by Gina Conkle
These stories are for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be sold, shared, or given away. Both stories are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Meet My Love At Midnight © 2017 by Gina Conkle
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ISBN: 978-0-9983056-4-6
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
BOOK LIST
AUTHOR BIO
Dear Reader,
I hope you’re enjoying the Midnight Meetings series. Meet My Love at Midnight is the love story of Jack Emerson, Bow Street thief taker and Lady Isabella Foster, the bold widow who had set her sights on Cyrus Ryland in The Lady Meets Her Match. I knew from the first time I met Jack and Isabella, they were meant for each other.
Like most love stories, it became a matter of when and how.
You might be surprised to find out I don’t plan my characters, especially the secondary characters. They pop onto the page full of life, and I let them have their say. The same is true with Jack and Isabella. They came out of nowhere.
I’m happy to say they finally get their happily ever after. I hope you have fun with this short story set in the Midnight Meetings series world.
Enjoy!
Gina Conkle
P.S. Keep an eye out for more of the Midnight Meetings series books. Three more books are coming.
CHAPTER ONE
A man in want of a woman ought to avoid dark alleys—especially Christmas Eve in Queenhithe. Nothing good lurked late at night here, but a woman’s voice teased his ear from the shadows. Educated. Irked. A touch imperious.
“Unhand me you ridiculous excuse of a man.”
Jack Emerson stopped his horse, an ear angled to figure out which alley.
“Whot’s this? Is that a toy ye got?” Night air carried a male voice. A St. Giles man definitely. Mildly sotted.
Jack dismounted, landing on the balls of his feet. He pulled a blade from his boot, the metal ping whisper soft. Eyes adjusting to the stygian road, he scanned warehouses crowded together. Narrow pathways cut between brick walls. A hack lay sideways in the street, one wheel spinning a lazy circuit. No horse or driver in sight.
“This is a Queen Anne pocket pistol,” the woman said. “And though it’s small, I assure you, it will do damage.”
Jack bolted to the fallen hack, his run light-footed. Dogs barking the next street over masked the sound of his approach.
“When I pull the trigger, pressure will build behind the lead ball thus creating higher velocity in the muzzle,” the woman’s words echoed in the high-walled alley. “This close, I won’t miss.”
That voice. Lady Isabella Foster?
A male snort and, “Yer a crazy piece. But I figure ye have one chance to land a clear shot, and I got nimble feet.”
The lady was a vague silhouette. The St. Giles man filled the alley, a hulking brute in a soiled, scarlet regimental coat with trim dangling from a sleeve. Probably pilfered it off a dead soldier.
“Nimble or not, I don’t think the lady cares about your feet.” Jack stepped quietly forward.
The bully’s head swung around. Lank hair hung loose over his collar. He was thick-jowled with a look of the docks about him.
Pebble-small eyes narrowed on Emerson. “Plenty other skirts in the Red Swain. This one’s mine.”
“You’re full of rot. That’s Mr. Jack Emerson. Bow Street’s finest thief taker. The only thing you’ll get is a meeting with the magistrate.”
Definitely Lady Foster.
“Such fine praise, milady.” Jack grinned like a school boy. “Didn’t think you noticed.”
Moonlight touched glossy black curls piled on her head. “Our noticing has been quite mutual, I think.”
What a saucy piece.
Chuckling, he ambled forward, crushing a shoe underfoot. A burgundy brocade frippery with black silk ties. He picked up the shoe still warm inside to the touch. Lady Isabella Foster was pure temptress. Confident. Unafraid. Refinement with an edge of grit. Yet, she’d never been forward with him in all the times they crossed paths.
There was a story to this woman. He’d start with rescuing her and then see her safely home. They’d shared quips in the past when he’d patrolled St. James on horseback. He enjoyed their verbal sparring matches, a contrast to other ladies of the Ton who showed a surprising lack of delicacy. Bored wives and bold widows practically drew a map to their bed chamber windows. Never Lady Foster.
Jack held up her shoe, its black silk ties fluttering over his hand. He whistled at the gold imprint embossed on the inside heel.
“Waverly & Sons. London’s best shoemaker.”
“Necessary for an evening of quality entertainment, don’t you think?” She was a swish of velvet skirts.
With any other woman, he would dispatch the criminal post haste and tend to legalities. Lady Foster stimulated things. She made a chilly night…fun.
He dropped the shoe into his pocket. “I will see it back on your foot, milady.”
“Are we done with tea and acquaintance?” The criminal whined, his thumb pushing the brim of a ragged tricorn high off his forehead. “I’m tryin’ to rob the woman, if ye don’t mind.”
Jack took another step. There were twelve to fifteen paces between him and the man. At ten, he’d hit his mark.
“Not without her shoe. She’ll need it for the ball…or whatever it is she’s off to.”
The St. Giles man cocked his head. “Yer an odd one…’bout as peculiar as she is. But I’ve got this—” a raw-skinned fist waggled a club “—and all ye got is that sewing needle in yer hand.”
The weapon looked to be a woolder stick from a rope making top. The man probably worked every task on the docks, from spinning hemp into ropes to hauling crates and barrels. He was a tough blighter with nothing to lose.
