by Robyn DeHart
“Not gambling. Cards. There is a difference. A game of odds rather than chance. There is skill involved, and I’ll have you know I’m rather good at it.”
“Of that, dear brother, I have no doubt. But I—”
“Worry,” he interrupted. “Yes, I realize. You spend much of your time worrying about me and the rest of the family. ’Tis a wonder you haven’t had some sort of apoplexy.”
Her smile faded. Is that what her brother thought? That it was only a matter of time before she began to show symptoms like her mother? “Edmond, that’s not funny.”
“That’s not what I meant. Besides, Mother’s episodes can hardly be considered apoplexy. You are nothing like her.” His words seemed to echo.
Nothing like her. Willow’s heart seemed to wilt in her chest. Nothing.
“You don’t normally dress like that,” he said, eyebrows raised.
“Meg insisted,” she said swiftly, “and since it was her night, I didn’t want to be difficult.”
“But, Willow, you’re always difficult. It’s what you do. And I wasn’t suggesting you dress any differently. I admit it’s probably best I didn’t see you at the ball tonight, else I would have had to defend your honor. I’m certain every roaming male eye was on you.” He sat up and frowned. “Why didn’t I see you tonight?”
She chewed at her bottom lip, then shrugged casually. “I don’t know. It was a rather large crowd. Perhaps you were there before I arrived. And I did go for a walk in the garden for a bit when I got too warm in the ballroom.”
“That must have been it,” he said.
“Were you there when the Jack of Hearts made an appearance?”
“No, I must have missed that too. Evidently I missed everything tonight. Except winning a bit of blunt from some poor old fools.”
“I’m sure you noticed the lovely Charlotte. You wouldn’t have missed her.”
He met her gaze and held it for a moment as if deciding whether or not to respond. “She looked stunning as usual.”
“Why do you never ask her to dance?” she asked.
He leaned forward. “We’ve danced on occasion. You know me, I was never much for dancing.”
She had suspected that her brother fancied Charlotte, but perhaps that had passed as they’d all grown up.
He drained his brandy glass and stood for another.
“You will have to dance with ladies once you decide to marry. You certainly can not woo and court without dancing.”
He released a humorless laugh. “In good time, my sister. I am still young and father is not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“What are you waiting for? To win a great fortune? Perhaps love?” Were it she who had the freedom to love and marry, she would do so as soon as she was able. Edmond, however, spent more time at his club than he did in ballrooms.
He sipped his brandy, then set the glass down. “I’m not waiting on anything in particular. I do have more in my life, though, than considering the fact that I’m an eligible bachelor.” Then he shrugged. “Love would be nice, but some people never find it.”
She considered his words but said nothing. How did you know you were in love? The question was on the tip of her tongue, but after Edmond answered her question, he’d have questions of his own, like why she wanted to know. She couldn’t tell him that.
Besides, it mattered not. She didn’t love James; she’d know it if she did. Surely that was the sort of emotion that came with a modicum of certainty—not the myriad of questions that had plagued her since first meeting him.
Theirs was a mixed-up relationship built on competition and desire. That wasn’t love.
Edmond stood. “You should be off to bed.” He placed his empty glass on the decanter tray. “I believe I shall retire as well.”
They walked silently up the stairs and along the hall toward their individual rooms. Willow reached her room and opened the door, then paused.
“Do take care of yourself. I look forward to the days when you have a wife to care for you.”
He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “All is well, Willow. I promise. Off you go to bed.”
Willow rang for her maid to assist her out of the tight corset. In the meantime she unfastened the dress and began removing the pins from her hair. Tonight she had tried to pretend she was carefree, that she could be reckless and passionate. But she wasn’t any of those things.
She was Willow. Cold, dull, and proper Willow. Edmond was right; she was nothing like their mother. She had been so afraid she would lose control and become like their mother, who seemed to be a slave to her feelings, when in reality there was no chance Willow would end up that way. She lacked the sparkle and fervor for life that her mother had. She lacked her mother’s charm and engaging personality.
No wonder her father loved his wife so much. Her mother had been like a shooting star, bright and beautiful and so full of energy. How could he not love her?
Willow, on the other hand, was rigid and judgmental and utterly alone. Neither James nor any other man would ever love her. She simply wasn’t enough.
So, it should be a huge relief that she did not love James. Perhaps she’d feel relieved later.
The following morning James waited in the Mabson foyer for Willow. It didn’t take long for her to step into the hallway, looking very different from the woman who’d been in his arms the night before. Today she was Willow, in her practical and modest dress of pale yellow muslin. There wasn’t even a hint of the passionate woman he’d brought to pleasure. He knew her secret. Knew of the passionate woman hiding just beneath the surface. The thought shot desire through him.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said. “I was in with my mother.”
“Do you need to stay with her? Because I can go and do this alone,” he suggested.
“No. She’s napping now, and more than likely will be for a few hours.” She fastened her cloak. “You still don’t want me to go with you for this, do you?”
“No, I do not.”
“But you came here regardless.”
