Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The Hare and Hounds
Barking Road, London
Dressed head to toe in black, Reid sat at a table in a dark corner of the taproom, supping ale from a tankard and listening to Pete the Piper play a lively tune on his penny whistle. Punters gathered around the huge stone hearth, warming their hands and tapping their feet in time to the music.
To the untrained eye, those enjoying the festivities were local labourers, farmhands and weary travellers, but it was easy to spot the crooks. Not because their worn shoes were at odds with their silver pocket watches or because they kept their eyes trained on the door, often slipping the innkeeper, Weaver, a shilling to use the rear exit.
Criminals befriended criminals.
Hence Reid shared a table with two such men, Slater and Doyle, one a dim-witted poacher, the other a fence peddling stolen wares, when he wasn’t sneaking outside to make clandestine deals with petty thieves.
“The merchant from Brentford upped his price for that fine mount of yours,” Doyle said, his gaze drifting from Reid to the buxom serving wench who’d gone to refill their tankards. “I could sell him for a tidy profit. You could buy yourself a cheaper horse. Save you hanging about in here tonight.”
Keen to show he was no easy target, Reid whipped a blade from his boot and plunged it into the crude oak table. “Touch my horse and I’ll have your fingers.”
Doyle jumped, clutching the oversized coat that concealed his ill-gotten gains. “It was just an idea, gov’nor. I know how fond you are of the beast, but a hefty sum in your purse saves you risking your neck on the road.”
Slater, a scrawny fellow who smelled of fish and damp fur, added his two pennyworth. “If you’re caught with a loaded pistol, they’ll haul you straight to Chelmsford gaol and have you tried at the quarterly assizes.”
“I’m not robbing coaches. I’m looking for someone. When I find him, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
The four women who’d met a tragic end had one thing in common, other than their widowed status and being Reid’s patients. They were acquainted with a gentleman from Barking.
The maid’s confession entered his mind.
They met when Mrs Aspall visited her brother, and she stopped at the Hare and Hounds on the Barking Road.
Mrs Nelson’s sister made a similar statement.
Agnes’ new gentleman friend travels from Barking into the city three times a week. I warned her he was married. Why else insist they meet in secret and spend a night at the Hare and Hounds inn?
So Reid started stalking the yard and taproom, hoping to spot another widowed patient and prevent the next murder.
Was it murder? The coroner thought not.
Reid’s friends failed to see the connection. Patients died. It was an unfortunate aspect of the job.
So why did visions of a faceless assailant haunt his dreams? Why did he scour the obituaries, expecting to find the names of more victims?
Finding answers had become a compulsion, a burning obsession. The quest for the truth was a constant itch he had to scratch.
The thud of the tankards on the table snapped Reid from his reverie. The wench winked at him and bent low enough to flash her wares, though he suspected the valley between her breasts was a well-worn path.
Doyle watched her like a hawk did a field mouse and only spoke when she left to serve the next punter. “How will you find the cove if you’ve never met him? It will be like searching for a pearl in a bed of clams.”
Careful not to disclose more details than necessary, Reid said, “Worry about your affairs, and I’ll worry about mine. I pay you for information. All I need are the names of women in their fifties who stay here.”
To keep the fellow sweet, Reid took a leather purse full of crowns from his pocket and pushed it across the table.
Doyle snatched it before he exhaled his next breath. “I’d ask what the gent’s done but reckon you’ll dispose of any witnesses.”
Reid pinned the crook to the seat with a hard stare. “The less you know, the better. Let’s not spoil this cosy arrangement.”
Eager to please, Doyle pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his shabby coat pocket. “Weaver said three older women rented a room here last week. All widows visiting friends in Barking. One gave a false name. Weaver knew it was false because the groom heard her talking to her coachman.”
Reid straightened the paper and read the pencilled words. The name Mrs Jones was crossed through and replaced with Mrs Ludgrove.
Mother of all saints!
His heart lurched.
He had a patient of that name who fitted the profile.
“Did any of those listed meet anyone?” He feigned indifference, firming his grip on the paper to stop his hand shaking.
