by Anna Randol
The clerk jumped as Gabriel tossed the heavy files back onto his desk.
“I need to see another year before and after this.” His disgust must have colored his voice because the young man nervously straightened his cravat.
“Right away, sir. What are you looking for, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“A pardon for a murderer named St. John.”
The clerk’s fingers ceased mangling the folds of his neck cloth. “I—just a moment, sir.” When he returned, he was leafing through a new sheaf of paper. He glanced up. “A Madeline St. John?”
Gabriel rocked forward on his toes, nodding.
“Well, I have one here for the murder of Arnold Ripley.”
Gabriel didn’t notice the tightness in his chest until it eased, allowing a great, deep breath to expand his lungs.
The clerk, however, held out the paper with a frown. “But why were you looking at the records from ten years ago? The pardon was only handed down last September.”
What the devil—
The door to the office flew open and one of the young constables from the Bow Street Office scrambled inside. His shoulders drooped in relief when he spotted Gabriel. “There’s been another murder. Coulter says to come at once.”
Gabriel examined the purple blotches on Bourne’s throat. “Has the body been moved?”
Coulter shook his head. “Not by me, but I can’t say if he was robbed before or after he was killed.”
In this neighborhood, either was likely. Probably by the very people huddled around the entrance to the alley, watching.
The man’s pasty white flesh had been stripped of everything that could bring a penny or two, including clothing and hat, and left in a crumbling alleyway. Gabriel took off his greatcoat and tossed it over the body. Damnation. He should have sought Bourne out immediately when he didn’t make their appointment, but little other than thoughts of Madeline had filled his head for the past few days.
And that distraction had cost him.
Gabriel looked at the bruises again. It was impossible to know for sure if they were inflicted by the same hands that had strangled Molly Simm. But Gabriel didn’t believe in coincidence. His only witness to the Simm case had also been strangled.
Coulter tugged the brim of his battered hat lower against the rain. He was the constable who’d been assigned the Simm case. He was also one of the few constables who valued justice more than the few pounds earned for condemning a man to hang. “No one saw anything?” Gabriel asked.
Coulter grimaced. “Never do. Do you think the killer found out he was our witness?”
“Probably. Bourne wasn’t the reserved type. He dined off the story of his last sighting of her for days.”
“A few other constables will be here soon to help me move the body.” The warning in Coulter’s words was clear. The other constables might report Gabriel’s presence back to Potts. He had to be gone before they arrived.
Yet Gabriel pulled out his notebook from his pocket, hunching over it to protect the paper from the rain as he recorded every single observation. He couldn’t risk overlooking anything. The same icy self-doubt that terrorized his nights wouldn’t let him. What if he’d failed to catch the killer not because the murderer was clever, but because he himself had been inept?
But when he heard the cart clattering down the street to collect the body, Gabriel put away his notebook, pushed through the gawking crowd blocking the alley, and strode across the street to the building where Bourne had rented a room.
The landlord wasn’t there to give Gabriel a key, but the lock opened easily under Gabriel’s experienced hands. The normal hiding spaces—the mattress, the table, the assorted tins in the kitchen—held nothing of interest. Shouts sounded below as the other constables arrived and began dispersing the crowd.
He didn’t have much time.
As Gabriel finished his examination of the crate that must have served as a chair, a scrap of paper on the floor caught his eye. He held it up to the dim light offered by the window, not daring to breathe. It was the crude outline of a family crest. A few misspelled Latin words had been scribbled at the bottom.
Billingsgate.
Gabriel had memorized damned near every family crest after hearing Bourne’s original description of the coach he’d seen. He carefully tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket. Perhaps Bourne still had something to say after all.
Danbury had said he saw Billingsgate lurking around the school the other night. What if he had found out about Bourne then?
Gabriel hurried down the creaking steps to the front door, but before he reached the bottom, a man stepped into his path. Another constable. Gabriel tried to step around him, but the constable blocked him. “Potts wishes to talk to you.”
“Good. I have something to say to him.”
“You will do nothing!” Potts bellowed, slamming his hand onto the desk.
Gabriel tapped his finger against the drawing he’d displayed in Potts’s office. “The paper clearly—”
“Is nothing more than a few lines drawn by a half-blind drunk. According to Coulter’s investigation, Billingsgate was at his club the night of the murder.”
“But can anyone say he was there the entire time?”
Potts’s eyes narrowed to slits. “He doesn’t have to. The other magistrates will take him at his word.” His shoulders sagged. “Listen. Even if you have something—and I in no way say that you do—you do not have enough to convince anyone of his guilt. A scrap of paper is not proof.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“And if Billingsgate turns up dead in the next few days, I will not hesitate to see you arrested for it.”
Damnation, but Potts was right. If he was going to convince the court that a peer was guilty of murder, he needed to have indisputable evidence. And he had a way to get it assuming he hadn’t ruined things too completely with Madeline. “I understand.”
Potts tugged at his cravat. “Good. I think—” He straightened and stopped fussing with his collar. “My lord.”
Awareness prickled down the back of Gabriel’s neck, and he turned slowly around. An older man stood behind him.
The Marquess of Northgate.