“You were right, I owe you,” he said.
“Shall we?”
If it were possible, Willow seemed even more reserved this morning than he had ever seen her. No doubt she was ashamed of their embrace. Perhaps he should say something, ease her nerves a bit.
He nodded and led the way to the carriage. He did owe her. For all of the confusion he’d served her. Not to mention himself. He knew how to live with desire. He knew what to do with those feelings. But the other things that seemed to emerge whenever he was with Willow put him at a loss.
He wanted to make her smile, make her laugh, slay her dragons, so to speak. He wanted to smooth back her hair and hold her hand and tell her the ridiculous stories his mother told him. These were the things he didn’t know what to do with. So he ignored them as best he could.
Once they were seated inside, he pulled out his notes.
“According to my sources the man we’re going to see is somewhat of a broker for the types of portraits Drummond was taking,” James said.
“So Drummond and any other photographer taking those sorts of pictures would go to this man and he would find buyers for them?”
“Exactly.”
“How charming,” she said dryly.
“Yes, well, some people will go to any means to make some blunt.” He eyed her for a while as she peered out the tiny window. “Willow, I’m fully expecting this man to be unsavory by every facet of the definition, which means we must be extremely careful with you there. Stay close to my side.”
Her large brown eyes blinked up at him and he felt a catch near his heart.
“I don’t want you to be frightened,” he clarified. “Simply cautious.”
“I’m always cautious,” she said. But then her expression changed and she turned again to the window. He suspected she used to be always cautious. Until he came into her life and started stealing kis
ses and touching her when he had no right to do either. Taking advantage of the tight control she held over herself. He’d seen a weakness in her fortress and he’d pushed on it.
Neither spoke for the remainder of the trip to their destination. It was in Whitechapel and James glanced at his note to ensure he’d located the right place. He certainly didn’t want Willow to be on the street any longer than necessary.
“This is it,” James said as he located the appropriate sign, then knocked on the carriage ceiling. Mulligan’s Pub. What had he been thinking? He should have left Willow at home. He turned to her as they rolled to a stop. “Perhaps you should stay inside. This is the worst sort of neighborhood, Willow.”
“Whitechapel,” she said. “Where the Jack the Ripper murders took place.” Her jaw was set and she showed no sign of fear. “Well, I can’t say I’d like to purchase a flat in the area, but I don’t suppose any harm can come to me at this hour. And I shall stay close.” She swallowed, then met his gaze. “I’d rather be next to you than alone in here.”
Perhaps she was right. At least if she was next to him, he could guard her closely. He gave instructions to the driver to wait for them, then he assisted Willow down from the carriage.
“You might want to pick up your skirts as we step out onto the street. I don’t think this is rainwater out here.”
Willow made a face and adhered to his suggestion. They quickly made their way into Mulligan’s Pub, and a bell above them announced their entrance. The room was small and dark and overfilled with mismatched tables and simple wooden chairs. It smelled of old ale and tobacco and already two tables were occupied with dirty men: one chewing on a partially smoked cigar and the other with his head on the table. It wasn’t even noon and these men were well into their cups.
“Be right there,” a raspy voice called from the back room.
“No need to wait,” James said and led Willow around the bar and through the doorway to the back.
A short and round man with thinning hair and two days’ worth of beard turned and started at them. He snarled. “I told you I’d be right there. You can’t be back here.” His right eye didn’t seem to focus on anything and it drooped heavily. With his good eye, he scanned Willow up and down. “Especially with your lady friend.”
“Are you Mulligan?” James ignored his protests.
“I might be. Who’s asking?” he managed before hunching over as a terrible cough ravaged him.
“Inspector James Sterling. I’m here to ask you some questions about Malcolm Drummond.”
Mulligan’s left eye narrowed. “If you see that bastard, you tell him that he owes me portraits. Already paid for. I’ve been waiting for nearly three weeks.” The pub owner let his good eye roam over the length of Willow, then he licked his dry, peeling lips.
“I don’t think you’ll be seeing those portraits,” James said.
“And why the hell not?” Mulligan demanded.
“Mr. Drummond was murdered.”
Mulligan’s face contorted in confusion.
“Did you not read about it in the papers?” James asked.
“I ain’t got time for the papers. Can’t believe that louse got himself offed before I got those pictures and they’re already paid for.” He released a string of curses that surprised even James. Mulligan stomped his right foot like a portly, spoiled child. “What the hell do I tell my customers?”
James ignored his question. “I need to see your outfit. Where you handle the business of selling those portraits.”
“It ain’t illegal or nothing,” he said.
“I’m not here for you, Mulligan, I only need you as a resource.”
Mulligan coughed wildly again. “Follow me.”
He led them through a dingy curtain and up a short staircase. The room was dark and it took a moment for Mulligan to light a few lamps, spreading a hazy glow across the room. The walls were covered with lurid images of women in various positions. James instinctively pulled Willow close.
“Just keep your eyes down,” he whispered to her.
She nodded tightly, but kept her eyes pinned to the floor.