Doyle shrugged. “Not that I know. There was a fair on in Upminster. The taproom was teaming with drunken nabobs.”
“I can speak to O’Connor in the stables once I’ve checked all my traps,” Slater said, reminding Reid he was sitting at the table, too. “He knows every bit of skirt from here to London Bridge. Says a woman alone is like a lamb straying from the flock.”
Reid flicked Slater a coin, hoping he’d take the lingering smell of animal carcasses with him, and insisted he report back within the hour.
Doyle released a leery chuckle before swigging his ale. “Happen I’ll leave you to dream about older ladies, gov’nor. I’ve set my sights on a young bit of muslin.”
“The serving wench hates you. A sovereign says you’ll get nothing but a kick in the ballocks.”
Doyle gave the side of his nose a sly tap. “Why have the wench when I can have a fancy bit of totty, one fresh as a daisy?” He gestured to the lady pushing her way to the bar, uttering a string of “Excuse me’s”. “You know what they say about the prim ones? Beneath them spectacles there’s a fire needing a proper poke.” He grabbed his loins as if preparing for the challenge.
Reid might have laughed had he not recognised the woman squeezing past burly labourers and excusing herself politely.
Curse Lucifer to Hades!
Why the hell was Miss Moorland at the Hare and Hounds? She should be at home mixing potions or sleeping in the new French bed he’d bought her.
A frisson of fear shot through him.
Had the killer lured her here?
Good God. Was she the next victim?
Doyle downed the last of his ale and wiped his mouth with his grimy fingers. “I reckon I can have my hand up her skirts in no time. Care to make a wager?”
Touch her and you’re a dead man.
Reid imagined driving his hard fist into Doyle’s face and splitting his nose, the miscreant’s blood coating his knuckles. “You’ll remain in your damn seat. That lady is my mistress. I don’t need to tell you what I’ll do if you lay your grubby hands on her porcelain skin.”
Doyle froze, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Now I know you’re having a lark. I doubt she’s parted her legs for any man.”
Reid rubbed his thigh, resisting the urge to lunge across the crude table and throttle the fool. “I can prove she’s mine.”
Doyle eyed him warily. “I’ll stake a crown you’re lying through them nice white teeth. You’ve a minute to prove me wrong and claim your winnings.”
With his blood pumping too fast in his veins, Reid stood. He should curse Doyle to hell, but if he hoped to catch the culprit, he couldn’t afford trouble at the inn.
“No forcing her, mind,” Doyle said, adding another caveat. “That’s against the rules. If she’s your mistress, happen she’ll be happy to kiss you madly.”
Bloody hell!
Reid hoped his confident grin hid his panic. Luring a cobra into a basket would be easier than bending Miss Moorland to his will. Well, without a detailed explanation, at least. “I suggest you root through your purse and have a crown ready.”
“The clock’s ticking,” Doyle teased.
Reid rolled his shoulders and cricked his neck before marching through the drunken throng, keeping Miss Moorland in his sights.
He reached the lady just as she reached the bar.
“Good evening, madam,” he said above the din.
Miss Moorland whirled around, clutching her chest in surprise. “Mr Gentry. Thank heavens. I hoped to find?—”
Reid pressed his finger to her luscious lips. “Don’t utter my name here. I’ll tell you why later, but for now I need you to do something if we’re to avoid rousing suspicion.”
Her eyes widened behind her spectacles, the flare of intrigue unmistakable. Doyle was right. A passion for life simmered beyond her prim facade.
“I shall escort you to a table in the corner,” Reid continued. “As soon as we sit down, you’re to wrap your arms around my neck and kiss me like you’ve been aching to do it for days.”
Her pillow lips parted beneath the soft press of his finger, her warm breath like a lover’s caress on his skin.
“Be bold. The man at the table thinks you’re my mistress. You will play the part until we’re alone. My life depends on it. Do you understand?”
She blinked rapidly. “But I’m not?—”
“It’s too late to plead innocence. All hell will break loose if you fail.”