His mother had always said he looked like his father. Gabriel had hated that when he was younger. He’d wanted no connection to the man who’d sired him. But now he saw there really was no other way to describe himself. He was simply a younger copy of the man standing in front of him. Gabriel resisted the urge to bare his teeth. “My lord.”
The marquess inclined his head. “Huntford. I have come to make an appointment for you to view my financial records.”
“You could have sent a note.”
Northgate’s brow lifted. “I feared that would be as unsuccessful as my previous attempts to contact you.”
Gabriel had burned, unopened, every note he’d ever received from him. The only time Gabriel had corresponded with him was after Susan’s death when the man presumed to send a letter to Gabriel’s mother asking to be allowed to attend the funeral. “On the contrary, now you have a legitimate reason to be contacting me.”
Northgate’s eyes narrowed. “I’m intent on winning this auction. I won’t let your animosity interfere.”
“No, you’ve never been one to let anything interfere with your pleasure, have you?”
Northgate’s expression froze for a moment, but then he shrugged. “I intend to get what I want.”
“And damn anyone who gets in your way?”
“My lord, please excuse Mr. Huntford—” Potts had finally regained his wits enough to speak, but his eyes continued to dart between Gabriel and his father. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
Northgate barely spared the other man a glance. “Does tomorrow at three fit into your schedule?”
Potts shuffled to Northgate’s side. “Of course. Mr. Huntford will be able to meet with you whenever you think convenient.”
As much as Gabriel wanted to throw
the appointment in both men’s faces, it would be best to have the deed accomplished. Then he wouldn’t have to lay eyes on Northgate again. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Gritting her teeth against the pain in her stomach, Madeline laced her sandals, crisscrossing the golden leather straps to mid-calf. The white linen toga slipped over her head; the nearly transparent material dangled from one shoulder and ended in soft ripples at her thighs. Her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders, framing the pale oval of her face.
She turned from the mirror. She looked more like a virgin sacrifice than a virgin goddess. She defiantly reached for the rouge pot. She was a whore, wasn’t she?
Through her open door, she heard Gabriel arrive below. His steps echoed as Canterbury led him to the study.
Madeline adjusted the neckline of her toga to allow more bosom to escape and squared her shoulders. She was dressed as the Goddess of the Hunt, after all; melancholy was hardly fitting.
As she strapped her dagger, outfitted in a purely ornamental sheath, to her waist, a faint frown pulled at her lips. Telling him the truth about the murder had been the sensible thing to do. She hadn’t told him anything that would endanger either of them, and he would have kept digging until he’d discovered the truth, regardless. Yet he’d seen her defenseless, and that made her uneasy. And then there had been pity in his eyes—pity!—as if she had any use for it at all.
She caught her hair up in a simple arrangement and ruthlessly secured it with pins. She cared as little for his pity as she did for his opinion. Allowing herself to care what he thought had been foolish, a mistake she refused to make again.
Lust was the only thing that lay between them, nothing more.
For a brief time at his mother’s this morning, she’d wondered how she’d manage to keep the distance between them. Thankfully, the little interlude with Mrs. Ripley had provided her with all the motivation she needed.
Gabriel’s mission was to punish murderers. Perfectly understandable given his history, but even with her pardon, that eliminated any sort of rosy future between them.
And despite any camaraderie they might occasionally share, he thought her a whore.
Madeline picked up the gilded bow and mask that completed the costume, ignoring the residual ache in her chest. After all, whore was a role she was comfortable with.
She glided down the hall to the study. Gabriel stood by the fireplace, one shoulder propped against the mantel. A black jacket, waistcoat, and breeches hugged the hard lines of his body, emphasizing strength of shoulders and trimness of waist. His cravat was snowy white and, as always, folded in a simple yet precise knot at his throat. Only a small ruby stickpin added a drop of color to his attire. Although he wasn’t in costume, he would have made an excellent Hades. As she entered, he straightened, his arms locking over his chest and his eyes following the short expanse of her toga from thigh to breast.
Her nipples hardened as if it were his fingers rather than his gaze lingering on them. “I assume this means the gentlemen at Lady Wheeler’s will approve of my costume?”
Gabriel cocked an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Diana?”
Madeline slowly traced her finger down the grip of her bow, and Gabriel’s eyes obediently followed the motion. “Of course. Who is more fitting than the Virgin Goddess of the Hunt? History is not exactly full of interesting virgins.”
“Good Queen Bess might disagree.”
That almost surprised a smile from Madeline. Almost. She was a whore, not a friend. “Do you know how hard it is to display this much skin dressed in Elizabethan attire?” She lifted a foot onto the chair next to her, the dress slithering farther up her thigh.
Gabriel jerked into motion, striding past her. “Your carriage is waiting.”
Madeline slid her finger across his shoulders. “Lovely. I hear Lady Wheeler has engaged a troop of acrobats to perform clad only in flesh-colored silk. I shall ask my bidders their favorite poses so I can replicate them for the winner. You’d be quite impressed by the things my body can do.”
The tension in Gabriel’s body increased with each sentence. He was aroused but he was angry about it. Good. Things would progress more smoothly if he remembered she was a harlot.
