Chapter 13
13
1 2 February, 1827
No.’s 25-27 Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
Con moved smartly away from Marianne as if she'd tapped him with a hot poker. He changed the subject, hoping for a respite from the raging cockstand he now couldn't hide.
"How is it you manage to exude that expensive scent no matter where you are? You should be as earthy-smelling as I am right now after two days in this cell. How do you do it? Sorcery?"
She stared up at him, her dark eyes wide, and slowly stuck a hand down inside the bodice of her dress, pulling a tiny, glass-corked bottle from inside her stays, between her breasts. When she deliberately un-corked the bottle and waved it beneath his nose, he lost all control of reason and thought, and crushed her to him, his musky scent mingling with her mysterious jasmine one.
When she wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to straddle his hips, he lost the battle against the urge to bury his cock inside her. He pushed her arms away frantically and set her back onto her feet whilst looking all around the lower level to make sure they hadn't been seen. After ascertaining they were truly alone, he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and moved toward the rear servant stairways toward his room.
She batted at his hands as soon as they were safely under the cover of the servant stair passages. "You're going to wear yourself out. I'm perfectly capable of...erm." He stifled whatever she was about to say by claiming her mouth and moving his tongue inside, exploring her at his leisure. After three flights of stairs, they reached his private bed chamber. He walked across to his huge curtained bed and dumped her onto the counterpane. He stared for a moment down into her eyes, large and questioning in the shadows. After pulling the curtain closed around the bed, he peeled out of his sweat-soaked breeches, lifted her skirts, and plunged his cock into her greedy cunny.
"This is not going to be slow and gentle," he warned her.
Her only answer was a low growl before she pulled him closer and wrapped her legs around his arse.
She clung to him, urging on his rough rutting. Once again, she kept him from pulling out before spilling his seed. After he'd rolled to the side and their breathing had returned to normal, he turned to her. "Why do ye risk my burying a babe in yer womb?" When she didn't answer for a few minutes, he smoothed back her hair off her forehead. They'd destroyed all semblance of civility and proper dress she'd had before their wild coupling.
He looked down and shook his head slowly. "We have to stop this. You're my prisoner, not my fancy lady. What would your father say?"
She smoothed her hand against one of his stubbled cheeks and smiled. "I think we're going to find out soon, whether we like it or not, what my father has to say. It's only a matter of time before his sneaks report back to him." She twisted a long strand of her dark hair around one of her fingers and gave him a thoughtful look. "It also depends on how busy he is with his mining business. That always comes first."
Con leaned over and pillowed his head over the top of her womb. "What makes ye so sure my seed's not going to take hold?"
"One of my father's enemies took me away for months, forced me into a sham marriage, and kept me hidden in his house along the Cornish coast, because he wanted my father to turn over his mining business to him."
Con sat up, a murderous look on his face. "Who? Who did that to you? How old were you?"
"It doesn't matter. He's dead. That's why my father employs an army of detectives." She sighed. "I was sixteen, and if I didn't have a babe by him, it's not going to happen now."
Con reached over, pulled her into his arms, and rocked her as if she were still a small child.
* * *
Marianne awoke slowly to the muted late afternoon sun coming through Con's bed curtains. He was already dressed and waiting for her to wake up.
"You do know I still have to keep you under guard in the cell, even after this...he spread his arms indicating the whirlwind mess of his bed linens."
She raised herself to her knees and placed a butterfly-soft kiss on his lips. "Of course. I'd be disappointed in you if you'd let a thief like me fool you twice."
He encircled her in his arms again and whispered into the soft dark hair at the top of her head. "I can't let you go so that you can continue to steal from our customers, spread counterfeit notes, and cause general mayhem throughout London's underworld. Everyone knows I'm responsible for you now." He gently nipped at her puffy lips. "That's the only way my brothers would agree to your eventual freedom. From now on, whatever nonsense you get up to, it's on me."
She turned in excitement. "Then we should start our own gang. I could pick locks and you..."
He stopped her with a smothering shower of kisses. "Marianne, Marianne...what am I going to do with you?"
She climbed onto his lap, her bare legs to either side of his trouser-clad ones. "I have lots of ideas," she purred, before he set her firmly back onto the floor.
"Get dressed. I have to interrogate you for real before my brothers accuse me of disappearing inside your quim."
"What a lovely thought," she said, before gathering up her clothing and heading for the hidden back staircase.
Behind her, Con called out, "We're going to have to get you something decent to wear, instead of the sisters of the poor uniform or your widow's weeds.
She merely shook her head in reply whilst pulling the gray sisters of the poor costume over her head.
Con already wanted her again. The silvery outline of her naked body in the low light ahead of him made him want to nail the doors shut and have his way with her until they both expired of starvation. Fam was right. She was the most dangerous woman he'd ever encountered.
* * *
12 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
Con deposited Marianne back inside her cell before explaining he had an important meeting and would be gone for a few hours before they could begin her interrogation again.
"Where are you going?" Marianne's voice was full of curiosity. "Who are you meeting with?"
"Some very special personages who cannot be put off any longer," he assured her.
"But who?" Her voice turned petulant.
Before he considered the consequences, he said, "Someday, if you're very good and don't steal anything else from me, I might let you meet them."
