At the mere thought of his name her stomach knotted and her hands curled into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. How stupid she’d been, to ever believe there was something between them! To ever hope – even for a moment – that she meant something to him. To ever think that when their backs were pressed against the wall he would choose her over Bow Street. That he would choose their physical attraction over duty. Their kisses over honor. Their connection over his damned morality.
Stupid, she thought bitterly. You’re nothing but a stupid, naïve girl who allowed herself to be fooled by a handsome face.
Well, she wouldn’t be making that mistake again. As far as she was concerned. Grant Hargrave could go straight to hell and if he came after her again she would put him there herself. This was no longer a friendly fight. It was a war.
And there was only going to be one victor.
Grant made it back to Bow Street at half past two in the morning.
Physically and mentally exhausted from chasing a lead that had ultimately led to nowhere, he gave a cursory nod to the runners that had returned before him and were sharing a bottle of brandy before heading upstairs.
He’d never intended to make Juliet wait for so long, and guilt gnawed at him as he unlocked the door and stepped into the darkened room.
“Juliet, I’m sorry.” For more things than one. “We had to go to Haversham Square and – Juliet?” He had his first inkling that something wasn’t right even before he lit a candle.
The first thing he saw was the iron shackles on the floor and with a muffled curse he sprang forward and picked them up. Metal clanged as he spun around, but even before he shone the light in every corner of the room he knew the truth.
Juliet was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was finally here. The night Juliet had been waiting for. The night she had been planning for. The night that was going to change her life forever.
The Glastonbury Ball.
It had been four days since she’d managed to escape from Bow Street, and she’d spent every one of them preparing for tonight. The gown she’d chosen to wear was a pale, shimmering gold with a silk underlay and tufted sleeves that sat just off her shoulders. The color accentuated her ivory skin and fiery hair, which – with Sam’s help – she’d pinned to the top of her head in an elaborate coiffure and draped with a string of miniature diamonds. Larger diamonds – all stolen, of course – glittered at her ears and on her wrist. She’d left her throat bare, letting the gold-threaded gossamer trim around the scooped neck bodice speak for itself.
As she did a slow turn in front of the mirror, she felt – and looked – like a princess. But her appearance did little to dislodge the dark cloud that had been hanging over her head ever since she’d discovered how very little she meant to a man who, to her surprise, had somehow come to mean a great deal to her.
When had she begun to think of Grant as more than just a runner? Looking back she couldn’t be certain, but she suspected it had started the night of the Dashwood’s ball…and grown into something tangible when he’d kissed her senseless in front of Blackfriars Bridge.
But that was over now. Whatever they’d had between them – if, indeed, there had ever been anything at all – was gone. Erased by Grant’s determination to follow the law to the bloody letter. There was no doubt in her mind that if not for her escape, she’d be wearing itchy gray flannel instead of smooth gold silk. He would have turned her over to the magistrate without batting an eye…and knowing the decision had been so damn easy for him was what hurt the most.
If he’d shown an ounce of compassion, a moment of conflict, even just a flicker of doubt…but there had been nothing. Nothing but a damning wall of self-righteousness. One that even all of her charms and her pleas had been unable to breach.
Her bottom lip curled with disgust as she recalled how close she’d come to begging for her life. Tucking a loose auburn curl into place, she stalked across the room and leaned down to yank her satin dance slippers out from underneath the bed. Her movements were jerky, her breaths accelerating as anger flooded over her in a hot, bubbling wave.
“Never again,” she said fiercely, wanting – needing – to hear the words spoken out loud. “No man will ever have that much power over me again.”
No matter how potent his kisses. Or how green his eyes. Or how muscular his–
“Blast and damn,” she cursed, driving the thin heel of her slipper into the floor. What would it take to get him out of her head?
“I’m fairly certain that ain’t language befittin’ of a lady,” Bran drawled as he entered her room without bothering to knock. Crossing his arms and kicking his boot against the wall, he leaned back and studied her with a lifted brow. “Although ye do look the part. If I didn’t know any better I’d think there was blue blood runnin’ through those veins o’ yers.”
“What do you want?” she said crossly. “If you’ve come to try to talk me out of this–”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But his blue eyes were troubled. “I’ve received some news that I think ye should know.”
“Can’t it wait?” Returning to the mirror, she began to apply a light dusting of pink rouge to the apples of her cheeks. “As you can see, I’m rather busy.”
“No, it bloody well can’t.”
Her hand stilled as she met his gaze in the mirror. “Well? What is it?”
“Maybe ye should sit down–”
“Just tell me, Bran. It can’t be that bad.” Her eyes widened. “Unless something has happened to Yeti–”
“That old badger?” he snorted. “He’s goin’ to outlive us all. No, this has nothin’ to do with Yeti. Well, I suppose in a way it does…”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Bran.” Exasperation had her rolling her eyes. “Just spit it out!”
“All right, then. It’s Edward.”
Edward.
At their brother’s name the rouge brush went clattering to the floor as every muscle in her body tensed. Of all the things she had been expecting Bran to say…
“What about him?” she demanded as a cold, hard weight settled over her chest. It had been so long since she’d felt it, she’d almost forgotten what it was.
