The Copper, page 2
The man bobbed his head and murmured tank a few times before loping off like a great blond wolfhound, his hands still in cuffs he’d have to find a way to break.
The rich man gazed after him for a moment before turning golden eyes on Connor. He smiled slightly, and those eyes seemed to sparkle in the early morning light. “You’ve done a good thing. Doesn’t it make you feel better?”
How did he know Connor was fighting guilt? Could the man see his inner battle when he looked into his eyes? Did he guess at Connor’s suppressed desires? Men of a certain kind could sometimes divine that quality in one who was like them. Did his secret show?
“Come now,” Connor said gruffly. “Get moving.”
“Did you mean…?” The man jerked his chin to the left, meaning escape, then to the right, indicating the paddy wagon.
For a moment, Connor was completely uncertain what he did mean. Then the decision was taken out of his hands. One of his fellow officers, Ashby, poked his head around the corner to check the alley. “Hurry up there. We’re about to set off,” he called and stood watching.
Connor had no choice but to deliver his prisoner into the arms of the law. He ushered the man down the alley.
Before the gentleman climbed into the wagon, Connor unfastened the cuffs to relieve him from the discomfort of having his wrists cut by metal. As the prisoner rubbed his flesh, they exchanged a brief look. Silent messages shot between them until Connor dropped his gaze. He grasped the man’s forearm to help him up into the back of the enclosed wagon.
Heat, sleek skin, crisp arm hairs tickling his palm—these sensations remained long after the paddy wagon left. When no one was looking, Connor sniffed his palm, which smelled faintly of some musky cologne. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and yearned for something he would never have.
Chapter Three
One could say what he liked about deplorable conditions in British prisons and jails, but the facility in which Avery was held adhered to a punctual schedule of events. Avery would give them high marks for efficiency. They could take the prize for gummy gruel delivered promptly and at a consistent room temperature, and be rewarded for lights out at dusk and slops emptied reliably twice a day.
He joked so he wouldn’t lose his mind and start wailing or banging his head against the wall—and this was only his second day of incarceration.
Chaney would get things settled soon. The lawyer had promised he’d have Avery out by week’s end at the latest. Unfortunately, the number of cases to be processed due to the massive sweep, not only of Madame Renaud’s but of a number of nightspots throughout London, slowed the process. Avery knew well that money spoke volumes, and he’d authorized Chaney to pay whatever it took to get him free quickly.
Thank God for wealth. He felt a teary-eyed fondness, a sort of worshipful adoration for his money at the moment. He’d always appreciated being well fed, clothed, and housed with enough extra change to live the lifestyle of excess he so enjoyed. But now he truly respected the safety and protection his inherited wealth had brought him. Not to mention the name Wickersham, which he’d not yet tarnished completely beyond use.
Or so he prayed. As of now, his title of lord still carried weight and would open doors. It would also close other ones behind which were hidden the things which must be kept secret. Chaney and other gentlemen’s lawyers fought to keep their clients’ names from the newspapers. Some had succeeded. Others hadn’t.
Rumor whispered in the dining hall was that Mr. Winthrop Bailey of Buckinghamshire had committed suicide in his cell. The country squire had been in town on business and taken the opportunity to indulge his peculiarities at a house of domination. He was named in the Times. Rather than face his family and his shame, Bailey had chosen to end it all. Strangulation by his own shirt, torn into strips, braided, and hung from the bars of his window, so the rumor went.
Avery sat on his pallet, hugging his legs to his chest and trying to humor himself out of despair. But gloom began to bear down on him. He pressed his eyes to his knees to let his tears absorb into the fabric of his trousers.
A few more days. No more than that. He would not be detained beyond what he could bear. And when he was free… What then?
He would flee this cursed city, for one thing. It was no longer a safe playground for him. He would take a steamer bound for the continent and spend the winter in happier, sunnier climes. His spirit would heal, and he could continue his heedless ways.