"I want to meet them now," she whined.
"You're not ready," he assured her and disappeared into the bowels of his tenement lair.
* * *
This time, when Con had returned Marianne to her cell, two guards were already stationed near the cell door. They'd looked away when she'd approached with Con, giving them privacy. There had been changes since she'd left earlier, and she wondered if the people who worked for Con knew where they'd been, what they'd been doing. After a bit of contemplation, she realized she didn't care.
Once locked inside, she knew something looked different. There was now a small desk and comfortable chair. When she tentatively opened all the drawers, they were full of sketch pads and boxes of the charcoal crayons she liked to use. She pulled out a fresh piece of paper and leaned her chin against her hand, staring out the now-locked cell door.
From the trajectory of her intense stare, a passerby might assume she was studying her jailers, contemplating possible portraits of them. She wasn't. After her return, she'd had a moment of clarity: Keys and locks didn't always make a prison. She began sketching the minute details of the hinges attaching the cell door to Con's "dungeon."
* * *
Con had his valet fill the huge tub in his bed chamber and eased his tall form slowly into the peppermint-scented water. After exhaling a huge "Ahh," he asked, "Have you laid out what I requested this evening?"
"Yes, sir." His valet bustled over to the huge clothes press and pulled out a full formal set of a black cutaway jacket, form-fitting black pantaloons, black silk hose and highly buffed, shiny dancing slippers. A pristine white shirt and neckcloth followed. Once his valet handed him a long linen cloth for drying, he stood and let the soapy, scented water sluice down his body.
After drying, he built his armor for that evening's assault on the opera from the bottom up. The last pieces to be added were a finely gold embroidered white waistcoat and fine white, unlined, soft leather gloves. A collapsible black top hat completed the ensemble, except for the sweeping, full-length black cape lined with soft, embroidered ivory silk.
Crisp chose that moment to tap on the door. "Come." Con's tone was impatient. "What now?"
Crisp paused a moment but continued. "I just wanted to let you know the roses were delivered earlier this afternoon to Miss Valentia, per your instructions."
"Very good, Crisp." He couldn't see his man of all needs, because his valet had begun the complicated process of tying his neckcloth into some sort of nod to what passed for au courant men's fashion.
"That will be all, Crisp."
"But what about...," the man started.
"I said that would be all."
Crisp quietly backed out of the room, snicking the door shut behind him.
* * *
At the sound of footsteps coming down the back stairway toward the "dungeon" area, Marianne's heart skipped a few beats. Even though he'd warned her he was returning only to extract the truth, she couldn't help hoping, irrationally, she could re-direct his ire with another, um, pleasurable interlude. The man who emerged from the servants' stairway at first looked like a stranger, and she was confused for a moment. But no one else she knew was that tall or carried himself with such swagger.
The closer he came to her cell, the less familiar he seemed. He was dressed like one of her father's business associates at a high-stakes business dinner. His golden layered, shaggy hair had been brought under control and was clubbed neatly at the back of his neck. His usual rugged chin stubble had been shaved within an inch of its life. And formal ballroom slippers? Where the hell was he going? And then she spied the long cape he carried over one arm. An opera cape. She'd heard the rumors about his mistress. Of course he'd attend the opera.
He held her regard in an iron gaze until he finally unlocked her cell with a tiny gold key he kept on a gold chain at his neck. After locking the door behind him, he came inside, pulled over the three-legged stool, and sat directly in front of her. "I'm going to ask you these questions one more time, and I expect answers."
She rolled her eyes.
He was not amused. "Who were you going to meet when your coach was attacked on the way to Birmingham?"
She returned a blank stare before directing her gaze to the floor of her cell.
"All right. Question number two: what does this person have to do with the jewel casket you stole from me, and what you know about someone pushing their way into our counterfeit business?"
All through her silence, he sat in front of her, his long legs bent uncomfortably. After staring a few moments longer, he leapt to his feet. "I knew this would be a fool's errand." He sighed. "I guess we're going to have to do this the hard way."
Her eyes cut toward him, revealing the smallest bit of confusion mixed with fear.
"Just so you know, if you were a man, I'd beat you senseless until your face would be unrecognizable to your friends. My brothers and I follow a simple code. We never hurt women or children." He stood as if to leave the cell, and she let out the breath she'd been holding.
"However, I have no problem with hiring a woman to hurt you in places no one will ever know about. Her name is Sally Big'uns, and she's totally loyal to the Horsemen." With that, he rose and opened the door to let in a woman attired in the simple dress of street vendors in the rookeries. On his way out, he dismissed the guards.
Beneath the woman's bodice were the most enormous set of breasts Marianne had ever seen. However, once one got past the shock and awe of her breasts, the next thing one noticed was the muscular nature of her arms. Yes, she could do some damage. Marianne cast about in search of some sort of weapon for protection, but Con's men had made sure there was nothing inside the small cell she could use to force her release.
After Con left for the opera, swinging his gold-tipped cane, the guards began to laugh and started to pass money around to place bets.
When Marianne looked up, she realized the other woman - Sally - was giving her a sad look. "I hate to do this to you, darlin,' but you had plenty of chances to tell the man what he wants to know."