The Girl in the Brothel Ch. 06

When he stood, her gaze was arrested by the line of soap bubbles running down between the lines of his taut stomach. Back in Wrethby Creek, the men would sometimes hold wrestling matches on Sunday afternoons. A lot of the young women attended to ogle the contestants, who often wore nothing but a colored sash and trousers. Ardon's body was built like that of the men who wrestled. It was a workman's body, sculpted from years of physical labor. She didn't think many men in the upper classes had bodies like his. But then again, the Mereguildes were not aristocrats. They had gained their wealth through perseverance and hard work. What had Ardon done to sculpt such a body? She could only guess.

More water and lather sluiced down his torso, and Thara was only too happy to follow their trail lower...lower...to a dark tangle of hair at the apex of his muscular thighs. Her breath hitched. That was the male appendage. The women of The Rosey Bush called it by many names: the prodigious engine, whore-pipe, cock, truncheon, steed. The thing some women feared and everyone who worked at The Rosey Bush adored, or at least tolerated. It was limp at the moment, but Thara knew from past conversations that during the act of sex it would stiffen and rise from its nest of curls like a ship's mast.

Her breathing had gotten shallow, and she was distinctly aware of that familiar throbbing between her thighs. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she brought her knees together, eliciting a pleasurable sensation that caused her breath to melt on her tongue. She wanted...she wanted...what did she want?

When she looked again, she saw that that most intimate part of him was no long flaccid. In fact, it had stiffened and was rising from between his legs. She felt her body respond in kind, clenching and unclenching, seeking some unidentified release. Oh dear...his hand was moving down to grasp the erection. Thara's eyes grew wide. She clapped a hand over her mouth and backed away from the spy-hole. Picking up the lamp, she ran.

***

There hadn't been much time before he was supposed to meet Collin and Scarlett, so Ardon had been relieved when the Redsbys chose to retire early after their long carriage ride to the manor. After kissing his mother and sister goodnight and checking on the kitchen staff, he had jogged upstairs to the bathing room for a quick, refreshing shower.

Unfortunately, it had been anything but refreshing. His mind kept straying to the three men who had ambushed him and his crew on the Hessapac. He was used to circumventing—and occasionally skirmishing with—the Metropoliton police force, whose duty it was to prevent all manner of crimes within the City and Greater Aldochor. But last night was very obviously not a police stakeout.

Aside from one complication a couple months ago that was bad enough to raise the suspicions of one Helenshead borough's inspector, Wallace James, Ardon and his crew had mostly been able to operate in peace, their only real nemesis being the actual crime rings they occasionally crossed paths with. However, after the events of last night, Ardon suspected he had another nemesis to worry about: a mole. Smuggling brettle, an outlawed variant of opium that was ten times more powerful and more addictive, meant that he was constantly on watch for subterfuge both inside and outside his company. After last night's ambush, he was forced to acknowledge that Lidelle's smuggling operations were compromised, most likely from the inside.

The particular strain Lidelle Shipping Co. moved was cleaner than street-grade brettle, which made it ideal for use in medical settings once it had been purified. Lidelle's clients were primarily hospitals, private practitioners and hospices, establishments that used the drug for medical purposes, eschewing the Kingdom's laws for its prohibition. That's not to say some of Lidelle's clients weren't dirty. He wasn't that stupid. Every once in a while one or two slipped through the cracks, and he would receive word from his lookouts in the underground markets. It hadn't been a problem at first. Except in the last several months, his sources had reported a surge in Lidelle's product on the streets. That was worrying, indeed.

As he stood there beneath the spray, Ardon turned around in his head the rumors that had been swirling through the Egan underworld for the last several years. Rumors that the drug lords had grown tired of street-grade brettle, and were looking for the next best thing. If he had to guess, the men that had attacked them last night had been hired by either one of two crime lords: Godfrey Pendleton, who worked within Helenshead, or Robert "Stubs" Bartholomew, who worked down in Marrow Green. Those two crime syndicates were rivals, pushing drugs within all thirty-six boroughs of Greater Aldochor. There had been several hospital drug thefts over the last year, and he suspected Pendleton or Bartholomew were behind them. These hadn't been the small nips here and there that one would expect from employees—the thieves had gotten way with cases of sedatives and analgesics, too large an amount not to have been coordinated by several individuals or an organization. And brettle serum, specifically the Korzy strain that Lidelle traded in, had been stolen in far higher numbers than the other drugs.