Doyle would think her fair game, leaving Reid no option but to brawl with the fellow in the taproom. He’d be barred from the premises, all hope of stopping a killer lost.
He called to Weaver and ordered wine, then cupped Miss Moorland’s elbow and led her to the table where Doyle sat flipping a crown between his fingers.
“This is Doyle,” Reid said as they slid onto the bench.
She straightened her skirts before finding the courage to look at the crook. “Good evening, Mr Doyle. I trust you don’t embarrass easily. They say patience is a virtue, but it won’t sate the craving that’s tormented me for days.”
By God, she excelled at this game. Months ago, she would have stuttered and stumbled. Work had clearly given her a newfound confidence.
“I’ve missed you desperately, too, love.” Reid smoothed his hand over her upper arm, aware the frisson of excitement felt surprisingly real.
Miss Moorland removed her spectacles. “I know you like it when I look nervous and innocent,” she said, the excuse accounting for her trembling lips.
Reid was staring at her mouth now, everything else blurring into the background. Doyle deserved a barrow of sovereigns for suggesting the wager. One taste and Reid could forget about his herbalist and concentrate on catching the devil killing his patients.
“Do you remember that wild night at the Adelphi?” she whispered, threading her arms around his neck and curling her fingers in his hair.
The muscles in his abdomen hardened.
There was no night at the Adelphi, but he conjured a vision of them writhing naked in bed, a sheen of perspiration coating his back, her gripping his buttocks as he took her hard and deep.
“How could I forget?” The fictitious memory would leave him with a throbbing cockstand until dawn.
“Let me give you a gentle reminder,” she whispered, her warm breath breezing over his lips as she closed her eyes and pressed her innocent mouth to his.
He felt her nerves in that first tender touch.
It was obvious she had never kissed a man.
But Miss Moorland conquered every obstacle fate placed before her.
She leaned into him, her breasts brushing his chest, her fingers tugging his hair. Curiosity lived in every hot slide of her mouth.
He needed more.
A need that grew insistent.
He coaxed her moist lips apart—like he would her legs if they were at the Adelphi—the desire to drive into her fierce and wildly primal.
That’s it, love.
She opened for him, almost begging him to enter her.
He did.
Slipping his tongue inside her mouth. Groaning when she stroked him back, the first touch sending a bolt of pleasure to his groin. The throbbing pulse between his legs left him near mindless. The raw masculine need to possess her became a frantic mating of mouths.
Devour me.
He needed more of her.
Heat twisted in his stomach, coiling tighter, the tension drawing every muscle taut like strings about to snap.
This was something new.
Something unexpected.
Something that reached beneath his crafted veneer.
This was more than a kiss.
It was a revelation.
“Happen I’ll go for a stroll in the yard.” Doyle’s comment dragged Reid from the pleasurable abyss, but Miss Moorland broke contact first, the baffled look in her eyes at odds with her moist mouth and ragged breathing.
“If only we were at the Adelphi,” Reid groaned, unable to ignore the heavy ache between his legs. He wished she was his mistress, just for tonight. What he’d give to lose himself in her and forget his troubles for a few hours.
Doyle slapped the crown on the table. “A bit more stoking and you’ll be battling an inferno.” He stood, laughing to himself as he sauntered away.
Miss Moorland watched Doyle before whipping back to face Reid, the earlier signs of arousal dissipating. “You owe me an explanation, sir. It’s one thing to take down my hair in an empty hallway, but to kiss me … in public … well … it’s downright scandalous.”
Reid bit back a smile. No more scandalous than an unmarried woman entering an inn at night. “You kissed me, Miss Moorland.”
By God, he’d never experienced anything like it.
She lowered her voice. “Because you claimed it was a matter of life or death. I may have pressed my mouth to yours first, but then you did that thing and …” Knotting her brows, she waved her hand back and forth between them.
“ Thing ?”
She leant closer, filling his head with her captivating perfume. “You know what you did. You moved your mouth in a teasing way. Like the gentle tug of a soft current pulling me into deeper water.”
