“Ah, Caro. I want to take forever with this, but I don’t know if I can.” He kissed her cheek, her ear, then the side of her throat. “I love your ears. Did you know that?” He nipped the pointed tip lightly, his lips sheathing his teeth, making her moan. “I could lick them, nibble on them for hours. But there’s so much more Caroline to experience.” He shifted lower, until his face was level with her breasts. “Yet another part of you that deserves hours of attention.” He licked, sucked and nibbled on her nipples until she was writhing against the sheet.
“Merrick—I can’t stand it.” She needed more—and after the experience in his study, now she knew what her body was striving for.
“Then come for me, Caro. I’m not going to take you until you do.” He kissed his way down her stomach, swirling his tongue around her navel for just a moment as he continued. Finally, his shoulders rested between her thighs and his breath was warm on her mons. Instinctively, she tilted up her hips and he rewarded her with a long lick, his tongue sliding along the seam of her sex.
Startled, she almost cried out, then bit down on her hand to keep from making noise. There were two bathrooms separating her bedroom from Tommy’s, but it was still too close to risk shrieking in pleasure. When Merrick licked her again, this time circling her clitoris with his tongue, she muffled another moan.
“Come for me, Caro. I know you can do it.” His mouth and fingers worked magick on her—his tongue lashing against that bundle of nerves while he slowly inserted a finger into her sheath. She bucked her hips, driving that digit deeper, and he chuckled, replacing the one finger with two. In and out, he stroked, spreading his fingers to stretch her, which she knew would ease his penetration later. Right now, though, it felt like heaven, and she moved her hips to the rhythm of his hand, climbing closer to that peak she’d experienced before.
It didn’t take long before the pressure built to the breaking point and she bit down on the base of her thumb as she arched, her body clenching down on his hand as her mind shattered. He pushed his fingers in and held them deep while she fractured, then eased them out and petted her gently as the spasms of pleasure subsided.
“Beautiful,” he muttered. He gave her quim one last kiss before he crawled up over her and settled his heavy cock at her entrance with one hand, while he braced himself above her on his other elbow. One damp finger trailed across her cheek. “Ready?”
“Yes.” It was more whimper than word, but she knew he understood. His gaze bored into hers as his shaft breached her channel. There was a stab of pain—it hurt quite a lot—but then it was gone, and he was there, inside her, filling her in a way that seemed to complete her very soul.
He kissed her cheeks, smoothed a couple hairs off her cheeks. “All right?”
She smiled. “Perfectly.” Tangling her hand in his hair, she pulled him down for a kiss. Tasting herself on his lips was odd, but pleasant, as was the slight shifting of his hips, flexing him inside her. Experimentally, she pulsed her hips back, loving the sensation as he moved.
“Ah, dearest.” Then he began to move in earnest, and Caroline stopped thinking at all. She clung to his shoulders and matched his rhythm, quickly spiraling toward a second, stronger climax.
When it struck, she called his name, but his kiss swallowed the words, even as he thrust deeply and groaned back into her mouth, his body shuddering above her.
After one last, sweet kiss, he pulled himself from her and collapsed onto the mattress by her side, one hand still tangled in her hair, one leg thrown across hers.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, shaken and exhausted. “Thank you.”
He smiled over at her and used his thumb to wipe away the single tear that trickled down her cheek. “Amazing.”
“Is it always like that?” She had to drag in a breath between each word and the room still spun if she tried to move.
“Never. Never in my life.”
Long moments later, he rose and vanished into the lavatory, returning without the French letter and with a damp washcloth in his hands, which he used to carefully clean the blood from between her legs.
“I should change the sheets,” she whispered. “So the maids don’t know…”
“Later.” He tossed the washcloth back into the bathroom and returned to her bed. “I’m not finished with you yet, Caro.”
“We can do it again?” Even she rolled her eyes at the eagerness in her own voice. Then she chuckled. “I’m not even sure I can stand.”
“Right now I want to hold you,” he said. “In a little while, we can do more. But I only had the one sheath, so we’ll have to be inventive.”