But the idea didn’t make him any happier. Could it be he’d turned into the traditional jaded roué, a thing he’d sworn never to do? As a younger man, Avery had promised himself this would never be the case. He would always look for the joy in life and squeeze the last drop of excitement and pleasure out of each day. This was his life’s mission.
Just now, this promise seemed as empty and hollow as a drum.
Footsteps approaching down the hall made him sit up straight and wipe his eyes. The clang of an iron key in the lock brought him up off the bed. And the sight of a uniformed guard in the doorway made his spine straighten and his lip curl into a sneer. Damned if he’d crumble before one of these guards.
“Good day, sir,” Avery said. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
“Yer free to go.” The man jerked a thumb. “Lawyer’s waitin’ for you outside.”
Avery stopped joking before he said something to annoy the guard enough to relock the door. He hurried down the hall to the waiting area where Rufus Chaney, God bless him, stood with hat in hand and a paper for Avery to sign.
In the chaos of the processing room, Avery scribbled his name where Chaney told him to, put on the coat and hat his lawyer had brought, and followed him out the door. The blessed, beautiful outdoors! He paused to close his eyes, inhale coal-scented air, and listen to the noise and clamor of his beloved city. Beloved no more. He could scarcely wait to shake the dust of London off his shoes and set sail for anywhere.
But first, he had some business to attend to.
On the ride home in Chaney’s carriage, Avery asked the solicitor, “Did you discover more about my arresting officer?”
Chaney pursed thin lips under an equally thin moustache. “Those arrested in the raids were processed en masse. I was able to acquire a list of the officers on duty that day, including a Connor Tate.” He offered Avery a paper with an address, then looked out the window.
Avery often felt his solicitor wished himself far away from his difficult client. Chaney was a man of straight lines and sedate ways. The messes Avery had made over the years were not to the lawyer’s liking, but Chaney would do his job nonetheless.
“Thank you, and for arranging for my fine. I couldn’t have borne a prison sentence.”
“No. I should think not.”
Did he express sympathy or an indictment of Avery’s ability to endure rough conditions? Avery was a bit miffed Chaney thought he wasn’t strong enough to bear up. The man believed him to be nothing more than a meringue, easily shattered by a light tap.
Avery forced himself to stop caring and studied the direction for Connor Tate. Avery tried out the name inside his head and liked the sound. Connor was a lovely and fitting name for the black-haired, blue-eyed Irishman.
As soon as he’d had a bath and about forty-eight hours sleep, he’d find the man who’d let his companions go, and pay Tate as promised. After that… Avery wasn’t certain what he’d do or say. He felt no reproach toward the officer and had gotten the distinct impression if they’d remained uninterrupted for only a minute or two more, Tate would have allowed him to run along. Something in the man’s intense gaze told Avery he understood his needs and shared them.
He had to know if that moment of connection before Tate handed him into the police van was true or only his imagination. When Avery set his considerable willpower to something, he wasn’t likely to let go until he’d gotten what he wanted.
Chapter Four
Connor poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot to steep and hunted in the cupboard for a biscuit tin he might have missed. There was none, so tea and a handful of crackers would have to do.
While he waited for the tea to be ready, he opened the newspaper and read another article about the wide-scale raids carried out across the city by several police squads only a few nights before. Names of those arrested were listed, some of them quite well-known ones. But he had yet to find mention of Lord Wickersham in any of the articles. Connor didn’t know why he foolishly hoped Wickersham would gain his freedom and continue to keep his name out of the papers.
He’d learned his prisoner’s full name from the man’s arrest record, one Connor had not filled out. The arrests were so numerous that night that the beat cops turned the clerical work over to others at the station. Connor had been anxious to learn Wickersham’s fate, apparently too anxious, for he’d earned a curious look from the officer filing paperwork, a man who hadn’t even witnessed the supposed crime. Connor should be beyond expecting logic in the department, yet mismanagement and corruption continued to surprise him.