Yes, kissing her had felt like sinking into a sea of warmth. He hadn’t meant it to go that far, but this woman undid him with her witty banter and plump lips.
“What will people think?” She snatched her spectacles and shoved them on like they were a shield with the power of protection.
“No one saw us.” Except for Doyle. “It’s dark. The punters here don’t care what goes on in shadowy corners of the room. People are more interested in getting Pete the Piper to play another tune.”
Weaver appeared with the wine.
Reid paid, pushing a goblet towards Miss Moorland.
She took a fortifying sip, waiting for Weaver to leave them. “Are you going to explain why I had to pretend to be your mistress?”
“Are you going to explain how you knew to find me here?” Suspicion flared. He had not mentioned his late-night outings to anyone.
Was she involved in the plot to frame him for murder?
Because that had to be the villain’s motive. Like a salmon nibbling the bait, Reid was being reeled in slowly. But why? Who despised him enough to kill four innocent women? No one, except for his Uncle Edmund, heir to his grandfather’s estate. None of it made sense. Which begged the question: How would he explain the problem to Miss Moorland?
“Perhaps it’s time we stopped playing games,” she said.
Reid snorted. “Believe me, this is no game.”
She considered him like he was a complex puzzle. Being sharp-minded, it didn’t take her long to offer a solution. “Trust must be earned. I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either. Perhaps it’s time to rectify that.”
Reid held his breath.
Had he been a fool to hire her?
“The Merricks plan to do more than force me to marry.” She removed her spectacles, her green eyes revealing the truth she no longer wished to hide. “They mean to auction me off to the highest bidder. Mr Harrop will take a front-row seat.” She shivered at the mention of the man’s name. “He’s a lechery old fool, though there’s something terribly sinister in his gaze.”
The men who paid for a young woman’s virginity were deviants who got a thrill from overpowering someone half their size and age. Miss Moorland would command a high price. More so because she would fight for her freedom, her struggle feeding her husband’s perverse desires.
“Then why the devil are you still in London?”
She hung her head. “I thought I could outwit them, that they would fail to find me, but gossip spreads like wildfire. It’s only a matter of time before someone spots me at the apothecary.”
As she hugged herself, it struck him how utterly alone she was and that this simple embrace was her only comfort. The sight hit like a bolt to Reid’s heart. Was this how his mother looked when she arrived at his grandfather’s door pleading for help? Had she hugged her swollen stomach and trudged two miles back to the pokey room above the milliner’s shop?
“I’ve heard talk of such auctions,” he said, unable to shake the memory of his mother from his mind. “The women are drugged and remain that way until the devils who’ve bought them have had their fill. Running is your only safeguard against being kidnapped off the street and sold like cattle at Smithfield Market.”
She raised her eyes to his. “There is another option.”
One did not need a sage’s wisdom to understand her meaning. “You could marry before the Merricks find you.”
“I could marry you, Mr Gentry.”
“Me?” If he’d been drinking, he would have choked.
What the hell had given her that idea?
“You’re married to your work,” she sputtered. “Everyone says so. And you’re unlikely to fall in love, what with your busy schedule and lack of social engagements.”
A chuckle burst from his lips. “Have you been snooping in my diary, Miss Moorland? I confess work is my priority, but I could marry the ton ’s prettiest debutant if I so wished.”
Her gaze moved over his face, and she gave a resigned sigh. “Of course you could. One need only listen to your lectures at The Jade to know ladies come for the pleasure of watching you.”
The fact had not escaped his notice.
He doubted they listened to a word he said.
“But not you, Miss Moorland. You’re not there to glimpse my solid thighs.”
“No, I’m more intrigued by the quality of your mind.” A slow smile tugged at her mouth. “That was before you did that arousing thing with your tongue and lured me into uncharted waters. I wasn’t thinking about hysteria at all then.”
Reid laughed. “Are you sure you weren’t thinking about the cure for hysteria? The one you’ve documented in your journal?”
Her cheeks turned the shade of ripe cherries. “If I was, it’s of no consequence. You won’t have cause to kiss me again.”
