The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree: Stoker & Bash, #2

by Selina Kray

  “Did you pay a one-time fee or a monthly stipend?”

  “I assure you it was not a Margaret Waters-type affair.”

  Tim stifled a shudder at the mention of such a villain’s name. He’d attended many a trial in his time, but the case of the infamous baby farmer still haunted him. Servants and other working women of the lower classes were often forced to send their children to live with caretakers, seeing them but once or twice a year, if at all. Some of the more devil-minded of these starved their innocent charges, feeding them nothing but laudanum, all the while continuing to extort money from their mothers. Margaret Waters, the most demonic of these baby farmers, was hanged for the murder and neglect of nineteen children.

  The faintest echo of that case resonated here.

  “Sir Hugh.” Tim leaned forward, arms on his legs. “Everything.”

  He clenched his jaw, bit out, “A fee. Four installments. Upon arrival, when her confinement began, after the birth, and once they’d found her a position.”

  “But she fled.”

  A low growl reverberated through the room. “Yes. But without the child.”

  “Stole the money from the Daughters?”

  “All of it, yes, or its equivalent.”

  Tim considered this a moment. “You don’t want her found?”

  “Payment for services rendered.” Sir Hugh struggled to collect himself. “I’ve no real quarrel with her other than abandoning the boy.”

  “But he is also missing?”

  “The root of the matter.”

  Tim reclined back in his seat, absorbing. Sir Hugh’s predicament, while not uncommon, did raise a few concerns.

  “You are aware of the most likely outcome?”

  Again Sir Hugh locked his eyes on the empty space above the mantel. Here in the house where his family once thrived before everything went to ruin. Tim well understood how desperate such a man—professionally prosperous, personally isolated—might be to offer an olive branch to an offshoot of his family tree. But Tim knew there was little glory to be found in investigations involving lost children.

  “I’m no fool.” Sir Hugh’s stare, back with a vengeance, pinned Tim to his chair. “I’ve also no heir. Find my son, Stoker, and you’ll have your pick of posts at the Yard.”

  Chapter 2

  “The rest...” Hiero pried the dagger out of his heart and cut the rope that restrained the blade of the guillotine. “... is silence.”

  Clutching his chest as his shirt ran red, he artfully collapsed beside Henry Irving’s severed head, which he gave a little tap so it fell upright. Applause rumbled the floor of the stage as the curtains swept closed, whisking dust up his nose. Hiero had enough presence of mind, despite his coughing fit, to tuck the fake bust of Irving’s head under his arm as he rose to bow. Devil eyed, Irving made a grab for it as the cast scrambled into position, but Hiero proved, as ever, more nimble. When the curtain opened, he petted the coarse-haired death mask to uproarious effect, leaving the audience—his audience—thoroughly entertained.

  Hiero briefly considered kicking the head into the crowd, but he knew it would be a step too far. Though if not on the closing night of their French Revolution-inspired Hamlet burlesque, Let ’em Eat Ham, when? Then he spied The Gaiety’s former owner, Mr. Webster, at the back of the stalls and decided a game of catch was in order. Hiero tossed the head up into the left-side boxes, ensuring thunderous cheers as he moved to take his final bow.

  The crowd showered him with roses. And other lesser blooms, but that couldn’t be helped. The Gaiety was a prestige establishment, which was how Hiero—or rather, his stage persona, Horace Beastly—preferred it. A haven for those whose predilections fell outside of society’s norms, The Gaiety was as much flesh market as temple of high art. As he scanned the crowd, Hiero picked out the Mary-Anns, sisters of Lesbos, and fine ladies who were not ladies at all, each of whom had found leisure and acceptance here. These people, his people, were being cast out by the vile new owner Mr. Tumnus and his Society for the Moral Preservation of the Arts, or some such grandiose title. Irving, Tumnus’s creature, craved respectability and wealthier patrons. “Strict” interpretations of the classics, cleansed of any questionable plot points, would replace the bawdy burlesques.

  And so Horace Beastly must take his final bow. Hiero milked the attention for as long as the crowd cheered for him, blowing kisses and clapping at them in return. Though his vision clouded at the edges, he refused to blink. He would shed no tears before that bilge bog Webster or give Irving the satisfaction of his sadness. Instead Hiero looked to box number five, where a pair of shining green eyes wept for him.

