Private Investigation (3 page)

Then, distinctly, she heard Lucien’s voice say, “Oh, John, yes!” That wasn’t the sound of torture.

She crept closer to the closed door.

There was a squeaking noise she recognised as the sound of elderly bedsprings protesting as someone shifted, then a low groan of pleasure that set up an unexpected flutter of sensation low in her belly.

She hesitated. Surely they couldn’t be doing what she thought they were doing…could they? She remembered how Lucien had laid with his head in John’s lap the previous day, the casual intimacy of it, and she raised her hand to her mouth and chewed pensively on her thumbnail.

Then, feeling that little frisson of excitement again, she crouched on the floor, careful not to make any sound, and put her eye to the keyhole.

She jerked back at once, almost falling backwards with the shock. Her heart seemed to be beating faster and harder, and she felt hot. She was sure they would be able to hear the rapid pant of her breathing, but she couldn’t stop herself from leaning forwards and looking through the keyhole again. She held her breath as she peeped through.

Lucien was on his hands and knees, stark naked, in the middle of the bed. His curls fell over his face in disarray, and those extraordinary, pale eyes were half-closed, eyelashes flickering as he moaned and writhed. His skin was incredibly white and perfectly smooth, though a single bead of sweat rolled down his flank and dropped onto the bedclothes.

John ran his tongue over the dimple just above Lucien’s tailbone, flicking and tasting, and Lucien spread his legs further apart and clenched his hands into fists, choking out a ‘Yes’ that had Lilly working her hand under her skirts to press her fingers between her legs, biting her lip as she tried to ease the throbbing ache that had started up there. It was shameless of her, but…
oh
.

John moved his square, blunt-fingered hands to Lucien’s hips, holding on to him hard enough to leave bruises with his fingertips, and buried his face in Lucien’s arse. As he withdrew momentarily, Lilly saw a flash of pink tongue, quick and clever.

The fabric of her gusset was damp, and she could feel the heat of her excitement through the cotton of her drawers. She began to move her fingers, rubbing gently, trying to ease the ache—but it only became stronger, more insistent.

She watched as John’s tongue flickered, teasing the rim of Lucien’s arse, and bit back the moan that threatened to escape from her parted lips. She felt hot and uncomfortable, restless, and she spread her legs further apart, rubbing herself harder with trembling fingers. The toe of her button boot scraped on the floor and the lips of her pussy made a lewd, sticky noise as she shifted. She froze, holding her breath again for a moment, waiting to see if they’d heard the tiny sounds.

Lucien reached down and took hold of his cock, running his fingers up its length and over the swollen head, hissing and shuddering with the sensation. John gripped his hips harder still and plunged his tongue inside him, moaning into Lucien’s flesh. His own cock twitched, slightly curved and erect against his belly, and Lilly found that she couldn’t take her eyes off it.

Her wrist was beginning to ache, from the weight of her gathered skirts and the rapid, frantic motion of her fingers, but a galvanic sensation was gathering in her cunt, her breathing becoming rapid and ragged.

This was certainly not genteel, or proper, but she found that she could not help herself—nor, if she was honest, did she really want to.

Lucien pumped his cock, shiny fluid beading on the tip, and his breathing became laboured. John gave another stifled moan and, as the sensation between Lilly’s thighs crested and surged, he gave his cock a final, hard caress. Thick, white fluid splattered the bedclothes and Lucien gave a hoarse, heartfelt cry just as, behind him, John tensed and found his own release.

Lilly bit her lip again and squeezed her eyes shut, assailed by dizziness as the heat spiralling low in her belly shattered into a million dazzling fragments of pleasure. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and she opened her mouth on a soundless cry of release.

Shuddering with the aftershocks of her climax, breathless, her pulse pounding in her throat, Lilly swallowed hard and leaned her sweat-damp forehead against the cool, varnished wood of the door. She felt boneless, as though she were floating. If their experience had been anything like as earth-shattering as hers, leaving her limbs feeling heavy and languid, she had a few moments to collect herself and recover her poise. Then it would simply be a matter of hiding her embarrassment when they emerged from the bedroom—presumably fully clothed.

