The Lady Gets Lucky EPB

by Joanna Shupe

  “I . . .” Preston swallowed. “I need you to come with me. He’s been found. And I—” He broke off, his voice trembling.

  Oh, Christ. “Forrest?”

  Preston nodded. “They say he was found on the tracks. He’s . . .”

  Kit’s lungs collapsed, unable to draw in air. He stared at Preston, willing his friend to take the words back. To wake up and discover this was a bad dream. Anything that would prevent this from being a reality. “Jesus,” he finally whispered.

  “I have to go to the morgue and identify him. His parents won’t go and I can’t let—”

  Can’t let him be tossed aside like garbage.

  Kit couldn’t allow that, either. Their friend deserved better.

  Oh, my God. Forrest is dead.

  “We have to tell Harrison,” he said stupidly.

  “He’s on his honeymoon. I’m not telling him until he returns.” Preston turned and picked Kit’s trousers up off the floor. “Here. Get dressed. You smell like whiskey.”

  Numb, Kit crawled out of bed and began to put himself together. It had been four nights since he’d last seen Alice. Kit had spent most of that time drinking, waiting for the memories to fade. For the heartache to ease. He knew from his mother’s death that the pain of loss would dissipate over time. It took hours and days and weeks, then suddenly it has been months and years, and one could begin to find hints of joy now and again.

  But the early stages were absolute hell.

  And now his friend had died, too.

  His stomach lurched, the organ suddenly undeniably angry, and Kit rushed to the washroom. Half of the whiskey he’d consumed a few hours ago came right back up.

  “I hope you feel better now,” Preston said dryly from the doorway. “Because what we’re likely to see at the morgue won’t exactly be soothing.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Kit gasped, gripping the sink as he tried to rinse his mouth out. “Just give me a moment.”

  Ten minutes later, the two strode out of Kit’s town house and loaded into Preston’s carriage. The church bell on the corner chimed three o’clock. Kit opened the small window for fresh air, hoping to keep himself from vomiting again.

  “When was the last time you ate?” Preston asked from the opposite seat.

  “No idea. Yesterday?”

  “You look fucking terrible.”

  “I know.” He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the washroom mirror. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so, because I can’t watch another one of my best friends drink himself to death.”

  Shit, that made him feel worse. Kit leaned his head against the side of the carriage. “How did you hear?”

  “The Pinkertons roused me out of bed. They’re fairly certain it’s him, but the body was taken to the morgue before they could confirm it. I rang Bellevue and they’re expecting us.”

  “Have you ever . . .” Kit couldn’t finish it, to ask if Preston had ever identified a body before.

  “No, I haven’t. And, God willing, I never have to again.”

  “Did the Pinkertons say what happened?”

  Preston smoothed his trousers, his lips pressed tight. “He was hit by a train. The rest I can surmise.”

  “Fuck,” Kit said, and closed his eyes again. “I don’t understand it. I just saw him.”

  “They say he left that boardinghouse on the west side and ended up on Misery Lane.”

  It was the stretch on East Twenty-Sixth Street near the river, where the poorest and the sickest congregated. Where people went when they’d given up. The potter’s field was nearby on Hart’s Island, which Bellevue used for those unable to afford proper burial. It went without saying that Kit and Preston would not allow Forrest to end up there.

  They didn’t speak the rest of the way. Kit was too wrapped up in his thoughts of Forrest to be of any use to a conversation. Why hadn’t he tried harder to help his friend? Why hadn’t he taken Forrest from his room that day, instead of offering to come back the next? If he had, Forrest might still be alive.

  Because he’d been too busy with Alice and the supper club. Selfishness and lust had consumed him, and he’d abandoned his friend. Forrest had been in the city, alone, miserable and hurting, and Kit had been trying to get under Alice’s skirts. How would he ever live with himself?