  Later, in his dressing room, as a battering ram’s worth of knocks almost splintered his door, Hiero stared at his face in the mirror. The room behind him, once his sanctum, was as hollow and brittle as an eggshell. Pocked walls exposed beams that playbills shouting of Horace Beastly’s triumphs once covered. His armoire, his costume chests, his shrine to the Muses had all been packed away to Berkeley Square. Only his chartreuse fainting couch, scene of many an entanglement, waited in the center of the room, an empress without a retinue.

  He couldn’t quite bring himself to wash the last of the makeup from his face. The pale patch over his eye gave him a piratical air, or perhaps that of a villainous mime. Though he had shed a number of skins in his time, Beastly proved... well, something of a beast to molt. Performing was the only honest trade he’d ever undertaken. The only profession he’d chosen not out of fear or desperation, but for himself. And though the growing popularity of Hieronymus Bash, consulting detective, risked exposure every time he tread the boards, Hiero chafed at conceding to a pant-twist like Tumnus and his familiar Irving. Hiero loathed religious fanaticism in all its forms, but especially when it invaded his theater.

  A commotion beyond the door heralded DI Tim Stoker’s arrival. Or “Kip,” as Hiero dubbed him when their professional relationship turned personal. His Kip, specifically. Hiero hurried to scrub away his white eye patch as Kip inched into the dressing room, shoving and booting back Hiero’s more zealous admirers. A dab of rejuvenating cream and a quick brush of his mustache later, Hiero was ready to receive his most ardent fan. He could do with a spot of devotion, and Kip knew just how best to worship him.

  Hiero waited, eyes at half-mast, for the snug of Kip’s arms around his neck. And waited. And waited. When he finally glanced back, he found Kip glaring quizzically at the fainting couch.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “Hmm?” Hiero would never tire of how the slightest insinuation pinked his cheeks. “Oh!”

  Even after seven months, they were still hesitant around each other, as if waiting for the other to say “when.” Though born of conflict, the strange alchemy of their relationship enhanced their passion, which burned ever-hot. Unlike any fire he had felt before. Not even with his dear, dead Apollo. It occurred to Hiero that, just like performing, Kip was his choice. In a world so often against them, they had chosen each other, and that made all the difference.

  “I’m searching for something to bar the door,” Kip explained. Given their tendency to be interrupted midcoitus, a fair preoccupation. “You appear to be sitting on it.”

  “As I’m unlikely to move without reason, perhaps you should come greet me.”

  “Ah, yes, manners.” Kip hastened over, pecked Hiero on the temple, and purred in his ear, “Hazelnut?”

  “Almond.”

  “Mmm.” Kip stroked a hand down Hiero’s chest as he knelt beside him, settling it on his thigh. He traced teasing circles on its inner aspect with his thumb, his freckled face turned up like a flower to the sun. A twinkle in his fern-green eyes hinted at his meeting having gone well. “You were magnificent.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’d dreamt of your Hamlet, and you surpassed even my wildest imaginings. Except for the clothes.”

  Hiero huffed. “You dare criticize my costume?”

  “Only that you wore one.” They shared a ch
uckle as Kip slid onto his lap and wrapped lean, muscled arms around him. “How are you?”

  Hiero opened his mouth but could only sigh. Not just a detective by trade, but a sometime codebreaker, Kip read all the things Hiero couldn’t say in his expression.

  “Must this truly be the end of my beloved Mr. Beastly?” Kip asked. “Every theatre manager in the city would hire him on the spot.”

  “And well I know it. But would they let him cancel at a moment’s notice or conduct his affairs backstage? Part of The Gaiety’s charm under Webster was its flexibility.” Hiero cupped Kip’s firm buttocks to force himself out of his dour mood. “Much like your own.”

  Kip smirked, inched closer. “It’s just rather unlike you to roll over so easily.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of adventure, dear Kip, it’s when to bow out gracefully.”

  “I think you mean cut and run.”

  “That too.”