The water became tepid. Realizing he was spending much longer in the shower than he intended, Ardon made a mental note to look into it further with Collin tomorrow, and quickly took to soap and scrub brush. There was something meditative about washing that always helped him relax. The rhythmic scrubbing, the soft lather of bubbles on wet skin—there was a process to bathing, like counting from one to ten. It was predictable and without surprises—a nice antithesis to his work, and one that he relished every now and again. Tonight, however, Ardon's evening ablutions failed to lull him into peaceful serenity. It strayed from the task at hand to bring up a lovely vision of Thara and how her breasts had looked propped up against the neckline of her dress by the unfortunate corset. His cock stirred. Damn it. He groaned. He really couldn't be late. Well...maybe just a little bit.

He reached down to grip himself, his lips parting in a shudder at the bolt of pleasure the motion elicited. Fuck. It had been a while. He gently stroked himself to full attention thinking about those breasts, and what they might look like out of that dress. If they had been alone in the drawing room this evening, he fancied he might have dipped a hand down her bodice to scoop one out, just to see. Would she have let him?

He wondered this as he palmed his slick length, enjoying the sensations that coiled tighter and tighter in his groin. He remembered very clearly the night he had caught her pilfering food from Hermu, how his fingers had dug into her slender waist as she lay on top of him on the floor, her small breasts crushed against his chest. She had hit all of his buttons from the moment she barreled into him. He had not been able to get her out of his mind after that, even after his return to The Rosey Bush two weeks later knowing her true identity. Oh, how he had wanted to do more in that cramped bedroom of hers! He hadn't realized she was an innocent, though. It was unfortunate.

Sighing, Ardon leaned forward so that his forehead pressed against the wet tiles, pumping his hand over his length, fingers gentle on his silky head. His cock bobbed eagerly, seeking the velvet folds of a woman. Conjuring up blasphemous images of a certain young woman in certain indecent positions on his bed, he climaxed, a small moan escaping his lips, his seed splashing onto the wall of the shower.

Thara Newtane. She was mesmerizing, and in more ways than one. Ardon was gradually coming to realize the girl had a strange pull on him he was not entirely comfortable with. It was damn unfortunate she was going to be married off in the near future, or whenever the executor got around to returning and going through Belinda Newtane's will. He suspected no one, not even Thara's future husband, would be able to quite contain her free-spirited ways.

One benefit of being master of the house was having a skeleton key on hand. So when, on his way down the hall after his shower, he noticed that the library door was closed and locked, which was highly unusual as it was always left open, he swiftly retrieved the key from his bureau and unlocked it. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the room, coming to rest on a very familiar champagne dress and its accompanying petticoats, crinoline and corset.

What the blazes was going on? Thara was no where to be seen. Then he spied the open bookcase and understood immediately. Clever girl. This should be interesting. He locked the library door and entered the passage.

A remnant of the manor's former master, the hidden tunnel was simple, beginning in the library and ending at the far end of the back gardens, letting out by way of a removable grate in the ceiling. When Ardon arrived at the end, he noticed an oil lamp sitting on the dirt floor, illuminating a short wooden stool which had been positioned beneath the opened ceiling grate. She had gone out. Gone out wearing her underthings? Ardon sighed.

He extinguished the lamp and waited in darkness. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he heard George's smart footsteps crackle upon the gravel path above him and the back gate creak open. Not one minute later, Thara's slim legs swung down from the hole above. He waited until she had found purchase on the stool, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, before speaking.

"I thought you were ill, Ms. Newtane."

Thara jumped, nearly dropping the lamp she had picked up to inspect. Her eyes found his in the weak light afforded by the opening above her head.

"Mr...Mr. Mereguilde," she gasped.

"Why is it," he went on, pushing off from the wall and moving forward, "That every time we meet, you are not properly dressed?" His eyes moved down her face to linger pointedly on her chest where the ruffles of her chemise failed to conceal the unmistakable twin buds of her nipples. If she wasn't such an innocent, he would suspect she was teasing him. Which made it all the more painful for him because he knew it was not her intention at all. Her mouth worked but nothing came out. "Yes?"

