Chapter Two
After weighing his options, Edward decided he’d ignore the knocks and continue perusing The People’s Hue and Cry, the weekly publication that provided lawmen with reports on stolen goods and criminals. Unfortunately, the door flew open, and the overbearing arse barged in without an invitation.
“Hell, Robinson, I wish I could concentrate like you,” Baker bellowed in an outside voice. “Didn’t you hear me? I knocked three times.”
Edward peered over his newspaper. “Nine times.”
“Nine?” Either oblivious to or unfazed by Edwards’s irritation, Baker plopped onto the chair in front of his desk and pointed at the paper. “Any valuable information in there?”
There was almost always valuable information in the newspaper, but Baker had made a habit of not doing his own research, and Edward would not hand feed or enable the lazy arse.
“I’m actually quite busy working on the case of Lady Celeste Milton’s missing jewelry,” Edward said. “Do you need something?”
Baker smirked. “You lucky arse. They say bedding the young widow is a rite of passage for every bloke in the ton.” The shite waggled his brow. “Does she also tup us working chaps?”
Edward would never, not in a million years, tell a piece of shite like Baker that the widow had invited him to spend the night in her bed.
And damn, Edward had been tempted. It had taken every bit of discipline to pretend he wasn’t interested and walk away, especially when women were his Achilles heel.
He was no saint, but he took his job seriously, and he did not bed the women he was assigned to help.
“Fine. Don’t answer. Keep her all to yourself, you selfish shite.” Baker leaned back in the chair and plunked his mud-covered boots on Edward’s desk. “Anything in there about the fire at The Silk Knuckles Saloon?”
Edward glared at the fool. “Bloody hell, Baker. Remove your feet from my desk.” Since he had no desire to engage in conversation with the swine, he swallowed his curiosity and did not ask what The Silk Knuckles Saloon was or what had happened there.
As usual, Baker nattered on, his foul-smelling footwear stinking up Edward’s desk.
“The Duke of Griffendale brought the case to the magistrate’s attention and is paying my fee.
Someone tried to burn the building to the ground.
” Baker chuckled, needling Edward’s last nerve.
How the soulless arse kept his job was anyone’s guess.
Lawmen should be upstanding and honorable.
“What in blazes do you find so humorous about arson?” Edward asked as he finally shoved Baker’s feet from his work area.
Baker teetered in the chair, righted himself, and kept on blabbing. “Well, they got what they deserved. Those damnable women thought they could open a scandalous business in a respectable part of town. They should have stayed in St Giles, where they belong.”
As Edward had learned many years ago, no woman should set foot in St Giles.
Unless, that is, she was as fearless as Franny Valentine.
Five years later, Edward still remembered everything about the alluring hell-on-carriage-wheels pugilist. He still compared every woman he met to her and found them lacking in spirit and passion.
Too bad the chit had taken an instant dislike to him because he’d been frustratingly attracted to her.
Perhaps he should detest her for ruining his perfect profile, but time had a way of making a man mature and see the error of his ways, and Edward had been an arrogant, insufferable arse.
Besides, his crooked nose gave him a rugged look that women favored, maybe even more so than his once “pretty” face.
Edward sighed. “I hope you plan to investigate this with integrity. And, keep in mind, bedding prostitutes in the line of duty is not ethical.”
“Bugger off, Robinson. I’ll bed whoever in the hell I want.
” Baker’s chuckle sent another prickle of annoyance up Edward’s spine.
“Although I don’t think these chits bed men.
I suspect they are—” Robinson leaned close to conspiratorially whisper—“Sapphists. But they aren’t prostitutes, to my knowledge. ”
Sapphist or not—not that Edward begrudged anyone their lifestyle choice—no woman should have to deal with the weakest investigator on the force.
“If they don’t own a house of ill repute, what type of scandalous business do they own?” Edward asked. And what was the duke’s interest?
Baker stared at him as if he was a dolt, which was ironic indeed since the man had the intellect of a worm.
“The Silk Knuckles Saloon is a gymnasium that teaches women to defend themselves. Ridiculous, I say. Women are not strong enough to defend themselves. Men must protect the weaker sex. Well, when they need protection, that is. Sometimes, though, they need a firm hand.”
Again, memories of the feisty redhead who’d broken his nose bombarded Edward’s memory. Those images were pushed aside by a fantasy about Samuel Baker being castrated by a bevy of angry women in a dark alley. Edward chortled.
“Would you believe that Pete the Trojan was there the night their building caught on fire?” Baker said.
“Apparently, he was training with that coach who supports women’s pugilism.
That aristocratic fool who writes Meanderings of a Gentleman may be trying to shove female sports down everyone’s throat, but I, for one, ain’t fallin’ for it.
Seems like The Duke of Griffendale and Viscount Davenport are also supporting these absurd women.
I wager it’s because they are there looking for cunny.
” Baker chortled. “Women are only good for two things. Milking cows and tupping.”
Swallowing his fury, Edward sorted through Baker’s nonsense.
Could Franny Valentine and Josephine Martin be the owners of The Silk Knuckles Saloon?
Holy bollocks, was Lady Jabbing Josie, the new champion of the prestigious Duke’s and Damsel’s Mill and the future Earl of Shiredale’s wife, actually Josephine Martin?
“Are you talking about Coach Calder Valentine?” Edward asked.
“Pfft! That daft fool could be one of the greatest coaches of all time, but he lets his daughter and that partner of hers run amuck. No idea why The Trojan would want to be associated with that man and his pair of hoydens.”
Baker was an unholy arse.
“Wait a minute,” Edward said. “Are you telling me that the Valentines opened a gymnasium called The Silk Knuckles Saloon, and a few days ago, someone tried to burn it to the ground?”
Baker rolled his eyes. “Where have you been, mate?” He chortled. “Got your head stuck in that damnable Hue and Cry so often you are missing the real news.”
“I’ve been busy doing my job,” Edward said, his temper barely contained. “Was anyone injured in the fire?”
“Yes. The gymnasium’s caretaker,” Baker said. “Severe burns but alive.”
“And the magistrate assigned you to the case?” Edward asked, his indignation evident in his high-pitched lilt.
“Yes,” Baker said. “I know. Bloody preposterous, isn’t it? But I have no intention of wasting much time on it. Like I said, they got what they deserved.”
Edward’s blood pumped so forcefully that he feared his eyeballs might explode from their sockets.
So much for Fielding’s intention to have the most intelligent, skilled, and well-trained force protecting their country.
Their beloved patriarch would roll over in his grave if he knew an unscrupulous, indolent ignoramus like Samuel Baker was one of his beloved Runners.
Growling, Edward leaped from his seat, grabbed Baker by his collar, and pulled him onto his feet. Edward hissed, and his saliva spattered Baker’s face.
“If I find out that you do anything to jeopardize a thorough arson investigation, I will take it out of your hide.” Unable to control his temper, Edward shoved Baker so hard, the ignoramus lost his balance, crashing against the chair.
Baker harrumphed indignantly, but Edward was much too busy gathering his pistol and tip staff to pay attention to the pouting fool.