by Darcy Burke
He wrinkled his nose. “I certainly won’t. Hiding is not a way to live, Katiebelle.”
“Knight said it shouldn’t be long until you are properly dismissed of all charges.” She laced her fingers through his and they headed out of the alley, down the street that would take them to the Three Boars.
“I still don’t like the idea of Knight having information on you,” Daniel said. The officer had received so much credit from Superintendent Thomas he had agreed not to bring up Kate’s fencing, as long as her illegal activities never came across his desk again. “I feel like there’s far more to him than meets the eye. How is it that a man of his deductive abilities ended up in the rookeries?”
“He’s going to be a bloody Superintendent himself before long with this arrest. I highly doubt he’ll do anything.” Kate shrugged.
They stopped on the edge of the street to let a carriage pass. Roguishly, he leaned over and patted Kate’s bottom. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, the grin on her face everything to him.
Before long, they had come to the Three Boars. Music filtered out of the public house, blending with loud conversation and hoofbeats as carriages passed by in the street. They entered and made their way to the crowded bar. To the rest of London, this night was like any other, different only in that it was unseasonably warm for January.
To Daniel, it was a reminder of his freedom. The last three nights with Kate in his flat at Madame Tousat’s had been idyllic. Lost in the exploration of each other’s bodies, they had awoken each morning tangled in his sheets. But as the almost balmy air hit his face, he thanked God he was no longer caged in a wooden box. Coffin, he corrected himself, because this time he refused to shy away from the past.
He had not had a drink. Even when nightmares took him again, his mind placing him not at the London Docks but instead in that damned box, he stayed strong. Kate was right there with him, and through the clasp of her hand in his he knew he would be fine.
“Wondered if you’d show up, mate,” Atlas grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.
Kate slid onto the last bar stool. “We were perhaps a bit waylaid.” She had the grace to blush.
The thief grimaced. “Devil take it, I don’t want to hear about your pitter-patter love. It’s enough to make a self-respecting man retch.”
Daniel chuckled. “You say that now.” Standing behind Kate, his hands worked at the knots in her shoulders. He never tired of touching her.
Kate leaned back against him. “I think we ought to find a nice chit for Atlas here, a woman who could best him at his own game.”
“Such a woman doesn’t exist.” Atlas snorted.
Jane approached from the other side of the bar, holding a tray of drinks. She set the tray down on the bar-top and passed a tankard of ale to Kate, a glass of gin to Atlas, and a mug of coffee to Daniel. Another patron cried for Jane’s attention, but she waved him off, focusing on the small group before the bar.
“Busy night?” Kate asked, patting her friend’s hand.
“When is it not?” Jane pursed her lips. “Since the capture of Finn and his network, the boys are reckless. All that unclaimed territory with no one but Wilkes to rule it—it’ll spell trouble.”
Atlas raised his glass in toast to the barmaid. “Let the jackanapes fight. The dumbest shall die, and the thieving world will be better for it.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “You would not say that if your brother’s fate waited on them.” She propped her elbows on the bar-top, resting her chin in her hands. Lowering her voice, she brought her face closer to Kate. “Penn’s going to rot in there. I can’t let him die.”
Jane turned around as the patron called again for her, banging his empty tankard against the counter. “I’m coming, you lot!”
“Please, think about this,” Kate cautioned, but then Jane hurried off to tend to the other customers. “That is going to end badly.”
“Nonsense.” Daniel laid a kiss on her cheek. “I escaped prison and it turned out lovely.”
She looked up at him, a smile crinkling the corners of her lips. “Yes, yes, it did.”
Epilogue
London, 1833
One year later
The little cottage in the south side of Wapping was not entirely impressive from the outside. Like many similar cottages, it had a once-white exterior, the paint chipping from years of disrepair. It didn’t have its own courtyard, but rather a communal one in the back that stretched behind three matching houses. The walls were solid, though lacking in heavy insulation.