“Not even if we marry?”
The lady sat bolt upright, hope a blossoming light in her eyes. “You’re considering my proposal? I would be no trouble. I could continue working in the dispensary. We wouldn’t even have to live together. You’d hardly know I exist.”
Reid smiled to himself.
After such a passionate kiss, did she honestly think he wouldn’t entertain her in bed? Doyle was right. Miss Moorland came alive when lust pumped through her veins. She was no diamond of the first water. Her beauty lay buried like a precious stone waiting to be unearthed.
“I cannot marry you,” he said. After watching his mother perish from the weight of his father’s betrayal, trust would always be an issue.
“You refused to employ me, yet I’ve worked miracles in the dispensary. You cannot deny I’ve made your professional life easier.”
“Turner’s room has never been tidier,” he admitted. “And you’re more than proficient at mixing herbal remedies.”
“But you could never love me, is that it?”
He felt like she deserved some semblance of the truth. “I’ve seen the damage love can do. Love is nothing more than an obsession that wanes with time.”
Miss Moorland shook her head. “Try sitting in a carriage with Lord and Lady Berridge for half an hour. I defy you to say love is a madness of the mind. It radiates from every fibre of their being.”
“There is always an exception to the rule,” he said.
Miss Moorland’s expression turned quizzical. “There’s more you’re not telling me, which is deeply disappointing when I have been honest with you.”
He admired her candour.
Yet he couldn’t tell her the truth.
“All the more reason you shouldn’t marry a man with questionable morals.” Despite forgiving his grandfather for his spiteful actions all those years ago, Reid still bore the secret stain. But secrets rarely stayed buried forever. They lay dormant, waiting for someone to disturb the earth so they might see daylight again.
“I’d rather marry you than Mr Harrop,” Miss Moorland said with a sad sigh, “but perhaps a fresh start is what’s needed.”
“A fresh start abroad?” She’d be wise to flee.
She gave a half shrug. “Perhaps. Presently, nothing matters but the reason I find myself at the Hare and Hounds tonight.”
Ah, now for an answer to the question burning in his mind. “You were obviously looking for me. You indicated as much upon our greeting at the bar.”
The lady reached for her wine, shivering visibly upon taking a large gulp. “I received the coroner’s report regarding Mrs Beckman’s fall. I’m eager to learn, and the coroner mentioned your suspicions about?—”
Reid pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, to silence her while maintaining a facade. “Not here,” he said. “We’ll talk outside.”
He planned to lie and put her mind at ease, though how would he explain why he’d insisted she kiss him and pretend to be his mistress?
Fate saw fit to delay the inevitable.
Slater came bursting into the inn, tripping over his feet, his face ghostly pale. The poacher forced a smile and danced a little jig for the piper before heading towards Reid.
“I need a word.” Slater rested his palms on the table, drawing Reid’s attention to the fresh blood beneath his fingernails. “It can’t wait.”
Reid slid out from the bench, a gnawing dread settling in his stomach. He gripped the scrawny fellow by the arm and pulled him away from inquisitive ears. “What is it?”
Slater let his mask slip and craned his neck, as if anticipating the burn of the noose. “I went to speak to O’Connor in the stables like we agreed, to see what he knew about that woman who used a false name, except he wasn’t there.”
“And?”
Slater put a shaky hand to his mouth to calm himself. “I found him slumped behind the stables and thought he’d been guzzling mother’s ruin.”
“If you found him sotted, you wouldn’t be quivering like a doe in a trap.” Reid knew the haunted look of someone who’d gazed into the bowels of hell and couldn’t quite pull himself back. “Are you trying to tell me O’Connor is dead?”
Slater drew his finger across his neck to show how the groom met a gruesome end. “He ain’t just dead. The blade sliced through him like a knife does butter. O’Connor had something in his hand.”
Reid braced himself, a sense of dread settling over him. An optimist might hope it was something to tie O’Connor to the spate of murders. “A strand of hair or a scrap of clothing?”
“No. A calling card for a doctor named Mr Gentry.”