Mulligan spread his arms out. “This be it.” He leered at James. “You looking to buy?”
“No. What I need is some information. Namely a list of whom you sell your…” he paused, grasping for the right word, “…merchandise to.”
“I don’t keep no list. It’s all confidential, you see,” Mulligan said. He chuckled. “You got money, I’ll give you a picture. It’s as easy as that.”
“What can you tell me of Drummond?”
Mulligan shrugged. “Fancied himself a gent, that one did. But he was no better than any of the rest of us in the business. He thought just because he took respectable portraits, that made him mannerly.”
“Did he provide you with many portraits?” James asked.
“He was my top supplier. People liked seeing the ladies bared to the skin.” He nodded to Willow. “Is she one of ’em?”
James took a menacing step toward Mulligan. “Don’t look at her. Understand me? While I’m here asking questions, you look only at me.”
Mulligan snarled but nodded in agreement.
“So how did you know they were ladies?”
“Drummond said so.” He shrugged. “You can tell, though. By the way they look with their clean hair and bright smiles. His ladies brought in a fine price.”
“What kind of person bought them?”
“Gents like you.” He gave a mocked bow. “The rich and noble.”
“Ever have anyone get angry at what they saw? Perhaps recognize someone in the pictures?”
“No.” Mulligan scratched at his greasy hair. “And you said Drummond’s dead?”
“Murdered. But I don’t suppose you know anything about that,” James said.
Mulligan just eyed him blankly until James’ words hit him. Then he stomped his foot again. “No. I don’t even know where to find the man. He always came to me.”
“Can you give me the names of the other suppliers?” James turned to glance at Willow, who stood beside him with her eyes focused on her shoes. He was the worst sort of gentleman and she was the wrong lady to bring to a place such as this.
“I can give you their names. At least the ones they’ve given me,” Mulligan said. Then he winced. “I don’t know how to spell any of them.”
James retrieved his notebook and pencil. “I’ll worry about the spelling. I want their names and how you reach them.”
Willow watched a small beetle scurry across the floor. It was difficult to find anything appealing to look at in this small, dusty room. She’d seen them when they’d walked in—walls lined with provocative images. One after another, pose after pose, women showed off their bodies and flaunted their sexuality.
She’d never known any woman who enjoyed that much freedom. Not even her mother. Yet this man, Mulligan, claimed he’d sold some pictures of gentle-bred women. Had there been some from the box she and James had found? She hadn’t recognized any, but she hadn’t exactly been looking at their faces.
Part of her twinged with envy, not because of their raucous behavior, as she certainly had no desire to entertain such an activity, but rather their freedom. She was not even comfortable being nude while alone. She envied their ability to let themselves go, to embrace their desires.
What would happen if she did the same?
Which desires would she embrace?
James’ strong hand held tightly to her lower back, warming, protecting. She looked up and focused in on an image of a plump woman with large breasts and dark, curled hair. She stood completely nude in front of a mirror, so that two images of her body shone in the portrait. There was no shame in her face, no fear, just a slight hint of a smile, as if she knew she was doing something naughty and simply didn’t care.
Willow knew she’d never be such a creature, but she’d never imagined she’d be as wanton as she had been the other night in James’ arms, either. The thought of his c
aresses and her sweet release sent pleasure rumbling through her body. Even if she wanted to, she wasn’t certain she could prevent James from touching her again.
Chapter 14
He felt the need to protect her, James realized. That did not bode well for him. Men typically only wanted to protect those they cared about. Which meant he had developed feelings for Willow. Feelings that, more than likely, went beyond mere desire.
It could simply be a matter of feeling guilty that he’d put her in such dangerous situations, and therefore felt responsible for her well-being. But something in him argued against that point.
This urge to protect her, coupled with the intense desire to touch her, made him nervous. She was not a woman he could trifle with. Her heart would get broken, and he wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. She deserved a man who could love her and provide her with a happy and respectable home. Neither of which he could do.
He couldn’t be the upstanding and proper man she needed. No, he was the brute who took her to pubs in Whitechapel and subjected her to illicit images of women. Willow needed a man who would protect her from the likes of him.
He eyed her sitting silently across from him in the carriage. He wanted to say something, to ensure she was all right, but he wasn’t sure what to say. That he felt like a cad for taking her to such a place? Or perhaps that he was trying desperately not to touch her because he did respect her, despite appearances?
He sighed.
“James.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. “I insisted on going with you to that meeting. It is my fault, not yours.”
She was being brave, he admired her for that, but it did not expunge his guilt. “I should have insisted otherwise. That was no place for a lady. Your reputation could be ruined if anyone saw you anywhere near that place.”
“My reputation could be ruined by being alone with you. Which I have been on several occasions.”
“Are you not concerned?” he asked.
She frowned. “It’s not that I’m not concerned. I certainly do not want to tarnish my family’s good name, or bring about any gossip—we have been victim to that enough. But I’m nearly thirty years old, James, and have been shelved, for lack of a better term. I consider what I’m doing with you work, and I should think that people would understand if you were to explain it to them.”
