immense. It built and built—
There.
She swallowed her cry as it overtook her. Not a moment later, he smothered his own shout by pressing his lips to her skin. He stayed against her as their breathing slowed, holding her tightly against him.
Gradually, Anne calmed. Her head swam with ecstasy. As he pulled out and settled her against him, he whispered soft, lovely words as he kissed her. She fell asleep to him telling her he loved her once more.
Hours later, when Anne woke to the sunlight streaming through the curtains, he was absent. And the bed had already gone cold.
Chapter 33
The rookeries had a distinctive smell that made Richard’s stomach heave.
It was bodies and smoke, piss and shit, fish and other oddities that he couldn’t possibly name. Richard had only spent time in the rookeries if he needed to gather information. The network of criminals was vast, and while he hadn’t grown up amid its winding, labyrinthine streets, his politics put him in contact with the people who wielded power here. The East End might officially belong to the Queen, but Her Majesty would never set foot in such a place. It was a world unto itself, lawless.
And Thorne was the ruler here.
Richard knew the man would come looking for him; he’d made sure to hang around just long enough to be seen before he headed back in the direction he came. Thorne employed any number of spies in these streets — children, prostitutes, shop owners. The street children, in particular, would be looking for coin from Thorne for sharing Richard's presence. He was generous to those under his protection.
Soon, Richard sensed a presence behind him, more shadow than man. And it was deliberate, he knew, because Thorne could cut a blade across his throat before he could even blink.
“You wanted to see me, Grey?”
Thorne’s accent was clipped. Richard had never been able to get a feel for its whereabouts; he could shift it easily. Mimic whomever he spoke to. If he had a mind to pass among the nobility in St. James’s, he sounded just as blue-blooded as Richard. Other times, his accent was as native to the rookeries as the other criminals.
Richard turned. “Took you long enough.”
Thorne lifted a shoulder. “Dealing with a situation. I can’t abide cheaters.”
Thorne was taller than Richard, larger too. As muscular and sleek as a cat, and just as deadly. Where Richard was fair with blond hair and blue eyes, Thorne was dark. His black hair was on the long side, as if he hadn’t the time for a trim recently, and his eyes were a brown so dark they appeared, at first glance, to be twin pools of ink. The eyes of the devil, Richard had heard from the men outside of Whitechapel.
In Whitechapel, he was their avenging angel. Their police. Those under his protection were fortunate, for he was not kind to those outside it.
“Kill a man, Thorne?”
Thorne’s smile was slow. “Maybe. Maybe not. You got a reason to know?”
“Not really.”
“Then how about you tell me what you want, Grey? Maybe start with why you’re loitering out here in the damn street instead of coming to my office.”
“I needed a word and didn’t wish to chance being seen at the Brimstone.”
That got Thorne’s attention. “Interesting. I’ve already got men working to secure that vote, if that’s what you’ve come to ask. Unless you can’t pay ‘em, in which case we’ve got a problem. I don’t like men who can’t pay up, either.”
“I always keep my word,” Richard said. “Different business. Two things. One’s a favor and the other’s a question.”
Thorne laughed shortly, as if he couldn’t believe the audacity. “How’s about we start with the question and I’ll consider the favor.”
Richard leaned against the wall of the building. “Why don’t you tell me why you’ve been stopping by my brother’s house.”
Something flickered in Thorne’s gaze and Richard wondered if he’d startled the other man. Then Thorne shrugged again. “Nice area. Thinking about buying property. The Earl of Kent has a nice one.” This time his glare was pointed. “Got someone watching me, Grey?”
“Not me, but I’m almost certain Stanton Sheffield is tracking your movements.”
“Fucking Tory cunt,” Thorne muttered. “That blundering bastard was a shite hire, besides.”
“Wait, you knew someone was trailing you?”
“Course I did.” Thorne almost looked insulted. “I wasn’t trying to keep my comings and goings a secret. St. James's ain’t exactly a place for clandestine meetings. What’s your favor?”
“Context first. The Duke of Kendal has been taking children from your orphanages.”