Dread.
A burst of blazing anger flashed across Bran’s face, but beneath the anger was a deep, dark sorrow. The same aching sorrow Juliet felt in her own heart whenever she thought of the sweet, shy boy they’d called Eddy. The boy who had grown into a man and betrayed them both in the coldest, callous way possible. The boy they had both vowed to never speak of again.
“He’s back in London.”
“You’re lying,” she said flatly.
“Ye know I wouldn’t lie about this.”
No, he wouldn’t. Neither of them would.
“How…?” she whispered, her arms creeping up to wrap around her middle as she rocked back against the vanity table, sending tiny pots of powder and horsehair brushes rolling across the marble surface.
“I don’t think it’s a matter of how, it’s a matter of why,” said Bran, his expression grim.
“But – but he can’t be here. I told him–”
“I know what ye bloody well told him. I was there, wasn’t I?”
Yes, he’d been there. And her stomach still did a slow, queasy roll whenever she thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t.
The night they’d banished Edward was not something she had allowed herself to think about in four long years. But now it resurfaced, like a nightmare slipping into a dream.
Eddy had been acting odd for weeks, but she’d not thought anything of it. Not until a noise had woken her in the middle of the night and she’d sat up to discover him standing at the foot of her bed, his expression oddly vacant, his brown eyes glassy.
“Eddy what – what are you doing in here?” Even fully clothed in an oversized nightdress she still remembered pulling the blankets all the way up to her chin, alarmed not only by Eddy’s presence in her
room, but by the way he was looking at her. There was an unsettling hunger in his gaze…and when his stare dipped down to her breasts she felt an icy chill crawl across her skin.
“Ye’ve grown up, Jules.” A floorboard creaked beneath his weight as he approached the side of the bed, and the sudden noise made her flinch. “Ye ain’t the same gangly, coltish girl ye used to be.”
“We’ve all grown up,” she said cautiously. “You have a moustache now.” It wasn’t the only physical change that Eddy had undergone over the past six months. How had she not noticed how tall he’d gotten, or how brawny? He seemed to fill the small room with his presence, the muscles above his shoulders twitching as he rolled his head from side to side and grinned down at her, fingers combing over the dark hair covering his upper lip.
“Do ye like it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied. “It suits you.”
“It suits you,” he repeated in a mocking parody of her lilting voice. The corners of his mouth tightened, and even though his grin remained in place, it grew noticeably colder. “Ye sound like a fancy nabob. Do ye think ye’re better than me, Little Jules? Well?” he demanded, taking another step closer when she only stared at him in wordless astonishment. “Do ye?”
“Where – where is this coming from?” Her hand slipped underneath her pillow to grab the knife she always kept there. The knife she was prepared to use against an intruder…but one she’d never imagined using against a friend. No, not a friend, she corrected herself silently. A brother.
Eddy was her brother every bit as much as Bran, although she’d be the first to admit that she and Bran were closer. In a group of three it seemed only natural that two would bond more tightly than one, but she’d never thought of Eddy as any less important. Different, perhaps. Especially lately.
He’d been spending his days at the whorehouses and his nights raising hell on Fleet Ditch, leaving her and Bran to canvas Berkley Square by themselves. After a string of successful robberies they were planning on moving into Grosvenor Square and they’d wanted to invite Eddy to join them, but his behavior had been so erratic as of late that they’d been having second thoughts. Impulsiveness and recklessness had no place in a heist, two characteristics which their brother now seemed to have in spades.
Eddy took another step closer, and her nose wrinkled when she caught a whiff of the gin on his breath.
“You’re foxed,” she accused. “Again. Go sleep it off, Eddy, and we can talk tomorrow when you wake up.”
“Ye don’t get to tell me what to do.” A sliver of moonlight spilled across his face as he advanced even closer, revealing mottled red cheeks and hard, flinty eyes that Juliet did not recognize. Her fingers tightened around the knife.
“Eddy, stop. This isn’t you–”
“Ye think ye’re so much better.” He cleaned in close and she gagged when his foul breath wafted across her face. Scrambling to the furthest edge of the bed she started to swing her legs over the side, but despite his inebriated state Eddy moved with surprising quickness and grabbed her wrist, yanking her back.
“Where do ye think ye’re goin’?” he growled. “It’s time ye learned yer rightful place with all the other whores – argh!” With a cry and a curse he jumped back, releasing her wrist to grab his left cheek where her the tip of her blade had left a jagged red line in his flesh.
Unable to believe she’d been forced to defend herself against someone she considered family, someone she had grown up, someone she thought she knew better than she knew herself, Juliet sprang off the mattress and whirled around, the knife still clenched in her hand.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry Eddy, but you made me do it.” Guilt filled her when she saw the blood seeping between his fingers. She hadn’t meant to cut him so deeply. An inch higher and she might have taken his eye. “You need to leave. Please.”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” His eyes gleamed with a dark, malicious light. “And neither are ye.”
Without warning he lunged across the bed and managed to knock the knife out of her hand. It went skittering across the floor, lost to the shadows as they grappled in the moonlight. She managed to strike him once with her elbow and tried to bring her knee up between his legs, but he brought back his hand and slapped her with so much force that her ears rang and dots of light danced in front of her eyes.