  Hiero stopped further protests with a kiss, slow but greedy, feeding off Kip’s arousal to nourish his own. He still didn’t understand what drew him to such an honorable, average man, other than how deliciously pliable he became after enjoying a bit of theater. Hiero had expected, once the thrill of their first case wore off, to find his attentions flitting elsewhere. His was never the most focused of minds. But that very solidity and dependability, which Hiero once would have mocked, touched something in him. When Kip gave himself, he gave everything. He possessed such a deep well of character that Hiero could drink and drink and drink—ever greedy, like his kisses—and Kip would never fail to replenish.

  But though his desire was bottomless, Kip’s patience was not. And so Hiero had begun to dread the day when Kip would discover all of his secrets. When his sterling detective would know the truth of him, and his affections would run dry.

  Kip licked under his tongue as he broke off their kiss to explore, nipping at an earlobe before dragging the tip of his teeth down the side Hiero’s neck, through reemergent stubble. Hiero shut his eyes, more to blot out the empty room than to concentrate on Kip’s ministrations. The pinch of his nipple through his robe proved inspiring, the worry of silken fabric over the hard nub more so. Kip gnawed playfully at his neck, careful not to leave marks above the collar. With his free hand, he caught up Hiero’s, twining their fingers and rubbing a naughty thumb over the inside of Hiero’s wrist. Kip guided his hand to the buttons of his waistcoat, where Hiero made quick business of freeing him.

  Hiero heard more than saw it fall to the floor in the wake of Kip’s jacket, leaving only one white, straining shirt between him and his prize. Kip’s daily visits to the gymnasium at his policeman’s club, as well as three decent meals a day, had primed his physique into a devastating weapon. It certainly vanquished Hiero every time he admired it. Hiero made a mental note to have Kip’s suits recut to accommodate his latest muscles as he unsheathed them, exposing pale but taut skin and an explosion of freckles. Hiero had made it his mission to account for each and every one, and he set himself to the task with ardor.

  “How do you want me?” Kip panted. "Astride the couch? On my k-knees? I could... I could suck...”

  Hiero spun them around on his stool, hoisting Kip onto the makeup table. His pots and potions skittered and clattered, but Hiero didn’t care. He couldn’t face the vacuous room; the punters still beating at his door; his lonely couch, waiting to be packed away with all the rest. He narrowed his worldview down to the thing that mattered most, the huge, vital cock smothered by Kip’s trousers. Time for some resuscitation.

  “Mmm, yes,” Kip moaned. “Let’s finish as we started.”

  “I thought the symmetry beguiling.”

  “Not so much as your mouth...”

  Kip pawed his thumb across Hiero’s plush bottom lip, spread his legs even wider. He towered over Hiero, sweating, panting, flush cheeked and fierce eyed, a vengeful woodland god. Kip moved to undo his trousers, but Hiero batted his hands away. He nuzzled his face into Kip’s groin, drank deep of his fresh, mossy essence. Kip gripped his hair, need cresting. His senses saturated by his lover, Hiero could have devoured him whole. Instead he tugged Kip’s trousers down and swallowed his thick, red cock.

  Kip hissed, whispering, “Beautiful, beautiful,” as Hiero took him to the root. He worked his throat around Kip’s massive length until stars burst behind his eyes, retreating only when the sear of his lungs became too impossible. Barely a breath’s respite before Hiero set about his real work, licking him from balls to tip, then circling his tongue under the ridged edge of the head, teasing his slit until rewarded with a salty pearl. Ever attracted to shiny things, Hiero palmed and pumped him for bead after bead, Kip’s cock diving deeper and deeper into the tight shell of his throat.

  Hiero gripped Kip’s hips as he gave himself over to the rhythm, encouraging him to thrust. Kip swept back a curtain of hair and cupped Hiero’s jaw, gaze rapt. When Hiero dared look up, he saw only adoration in Kip’s blown-out eyes. But would it be enough to satisfy him over the coming weeks, months, years? Could his audience of one be his everything?

  A shudder ripped through Kip. He released his cradling hands from Hiero’s hair, fisting them around the table’s edge. Kip bit his bottom lip, stifled a curse. His thrusts came quick and shallow, angling down against Hiero’s indecent bottom lip.