He assisted her into the coach and settled across from her. “How is your wound?”
“Healing.” She didn’t want his compassion. It harkened a little too closely to his pity. Hooking a finger in the bodice of her toga, she slowly eased it down toward the peaks of her breasts. “Would you like to verify that?”
Gabriel’s hands clenched his knees. “Enough, Madeline.”
She eased her bodice farther until the dark rings around her nipples started to show. “Are you sure you don’t want a bit more?”
“You know that’s not what I meant. Save your performance for the bidders.”
Madeline shrugged but left her bodice where it was.
They rode in silence to the ball. Although he didn’t speak again, his gaze never faltered from her face. With each jolt of the coach wheels, tension wound tighter along her spine. Yet she refused to ask him the reason behind his stare. Whether it was lust or something else, she no longer cared.
Lady Wheeler’s town house glittered, an excessive amount of candles and torches lighting the street for the entire block before they arrived. Two identical gladiators garbed in chest plates and leather skirts flanked the entrance, trying desperately not to appear half frozen in the April night.
After they’d descended from the coach, Gabriel gripped her arm, detaining her. With a quick movement, he tugged up the neckline of her toga.
Madeline knocked his hands away, partly because of his presumption, but mostly because his fingers set her skin afire. Ignoring the breath frozen in her lungs, she sauntered past the shivering gladiators into the spectacle that was Lady Wheeler’s masquerade.
Lady Wheeler’s origins as a Venetian opera singer were clear in the display. Crimson silk covered the walls. Miniature Roman temples had been constructed around the room, providing privacy for those who desired it. Atop marble pedestals, the seemingly nude acrobats posed in a variety of positions, and at the sound of a gong, they flowed into a new stance. Outside the terrace doors was a large bonfire surrounded by low-lying couches, many of which were already in use. On one, a masked dairymaid straddled a cavalier and placed grapes in his mouth.
While the courtesans’ ball had been for business, this event had been arranged for pleasure. Invitations were notoriously unchecked, so women of Madeline’s ilk could mingle freely with ladies of the ton intent on illicit fun.
Madeline handed her bow to a passing footman, then scanned the crowd, looking for her suitors. Most were easy to find, for although they were masked, they did nothing to hide their mannerisms. The only gentlemen she couldn’t identify were the ones cloaked in full dominoes, the voluminous folds of the robes hiding their movements.
The Earl of Danbury strolled up to them as they entered, his mask dangling from his fingers. He was dressed as a magistrate—black robes, white wig, and all. His costume made his intent gaze judgmental, almost predatory. Madeline smiled at him despite her shiver. It wasn’t his fault his choice in costume was so ill-timed.
“Huntford!” He looked expectantly at Gabriel. “Hurry and introduce me before the pack of eager pups descend.”
Gabriel’s expression was polite but Madeline could see no indication he was pleased to see his friend. “Miss Valdan, may I introduce the Earl of Danbury.”
Gabriel watched as she curtsied low so the earl could have a better view down her toga.
Madeline rose quickly, angry at the awkwardness she felt. “You certainly may. It is a pleasure to finally meet my mystery suitor.” She trailed her gaze over his black robes, appraising the body beneath. “I must say you’re worth the wait.” And it was true. He was tall and broad and his manner was charming. The scars on his cheek only lent him the air of a rakish pirate.
Surely it would be pleasant to
be bedded by him.
At least that’s what she tried to convince herself of as they bantered. “Huntford tells me you’re soon sailing to your family’s plantation.”
“Indeed. You’re the only thing keeping me here,” Danbury said.
She peered up beneath her lashes. “I hope I’m worth it.”
He brought her hand to his lips for a lingering caress. “I have no doubt you’ll be everything I expect.”
“And what do you expect?”
“A creature that bewitches everyone around her.”
Gabriel was silent through the exchange, but Madeline knew from prickles along her neck that he was glaring. Madeline intensified her smile. If he didn’t like Danbury bidding on her, he’d had plenty of opportunities to tell her so. “I am a goddess, not a witch.”
Danbury released her hand with a grin. “The effect is still the same. That’s why I have to save the rest of the men of London from you.”
“You think they need saving?”
“Definitely.”
Despite Madeline’s desperate attempts, she couldn’t crush a small jab of guilt from flirting with Gabriel’s friend in front of him. And she couldn’t help fearing that she’d feel just as guilty if Gabriel wasn’t there.
That had to mean there was some hope for her, didn’t it? If she could still feel guilt, perhaps she must have something akin to a soul left.
Soon several other men joined their group, for although she was masked, Gabriel’s glowering presence made her easy to identify.
When Danbury dropped back to speak with Gabriel, she could finally immerse herself in her performance. She already knew which of her suitors were behind their masks, but it made for amusing conversation to feign that she didn’t.
When another man in a black domino joined the group, Madeline recognized Billingsgate.
“Come away with me,” Billingsgate said. But the flirtation in his words was overshadowed by something darker. Possession glittered in his eyes.
She laughed, but she knew better than to ignore her instincts. Later she would piece together what it was that made her wary, but for now she focused on removing him. She had enough bidders without him. “Goddesses do not consort in your realm.”
