Part 12 (2/2)

Stephen must have dreaded a similar fate, once his father refused to send him back to school. He'd been given a sharp taste of his new life beaten half to death for daring to question his father's authority. And then, bitterest of all, he had discovered his father was not only a violent bully, but a liar and a hypocrite. Had this been enough to kindle a murderous fury in the boy? That thin-limbed, trembling colt? Rage could give the weakest soul the strength of ten men. Cut off from his school and his friends, with his inheritance in peril, Stephen had powerful reasons to murder Burden. Money, justice, revenge. Of the three children, he would gain the most from his father's death. Now he was master of the house and free to live as he pleased.

Freedom for Judith, freedom for Stephen. In another world I would have walked away from the whole d.a.m.ned business let G.o.d stand in judgement when all was done. But I had my own freedom to consider. My own precious neck.

I must press a confession from one of them, or at least discover some clear proof of guilt. The blade had been found with the corpse, but what of the killer's ruined, b.l.o.o.d.y clothes? There would have been no chance to destroy them today, not with half the neighbourhood trailing through the house offering condolences. The clothes must still be hidden somewhere inside, and would remain there unless one of the children attempted to smuggle them out. One could hardly drop them upon the drawing-room fire.

I rolled my aching shoulders, glad to have found one small thread of hope. I would seek permission to search the house thoroughly tomorrow. In the meantime . . . A couple of tattered street boys stood outside the baker's shop. Doubtless they might keep watch for a few halfpennies and a couple of Mrs Jenkins's rolls. I crossed the street towards them, but they squealed as I approached, scampering away before I could explain myself. It was a melancholy moment. I was a monster now, was that it? And I felt a s.h.i.+ver in my soul, some pre-sentiment that more trouble lay ahead. Once a man was named a monster, the mob was rarely far behind.

Sam, at least, seemed pleased to see me returned safe from the lock-up in his fas.h.i.+on. He clambered over the counter and took my hand, shaking it without a word. I showed him the order and his face took on an expression of awe. 'The City Marshal's hand,' he murmured, brus.h.i.+ng the paper as if it were the finest silk.

I plucked it back. He liked to practise different hands when it was quiet in the shop. 'What's the sentence for counterfeiting a Marshal's note?'

Sam looped an imaginary rope about his neck and pretended to hang, swaying on the spot with his tongue hanging out. It was a little too convincing for comfort.

'How many hangings have you seen, Sam?'

'Hundreds. Saw Jack Sheppard nubbed. Stood beneath the cart.'

I'd seen Sheppard swing too my first winter in London. The mob had loved him, pulling on his legs to help speed his pa.s.sing. It had ended in a riot, his friends fighting to keep his body from the chirurgeons. Thousands upon thousands streaming through the streets, trampling everything in their path. I'd thought I would die in all that madness and had wished myself safe at home in Suffolk. When I survived, pulled clear by strangers into the nearest tavern, my s.h.i.+rt torn and my lip bloodied, I knew I never wanted to leave.

'Thomas Hawkins. Oh, you wretch.' The door slammed back upon its hinges. Kitty: face smudged, clothes damp with sweat despite the cold. 'Look at you! Look at you here without a care in the world when I am half dead. I've trudged the streets all day searching for you. Every gaol, every lock-up. They laughed at me, Tom. They laughed and jeered and groped . . . How long have you been free? Oh! You cannot even guess how much I hate you, you thoughtless p.r.i.c.k.'

'I thought you were safe. Sam. You were supposed to take her to St Giles.'

He lifted a shoulder. 'She weren't inclined.'

'She,' Kitty said, whisking up and down the shop in a blind fury, 'has just returned from Gonson's house. That f.u.c.king guard who did this,' she pointed at a bruise on her cheek. 'He kept me waiting half an age, then said you were set free hours ago. Said you'd left with your black wh.o.r.e.' She kicked over a stool. 'He said you kissed her, in front of the whole world. Did you . . .? Oh, you villain you did kiss her!'

'Well, no, not precisely,' I fl.u.s.tered. 'She did somewhat rather . . . but she only kissed me to distraction. For distraction, that is. For distraction. A slip of the tongue.'

'A slip of the tongue,' Kitty mimicked nastily. 'And I suppose your tongue just slipped into Betty's mouth?'

'Oh d.a.m.n it, Kitty it was an act, that is all. If you would let me explain . . .' I reached for her, but she evaded my grasp, leaving the shop and running up the stairs.

I glanced up at the ceiling. 'Well, Sam. I suppose I had better meet my fate.'

He grinned. Wrapped the rope around his neck and swung back and forth.