It seemed as though this position was definitely going to be…educational. For one thing, she had already learned a lot about…well, positions.

She had just determined to test her trembling legs and smooth down her skirts when the door abruptly opened and she fell forward into the room, landing on hands and knees in front of an extremely naked Lucien.

Chapter Four

“Curiosity is a virtue in a detective’s assistant, Lilly. Though our methods are generally a little more sophisticated than peeping through keyholes.”

She glanced up, and immediately regretted it as she found her mouth was level with Lucien’s cock, still semi-erect, though less impressive than it had been moments ago.

“I…um…” She could smell him—a musky scent that made her nipples pebble beneath her bodice and set up a ghost of that treacherous ache in her cunt.

Then John yanked his lover back by the arm and threw a dressing gown at him. “Make yourself decent, Lucien.”

He held out his hand to Lilly. She took it and scrambled to her feet, relieved to see that he was already dressed in a burgundy-coloured robe with silk lapels, though his hair was dishevelled and he looked sleepy and sated. She quickly dropped her eyes, blushing furiously, unable to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t realise you were there,” John said apologetically. “I had quite lost track of the time. I’m sorry to say, though, that Lucien probably did know. His hearing is very acute. He does enjoy his little games.”

Lucien stepped forward, wrapped now in a dark blue robe that made his silver eyes look paler and stranger than ever. He gave her a knowing look and a little smile. “I don’t think we were the only ones enjoying ourselves, John.” And he took a strand of her frizzy hair between his long fingers, where it had escaped from her no-nonsense bun, then ran his fingertip over her cheekbone, where she was sure an aroused blush of colour still lingered.

Lilly was stricken with embarrassment. She wondered if she might spontaneously combust on the spot—that might be preferable to having to confront Lucien’s assessing, knowing expression, and from the heat in her cheeks it was a distinct possibility. Just…poof! Up in flames. Then her fundamental nature reasserted itself, and she lifted her chin and gave a little sniff.

“Gentlemen,” she snapped, “I suggest you get dressed. This paperwork isn’t going to organise itself.” And she swept from the room with as much dignity as she could muster. It wasn’t much, given how aware she still was of her saturated drawers and the stickiness of her fingers.

By the time they reappeared in the living room looking decent and respectable, she was absorbed in a pile of paperwork that seemed to have been filed using the ‘put it down somewhere and forget about it’ method. Not a technique they taught at Chancery Lane.

John laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she glanced back and gave him a quick, professional smile—though not lacking in warmth. Then she returned to her paperwork. The only thing she could possibly do now was pretend that the whole mortifying incident had never happened.

It was mid-morning before anyone spoke—although she had been interrupted at one point by a series of alarming glooping noises and at another by a small explosion that had filled the room with acrid smoke and necessitated the opening of a window. She reflected that life as an assistant to a detective who lived with an inventor was going to take a little getting used to. Especially if they were going to get up to the sort of recreational activity she had witnessed that morning on a regular basis. Not that, if she was entirely honest with herself, she would object to seeing a repeat performance.

Not, she reminded herself sternly, either respectable or genteel.

Lucien, who had been lying on the settee with his eyes closed and a furious scowl of concentration on his face, not even stirring when John and Lilly had stamped out the curtains that had been set alight by the explosion, broke into her thoughts. “I am expecting a visitor at eleven o’ clock, Lilly. I would like you to take notes. John tells me you can do that squiggly writing you secretary girls are so keen on.”

“Shorthand? Yes, certainly. Might I ask who the appointment is with?”

Lucien gave her a quick, distracted smile, and she realised he was already running through the facts, in his head, of whatever case brought this visitor to their door.

“It’s Inspector Ladd, of the Metropolitan Police,” John supplied. “I believe I told you they often consult Lucien on their more…esoteric cases?”

“Indeed,” said Lilly as she gathered her notebook and pencil. Then she added archly, “And what, may I ask, would Inspector Ladd’s reaction have been had he been the one to walk in and find you…
in flagrante delicto
?”

“Inspector Ladd,” Lucien pointed out without opening his eyes, “does not have a key. Besides, he is not as pretty as you are.”

