The Copper and the Madam

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The Copper and the Madam

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Karyn Gerrard

ISBN: 978-1-61333-622-9

Cover art by Tibbs Designs

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The Blind Cupid Series

By

~DEDICATION~

To actors Tom Weston-Jones and Matthew
Macfadyen from Copper and Ripper Street. You both were the
inspiration for my hero Rory. Couldn’t ask for better muses.

To everyone who bought the first two books in
the Blind Cupid series (The Blind Cupid, The Governess and the
Beast) my sincere thanks.

London, 1889, Whitehall Place, Scotland
Yard

“Are you sure you want to do this, lad?”

Rory Kerrigan, police constable, had a firm
grip on Desmond Glover’s elbow as he steered him toward the back
entrance facing the alley off Great Scotland Yard Street.

The boy, if he could be called that, mumbled
what sounded like “Aye.” The lad of fifteen years resembled a man
in his twenties, not a gangly adolescent. He already stood close to
six feet in height. Weariness and, more disturbingly, emptiness
haunted his eyes. No bloody wonder. Desmond Glover had been
released from Newgate Prison after serving four months hard labor
for indecency.

Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline, the
arresting officer in the Cleveland Street Scandal of five months
previous, had asked Rory to see to the lad. The scandal had faded
from public memory.
Swept under the rug more like
.

The Cleveland Street Telegraph Office acted
as a male brothel, and Desmond had been one of the “messenger boys”
arrested in the aftermath of the raid. Charles Hammond, the owner,
had escaped to France, which heightened Rory’s ire. The bloody
papers quashed the names of the aristocracy who frequented
Cleveland Street. Even the queen’s grandson had been rumored to
visit on occasion.

Abberline wanted to see Desmond settled. Rory
had to bite his tongue when he heard from Abberline the young man
would be sent off to another bawdy house.

A fancy carriage sat in the alley. The black
horses nickered, their breath streaming out in jets forming an icy
cloud. Light snowflakes fell from the heavy gray clouds above. The
first of December and already frigid.

A woman stepped from the carriage and
strolled toward him. She wore burgundy velvet and silk from her hat
to her boots, her hands tucked away in a mink muff. Her hair was a
coppery-red unnatural shade, her shape similar to a plump little
partridge. He doubted the top of her head would reach his
mid-chest. With her face heavily painted it was difficult to
ascertain the level of her attractiveness. She appeared every inch
the madam.

Rory touched the rim of his hat. “Abbess Rea,
I presume?”

“Yes. This is Desmond Glover?” Her sky-blue
eyes contemplated the lad’s face and form.

“Aye. It is.”

“Go sit in the carriage, Desmond. I will be
there directly.”

The lad loped off without a word, and the
madam turned her intense gaze to him.

“You have something to say, Constable? I can
tell by the curve of your mouth you do not agree with this
solution.”

Her tone sounded haughty, her words cutting.
No, he didn’t bloody approve.

“Don’t you think this boy has been through
enough? And now, you will be using him again, making money off his
cock and pretty face. You disgust me.”

Abbess Rea blinked. A brief show of hurt
flickered across her features but annoyance soon replaced it.

“This ‘boy,’ as you call him, has been alone
on the streets since eight years of age. He knows no other life. He
will wind up bent over empty wine crates in a dirty alley for a
quick shilling fuck. Perhaps you will find him diseased, starving,
and used up, or dead, as so many are. I am giving him a roof over
his head, his own room, an education, and clean clothes. Three
square meals a day. I am giving him—a home.”

She took a deep breath, giving him a glimpse
of an impressive bosom. “When he is ready, Desmond will entertain a
few lonely spinsters and widows, nothing more. I will not be using
him as he was in the past.”

Rory laughed. “Well, we have a different
definition of ‘using,’ but hear me, madam. I will be dropping by
your establishment once a month to check on the lad, to see if you
are treating him right.”

Anger radiated from her narrowed gaze. “Come
ahead. Stay for supper. The Blind Cupid, Tyers Street in Lambeth.
Two doors up from the John Bull Pub. I’ll see you next month,
Constable Kerrigan.”

London, May 1897

“What did you say?”

Rea’s coachman crumpled his cap in his hands
and shifted from one leg to the other. His nervous gaze moved from
her to the wall opposite. He cleared his throat.