Kitty was lighting a fire in our room. She heard me enter and sit down upon the bed, but she didn't turn around until the hearth was blazing. She took off her cap and unpinned her hair, tossing her head so the curls bounced down her back. She knew I loved that.

'Am I forgiven?' I took off my wig and slung it in a corner. I was too tired to argue. Too tired to move. My limbs ached from the lock-up, and my mind was distracted, bouncing from thought to thought like a racket ball.

'Betty.' She loosened the ribbons to her gown and pulled out the stomacher beneath, exposing the soft parting of her high, round b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

And suddenly, my mind was still.

'D'you want her, Tom?' She slipped off her shoes and balanced a foot upon my thigh. Slid it higher. Ahh . . . She rolled down her stocking. 'I've seen the way she looks at you. Like this.' She parted her lips and stared down at me from lowered lids. Need. Desire.

'Oh, fie plenty of women look at me like that. That is-'

Kitty snorted and rolled down another stocking, flinging it at my face. 'No, no true enough. Half the town wants to f.u.c.k you and the other half wants to hang you.'

I kicked off my shoes. 'And you would like to do both, I suppose.'

She clambered on to the bed, unfastening the b.u.t.tons on my breeches. And then she kissed me, a kiss of possession. She slipped her hand lower, pulled my c.o.c.k free. 'Say you are mine,' she murmured. 'Mine alone.'

'I'm yours.'

She smiled. Oh, I wanted her. I wanted her now. No more waiting. I rolled her beneath me, pus.h.i.+ng her gown high above her hips. Yes, yes, yes. I lay over her, placed all my weight upon my shoulders.

f.u.c.k! The pain ripped through my muscles and I fell back against the bed, panting hard.

'Tom?' Kitty sat over me. 'You're hurt?'

'Gonson chained me to a wall.' I flung an arm across my eyes. d.a.m.n it.

She lifted my arm away. 'Lie back.' She undid my s.h.i.+rt and touched my bruised and aching shoulders. Ran her hands down to my wrists, chafed by the iron cuffs. 'My love,' she sighed, and unhooked her petticoat.

I sat up beneath her, kissed her neck. 'I can't lie on top of you. My shoulders . . .'

She pushed me gently back to the pillow and slid off my breeches. Wriggled free of her skirts. And then she sat astride me, leaning down to kiss my lips as she tilted her hips.

I reached down, skimming my hand up her long, smooth thigh. Silk. Perfect silk. 'This is not-' I began, then gasped as she pressed against me. ' . . .how I imagined . . .'

'Indeed?' Kitty's green eyes shone bright as she pushed back her hair. 'It's precisely how I imagined . . .'

Afterwards we lay quietly, Kitty resting her head upon my chest. For all the time we had spent in bed together this was different. We talked for a while, drifting. Some good had come from the day after all. If I had become a parson, this would be my sermon. Take pleasure in these quiet, sweet moments of contentment. They are few and they are everything. I smiled, and closed my eyes . . .

'Oh! You've fallen asleep, d.a.m.n you.'

I woke with a jolt. 'I wasn't sleeping!'

Kitty pecked my cheek. 'You snore when you're awake? Fix yourself a pipe, Tom we have a great deal to discuss. At least, I will talk and you must listen for a while and you listen far better with a pipe between your teeth.' She crossed her legs beneath her, still naked, still beautiful.

'I do not snore,' I grumbled, groping for my watch. A quarter past eight. f.u.c.k the stars. I must effect a meeting with Charles Howard tonight, and that meant crossing the river to Southwark. I slipped from the bed. 'Forgive me, sweetheart. I have an appointment. We'll speak tomorrow.' I searched through my closet, s.h.i.+vering as the air nipped my skin. Howard was a n.o.bleman I would need to dress well to join his company. But the Southwark streets were filthy and the benches at the c.o.c.kfight would be rough and splintered. Hmm. I rejected a pair of velvet breeches in favour of a brown silk knit, and had just selected a satin-fronted waistcoat when I realised that the room was deathly still.

Had she fallen asleep? Or was she glaring at my back, seething with annoyance? I glanced around. Ah, yes.

'We will speak tonight,' Kitty said, from the bed. She threw my s.h.i.+rt over her head and padded across the room, half coquette, half tiger. 'The last time you had an appointment you were attacked by a madman. Tell me what's happened. Tell me everything.'

And so I did. Almost everything. We sat by the fire and shared a pipe while I told her about the deal I'd made with James Fleet to meet Henrietta Howard, and the terrible fight that had ensued in St James's Park.

'Was it thrilling?'

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