“That sounds like…” a giant yawn split her lips, “…fun.”
“Ah, dearest, you have no idea.”
Chapter Twelve
Dawn was creeping through the gap in the curtains when Merrick finally climbed from Caro’s bed. She didn’t rouse and he stood over her, debating on whether to wake her. They hadn’t exactly gotten around to changing the sheets. In fact when they’d woken and made love again, he hadn’t had a French letter, so he’d withdrawn, adding to the evidence. One thing he didn’t want was for the household staff to lose respect for Caro.
He reached down and twirled one golden lock of hair around his finger. Well, he had an idea of how to make sure of that. Somewhere in the depths of the night, he’d made a decision. He was going to marry Caro. Now he just had to convince her of that.
After returning to his room to bathe and shave, he dressed in clean clothing and made his way down to the staff hall, or rather to the housekeeper’s private parlor, nearby.
“Mrs. Granger, if I might have a minute? You too, Mountjoy.” The two looked up from their breakfast, startled. Did they think he was unaware that they met every morning to plan the day’s labors? Really, after all these years, they should realize he knew everything that happened in his household—much like both of them probably did. “Oh, eat your breakfast—there’s no reason to go hungry.” In fact, he’d helped himself to some coffee and toast from the kitchen on the way here.
“Yes, Sir Merrick?” Mountjoy raised his eyebrows as Merrick pulled up a spindly chair and joined them at the small table.
“I’m well aware that you two know everything, hear everything that goes on in this household, so I thought I’d tell you flat out. Miss Bristol is very likely to be your new mistress.” With that out of the way, he took a deep drink of the hot coffee. “Although—she’s not aware of it yet, so don’t say anything to her.” The toast wasn’t half bad, and Merrick discovered he’d worked up quite an appetite last night.
Was that a smile flitting across Mountjoy’s usually impassive face? Merrick suspected it was. “Indeed, sir, we wouldn’t dream of it.”
Mrs. Granger rolled her eyes and clutched her rosary. “Saints be praised. I thought you’d never marry.”
“So, should you happen to hear any gossip among the maids, or,” he cleared his throat, “the laundress, say, you’ll make sure they know to keep their thoughts to themselves, right?”
Now the housekeeper shook one plump finger at Merrick. “You shouldn’t have.”
He shrugged. “You’re probably right. But, well, the lady is going to take some serious convincing to say yes.”
“The staff know their place, sir.” Mountjoy gave a concise nod. “There will be no gossip. You have our word.”
“Thank you both.” He finished his coffee and stood. “You won’t mind—working for someone who’s been in service herself?”
“No, sir.” Mrs. Granger shook her head. “Always knew that one was something different—a fine lady, hard on her luck.”
“Good. Then I shall get back to my work, so I can free up enough time to court her properly. Good day, Mrs. Granger, Mountjoy.”
With a spring in his step, he called for Debbins. Today he was off to Oxfordshire.
After disembarking from the dirigible, Merrick visited the universities. At one, he met first with the Dean of Science and Engineering, showing
his credentials from the Crown and asking if he could see the original Babbage engine, now housed in a glass display case in the college’s great hall. It was one of the first models, hand-built by Lord Babbage himself, and now a priceless artifact, even though it was barely more than a decade old.
“You’re the second person this week who’s asked to see the thing,” Dean Archibald muttered. Bald, with a long white beard, he strongly resembled the popular image of Father Time. He walked ahead of Merrick and seemed to talk as much to himself as to anyone else. “Other one had those same papers.”
Another Knight had been here this very week? Merrick almost stopped in his tracks, but the tiny, older man would have left him in the dust if he had. “Can you describe this other man, Dean?”
Archibald shrugged. “Dunno. Wasn’t here. Must’ve been…Reed, maybe? He’s the one complaining about the theft, anyway. Chemists. Idiots, the lot of them.”
“Theft?”
“Something about the connecting device for his damn mixing crucible.” Archibald shook his shining head. “Lost the bloody part, that’s what happened.”