  In all fairness, he hadn’t meant to sleep with Alice. But this beautiful creature with big eyes and a big heart had looked at him—him—as if he could do anything. As if he had the ability to shift heavens or rearrange oceans. He didn’t deserve that adoration . . . and he certainly hadn’t deserved her innocence. To have been the first man inside her. But he’d been wild for her. Absolutely stark-raving mad to fuck her. He’d tried to be gentle, not to scare her with his inappropriate lust, but she’d driven him over the edge of reason.

  I want to do this. I want you to show me.

  And he’d given in, unable to resist her when she played the part of willing pupil. God, he was so stupid. She would regret it eventually. How could she not? He knew it with unshakable certainty. She would have a husband—perhaps even Lockwood—who would make her feel cheap and small for taking a lover outside of wedlock, though nearly every man did the same. He could not bear being the source of her shame.

  She’d cried, too. A single tear, but it had gutted him nonetheless. He hated the thought of upsetting her. Had she been overcome by the act itself . . . or had it been something more? Had he disappointed her somehow?

  There would be no more encounters. That had been clear in her manner when she left, with her parting words and stiff smile. The threshold of acceptable behavior had been crossed and now they must each retreat, try to carry on separately, on different paths. He was about to thumb his nose at all of society with his supper club, and Alice would marry and begin her life as a proper wife. Those two futures were like oil and water.

  If only he didn’t miss her so damn much.

  They pulled up outside the morgue, which sat behind Bellevue Hospital and near the pier. Kit descended and started for the entrance. An ambulance was parked out front, the horses and driver at the ready in a grim reminder of the death that stalked them at every turn in this city.

  Inside, the attendant pointed them downstairs, where the viewing rooms were located. The air smelled like strong chemicals, and his stomach pitched. He dragged in deep breaths through his mouth.

  They stopped at the desk and Preston slid a few bills to the attendant. “We are here to see the man found on the railroad tracks earlier tonight. We think he might be our friend.”

  The attendant checked his sheet. “Third window on the left.”

  Kit shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked along the white-tiled corridor. There were eight windows in total, four on the left and four on the right, all lit up brightly. Death on morbid display. “I very much hope the Pinkertons were wrong,” he murmured to Preston as they walked.

  “Except they rarely are, so brace yourself.”

  They arrived at the window and found a small body on a table, covered in a sheet. Then Kit noticed it wasn’t small. It was half. “Oh, fuck.”

  Preston knocked on the glass to get the attention of the man inside. The attendant, clad in a white medical coat, turned and nodded once before lifting the top of the sheet.

  Kit’s heart sank.

  It was Forrest. Pale and sunken, but unmistakable.

  Preston seemed frozen, not even blinking, so Kit motioned to the attendant and the sheet was lowered. Still Preston didn’t move, almost as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes had seen. But there were many unpleasant tasks ahead of them, and Kit had to remain practical.

  Swallowing hard, he went to the desk at the end of the hall, needing to inquire as to how they could get their friend released for a proper burial.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The church was nearly empty. Rows and rows of vacant pews stretched out before Alice as she slipped into the back. Surprising that there weren’t more people here. The story of Fo
rrest Ripley’s death, only son of the prominent Ripley family, had been front-page news. The poor man had fallen in front of a train and been killed instantly.

  So, why weren’t there more mourners?

  The service had already started, so she kept her steps whisper-soft on the hard tile, creeping closer. She hadn’t seen Kit in over a week, but of course he would be here. Forrest had been his friend and Kit was loyal. Her intention had been to sit in the back among the crowd and pay her respects out of love for Kit. She hadn’t wanted to speak to him or pressure him to see her once more. This hadn’t been about them; this had been about condolences for the dead.

  But there was no crowd, which meant she couldn’t hide.

  The reverend’s voice echoed in the cavernous space, his message about shepherds and pastures resonating off the rafters. Alice moved toward the figures in the front pews. There were two people sitting on the right side of the church, and she recognized the back of Preston’s head. The woman next to him leaned in and spoke softly in his ear, then he kissed her gloved hand. Was this his mistress, Arabella?

