thirty-nine
The visit to the police had taken longer than Samuel had expected because explaining Murdock-Dr. Tucker’s crimes hadn’t been an easy task, and they had to keep a few facts hidden.
He’d concealed his true identity as Lion Boy, just in case Murdock had documents about him, and they hadn’t mentioned having broken into Murdock’s flat or William’s past.
It didn’t matter. Murdock’s crimes were plenty and well documented. His fate was sealed.
When Samuel arrived home, a sense of emptiness weighed him down. William was as bubbly as a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne, already seeing himself in a peeler’s uniform. The captain instead was quiet, not as ecstatic as Samuel had expected.
Maybe they’d waited for that moment for too long.
“...and I’ll catch criminals by the dozens,” William said, his voice echoing in the hallway. “And everyone will know me as the defender of justice, William the Righteous.”
“William the Footman who needs to take his master’s coat,” Captain Jackson said. “Chop, chop.”
William’s good spirits didn’t diminish. He took Samuel’s coat and hat and went down the corridor, humming a tune. Being so carefree had to feel good.
Captain Jackson squeezed Samuel’s shoulder. “We did our part. Now it’s up to the police although Lord Huntington would be on them like an eagle if Superintendent Johnson doesn’t arrest Murdock.”
He nodded.
“You should celebrate. Go to your wife. She must be worried.” The captain searched around. “As for me, I’ll inform Alice she doesn’t need a gun anymore.”
Samuel went up the stairs, his legs like rubber. Perhaps he needed to see Murdock behind bars before happiness overwhelmed him.
The door to his bedroom was ajar, and he paused to watch his wife. She was sitting in front of the vanity, singing a song while braiding her hair.
Her nightgown was of the best quality but quite modest with a neckline that covered her chest completely. The skirt didn’t show any inches of her ankles, but it had a pretty lace at the hem. If he had to go through his miserable years with the circus only to live that moment when he was standing and watching his wife bathed in the warm light of the fire, he would do it without hesitation.
He stepped closer, being noisy on purpose not to alarm her. But she jolted on the padded seat and a bottle of face powder was tossed to the floor. A cloud of fine dust glittered in the room, like snow.
“Sorry,” they said together.
He knelt to collect the shards of glass. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“My fault. I didn’t hear you.” She crouched as well and collected the powder with the help of a shallow bowl.
He touched her knuckles. “I hate what he did to you more than I hate what he did to me.”
“I hate the fact you still have nightmares more.”
He took her hand and helped her up. She set her large eyes on him, making him feel all her trust. He walked around her and paused behind her.
A shiver went through her as he lowered her nightgown.
The fabric slipped down her creamy skin with a swish of silk. He ran a hand along her fine spine, tracing its curves.
A few red spots marred her skin—an aftermath of the drugs she’d taken. They would be only a memory with time, as many things would. They were like slashes over a beautiful painting.
Whoever hurt her should be punished. He kissed the offending spots, taking his time to let her feel his lips and tongue on her skin. Soft moans came out of her, and he kissed his way up her neck.
Her sweet scent of orange blossoms teased him.
He cupped her breasts from behind, feeling their heaviness in his palms. She responded with another lovely moan, a sound so sweet and powerful it triggered his desire. He rolled her nipples between his fingers until she arched her back.
When she squeezed her thighs together, he slipped a hand between them to help her with the ache. As she writhed, he wanted to see her face.
He laid her on the bed and marvelled at the beautiful flush on her cheeks.