  Hiero shuttered his eyes and his concerns, opening himself to everything Kip had to give. There was only this man, this moment. The pulse of his prick and the tang of his come. The muffled howl of his end and the climactic burst down Hiero’s throat. The echoing throb in Hiero’s groin that didn’t quite pop, no matter how he savored every last lick and suckle of his Kip’s softening member.

  Dazed Kip collapsed back against the mirror, a portrait of debauchery. He petted Hiero’s head where it rested on his thigh, shivering as tremors of pleasure continued to quake through him.

  “Come home with me?” Hiero hated the quaver in his voice, the question as soon as he asked it. That even after seven months, he still had to ask.

  Kip raised his head, instantly alert. “Of course.” He slid off the makeup table into Hiero’s embrace, found his lips as if the seduction had only just begun. Hiero lost himself anew in the silk of his tongue and the strength of his arms, how pliant and eager and easy Kip was, as if he lived to fuck. “Shall we slip away, or do you want me here?”

  Only Hiero was permitted to see this side of him. Had seen Kip for what he was from the start: a man who had been ignored and overlooked his entire life, who with a little polish would shine only for him. He enjoyed submitting to Hiero’s whims, craved his ingenuity almost as much as his command. Yet when Kip played his fingers along the fringe of his robe, the short V of chest hair that was all Hiero dared reveal of his chest, seeking a permission Hiero could never give, he knew he couldn’t equal Kip’s abandon. Not without shedding the last of his skins, exposing the raw, vulnerable flesh beneath. Exposing the man Hiero had vowed he would never be again.

  “Let me see you,” Kip whispered as he nipped at the end of Hiero’s mustache, skirting his fingertips beneath the fringe without pushing it back. “I’ve wanted to touch you, really touch you, for so long, my lovely one...”

  Hiero caught him by the wrists, pried his hands off him. They hovered between them, palms soft, fingers spread, a gesture of surrender.

  “As I’ve said before”—Hiero struggled for a nonchalance he didn’t feel—“I don’t care to be disrobed. Ruins the mystery.”

  “Pity you’re bedding a detective.”

  “A tragic error I don’t particularly care to correct.”

  Kip clicked his tongue but smiled. “Always so contrary.”

  “But see how my garden grows.” With a magician’s flick, he released Kip’s wrists so they fell within inches of his cockle shells. Instead Kip wove his arms around him, hugging him in.

  “I won’t look.” Kip gazed at him with such kindness, such affection that Hiero wanted to scream. “Just touch. Just let yo
u feel something of what I feel when you touch me. It’s all I can think about most nights. Mapping the plains of your skin. Following the trail of your dark hair down, down, down...” Hiero wished he could admire the blush that stained Kip’s cheeks a violent crimson. “I never thought to say such things to anyone, never thought to have someone like you in my life.”

  “Am I? In your life?” Even Hiero didn’t know where such a wellspring of resentment was sourced, only that it spurted forth at surprising and unexpected volume. As if it had been rising in him all this time, surging against the dam that held his emotions in check. He thrilled at its release. “I didn’t fail to notice this is the first we’ve seen of each other in over a week.”

  Kip started. “If you have word of a case, you’ve only to send a note.”

  “As nothing else dares interrupt your boxing and brooding regimen?”

  His look of dismay almost stirred a sense of guilt in Hiero. Almost.

  “Forgive me if I’ve been too long absent.” That Kip wrestled with something within himself did not go unmissed by someone of Hiero’s less than heroic background. “If you’ve need of me, for any reason—” He drew his hands around to Hiero’s front, massaged them over his abdomen. “—you’ve only to send a note.”

  “So you’ve said.” Gently but firmly, Hiero removed Kip’s hands from his person once again. “Perhaps it was too much to hope you might call just to see me. That you might find my company reason enough for a visit.”

  Kip let out a blustery sigh. “I don’t recall you ever setting foot in my rooms, if we’re tallying.”

  “Only you would insist we huddle on some poky mattress in a frigid closet when we could be taking our leisure in perfect comfort.”

  “I don’t see what difference location makes when you’re so well insulated.” Kip dismounted him with a small shove and snatched his shirt off the table. “My rooms may not be the equal of your rococo fantasia of a pile, but they are mine.” He yanked on his waistcoat over his tight-tucked shirt, not bothering to button up. “A man must have something of his own.”