“You wanted my cock. Take it,” he ordered. “Deep into that needy pussy.”
She trembled at his command. Whimpering, she impaled herself inch by inch until her cunny kissed his stones. She felt like a lush, pulsing glove around him, and he gnashed his teeth in bliss.
“Christ. You feel so bloody good.”
“You feel better than good.” She framed his face with her hands, looking deep into his eyes. “You are the best, Jack. The only man for me.”
At her avowal, his throat got scratchy and his eyes hot. Not knowing what to say, he cupped her nape and pulled her down for a kiss. Then he made love to his wife all night long, intent upon proving to her—and himself—that she was right.
Thirty-Three
“You ain’t done this before, ’ave you, Mrs. Gibson?”
Charlie stopped fumbling with the matchbox she was attempting to put together and faced Molly Sutter. She’d deliberately chosen the spot at the end of the table closest to Mrs. Sutter, hoping to strike up a conversation. From what she’d seen of the encounter between the worker and Mr. Karlsson, the former would be a fount of useful information.
“It’s my first time.” Today Charlie was posing as Laura Gibson, a pleasantly rounded and bespectacled mother of three. “’Ad to find work after my old pot and pan left me ’igh and dry.”
“Men.” Mrs. Sutter snorted. “Can’t live wif ’em, but it ain’t much easier living wifout ’em. My ’usband broke ’is leg.”
“Must’ve been a bad fall,” Charlie said sympathetically.
“Down a gin bottle. The bastard’s lucky I don’t kick ’im out for good,” Mrs. Sutter said with a huff. “Now we can’t be caught palavering, or we’ll be fined for certain. Just watch what I’m doing and follow along. You don’t want to waste the glue you’re paying for, and you’ll need to work quick to meet the quota. Wif the way the place is managed, we’ll be lucky if we take ’ome wages at the end o’ the day.”
Mrs. Sutter cast a nervous glance around even as she deftly constructed the matchbox. The manufactory was lined with rows of tables. Different sections were set up according to the task being performed by the mostly female workers. One section sorted out the imported Lucifer matches from large bins, tying them into bundles of twenty. Another section was responsible for cutting the cardboard for the boxes to the correct dimensions. Charlie and Mrs. Sutter were in the final assembly area, where they constructed the boxes, affixed the labels, and packed up the matches.
Foremen strutted up and down the rows like cockerels guarding their coops. When Charlie signed on, she’d been informed of the manufactory’s copious rules, which included dressing in the proper uniform and not socializing with other workers. Any violation of the rules resulted in fines levied by the foremen.
Luckily, Devlin had managed to get assigned to Charlie’s section. He, like her, was in disguise, and he acted the part well, barking at a worker for pasting on a crooked label. Although he did not make eye contact with her, she knew he was giving her the opportunity to pump her coworker for information.
“If things are so bad, why do you stay?” Charlie whispered.
Mrs. Sutter’s resentment outweighed her fear of fines.
“It weren’t always like this. Since the Bromptons decided to produce matches instead o’ just importing ’em, things ’ave gotten worse. They plan on making us fuss wif white phosphorus and other nasty chemicals.” Mrs. Sutter placed a finished matchbox in a basket and started on the next one. “They brought in Mr. Karlsson, who used to run a works in Sweden. ’E’s supposed to ‘modernize’ us and is working on some newfangled machines in the building behind us. None o’ us workers are allowed inside, and ’e hired those brutes on patrol to keep us out.”
That explains the guards. Are the new “machines” for the purpose of modernizing matchmaking…or could they have a more sinister purpose?
“Surely someone has seen inside that building?”
“Not a soul. And don’t go putting your nose where it don’t belong,” Mrs. Sutter warned. “There’s no saying what Karlsson’s brutes are capable of.”
Charlie finished her matchbox. It was a bit misshapen, but when Mrs. Sutter gave a nod of approval, she placed it in her basket.
“Is Karlsson the only one in charge?” she asked. “What about the owners?”
“When I started ’ere three years ago, it was Mr. George Brompton wot ran the place. Salt o’ the earth and always took care o’ ’is workers, God bless ’im. Well, ’e passed last year, and his son Emmett took the reins. Then things took a turn for the worse.” Mrs. Sutter pitched her voice to a whisper. “Rumor ’as it the junior Mr. Brompton loves the cards, but they don’t love ’im back. ’E’s a cheeseparer when it comes to us workers. ’E’s the one who ’ired Mr. Karlsson.”
Could Emmett Brompton be involved with the First Flame? Did they pay his debts and control him—the way they did Tony Quinton? I need to find out more.
“Does Mr. Brompton come to the factory?”
“Not the way ’is pa did. Old Mr. Brompton was the first to arrive and last to leave.” Mrs. Sutter tossed another box into her basket. “The new one drops by every now and again when the fancy strikes. Last time was, oh, a month ago at least. ’E were showing off the factory to a couple o’ high-kick friends…as if ’e knew the first thing about running this place.”
Before Charlie could ask if Mrs. Sutter knew the names of Emmett Brompton’s friends, a voice cut in.
“You ain’t getting paid to flap your lips.” One of the foremen, a corpulent fellow with beady eyes, lumbered toward them. “You know the rules. That’ll be a fine o’ three pennies apiece.”
“But Mr. Smith, Mrs. Gibson ’ere is new, and I was just showing ’er?—”