This sort of general sweep had become more common recently, with the force sometimes ordered to roust residents of certain tenements—people who hadn’t committed any crimes so far as Connor could tell. He dared not balk at the orders given, but he grew increasingly unhappy about these displays of power. This was not what he’d imagined police work would be like.
Setting the newspaper aside, he poured tea through the strainer into his cup. He’d just arranged the cozy over the pot when there was a knock at the door. That would be his upstairs neighbor, Alice Beasley, asking for help in her flat again. He’d done one small repair soon after she’d moved in and ended up at her summons from then on, since everyone in the building knew the landlord would never repair a thing. He believed the eager widow would like him to be a great deal more than her fix-it man.
“Coming,” he bellowed, irritable at being disturbed during his rare day off. He’d looked forward to this quiet ritual of tea and reading the paper, and now he’d be forced to spend most of his day upstairs—or watch Alice’s face crumble if he refused to help.
He jerked the door open, trying not to scowl. To his utter shock, Lord Wickersham stood in the boiled-cabbage-scented hallway. Connor was so shocked, he couldn’t manage to ask why the man was there. But he didn’t need to, for Wickersham began to talk.
“Hello. I’ve come to thank you again for your help.” Brilliant white teeth flashed. Lord Wickersham swept off his hat, making charged strands of hair rise on his head, and bowed. A lord bowing to Connor Tate? Would wonders never cease? “May I come in?”
Connor didn’t mean to step aside but was too surprised to resist.
The gentleman passed him, entering his home, trailing a whiff of aromatic cologne. Wickersham looked around the dismal flat. “Cozy place.”
Connor was fairly certain he was employing sarcasm, but one wouldn’t know it from the man’s cheery tone.
He moved in front of the intruder and planted his feet. “Why are you here?”
“I told you, to thank you for helping Bertrand and that other man, the Norwegian. Also, of course, to settle my debt.”
“I told you I don’t accept bribes. There’s nothing to settle.” Connor crossed his arms over his chest and moved aggressively toward the other man. Such behavior generally demoralized suspects. His height, weight, and nearness tended to unsettle them and get them talking.
But since Wickersham was of equal height, the intimidation didn’t appear to affect him—at least not in the way Connor intended. The gentleman’s eyes widened and dilated. His eyelids lowered slightly, and… Good God, was he actually leaning toward Connor?
Connor nearly stepped back, but damned if he’d surrender ground in his own flat. He narrowed his eyes and glared harder. “I’d expect to be the last man you’d ever want to see again. I put you in jail.”
“It was an interesting experience, to say the least. One I shall press between the pages of my memory book and cherish.” A smirk tipped the corners of the man’s mouth. How could he laugh about what he’d been through?
This visit was outrageous. Wickersham could’ve sent a servant or his lawyer with money, but he’d come in person. It was too strange. What did the man actually want? Was the flicker of excitement Connor detected in his eyes any indication?
Wickersham continued. “I paid my fine and am now quite rehabilitated. I’ve learned my lesson and will never ever be so naughty as to break the law again. Touching men is very wrong, and bawdy houses are no place for a law-abiding man. In fact, during my time in a cell, I’ve reconsidered the direction of my life entirely. I may join the church and become a vicar, tending to troubled souls. What do you think of that?”
“I think I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Leave my flat.”
“Come now, sir. Won’t you at least offer me tea since I’ve gone to the trouble of coming all the way here?”
For the briefest flicker of a moment, Connor saw them sitting together in the two broken-down chairs, teacups in hand, chatting like old friends, perhaps playing a game of chess. He’d never had anyone come to tea in his flat. He lived a solitary life, which was how he preferred it and yet…wouldn’t it be rather nice to have someone to talk with?
“You need to get on your way,” he growled.
Wickersham reached into an inner coat pocket and produced a wallet. “I know you don’t accept bribes. You’ve made that very clear. But perhaps there’s some charity you’d like to donate to.” He took out several folded notes. “Widows and orphans fund for the police department, perhaps. There are so many worthy charities in this city. Or you might spend a pound or two on the beautification of your own domicile—”
“Get out!” Connor shouted. He placed both hands on Wickersham’s chest and pushed with enough force to rock him but not shift him. The gentleman was firmly planted on the creaky floor.