  Across the aisle sat one lone man. Kit.

  There was no one else in the whole space, save the reverend. Kit’s shoulders were stiff, his eyes forward. Her heart squeezed at the sight of him by himself, bearing all that grief with no one by his side. It was hardly fair for a man so well liked wherever he went. Where were his other friends? The ladies with whom he would “companionship”?

  Well, she would not let him sit alone. He might not love her, but she loved him and it was an awful thing to witness his solitary sadness. If she could ease his sorrow for a second, then it was worth whatever awkwardness or heartache arose later on.

  Moving into the center aisle, she walked toward the altar, toward a black casket adorned with lilies. Preston glanced over his shoulder at her approach and she noted the surprise on his face when he recognized her. Then he gave her a nod.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she slipped into Kit’s row and sat directly beside him, her thigh touching his. He didn’t move or speak or acknowledge her in any way, so she reached and took his hand. His grip remained limp. Undeterred, she sat there, holding his hand, not leaving his side as the reverend continued the service.

  After five minutes or so, Kit let out a long shuddering breath, as if he’d been holding it a long time. His fingers tightened on her gloved hand, clutching her as if his life depended on it. It was then she knew coming to sit here had been the right thing to do. No one should have to suffer alone.

  The reverend finished up with a final blessing, then crossed to the side of the altar and disappeared. Clothes rustled, and Alice watched out of the corner of her eye as Preston helped the woman out of the pew and started down the aisle, leaving. Kit remained perfectly still, his unseeing gaze fixed on the stained-glass window behind the altar.

  They sat in silence. Alice didn’t speak or move. No one entered the church, the dust motes their only company in the midday light.

  Finally, he spoke, his voice a tortured rasp. “It was my fault, you know. I was the last to see him.”

  The words and the agony underlying them shredded her heart. “No, Kit. The newspaper said it was an accident. That he had been drinking.” Reportedly inebriated, Mr. Ripley fell on the tracks and hadn’t been able to get out of the way of an oncoming train. Sadly, it happened frequently in the city, at least two or three times a week.

  Kit shook his head. “He looked terrible. I should have tried to help. I should have done something—” He bit off the last word.

  “No, do not think that.” She gripped his arm with her free hand and shook him slightly. “You are not responsible.”

  He swallowed hard. Then he moved away slightly, pulling his hand from hers, and she started to worry—until he stretched out on the pew, put his head in her lap and closed his eyes. A deep ache settled in her chest as she stroked his hair.

  “The wheels cut his body clean in two,” he said after several minutes. “Pres and I had to identify him at the morgue.”

  Lord, that must have been awful. “Oh, Kit. I’m so sorry.”

  “No one else came. All the friends he made over the years, all the people he knew. His family . . . no one came today. Not even his parents.”

  She could tell this bothered him, so she repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe I should have hired some professional mourners. Then it wouldn’t have seemed so empty in here.”

  That almost sounded worse, paying people to mourn at a funeral, but she didn’t say it. Unable to help herself, she removed her glove and caressed his head. His hair was soft, and she enjoyed touching him again, even if it was for an awful reason. “Are you sleeping?” she asked quietly. “You look tired.”

  “Can’t. When I do, I either dream of Forrest or—” He pressed his lips together.

  “What?”

  “You. I dream about you, Alice.”

  She blinked down at him, but his expression didn’t change. “Oh.”

  “That came out wrong. It’s not that I dislike dreaming about you. It’s the waking-up part that is like a kick in the teeth.” His lids lifted and deep brown eyes stared up at her. “I miss you. Very much.”

  Her heart cracked, tiny fractures of misery that threatened to crumble her foundation. She pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I miss you, as well.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. Why would I lie about such a thing?”

  “I read the papers. I know you have been busy with Lockwood.”

  “One dinner and one drive in the park hardly qualifies as busy.”

