“What are you…oh heavens,” she gasped.
He finished running his tongue along her plump, pink seam. Christ, she was delicious.
“Hold onto the headboard,” he instructed. “Ride my mouth, angel.”
He steered her hips, moving her over his lips as he delved into her honeypot. Her sweetness coated his tongue. As was characteristic of his lass, once she lost her initial hesitation over a new activity, she threw herself in fully. Soon she was riding him like a contestant in the Derby, rocking herself over his lips, rubbing her bold little nub against his tongue. He ate her pussy until she came, her nectar pouring into his mouth, making him starved for more.
He pulled her off his face and over his cock. He fitted himself to her hole, watching her expression as he thrust his hips up while pulling hers down. He groaned at the decadent constriction.
“Oh, Wick, you’re so…big.” Since her gaze was sultry and her sheath clutching him with demanding insistence, he didn’t think she was complaining.
“Your little pussy can take it. In fact, I think it wants to be fed some of my cream.”
Her cheeks turned rosy. “That’s naughty.”
“It is, and the delightful squeeze of your cunny tells me you don’t mind.” He tucked a silken strand behind her ear. “Now I’d like to stuff you as full of cream as a profiterole, but we must think of the consequences. You’d better take your ride like a good lass before I have to pull out. This ride may not last long.”
She took him at his word. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, her knees framing his hips, she began to ride. She rose and fell, impaling herself on his prick. She grew bolder, circling her hips, grinding on the way down, finding the motions that made her moan and his breath hiss through his lips.
Watching her, he was entranced. By the firm jiggle of her tits as she speared herself on his weapon. By the way she pouted on an upstroke and bit her lip in pleasure on the downstroke. Her gaze grew unfocused as she reached the finish line again, her back arching and fingers tangling in his chest hair, her dew anointing his staff.
Grasping her hips, he took over. Guided her back down on his cock, at an angle that brought her pearl against his hard shaft. With each pass, he grazed the most sensitive part of her body. He held onto her sweet bottom, spreading and massaging those firm cheeks as he thrust his hips up.
She whimpered as he pounded into her. Moving a hand to her breast, he rolled the tip between finger and thumb, tugging gently. The answering clench of her passage was almost his undoing. But he didn’t want to go over the edge without taking her there once more. He leaned his head up, capturing her nipple between his lips and sucked.
She moaned his name as spasms rocked her slender body.
With a growl, he rolled her off him. He gripped his cock, jerking it rapidly. To his everlasting delight, she fondled his balls as he frigged himself and kissed him passionately. The heat boiled over, climbing his shaft, exploding like a geyser into their shared touch as he buried his shouts in her mouth.
Afterward, they lay in a sweaty tangle of limbs. He had sufficient energy to pull a coverlet over them, tucking her head against his shoulder.
As his heartbeat slowed, he heard her say, “Wick?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for the brooch. I’m sorry I was ungracious about it earlier. It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has given me.”
At her whispered admission, his chest warmed with pride. He kissed her hair.
“My pleasure, angel,” he murmured.
“And thank you for the riding lesson as well. I think my seat is improving, don’t you?” she mused. “That’s two different mounts I’ve tried.”
“You’re a natural. Now go to sleep. And if you’re a good lass, I’ll give you another ride in the morning.”
He felt her lips curve against his shoulder, and he fell asleep smiling.
28
The next day, the Kents picked up Beatrice and Wick in a glossy carriage. They were going to visit Tessa’s friend, whose shop was located in a dodgy area of London. As both Tessa and Wick had brought along armed guards, Bea wasn’t too worried about safety.
They arrived at a busy thoroughfare in Whitechapel. From the carriage window, Bea saw people milling everywhere and shops jammed shoulder to shoulder. Their destination stood out due to its sign: “Doolittle’s Emporium of Wonders” was painted in large gilt letters above the storefront window. Through the glass, Bea saw a puzzling plethora of merchandise, with no apparent rhyme or reason to the variety of the goods.