Thara straightened in annoyance. "The only reason I'm indecent every time we meet is because you take it upon yourself to harass me at odd hours of the night!"

There was commotion above them. "Is anyone down there?" George's voice echoed into the passage.

"Yes, George, it's only myself and Ms. Newtane. We'll be up shortly," Ardon called. He moved to stand next to Thara. "You're coming up with me."

"I'd rather not." But he saw the hesitancy in her voice, and the way she eyed the pitch black passage. He took a gamble.

"You either come up with me, or you make your way back to the house in the dark." He gave her a shrug.

"I'll go up with you," the girl grumbled. "But I really would rather not, I'm not decent."

"That's never stopped you before," he said cheerily, gesturing for her to ascend first. "George, can you give us a hand?"

Thara put the lamp back on the ground and stepped onto the stool, reaching for the lip. Ardon grabbed her legs from below and lifted her, his hands molding to her thighs. She let out an indignant squawk as he seated the palm of one hand on her irresistible derriere and pushed. He knew he shouldn't have, but he couldn't resist needling her. That chemise was much too thin. He could feel everything.

"I was perfectly capable the first time, Mr. Mereguilde," Thara ground out from above. She kicked her foot out at him, which he dodged. He laughed, feeling a strange thrill envelope him.

Once Thara had cleared the hole, he passed the lamp to George above before pulling himself out with ease.

"Who's that?" Scarlett asked, bewildered, as Ardon replaced the grate.

"My mother's ward," Ardon said. "I caught her skulking about in the hidden passage." He turned to address Thara. "Would you mind standing over there by the roses?" He gestured to a rose bush several yards away. "I have important business to conduct and I don't want you getting in the way."

"I most certainly do mind," the girl said steadily, crossing her arms. The night breeze brushed several tendrils of hair across her nose.

"That's Belinda's daughter?" Scarlett asked in surprise.

"Yes, that's me. I'm Thara," Thara said, turning to the older woman. She held out a determined hand. "Who are you?"

Scarlett's pocked face broke into a wide smile and she put her hands into Thara's. "Scarlett Lippman. I like you," she declared. "Ardon, you didn't tell me she was such a spitfire."

"Apologies for that," Ardon said mildly. He glanced at George and Collin. "Now let's get the goods into the stables, shall we? Do you have all of it?"

Collin, who had been grinning, watching the exchange, quickly doffed his cap and stubbed out his cigarette. "Got 'em all."

Ardon turned to Thara, who was eyeing the cart and mule on the other side of the gate. It was filled with wooden crates stacked three high, and covered with a tarp. "Stay here."

"What's in those boxes?" the girl asked suspiciously. She spied the Lidelle logo imprinted on the side. "What are you doing?"

"Taking care of a shipment." Thara raised an eyebrow at him. He could tell, from the way her lips thinned, that he was about to get an earful. "I will explain later," he said, desperate to prevent a full-blown argument out in the gardens. "I promise. George, would you mind escorting Ms. Newtane back inside?"

She wasn't going to listen, he could see that. But to his surprise, she turned and went to stand next to the butler. "You will owe me. Quite a lot," Thara said crisply. "This is my company now, too."

"Thank you." Ignoring her last remark, he ran to catch up with Scarlett and Collin.

"She wasn't too happy about that," Collin remarked as Ardon pushed open the heavy stable doors. "Do you really think you can keep it a secret from her?"

"It was her mother's wish," Ardon said tersely, wondering exactly the same thing himself. "It's a bloody business, she has no place in it." None of his crew would listen to or respect her. She had no credibility. Their mothers were intelligent, capable businesswomen. They had been willing to make sacrifices—sometimes terrible sacrifices—to ensure that Lidelle's smuggling operation and its clients came first. Thara? He doubted she could be so strong. She was better off running the legal aspects of Lidelle and not knowing about its seedier ventures.

"I don't know how you'll be able to keep it under wraps. She's young, got a lot of years with the company," Scarlett tsked. "She's bound to figure it out eventually. An inquisitive mind like hers?" The woman trailed off suggestively.