Thorne’s gaze darkened. “Was wondering why you were sniffing around the Nichol. You’re keeping Leo from his work and every time I ask about it, he gets his dander up. It’s starting to irritate. Your duke have hirelings?”
So Leo had kept his word and not told Thorne about Malloy. That was a relief; it gave Richard room to negotiate.
“One I know of. He’s the one who told me how many and how much he got for each child. I went to a few orphanages for more details, but they don’t keep records.”
“No, they don’t,” Thorne said coldly. “For that, they’d have to give a good goddamn.” If anything, Thorne’s expression grew darker, murderous. Richard knew why men believed him to be demon-possessed. Were he a superstitious man, he’d wonder the same. “I’ll have his name.”
“Thorne—”
“You fucking toffs come here, kidnap children off the streets, and either work ‘em to death or rape them.” He stepped forward, his hands forming into fists. “Those kids are under my protection, so you will give me his fucking name or I’ll get it out of Leo. Your choice.”
“Leo gave me his word, and I’ll take my favor first.”
Thorne’s laugh was brittle. “Of course. How could I expect any different? Spill it, then.”
Richard sighed. “I need you to help me search the Duke of Kendal’s residence to find out what happened to those children. I think Stanton Sheffield might be covering something up for him.”
“Something.” Thorne made a noise. “Don’t mince words, Grey. Murder, you mean.”
“It’s a distinct possibility, yes. You up for it?”
“You’ve got a man taking kids from my territory and killing ‘em, then yeah, I’m up for it. And when we’re done, you’ll give me that name, so I can gut the man who helped your duke like a fucking fish.”
The night was in their favor. It was moonless, leaving the shadows of Kendal’s garden thick and impenetrable as the two men slipped through the property to the house. The servants ought to be asleep by now; Richard and Thorne had watched the gaslights go out one by one some time ago. Kendal himself had left for what looked like a journey to his country estate. His luggage had been packed, and a few of his closest attendants had gone with him.
It was the perfect opportunity to search the place.
“Let’s hurry this along,” Thorne murmured beside him as they approached the door that led into the garden. Thorne pulled out a kit and worked on the lock. It sprang open so easily that he made a sound of derision. “The comfort of you nobs,” he said in disgust, pushing the door open.
They quietly made their way through the house, looking in each room until they found Kendal’s study.
“Search the rest of the residenc
e,” Richard said. “I’ll see what I find here.”
Thorne nodded and left.
Richard began at the desk, looking through the papers the duke had left there. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Estate issues, accounts. If the number of ledgers along the walls were any indication, Kendal handled these things himself, rather than hiring someone to do it for him. At a glance, the ledgers were all very carefully annotated and precise.
That was something of a surprise. Kendal owned a great number of properties, and the estates themselves would have exhausted even the most patient of men. Even Richard’s brother, James, hired someone to help keep everything in order.
Richard flipped through the most recent books.
There.
Stanton Sheffield’s name. Christ. Two thousand pounds was quite a hefty sum paid. For what? Unlike the names for workmen in his employ, Kendal had not specified the purpose of the amount.
Richard went back farther. Six months. Two thousand pounds.
He grabbed another ledger. Every six months, the duke had faithfully paid Stanton Sheffield the same amount. Like clockwork.
A muffled scratch at the door made him look up. Thorne. The other man beckoned with his fingers. “Come. Be quick about it.”
Richard followed Thorne up the stairs to the duke’s bedchamber. The bedchamber? “What—” Then he noticed one of the duke’s bookcases along the far wall had swung out to reveal a passage behind it. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.
“Wait until you see.”
Thorne brushed past him, picked up the lit lantern just beyond the bookshelf, and headed down the steps. The passage was dark, nothing more than a stone staircase built into the underground foundation. At the bottom, it was entirely dirt. Just a room, barely a room if that.
“Old wine cellar, perhaps,” Richard murmured. “Though the stairs appear more recently built.”
Thorne made a noise. “Fuck the stairs. Look.” He gestured to the corner of the room and raised his lantern high.
There, huddled in the darkness, was a little girl.
Chapter 34
His Scandalous Lessons Page 20