“I thought your friend was a horological expert?” she asked Tessa, who sat across from her.
“He is,” Tessa assured her.
Bea peered at the storefront. “I don’t see any watches or clocks in the window.”
“Alfred keeps the valuable goods behind the counter. Come along,” Tessa said as she alighted with the help of her husband. “We want to catch him before his nap.”
“Nap? It’s only ten o’clock in the morning,” Bea whispered to Wick. “Who is this Alfred?”
“I’m certain Mrs. Kent knows what she’s doing,” he whispered back before handing her down.
As her feet touched the ground, Bea caught sight of a small figure at the end of the street, and her hand tightened around Wick’s.
“What’s the matter, sweeting?” he asked.
“There’s a boy at the end of the street,” she blurted. “I saw him yesterday, outside your office.”
Wick looked over. “I don’t see a boy.”
She darted her glance back that way. Sure enough, no one was there.
“No time for dawdling, you two,” Tessa called from the doorway of the shop.
Wick cocked a brow at Bea.
“I…must have imagined it.” She forced a smile. “Let’s go on in.”
Inside, Doolittle’s Emporium was a labyrinth of shelves overflowing with merchandise. Mayhem seemed to be the main method of organization. Teapots sat next to inkwells, handkerchiefs were piled onto a silver platter. Rounding a corner, Bea jerked back in surprise: she’d come face-to-face with a stuffed chimpanzee lounging on a shelf, his bored eyes disturbingly lifelike. Atop his head was an elaborate grey periwig, the attached tag reading, “Antique, last century. 35 shillings.”
Whether the tag referred to the monkey or the wig was ambiguous.
To Wick, she said in a hushed undertone, “What kind of a shop is this?”
“It appears our expert is the owner of a pawn shop.” He sounded amused. “You have to hand it to Mrs. Kent: who deals in more pocket watches than a fence, after all?”
Beatrice had to contain her surprise for they’d arrived at a long, battered counter at the back of the shop, behind which stood a buxom blonde in her forties. She wore her hair in sausage curls, her rather hard features lacquered in paint.
She and Tessa greeted each other with air kisses.
“Lady Beatrice Wodehouse and Mr. Murray,” Tessa said, “I’d like you to meet my dear friend Sally Doolittle. She’s the proprietress of this fine establishment.”
“Call me Sal.” The blonde’s wink was aimed at Wick. “Everyone does.”
“Charmed,” Wick said easily. “Lady Beatrice and I were hoping you could help us.”
“What kind o’ ’elp are you looking for, ’andsome?” Sal cooed.
She leaned her elbows on the counter, causing her abundant bosom to nearly spill from its scanty neckline, Bea saw with growing annoyance.
“We wish to identify a pocket watch, Mrs. Doolittle,” she intervened crisply.
Sal’s penciled brows lifted. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, dove. No one knows more ’bout kettle and hobs than my Alfred.”
Bea’s confusion must have shown because Wick clarified, “A kettle and hob is Cockney slang for a watch.”
“Is Alfred available?” Tessa asked.
“I’ll check,” Sal said. Turning, she shouted toward the curtained entryway behind her, “Alfredkins! Are you awake?
”
“If I were catching some shut-eye, I ain’t anymore,” a male voice called back.
“Then get your lovely arse out ’ere. Tessa’s ’ere…and she brung friends wif ’er.”
A few moments later, a man passed through the curtain. He was slight, his freckles and mop of brown hair lending him a perpetually youthful countenance even though, as he came to stand by Sal, Bea saw that he must be in his thirties. His large, wide-spaced eyes and gap-toothed smile gave him an innocent, sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth quality.
A quality that probably served him well in his career as a dealer of stolen goods.
“Ain’t seen the pair o’ you for a dog’s age,” he greeted the Kents. “’Ow’s the tot?”
“Little Bart is a holy terror,” Tessa replied. “It doesn’t help that Grandpapa indulges him shamelessly.”