She was right, of course. It was stupid to think that Thara would not eventually find out about the smuggling. She would run Lidelle one day. They both would, technically. And when she found out, no doubt he would get the brunt of her fury. He was not looking forward to that day.

The air was musty with the scent of hay as they entered, the cart wheels gently creaking. They walked to the far end of the barn, to a padlocked door. Ardon opened it and they passed through. He unhooked the mule from its harness and led it into a stall with water and hay. Nodding to Collin as he returned to stand by his associates and the cart, his associate pressed the lever by the door.

The floor upon which they stood broke away. Gears and pulleys whined and they were lowered into a chamber below ground. Here, electric lamps flickered on, casting cold blue light on the three of them as they descended.

The chamber was cavernous, easily large enough to fit several carriages, and thrice as high. The rock walls were bare save for the lamps strung up every few feet. The center space was empty. There was a table to their right against the wall, covered over with papers, maps and pens. Suspended above the desk were two rows of electric vision boxes. The front was made of curved glass, and upon each surface flickered images of various locations: the interior of the Lidelle warehouses, empty offices within its headquarters on Jay Street and the exterior of the stables. The work bench on their left held tools. Next to it lay the aluminum limbs to the automaton that had been blown to pieces in the Helenshead debacle that had caught the attention of the inspector not too long ago. There was a young boy sitting by the thing, working on it. The knees of his pants were smeared with engine oil and grease, and his hands were black with it.

"Jeremy! What are you doing up at this hour?" Ardon crossed the space and crouched, looking at the half-assembled forelimb the boy had been working on. "Your mother is going to have my head!" He took the screwdriver from the Jeremy's hand.

"She won't care, she's down at the office doing inventory." The boy snatched the screwdriver back. "And Da said I could, so long as Ma was still up. And she is, look!" He pointed to the vision boxes suspended above the desk. Sure enough, on one of the boxes, flickering in black and white, a woman sat before a desk writing in a notebook.

"Regardless of what your Da said, you shouldn't be in here this late. Not by yourself. Go back to your Ma." The boy pouted. "Go on," Ardon prodded.

Jeremy got up slowly, laboriously, and trotted over to the small tram sitting at the entrance to a lighted tunnel. He climbed onto the seat. "Can I come back tomorrow? Please?"

"Only if someone is here with you." Ardon turned. "Scarlett?"

"I'll be here!" the woman called from the other side of the room where she was unloading the boxes with Collin.

Ardon gave the boy a squeeze on his shoulder, pushed a lever by the wall, and the tram moved forward, ferrying Jeremy back to Lidelle's headquarters and his private offices.

***

After Scarlett and Collin left for the night, Ardon returned to the house to find George and Thara waiting for him in the kitchen. The butler had prepared Thara a cup of chocolate, which she held between her palms, leaning against the sink.

"Oh for God's sake, George, go to bed," Ardon said, upon seeing him.

"I didn't want to leave her alone, Sir," George explained. "She insisted on waiting for you."

"I understand, thank you for keeping her company. I will see her to her room." Ardon eyed the chocolate. "Say, did you happen to leave some for me?" he asked the departing butler.

"No, Sir. Good night, Sir." Weasel.

The butler had left the cookware and ingredients out, though, so Ardon set the pans to warm. He broke off several chunks of chocolate from the brick left out on the counter and added it to the pan.

"You know how to make drinking chocolate?" Thara asked, watching him with interest.

"I had Marguerite teach me. I couldn't be bothered to wake her up in the middle of the night." He paused, noting the empty cup in her hand and the way her eyes were fixed on the melting chocolate on the range. "Would you like to learn?" She nodded, moving forward to stand next to him. He gestured for her cup, and when she handed it over, he stooped to place it beneath the boiler tap, drawing several spoonfuls of hot water into it. "This will help the chocolate melt," he explained, pouring it into the pan. "If you'd like another cup, we'll need to cut a few more pieces of chocolate." As she complied, he went to the larder for milk, pouring the liquid into the second saucepan.

Thara wrapped the chocolate back into its paper and tied it with the string lying on the counter. "Are you going to tell me what the four of you were doing outside?"