Taking advantage of her temporary paralysis he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed. With a desperate cry she tried to roll away, but this time he was quicker. Grabbing a fistful of her hair he yanked her back and threw his body over top of her, his knees pinning her legs and his hand holding her wrists above her head.
Dizzy from the pain and the shock, Juliet could only stare up at him in mute horror, her green eyes glassy with fear and revulsion. Her stomach rolled when he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, his expression gloating as he leered down at her.
“Not so special now, are ye?” he sneered. “This is where ye belong. On yer back. Like all the other whores. If not for ye I’d be the best. And when I’m through with ye I will be. I’ll be better than ye. Better than Bran. Better than anyone!”
Jealousy, she realized. Jealousy is driving his hate.
How had she not seen it before now? Or maybe she had…but she’d chosen to look the other way, refusing to believe someone she loved could become so bitter and twisted. Gone was the boy she’d known. In his place was a deranged monster she didn’t recognize.
“Maybe I should leave ye a virgin,” he mused as he trailed his hand down her shoulder. Her nightgown had ripped during the fray, and she shivered when his hands touched her bare skin. “Madam Veneer pays a pretty penny for wenches who ‘ave their cherries intact.”
“You mean to sell me to a whore house?” And here she’d thought the worst thing he planned to do was rape her, which would have been terrible enough. But to sell her like a slave to Madam Veneer, the owner of one of the worst brothels in all of St Giles…
“You’ve gone mad,” she whispered. “Completely mad.”
Eddy grinned, revealing teeth that were beginning to rot from poor hygiene and too much gin. “That’s were yer wrong, Jules. For the first time I’m finally thinkin’ clear. I should’ve done this months ago, before ye and Bran teamed up against me.”
“We did no such thing!”
“Didn’t ye?” A shadow rippled across his countenance and he lashed out like a snake, his dirty nails sinking into her skin with so much force he drew blood. She felt it trickle down her collarbone, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching, which seemed to only further incite his rage. “Ye’ve cut me out of yer last four takes!” Spittle flew out of the corners of his mouth and landed on her face. “Did ye think I wouldn’t notice, all the blunt ye’ve been bringing in?”
“We didn’t cut you out of anything!” Some of her fear receded as anger rose to take its place. “You could have gone with us, but you’ve been too busy getting drunk and sleeping with prostitutes!”
His eyes flashed a dark, dangerous black. “Ye were always a bitch.”
“And you were always the worst thief of all of us!”
He raised his arm to strike her and this time she couldn’t help but flinch as she anticipated the blow, but it never came. Instead there was a howl of pain, the gut-wrenching sound of a joint popping out of place, and then Eddy was yanked off her.
With a gasp she opened her eyes to discover Bran and Eddy rolling on the floor, pummeling each other with their fists. Grunts and curses filled the air and within a matter of seconds the fight was over before it ever really had a chance to begin. Eddy may have been the larger of the two men, but with one arm dislocated he was no match for Bran. That did not stop Bran from continuing to land blows even after he’d gone limp, and with a soft cry of alarm Juliet sprang off the bed.
“Stop! Bran, stop!” She latched onto his arm with all of her strength when he drew it back to land another punch. “You’re going to kill him!”
Her words managed to pie
rce Bran’s red haze of fury. With another vicious curse he rocked back on his heels and then staggered to his feet. He was bleeding from a cut above his right eyebrow, but appeared otherwise unharmed. The same could not be said for Eddy.
If she didn’t who she was looking down at, she never would have recognized him. His nose was broken. His jaw as well. One eye was already swollen shut and the other was filled with blood. Yet he was still clinging to consciousness, and when he noticed her staring at him he somehow managed to curl his mouth in a sneer.
“Bwitch,” he rasped, glaring at her out of one bloody eye.
“What did ye say?” Bran growled.
Beneath her hand she felt his entire body vibrate as he prepared to launch himself at Eddy again, and even though she would have been well within her rights to let him, she held fast to his arm. “Bran, that’s enough. He’s not worth it.”
Bran looked at her incredulously. “Do ye know what he would have done to ye Jules, had I not come running in?”
“I know.” A tremor worked its way down her spine as she realized how close she’d come to the unimaginable. “But you stopped him. You stopped him, and he’ll never harm me again.” Her gaze shifted to the defiant pile of bruises and broken bones huddled on the floor. “Will you, Edward?”
It was the first time she’d ever used his full name. To her, he would never be Eddy again. Steeling herself, she crouched down beside him and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead, mourning the boy she’d loved and lost even as she condemned the man he’d turned into.
“Jules–” Bran said warningly, only to fall silent when she delivered a speaking glance over her shoulder.
“You will never harm me again, Edward, because you are going to leave London.” She spoke in a whisper, but she knew he heard her by the way his throat convulsed. “You are going to leave London and you are never going to return. Because if you do, I won’t only not stop Bran from killing you, I’ll help him do it. Do you understand?”
A Dangerous Affair (Bow Street Brides Book 3) Page 19