“Your fault, ain’t it, for not only giving the old codger ’is only great-grandchild but a namesake as well. Told you to fink twice ’bout naming your brat after the King o’ the Underworld.”
“I suggested Newton,” Kent muttered.
“That name would ’ave guaranteed your son a black eye for ’is first two decades or so.” Doolittle shook his head. “What about my suggestion, eh?”
“I already have an Alfred in my life, thank you very much,” Tessa said.
“One can ne’er ’ave enough o’ Alfred…ain’t that true, Sal?”
“I always come back for a second ’elping,” his wife replied with a giggle.
“Greedy wench.” He gave her a good-natured swat on the behind.
Obviously used to the bawdy by-play, Tessa rolled her eyes. “If we might get to business? My friends here have a pocket watch that they need identified. It’s a matter of life or death. They’ve gone to watchmakers and shops from Clerkenwell to Soho, to no avail. I told them they needed to consult a real expert: you.”
Doolittle peered over at Bea and Wick. “Life or death, you say?”
Despite Doolittle’s boyish exterior, Bea saw the shrewdness in the man’s eyes.
“I’d be happy to compensate you for your time, sir,” she said steadily. “And yes—it is a matter of life or death. Whoever owns this watch committed arson to my property. He may also be responsible for kidnapping and terrorizing my bosom chum.”
“Crikey.” Doolittle tilted his head. “Got the ticker wif you?”
“Yes.” Wick removed it from his jacket pocket and placed it on the counter, the gold disk gleaming against the scratched wood. “The watch has no maker’s mark or stamp from the Goldsmith’s Hall. Other than the initials on the cover and the inscription on the dial face that says it was made in London, there are no other clues to its origin or owner.”
“To find clues, you ’ave to know where to look.” Doolittle picked up the watch, tossing and catching it expertly several times. He rubbed the initials with his thumb, once, twice, three times. Without opening the cover, he pronounced, “Eighteen karat gold, good English parts and not those foreign knock-offs…and hmm.” His fingers closed around the watch, his features furrowed in concentration as if he could somehow sense what was within. “There’s a symbol—like a horseshoe, next to the word London?”
“How could you know all that?” Bea asked, stupefied.
Even Tessa looked impressed. “I knew you were an expert, Alfie, but that was spot on. How did you get all that just from holding the watch?”
“I didn’t. Some cull brought in a watch just like this a few months ago.” Doolittle flashed a puckish grin. “Wanted to use it as collateral. Same initials on the cover, same everyfing.”
“Do you still have the watch?” Wick asked alertly.
“Nah, the cove failed to make good on ’is loan by the agreed upon date, so I put it up for sale. Fine ticker like that flew out the door.” Doolittle paused. “But I keep a record o’ all customers who pawn their goods wif me. Sal can look ’im up in the ledger for you.”
While at Doolittle’s, the Kents received an urgent missive. Apparently, their son had gotten into the pantry, consuming an entire pudding, and said pudding was now making a second appearance. The pair rushed home, and Wick declined their kind offer to drop them back at his residence. Instead, he hailed a hackney for himself, Beatrice, and their pair of guards, setting off for the address that Sally Doolittle had looked up.
They arrived at a street of terraced houses in Cheapside. The homes were modest and dilapidated, and the one they were looking for was situated in the middle of the block. With the guards keeping vigilant watch, Wick escorted Beatrice up the steps and rang the bell.
A slovenly maid answered. She looked none too pleased to be disturbed from whatever she had been doing—tippling on the job, probably, if the sherry stains on her apron were any indication. When Wick told her he was looking for Stuart Yard, the name Sal had given him, the maid’s countenance shuttered.
“’E ain’t home,” she said. “You wif the cent-per-cents?”
Her question revealed a lot about her master. Stuart Yard was in debt, to the extent that he’d instructed his servants to lie about his whereabouts.
“We’re not here about Mr. Yard’s finances.” Wick handed her his calling card. “A mutual friend recommended that we consult with Mr. Yard on a business matter. We would compensate him, of course, for his time.”