“I said, Desmond ain’t wit ’me. He made me
stop the carriage. His exact words were, ‘I’m done. Tell the Abbess
I’ll be by in a few days to settle accounts or some such.” Pete
held up the leather satchel. “Left ’is kit, he did. Ran all the
way, he did.”

Rea tapped her fingers on the desk. “Ran
where?”

“Back to ’er, I imagine. The spinster. He
were in there six hours or more. I came back every two hours as you
said. He came out on the fourth stop. You want me and the lads to
go and fetch ’im?”

Rea glanced at the clock on the wall. What
would be the point of sending her bullyboys to the spinster’s flat
at one in the morning to cause a disturbance which would no doubt
bring the coppers down on her head?

“No, I know where he is. I’ll give him the
few days to come and see me. Desmond has never broken his word
before. Off with you, Pete. See to the horses.”

Pete touched his forelock and scurried from
the room like an anxious weasel.

Well
.

Rea opened the desk drawer and reached for
the ledger. She flipped through the pages until she found the
information.

Anne Sommer, 13 Honey Lane,
Cheapside
.

Ah, yes. The mousy little creature with the
dull brown hair. Rea remembered the interview. She did not send
Desmond to service just anyone. She interviewed prospective clients
in a thorough manner to protect her people. An exclusive clientele
kept things running in a smooth manner and without incident. She
had enough drama in the past and avoided episodes any way she
could.

He was her shining star. Handsome beyond
measure. A cock a stallion would envy and a well-formed body women
lusted after and paid well to have. His popularity with the
aristo-widows of all ages and many lonely, unattached women
throughout the city proved the fact. Had this bookstore
owner-spinster bewitched him somehow?

She flipped through the pages. Damn. Desmond
was expected at the Dowager Countess Bloodstone’s residence in five
days. Rea sat back in her chair. What to do? Who else did she have?
Perhaps Gordon. His delicate, pale features and golden hair were
popular with men and women alike. Would the countess agree? The old
woman did like her male flesh firm and young. She’d have to send
word in the morning and pray the hag agreed. Rea would hate to lose
the hundred pounds the countess paid every quarter for Desmond’s
company.

Since the next day was the last Thursday of
the month, Detective Sergeant Kerrigan would be coming for his
visit. Rea’s heart somersaulted in her chest. How pathetic could
her life be? The one thing she looked forward to? Sharing a meal
with the ruggedly handsome copper.

Rea slammed her ledger shut. God, she was so
tired of it all. At thirty-four, she wondered if the time had come
to sell up and move to a quiet hamlet to live out the rest of her
days.

She placed the ledger back in the drawer.
Taking the key chain from around her neck, she locked the desk. She
rose from her chair, turned down the gas lamps, and left the
room.

***

For eight years, Rory Kerrigan had come to
supper. At first, the visits had annoyed Rea. Perhaps he surveyed
her place for a future raid? Her fears had grown into alarm when
Rory was promoted to detective in the CID, and then detective
sergeant, and hell’s bells, transferred to Division L in her own
district of Lambeth.

He made no move to shut her down, nor did any
other copper. The Metropolitan Police usually left the better run
brothels alone. They served a purpose. Besides, prostitution had
become so prevalent in every borough and street, how could they
ever stamp it out? Also, her best customers comprised quite a few
coppers, including a chief superintendent.

Rea nervously patted her hair in the mirror
as she waited for Rory Kerrigan’s arrival. The sideboard held
various decanters including his preferred Irish whiskey. She’d had
the cook prepare his favorite meal: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding,
roasted carrots, and potatoes. She wanted the night to be special,
as it would be the last time he would attend a supper at The Blind
Cupid.

The door to the private dining room opened,
and Jacob, one of her bullyboys, announced imperiously, “Sergeant
Kerrigan to see you, ma’am.”

Formerly a footman in a fancy house, Jacob
gave the proceedings a dash of quality.

Rory Kerrigan strode into the room and filled
it with his potent presence. His blatant masculinity caused her
breath to hitch in her chest. Smartly dressed in a black wool suit
and matching hat, he resembled any gentleman seen striding about
Pall Mall. Except for his hair—far too long for the fashion but
very attractive nonetheless.