One backward swing of that club at Lady Foster would do serious damage.
Jack sauntered forward. “Let me offer you a Christmas Eve gift. Drop your weapon where you stand and put this nasty business of crime behind you. Live the rest of your days an honest man.”
“And if I don’t?” he spat.
“You’ll lose.”
Jack hefted his knife in plain view. This was his stock in trade, dealing with shifty types from rank and file hard heads to craftier criminals higher up. Daft though the man was, his bulk shouldn’t be ignored.
The cur tipped his head back and laughed. “Come an’ get—”
Metal flashed through the alley. Lady Foster yipped.
“Wha’ the bloody…” The criminal clutched his head, searching the ground. A squeak overhead drew his gawk higher.
The blade stuck his hat to low hanging signage swinging merrily.
The St. Giles man whipped around. “Ye missed.”
“I never miss. That was your warning.”
“Ye don’t have a blade. What’ll ye do?” The cur taunted. “Talk about my shoes?”
Blood pumping, Jack reached into his left sleeve. “Not when I have this.”
Steel glinted in hand. Sweat beaded his hairline. He was ready.
The St. Giles man charged at him, roaring. Heavy feet slapped the filthy street. Jack pivoted a split second before the oaf made contact. A booted foot tangled the man’s ankles. The attacker went spraw
ling head first into crates. Rotten cabbages rolled across the road. Moans floated from the heap. Footfalls pattered the grimy cobbles. Lady Foster’s gape bounced between him and the fallen man.
“Well, well.” She breathed the words. “I have never seen a thief taker stop a criminal with such…aplomb. Your reputation doesn’t do you justice.”
He wiped his brow. “All in a night’s work.”
His spine stretched from admiration glowing in violet eyes. The emotion softened her. Gone was the regal Lady Foster of St. James Park, replaced by a gentler creature. Shock did that. It was middle ground for the mind to assess new information.
Would she see him differently? Not simply a Bow Street hero—but her hero?
Oh, the power.
Headiness played inside him. Made him want to tackle street gangs, stop runaway carriages, save kittens from trees, and…and…be worthy of the light shining from the widow’s face.
The St. Giles man moaned weakly. Jack sucked in Queenhithe’s stale air. Best he got hold of himself and did his job. A quick check confirmed the barreled rib cage rose and fell, a sign of life.
“What shall we do with him?” Lady Foster asked.
He grinned at her use of we as if they were a Bow Street team. The magistrate, Sir John Fielding, was the sort of forward thinking fellow who might allow a woman to partner with a man for crime solving…once. Purely as a quiet test case.
“We won’t do anything.” He walked to the sign and yanked his knife free. The ragged tricorn splatted in a puddle. “I’ll find a hack for you.”
“And send me on my way just when the night’s getting lively?”
Tucking his knife in his boot, he took in plush velvet skirts trimmed with sprites of lace. Fat diamonds dressed her neck and dangled from her ear lobes. White, silk-clad toes peeked from her hem.
He dropped to one knee and put her shoe on the ground. “I’ve got to get him to the magistrate.”
She raised her hem discreet inches and slipped her toes inside the shoe. “But this isn’t your ward. Surely you can pass him off to the Night Watch. Let them take care of him.”
Head dipping, he basked in the knowledge she knew the wards he patrolled.
Lady Foster wobbled where she stood. Her shoe’s brocade-covered leather was stiff. Whalebone stays would make bending over nigh to impossible. He could help. Though it was highly improper. A smart man would get up, go to the end of the lane, and bellow for the Night Watch.
This was his Rubicon to cross. To put on a lady’s shoe or not?
“As for a hack—” she wiggled awkwardly “—that’s the last one, I’m sure. It is Christmas Eve, you know.”
Her tone was the You’re not getting rid of me variety. A determined woman who embraced life. She would unravel him if he let her.
“Here.” He cupped the back of her ankle. Felt the roundness of her heel.
His lungs slowed.
One hand was on the other side of her hem. Under her skirts. This was insurrection…touching her Achilles tendon, his thumb grazing silk-clad, slender bones which knit her foot and leg together. The lady’s body heat gloved his hand and teased his senses. A strange intimacy having his hand under her skirt and he’d not yet tied her shoe.
Velvet brushed his cheeks. She was caught up in the excitement, while he was catching his breath. Spicy warmth tempted him. He wanted to press the lady against the brick wall and—slowly—bury himself between her thighs. But this was Christmas Eve. In a Queenhithe alley. Wrong place and time for seduction, and truth be told, he was the wrong man.
“I’m aware of the holiday, milady.” His voice was strained.
Her smooth heel rested in his palm. He gave it gentle squeeze.
Above him came tiny hiss. Lady Foster stilled. He was certain her eyes bored holes in the back of his head. This wasn’t done.
Get hold of yourself. You’re not a foot man.
He guided her heel into the leather and quickly tied the shoe.
Rising, he got a whiff of her perfume—a soft musk like a passionate whisper on a pillow. His pillow.
Lady Foster’s lips parted as if she read his mind. And waited.
