Page 64 of Molly Boys

Suddenly he looked up, his eyes narrowing as a movement in the deep shadows directly underneath the upper platform caught his attention. Edmund stared for several long moments, and when he spoke his voice was as cold as ice.

“I see you.”

Edmund shifted and a pair of glowing eyes stared back at him from the shadows.

“I’m very disappointed in you,” Edmund said, his voice deadly quiet as his lip curled in fury. “You had the pretty lord in your hands, but you gave him up to the policeman instead of bringing him here to me. You’re weak.”

Edmund moved slightly and so did the glowing eyes.

“You damaged the lawyer before he could be of any real use to me,” Edmund snapped and a low growl echoed through the chamber.

He cast his gaze across the table where bottles and vials were set up alongside tubes and blown glass bulbs, Bunsen burners, and strange spiral tubes made of glass.

“I’ve almost perfected the serum,” Edmund murmured before turning his attention back to the shadows, back to those glowing eyes. “I just need one more.”

The low growl once again echoed through the room.

“I want him,” Edmund said coldly. “The beautiful lord… Bring him to me.”

18

Archie cricked his neck and looked up from his paperwork. It was dark outside the tiny window of his office. He instinctively reached for the pocket of his waistcoat before remembering he no longer had his father’s watch. Again he felt the momentary pang of sadness. There was no way to retrieve his watch, he knew that. Not if Leland Rackstraw had it in his possession. If Archie wanted it back that badly he would have to go through the whole of The Nichol to get to Rackstraw.

At the thought of The Old Nichol, his sadness and frustration were replaced with worry. Stanley and he had searched high and low for Jack, but he was nowhere to be found. He could only hope the boy had hid himself someplace safe from Rackstraw’s men.

Guilt churned in his stomach. He never should have let the boy guide them into The Nichol. If any harm befell the lad, it would be his fault.

He rubbed his tired eyes and looked over to the clock sitting on top of the heavy wooden filing cabinet. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d miss the last train back to Battersea, and he certainly didn’t feel like spending another uncomfortable night in his freezing cold office. He wanted his bed.

The moment he thought about his bed, his mind immediately deviated to Lord Stanley. He tried to shake the thought away, but it would not be so easily dismissed. Ever since he’d returned from The Nichol that afternoon, Archie had thought of nothing else. He’d tried everything, he’d buried himself in mountains of reports and case files, but to no avail. His mind kept wandering to that narrow alleyway, to the tiny alcove and to Stanley’s body pressed against his.

Damn it. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to them so tightly little spots began to appear in his vision. He released a slow breath but all he could feel was the hard press of Stanley’s erect cock against his thigh, the panting breaths against his lips, and all he could remember were those eyes, those haunting blue eyes that mirrored his own need.

Shaking his head, he stood abruptly and stalked across the office. He grabbed his overcoat from the coat stand and pulled it on roughly. Once he’d finished buttoning it, he reached for his bowler and slipped it on.

Heading out of his office and toward the front desk, he nodded to the night sergeant. The night air was cold as he stepped out of the building, but at least it had stopped snowing for the moment. Turning up his collar, he hunched his shoulders to keep the wind off his neck and started down the street.

“Inspector!” He was just passing the alley at the end of the police station when a feminine voice called out. “Inspector!”

His eyes narrowed in the dim light until he could just make out the form of a small thin woman, half concealed in the shadow of the alley. She seemed to be holding something bundled in her arms.

He approached cautiously and as he neared, her eyes darted around. Nervously, she backed further into the cover of the alleyway.

“Thank the lord, I thought you’d gone already,” she breathed, her voice tinged with panic and worry.

“Who are you?” Archie edged toward her to avoid startling her.

“My name’s Polly,” she whispered, afraid for her name to be overheard.

As he neared the skittish woman, he took in her thin gown that couldn’t offer much protection against the cold. The hem was dirty and torn, sitting just above her boots. She wore a shabby bonnet tied under her chin with a frayed ribbon. Her pale face was framed by curly ginger hair, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“Do you need help?” Archie asked.

“Not me, him.” She looked down at the limp shape wrapped in a threadbare shawl that she clutched in her arms. It was only then Archie noticed the tiny pair of scuffed hobnail boots dangling beneath the material.

His stomach clenched in dread and as he stepped forward, she pressed the bundle into his arms. His heart almost stopped when he looked down. Where the bloodstained shawl parted he could see a small, battered face.

“Jack,” Archie gasped. “Ah, lad.”