“Do you think I could talk to Professor Reed?” Merrick followed around a corner to the great hall, and there was the engine, pristine and perfect in its secure, glass case.
“Don’t know why you’d want to. Man’s senile and stupid to boot. Chemists.” He said the last word as if it were a curse.
“Maybe if I do, it’ll quiet him down—let him think the authorities are looking into it.” Merrick smiled. “By the way, Dean. Which science is your specialty?”
“Astronomy, of course. Discovered my own comet—even got it named after me. Only serious science in this place.”
“No doubt. Now about Professor Reed…”
“Sure, sure.” Archibald hailed a passing student. “You there. Take this officer to see old Bats-in-the-Belfry Reed, would you?” With that, the older man flitted away.
The harried-looking student led Merrick into a book-filled office, where a silver-haired man sat at a desk so cluttered, Merrick was amazed he didn’t lose himself in the mess. He coughed to get the man’s attention, then introduced himself, showing off his credentials yet again.
“Ah, Sir Merrick. So nice of you to come by. When I reported that minor theft, I never expected one of Her Majesty’s own.”
“Minor theft?” Merrick saw what looked to be a chair beneath a stack of papers, and carefully relocated the documents to another pile, then eased down into the rickety chair. “What was that, Professor. Could you explain it to me, please?”
“Surely you have the report?” The older man shuffled some papers back and forth on his desk. Merrick could barely see his gray head over the stacks.
“Yes, yes, of course, but I’d like to hear it in your own words.” He had no idea what the man was talking about, but it might not be coincidence.
“It was last week—I’d just set up the machine to run some new formulae, and it wouldn’t work. The attachment that connects the analytical engine to the measuring apparatus was missing, so none of the chemicals could be added to the crucible.” Reed scratched his head. “Don’t know what anyone could want with it—you’d need the entire device to be of any use. Won’t work with anything else. Only thing I can think is it was some sort of student scavenger hunt thing. Probably those devils over in astronomy. Always up to something, they are. Old Arsewipe Archibald puts them up to it.”
Merrick coughed again to cover a laugh. “Can you describe the item to me? The missing part, especially?” This had to tie into Merrick’s investigation, unless it really had been a student prank.
“Hmmm. Specifications for it are around here somewhere.” Reed began. “Made by Babbage Scientific Instruments, of course.”
“Of course.” That much, Merrick knew. Only the one company made that particular piece of equipment. “If I may ask, would that adapter have also worked with one of the old punch card style engines?”
“Certainly, boy. Damn thing’s practically an antique—six, seven years old at the very least. I keep asking for a new one, but no, it’s not in the budget, they tell me.” He rifled through a drawer and bellowed, “Aha!” then held up a yellowed sheaf of paper. “Owner’s manual. Right here.”
Merrick took the pamphlet and studied the image. Sure enough, this attachment would connect the two parts of the device, the engine and the mixer. “Professor Reed, may I hold onto this for purposes of my investigation? I promise to return it when we retrieve your missing equipment.”
The professor waved his hand. “Of course, of course. Look in the astronomy offices first, why don’t you?”
“I promise it will be a thorough investigation.” Merrick grinned. “Oh, and by the way, did you show the antique Babbage engine to one of my colleagues earlier this week?”
Reed shook his head. “Nope. Don’t think so. Ask Arsewipe.”
Merrick just shook his head and said goodbye.
Things were much the same at the other prestigious institution of learning, though it was a different part of the machine that had gone missing. Once again, though, he’d enjoyed the banter between the dons, despite the gravity of the situation.
His next errand, however, would be far less entertaining. He’d sent a telegram to Sir Andrew Devere, requesting a meeting, and Sir Andrew had agreed, setting the time for this afternoon, which left Merrick just enough time to reach the retired Knight’s estate in a small village nearby. As his hired coach hurried through the lanes, Merrick studied the photographs he’d brought of Tommy. Would this visit answer some of the questions of the boy’s existence or merely raise more? And what would it do to an ill, old man?