His fingernails dug into his palm. A rush flooded his limbs. Her eyes were dewy. Her head angled for a kiss. The chance to be impetuous ran high. But he was a man of the law. Injustice of any kind was not tolerated at Bow Street. Pinning a rescued woman to a wall was grounds for dismissal.
Even if said woman wanted a good pinning.
He tried for composure. “I’m also aware you wore those court shoes for an evening entertainment that doesn’t include the likes of me.”
Pliant lips firmed. “I won’t ask how you became familiar with women’s footwear.”
Ah, she’d witnessed a few brazen invitations.
“It was for an investigation.”
“Chasing shoe thieves for Mayfair’s lusty women?” she mocked, but her throat’s visible swallow told him she was upset. Jealous perhaps? Or hot and bothered at the kiss that didn’t happen?
More heat bounced between them. And it was a bloody cold night.
“It’s my job to protect West End women, not use them for my pleasure.”
“You’d have me believe you’ve turned down all those invitations from bored wives and widows?”
“Like I said, I don’t mix business and pleasure.” He could tell her men had been dismissed for less offenses but why bother? The lady already made up her mind about him.
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Then how do you know so much about women’s shoes?”
“From investigating the woman who left a shoe on Mr. Cyrus Ryland’s front steps.” He waited a breath. “I believe you’re well acquainted with Mr. Ryland. At least you were before he became a married man.”
Her frown lost its sharpness. From having a failed affair of the heart flung at her? He shouldn’t care but he was doing the flinging. With zeal. Now who was the jealous one?
“We never…that is Mr. Ryland and I never had…” her voice trailed off. Violet eyes glittered in the dark before she got up the nerve to say, “He was never truly taken with me.”
His loss.
The admission stripped her pride. She was a beautiful woman who fed the gossips a lie. For months, Lady Foster let on that she was Mr. Cyrus Ryland’s love interest—until the man married a coffee shop proprietress. None could deny that was a love match. It must’ve stung Lady Foster.
She searched Jack’s face, taking in the vicious scar and strands of hair falling around his jaw. She likely saw his Irish heritage in the auburn. And there was his mild brogue.
He acknowledged a singular fact. Lady Isabella Foster rattled him. She had for quite some time.
In normal circumstances, Jack was calmness personified. Smirking was his one luxury. He saved his smirks for men he didn’t trust and nobs who tried to bribe him. Their expressions were priceless when he rejected their money.
Justice was a lady he treated with the utmost respect.
Kissing a rescued woman was frowned upon. But his hard-won decorum was slipping. Fast. Lady Foster’s honesty poured oil on lust crackling between them. More than ever he wanted to kiss her. The sultry, improper kind that would curl her toes in her proper shoes.
And she was ready for it. Flesh prickled high on her breasts. Violet eyes smoldered. A diamond hairpin swayed low in raven locks. The jewel skimmed the line where her velvet cloak met skin. With her mussed hair and open mouth, she had the look of a woman fresh from a tryst.
Desire pooled between his legs. Shite. It was hard to breathe with her standing within reach, her lips parted. He pulled the sparkly pin from her hair. A mistake. His fingertips grazed her collarbone. Lady Foster hissed as if scalded. Her breasts hitched higher. It’d be easy for him to caress plump flesh rising from her lacy bodice.
She was not quite t
wo handfuls. He would gladly measure to confirm that.
“You and me…” His voice thickened. “This cannot—”
“You there! Is anybody hurt?” Two men trotted down the lane, their candle lanterns held high.
“The Night Watch,” Jack murmured.
“Now they come.” A glum Lady Foster hugged her fur-lined cloak about her body.
Both men circled the fallen hack. The older one glowered at Jack. “Explain yourself. What goes here?”
Lady Foster stepped around Jack, every inch the fine widow who gamboled through St. James Park.
“Mr. Emerson saved me from this ruffian.”
Both men raised their candle lanterns. Two pairs of curious eyes absorbed the alley and the St. Giles man out cold on rotten vegetables. Ginger curls sprung around the freckled cheeks of the younger Watchman, his grin splitting wide.
“Mr. Jack Emerson?” The young man doffed his hat and gave Lady Foster a quick nod before turning starry-eyed to Jack. “An honor, sir.”
Jack recognized the lad, a past witness who went before Sir John. The earnest Watchman had made no bones about wanting a position with Bow Street.
The young Watchman stood taller. “We’ve had a rash of crimes in this ward and the next, a man going after hacks at night along the river,” he rushed on. “Gives them the jump on unlit streets.”
Lady Foster settled her hood on mussed hair. “The man on the ground sprang out of the dark. The spooked horse broke free, and the coachman chased after the animal.”
“And the link boy?” The older Watchman tested the hack’s splintered shaft.
“We didn’t have one. The driver said there wouldn’t be any since it’s Christmas Eve.”
“The Jarvey left you to fend for yourself?” The older Watchman checked the number plate on the hack. “I’ll report him to the Treasury. He’ll pay a stiff fine for leaving you, ma’am.”
The younger Watchman pulled a pad of paper and lead stick from inside his coat. “We’ll need your name and information, milady.”
While Lady Foster gave her particulars to the young man, the older Watchman took off his hat and brushed a hand over his balding pate.