At the mention of compensation, the maid widened the gap in the door and ushered them inside. “Rest your ’eels in the parlor then. I’ll inform the master that you’re ’ere.”
Minutes later, Bea and Wick were joined by their host in the cramped, dingy parlor. Stuart Yard was a scrawny fellow, with shifty eyes and a nervous manner. According to Doolittle, Yard had once been a well-to-do banker before he lost his fortune investing in some ill-advised scheme. The shabby state of Yard’s home and clothes verified that he was a man who’d come down in the world.
“Good afternoon.” His boisterous tones had a ragged lining of desperation. “I understand you are looking to consult on a business matter? May I ask which of my fine friends I can thank for providing the introduction?”
“Alfred Doolittle,” Wick said.
Yard’s eagerness vanished.
“I’m afraid I am not acquainted with any Doolittle,” he said unconvincingly.
Wick took out the watch, letting it dangle from his fingers. There was no mistaking the flash of recognition in Yard’s eyes.
“How did you…I thought he sold it…?” he stammered.
“This isn’t your watch, sir, but you have confirmed that you owned one like it,” Beatrice said in crisp tones. “There’s no reason for further prevarication. We wish to know the origin of the watch, and we will pay you for the information.”
Yard wetted his lips. “How much?”
Wick withdrew a twenty-pound banknote. When Yard reached for it, he held it back, saying, “This is yours—if your information proves useful.”
“If I tell you, you have to swear you’ll tell no one you heard it from me.” Yard’s eyes darted toward the door. “Mrs. Yard is out shopping at the moment, but if she finds out about this, my life will be worth even less than it is now.”
“We will not reveal the source of the information,” Wick said. “You may speak freely.”
“Back in the day, I was part of a club,” Yard said after a moment. “A secret club open only to men and women with money and power. The membership was quite exclusive.”
“A secret society,” Beatrice breathed.
Wick lifted his brows. “What do the initials H. C. stand for?”
“Hellfire Club,” Yard replied. “Although it wasn’t like what they describe in the papers: we had no satanic rituals, nor did we summon ghostly apparitions. The purpose of our club was the pursuit of earthly pleasures.”
He paused, sliding a glance at Beatrice, whose eyes were as big as dinnerplates.
“If you want your blunt, continue,” Wick said.
“The founders railed against the puritanical constraints of soc
iety. Why should we be barred from the enjoyments that our natures demanded? As long as we hurt no one and were willing to pay for the entertainment.” Yard’s gaze had a faraway quality, as if he were allowing himself to sink into the memories of his better days. “I was a member for two years, until my fortunes changed. Then I could no longer afford the membership. The founders did have a scholarship program of sorts, for select men and women who added to the club’s prestige but could not afford the fees. Alas, I did not qualify.”
“We’ll need to know the names of the founders and members,” Wick said.
“That I cannot tell you. For the one inviolable tenet of the club was anonymity: the members wore masks and took pains to conceal their identity. When I applied for admission, I had my interview with a secretary and was told that any indiscretion concerning the club and its members would lead to disbarment.
“The only thing members knew about one another was that we were titans of industry, aristocrats, and leaders of communities. Given the, ahem, nature of the activities conducted within the club,” Yard said, “I’m sure you’ll understand why these people would not tolerate being exposed.”
“What was the nature of the activities, precisely?” This came from Beatrice.
Yard had the grace to redden. “With a few exceptions, whatever the member desired was usually available. Bacchanals, for instance, were a popular offering.”
“Where is the club located?” Wick asked.
“In a private house in Mayfair,” Yard replied. “The secretary conducts all Hellfire Club business from that address. The club events are held on the first Saturday evening of every month.”
“That’s tonight,” Beatrice said in an undertone.
Wick’s thoughts were headed in the same direction. Going to the club might be the only way of finding the watch’s owner. But how would he get inside?
“How does one apply for admission to the Hellfire Club?” he asked Yard.
The Duke Redemption Page 22