The imposing Tudor manor house was dark and virtually silent when Merrick was shown in. The only notable sound was the quiet tick of a grandfather clock in one corner of the foyer. All the drapes were closed and even the butler who admitted him spoke in a dignified whisper. With stern instructions not to excite or tire the master, the servant reluctantly led Merrick up the stairs to the master suite. Double doors opened into a private sitting room-cum-study, where a wizened man waited in a clockwork-powered wheelchair. This room was dark, like the rest of the house, with a single gas lamp burning, and a little more light provided by a crackling fire in the hearth. Merrick stepped inside, already feeling a trickle of sweat down the back of his neck.
“Sir Merrick. Please, have a seat.” The older man gestured at a wing chair on the opposite side of the hearth from his own position. “You’re welcome to remove your coat—I know this room is a bit stuffy for most folk.”
“Thank you, Sir Andrew.” Merrick took off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair before taking his seat. He hadn’t seen the former Knight in ages—probable close to a decade, really. The years had not been kind. Though Sir Andrew couldn’t be much more than sixty—his son had been just a few years older than Merrick—the man was more wrinkled and desiccated than an Egyptian mummy.
It was hard to see the disintegration of a man Merrick respected so deeply. Sir Andrew had fought at the battle where Merrick’s father had died, and though he’d survived, his injuries had never fully healed. His only child had already been killed at that point, in a senseless carriage accident while on a drunken revel with his cronies, before he’d even taken his final vows as a Knight.
Merrick accepted coffee from the servant who materialized—or so it seemed—with a cart. Then the maid was dismissed, and Sir Andrew studied Merrick carefully. “So what brings you to see me today, young man? Not that I’m not happy for the visit, mind.”
“I’m only sorry it’s been so long.” Merrick sipped his coffee. “Sir Andrew, I need to ask you something about Malcolm. I’m sorry to bring up such a painful subject, but it is important.”
“By all means.” Devere’s pale, watery eyes misted even further. “No one ever wants to talk about him, and I wish they would. I miss him, you know. He was a hotheaded idiot, but that was partly my fault. His mother wanted more children, but we
only ever had the one. So I let her spoil him something terrible. After she died, I think he went a little mad—drinking, gambling, carrying on… If I’d just insisted he take his final training right after university, like you did, then perhaps… But we’ll never know, will we?” He drew in a ragged breath and blinked rapidly before looking back up at Merrick. “What can I do for you, lad?”
“Is it possible, do you think…” Merrick chose every word with exquisite care, “…that Malcolm might have…sired a child before he died?”
One wispy white eyebrow lifted, and his expression sharpened, showing a hint of the powerful magickal warrior he’d once been. “Of course it’s possible. The boy was certainly not a saint. Could have had a dozen, for all I know. Why?”
That wasn’t likely—as a whole, the Knights tended not to produce large families, perhaps as some sort of cosmic trade-off for their power. Merrick pulled the photographs, in their leather folding frame, from the small satchel by his feet. “I met this lad not long ago in a rather seedy part of London. He’s almost sixteen, and he’s got more innate power than some active members of the Order. His name is Thomas Porter, and he never knew his father. There’s something about his eyes, the set of his chin, which made me think of Malcolm.”
“Porter, did you say?” A shaking hand reached for the photographs, even as his other slammed down on a bell on the side of his chair. “Wilkins, get in here, at once.” His hoarse shout was the loudest thing Merrick had heard since entering this tomb of a house.
Merrick handed over the portraits, one close-up shot of just the face, and one from further back, showing Tommy’s long, lean frame. Devere snatched them and studied each eagerly. “Yes, yes, that chin, you’re right. What color are his eyes?”
“Bright blue.” Just like Sir Andrew’s had been, once upon a time. “His hair is a sandy blond—a little lighter than Mal’s was, but Tommy says his mother was fair. He has a few freckles, and he’s damn near as tall as I am. He was making his living as a card sharp in Wapping—at the age of fifteen, and leading a cadre of local street children in fighting vampyres. That’s how I met him. They came to my aid during an assignment that turned messy.”
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