And before she could recover from the fluster this unexpected compliment put her into and come up with a suitable retort, there was a knock at the door.

Lilly took up her place in the overstuffed armchair, which was mercifully free, this morning, of suspicious-looking contraptions. Lucien settled himself at one end of the settee with his long legs stretched elegantly out in front of him, his eyes narrowed and his fingers steepled under his chin.

John answered the door to reveal a fat, florid-complexioned policeman with extravagant mutton-chop whiskers, who was breathing heavily from the flight of stairs he had ascended from the front door. “Dermott,” he puffed. “Doyle.” And he waddled into the room to collapse heavily onto a chair John had quickly moved to the middle of the room for him. It creaked alarmingly under his bulk, but held.

“Inspector Ladd,” said Lucien, inclining his head graciously. “This is my assistant, Miss James. She will be taking notes. You may be perfectly frank in what you say.”

“Miss,” said Inspector Ladd, giving her a brief nod for politeness’ sake before returning his attention to Lucien and launching immediately into his story.

“Nasty series of murders, Doyle. Frankly, we’re stumped. The first victim was a little lad, only seven or eight years old, poor little mite. Name of…”

“Arthur Gaffney,” Lucien interrupted. “The only child of a big name in the dirigible industry and his young second wife. The second victim was a Mr Henry Watson, late of Millers Lane. An elderly gentleman, survived by his widow, whom he has left comfortably off. The third, a Miss Allan, a spinster of middle years who until recently lived quietly with her sister, occasionally venturing out to meetings of the temperance movement, for which they were vocal spokeswomen.”

Inspector Ladd was beginning to recover his breath. He took out a voluminous pocket handkerchief and used it to mop his broad forehead, then said, “How do you do it, Doyle? How did you know they were connected? The boy was strangled. Poor old Henry Watson had his throat cut. Miss Allan was bludgeoned with a bloody cobblestone. There didn’t seem anything to connect them, except…”

“Except that they were all carrying substantial amounts of money. The boy had been sent on an errand to buy books for his father. Henry Watson had become a little vague in recent years and no longer trusted the banks—instead he preferred to keep his savings in stocks and bonds about his person. And Miss Allan was carrying the takings from the temperance movement’s recent fundraising effort for Women Brought Low by Drink. And yet,” he said, leaning forward and fixing the inspector with his disconcerting silver gaze, “not one of them was robbed. The murderer did not even bother to snatch Henry Watson’s silver-headed cane.”

The inspector looked gormless for a moment. “Oh…” he began.

“Yes,” said Lucien. “The connection is that the motive for each murder was, purely and simply, to kill the victim as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. Immediate financial gain was not a factor…and yet most criminals are opportunists and even if they did not go through the victim’s pocket would take a ruby hatpin or other such trinket. But there is another connection, is there not?”

Ladd nodded, apparently lost for words.

“You did not make the same connection I did, that much is clear.” The inspector seemed to bridle at Lucien’s words, but he held up one long, elegant hand in a conciliatory gesture. “But you did make a connection. What?”

The policeman shrugged again, stuffed his damp handkerchief back into his pocket, and extracted a small, white oblong of card. He made to hand it over to Lucien, but the detective gestured towards Lilly, so she took it instead, noting its contents quickly in her notebook, then reading it aloud for Lucien and John’s benefit. “Dr Moriarty Cain’s House of Spiritual Solace. Dr Cain will contact the spirit world to bring you messages of comfort from your lost loved ones.”

She looked at Lucien in surprise, and he gave her a smug little smile, like a cat licking cream off its paws.

“The family of each of the victims received one of these cards shortly after the murder,” said the inspector. “The boy’s parents. The old man’s widow. Miss Allan’s twin sister.”

“Good!” said Lucien, suddenly all brisk efficiency, and he rose to his feet. “Thank you, Inspector. I will be in touch in due course.”

The inspector rose to his feet looking bewildered, but allowed himself to be hustled towards the door. “But…”

“In due course, my dear Inspector Ladd. The wheels are turning. The mechanism is ticking. I have the case in hand. Please don’t let me keep you.” And he ushered the perplexed policeman out of the door and closed it behind him with a decisive click.