Page 17 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 6

Oliver paced back and forth in the study, waiting for Claudia Ellingford’s arrival. Since their encounter in the alley, he had barely slept a wink for the past two nights. He would have to stay even more detached than usual when meeting with her today. It was his only protection from taking her into his arms and kissing her soundly. He flexed his hand as he could still feel her breast. Never had he been so—hard. When she had touched him, running her finger along his stiff and throbbing shaft—

The aching. The yearning.

The intense sensation had overtaken him, sending rolls of desire throughout his body, awakening every nerve ending, and stirring those hungry emotions to life.

What he had done was bold, rubbing against her, caressing her breast. And kissing her soft neck. What had compelled him? The danger they were in? The fact he was concealed under a disguise and free to act audaciously? For he would never behave that way as Viscount Tensbridge.

Oliver swiped a couple of books off the top of his desk in frustration. They clattered to the floor. When he glanced up, Dalton stood in the doorway with Claudia Ellingford next to him, one eyebrow cocked in question.

Damn it all.

“Miss Ellingford to see you, my lord. I will see that the tea tray is sent up,” Dalton declared.

So much for staying detached; she looked lovely today, wearing a soft gray skirt, a matching short jacket, a small gray hat, and a white ruffled blouse. Her red hair was carefully pinned in place and swept up from her neck. That lovely neck Oliver wished to nuzzle and kiss again. But another attractive feature was her light hazel eyes, more green than brown—a perfect match for her glorious red hair.

“Please, take a seat, Miss Ellingford.” He waved his arm toward the chair in front of the desk. Oliver swiftly sat, for arousal gripped him tight once again.

“Did you receive bad news, my lord?” she asked.

“What? Oh, the books. It is nothing of consequence. Tell me of your preliminary report.” God, he sounded imperious.

Claudia reached into her case and brought out her notebook. “I followed your brother for four nights. All of them were spent in The Piggeries. Notting Dale. A slum area, if you were not aware, my lord.”

“I am well aware as we discuss such things in Parliament. I have been told that clearances have already started in Notting Dale. There are plans for a mix of public and private housing to be completed by 1910.” He sounded arrogant. But Oliver had to keep his distance, physically and emotionally.

“I will believe that about the housing when I see it, my lord. And isn’t Tensbridge a courtesy title? Why would you be in Parliament?” she questioned. Claudia was polite and professional, and she wasn’t holding his superior tone against him.

“I am not in the House of Lords. But since I’m the heir to the Earl of Carnstone, I am allowed to sit on a particular committee. Please continue.”

“Your brother was in the company of Shinwell, Linton, and another man. I described the man to the Galways sisters, and they identified the man as Viscount Tolwood. The men attended an illegal dog fight, a pub, a gambling house, and a brothel. And that was just the first night.”

Oliver expelled an exasperated breath in response.

“They stumbled home about one o’clock in the morning, and Tolwood took a hansom cab to his home, I assume,” she continued, reading from her notes. “I started surveillance again at five o’clock the next afternoon. The place they are staying in was recently converted into flats, as many grand town houses have been of late. The residence belonged to a peer. It might have been Shinwell’s father, but whoever owns it recently sold the property to the Central London Dwelling Company. I passed the information on to Miss Eleanora, and she stated Allenby would confirm the information.”

It happened all over the city—prime real estate was grabbed up and turned into flats or rooming houses. It made sense with the overcrowding in various parts of London, but these companies were in it only for profit, not for any philanthropic reasons. These flats were not meant for those needing housing, like the homeless or working class looking for better accommodations. They were for the wealthy and no one else.

“Your brother and his flatmates are on the bottom floor.” Claudia continued, “Easy for me to peer into the windows. There was a woman with them, I assume a prostitute, but who knows? Anyway, they shared her.”

His brother was all in on the debauchery. “And you saw this?”

Claudia shrugged. “The draperies were open enough for me to peer in. After the woman departed, they drank. Copious amounts. Then, they returned to The Piggeries. I tracked them to the Black Moon pub, where they imbibed some more. Later in the evening, I followed them to a small shack. There were no signs on the building. They were only there for a few moments. Then they headed to Bangor Street, where the prostitutes congregate, and each had back-alley sex before returning to the flat.”

His brother was a reckless, imprudent dolt—and he probably hadn’t used any protection.

“The small shack in question,” Claudia stated. “I discovered that it is a place to buy street-grade opium.”

Oliver went very still. It was his grandmother’s worst fear. Although the Pharmacy Act of 1868 controlled and registered the sale of certain poisons—of which opium was one—a trade still existed for those who did not wish to buy it from a chemist. The drug found outside an apothecary’s control was also cheaper, not regulated, or of the best quality. Oliver had learned plenty from being a member of Hawkestone’s caucus group.

“Where is this shack located?” Oliver asked.

“Why do you wish to know?”

Claudia Ellingford was maddingly inquisitive—a good trait for an investigator.

“To bring it to the attention of those in power.”