  “Two drives in total, then. The Fifth Avenue drawing rooms must be abuzz with engagement speculation.”

  They were, but Alice tried not to pay any attention. It was hard to drum up the proper enthusiasm when her soul cried out for another man, the stubborn one currently lying in her lap. Fortunately, her mother was excited enough for the both of them. “I thought you didn’t care about society gossip.”

  “I don’t, except when it pertains to you, apparently. Is he insufferably boring?”

  “Not at all. He’s kind and smart.”

  Kit grunted, a noise that hinted at both disbelief and displeasure. “He won’t let you near a kitchen, you know. A duchess who cooks? It would scandalize all of England.”

  “It’s a good match for me, Kit. Excellent, actually.” And it wasn’t as if she had any other prospects.

  “Of course it is. I’m sorry, Alice.”

  It wasn’t what she’d wished for him to say. A small part of her had hoped he would jump up and declare his intentions. Drag the reverend out from wherever he was hiding so he could marry them here on the spot. Anything but wish her well with another man.

  I am a scoundrel, dear Alice. That is why I haven’t married.

  Why was she hoping he would change? He wouldn’t, and wishing for it was an exercise in futility.

  All the hurt from the other night came rushing back, cramping in her gut. She couldn’t help but mourn the conversations they’d never have, the moments they’d never share. The smiles they’d never exchange. The inside of her chest was raw, like someone had taken a bread knife to the sensitive skin, and her lids began to burn with unshed tears.

  I need to leave.

  She lifted him and began to edge to the side. “Kit, I must go. My mother is expecting me.”

  “Oh.” He sat up, his weary gaze studying her face. “Thank you for coming. It means more than I can ever say. Forrest would have really liked you.”

  Drawing in a breath, she squeezed his hand. “I didn’t come for him. I came for you. Goodbye, Kit.” She stepped into the aisle, anxious to disappear.

  “Alice, wait.”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. Kit was thin and pale, anguish etched in the beautiful lines of his face. “You’ll . . . come to see me before you leave for England, won’t you?”

  Everything in her longed to go back and throw herself in his a
rms, declare her feelings and lay herself bare at his feet. To beg him for scraps of time and attention between his other conquests. Two months ago, she probably would have done it without blinking. But she was not that woman any longer. She needed to do what was best for herself, no matter how much it hurt.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I think it’s best if we never see each other again.” She walked away, her boot heels loud on the old tile.

  Shoes slapped behind her and Kit caught her arm. His eyes were panicked, a little wild, as he searched her face. “Just like that? You don’t want to ever see me again? Are we not friends?”

  Was he truly this dense? She retreated a step, putting distance between them. “Kit, you shouldn’t ask it of me. It’s unfair. Can you not see? I wish for more than friendship from you and you are incapable of it, which hurts.”

  He put up his hands. “Alice, I warned you. I never lied. If I led you on in any way, then I apologize—”

  “Stop. I never expected you to feel something deeper for me. You’ve made your thoughts on marriage perfectly clear. But I must have it. For many reasons. And so, we arrive at an impasse. You have your companionship every night, and I need something more permanent. While I do not wish you any harm, please, do not make this more difficult for me.” A tear spilled out from behind her eyelid, and he watched it roll down her cheek.

  “I care about you, I do. However, I am incapable of anything more. I’ll always be a scoundrel, a bounder.”

  “Balderdash. That is an excuse. Everyone is capable of love. But some people”—she pointed at the casket—“prefer to push it away.”

  His face fell, hurt flashing in his expression. “I am nothing like him.”

  “For your sake, I hope you are right. Goodbye, Kit.”

  She walked out of the church and this time he did not stop her.

  Kit stomped into the foyer of his town house. A terrible headache lingered behind his eyes, the pain his constant companion since the night of Forrest’s death. It had receded temporarily when Alice rubbed his head after the service, but now the pounding in his skull was back.