Abruptly the smirk and the sarcasm evaporated, and Wickersham addressed him with sincerity. “I didn’t come to make you angry, truly. I really am grateful you let poor Bertrand off. I believe he would’ve slit his wrists if forced to endure prison. Some people are too delicate to suffer this harsh world, don’t you agree?” He replaced the notes in his wallet. “I won’t dishonor you by offering money again. Instead, I’ll take what I would’ve paid and give it to a charity myself, one that helps educate unfortunates so they might find gainful employment. Will that suit?”
Connor’s palms were still on Wickersham’s broad chest, plastered there as if stuck with glue. The heat of the man’s body, the hard strength of muscles, the slight rise and fall of his breathing radiated into his hands, and he couldn’t, absolutely could not, remove them. He also couldn’t breathe without inhaling the man’s cologne, nothing sweet or cloying as some fops he’d encountered wore, but a scent that reminded him of woods and meadows—not that he’d ever been any such place in his life. He’d rarely been to the parks in the city.
Wickersham fell silent. They remained locked at an impasse, the distant sounds of the building’s inhabitants filtering through the curious cocoon that surrounded them. Connor was filled with “what ifs.” What if he didn’t take his hands away? What if, instead, he clutched Wickersham’s lapels and drew him nearer? What if he swayed forward and brushed his mouth against the other man’s? What if he pushed his hands through that light brown hair, clutched the hard skull underneath, and poured every ounce of himself into a devouring kiss? What if he tore off that fine woolen coat and the equally fine linen shirt that no doubt lay under it? What if he could at last stroke his hands over smooth skin covering solid muscle? What if his hands plunged down the furred stomach into the waistband of Wickersham’s trousers, he grabbed hold of his thick cock, and felt it shiver with need in his hand?
“Ah God.” Connor gave a strangled groan and thumped his palms against the intruder’s chest once more. This time, he delivered all his strength, propelling Wickersham back a few steps. Another push, and he drove him a few more. “Get. Out,” he gritted between his teeth.
He threw open the door and gave Wickersham another hard push. “Get OUT!”
His unwelcome visitor retreated into the stinking hallway and swept a deeper bow. “Good day, sir. Sorry to have troubled you.”
Connor shut the door. He leaned against it, eyes closed, heart thundering. All the desires he’d kept locked tight for several years now spilled through him. The floodgates were open. He trembled at how nearly he’d lost control and grasped for what he desired. He’d almost broken his vow to uphold the law, all because of a handsome man with a winning smile.
He stayed there for perhaps as long as several minutes, then got his breathing under control and went to see about his cup of cold tea.
Another knock tapped at the door.
Connor yelled, “Leave me alone!” He strode over and jerked open the door once more.
Alice Beasley looked up at him with startled eyes, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you, but there’s this drip, y’see. The pipe’s leaky. Rusted through, it is. Mr. Jones will never fix it, so I thought… But if you’re too busy, I can… Well, I suppose I could try to repair it myself.” Her hands fluttered helplessly.
Connor sighed. In truth, it would be a relief to focus his attention on something he could accomplish. Spending time alone in his flat today would only lead to thinking, and thinking was something he did not want to do.
“Wait a moment, Mrs. Beasley. I’ll get my tools.”
“I could make supper for you after, Mr. Tate,” she called as he walked away. “I do love to cook for a man, and I’ve been told my biscuits are so light, they could float.”
Connor closed his eyes and groaned. Like an echo ringing in his ears, he heard Lord Wickersham laugh.
Chapter Five
“My nanny used to tell me I was the sort of a boy who played with fire,” Avery confided to Chaney, who focused on the papers on his desk and appeared not to listen. “I don’t know why, but that seems to be my nature. I can never leave well enough alone. It certainly has got me into trouble of one sort or another often enough.”