Within walking distance to the London Docks, yet far enough away that the cacophony of voices and activity didn’t penetrate inside the quarters, the cottage sat on the far end of a street that had once been classified as part of the neighboring rookery but now took on a distinctly lower middle-class bent as new families settled in the row houses.
In total, the cottage contained three rooms: a parlor, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The entire length of No. 4 was less than half the size of a small townhouse in Bloomsbury. Yet to Daniel and Kate O’Reilly, it was a palace containing all the space they’d ever need. Leased from the money made in their new shipping venture, it was under their own names.
Kate had been to see Sally after the Metropolitan Police had formally dismissed Daniel; the girl was alive, but with several new scars from Wilkes’s knife to show for her attempt at helping them. The Police had no evidence to connect Wilkes to any of Finn’s murders, and so Sally stayed at the brothel, fearing another attack if she left.
Nothing could persuade Sally to change course, but at least she had the comfort of knowing Dalton’s murderer had been punished in one of the most highly attended executions since the first ringleader of the Chapman Street Gang.
Kate stood on the third ring of the ladder, hand poised above the new spice rack. “You don’t arrange your spices alphabetically?”
Daniel looked up from across the room, where he unpacked the last of their boxes. “I’ve never had need for a spice rack before, love.” He stood up, crossing the room to hold the ladder steady for her. “I’d tell you to be careful, but I know you won’t listen.”
Kate’s hand drifted to her abdomen. “Any O’Reilly child will be made of stern stuff.” She grinned down at him.
“It’s the Irish blood,” Daniel winked. He moved one hand from the ladder to rest on his wife’s calf. “We must be aggressive to fight off you marauders.”
“Marauders or not, I must warn you not to get your hopes up,” she called, as she placed the cylindrical jar of thyme next to the turmeric. “I’ve not increased in cooking skills.”
He grinned at her. “So you’re saying I should continue to purchase those meat pies you like so much?”
“Either that, or we shall be forever at Poppy’s for supper.” She surveyed the spice rack, each vial symmetrically arranged on the two wooden shelves.
Shortly after the trial, Daniel and Kate had married in a small ceremony outside Emporia’s old warehouses, with Jane, Atlas, and Poppy present as witnesses. Daniel’s sister had come to London after his name had been cleared, accompanied by the old woman who had watched Moira in Dorking, Mrs. Daubenmire.
No gin was allowed in their house, as it had been almost two years since Daniel had touched a drop. He liked to claim he hadn’t time to drink now if he wanted, for the business kept them so occupied that the little free time they had they spent together in their new cottage.
With the baby on the way, this cottage had become more like home than any other place either of them could remember. He couldn’t recall anywhere he’d felt more welcome, not even at his uncle’s farm in Sussex. With Kate, he had crafted a new world.
“Do you really need this much gunpowder?” Daniel held up a long tin box containing more powder than any one person would ever need, even in the darkest corners of St. Giles.
“You call it unnecessary, I prefer to think of it as preparation.” She shrugge
d.
He grinned. Her flintlock had saved them more times than he could count. He crossed over to her to stand behind the ladder, his hand resting on her lower leg as she placed the last spice. His gaze flickered over her the lean lines of her back, encased in a blue gown tailored to her svelte figure. He’d gotten used to this life, working with his wife and coming home to her.
“I shall never quibble about your flintlock again,” he promised, stepping back so that she could get down from the ladder. When her feet hit the ground, he spun her around, gathering her up into his arms.
“Always knew you were a wise man, O’Reilly.” She smiled up at him.
He held her close to him. “I picked you, I must be.”
Author’s Note
While my villain Jasper Finn is fictional, the Italian Boy case is quite real. In England in the early nineteenth century, the Murder Act of 1752 prohibited surgeons from anatomizing bodies that were not of convicted criminals. Unfortunately, the amount of crimes that one could be executed for was diminishing, for the preferred sentencing was often transportation, time on one of the giant prison ships moored in the ocean (referred to as “hulks”), or confinement in a prison like Newgate. If a surgeon wanted to succeed in his field, he needed a fresh supply of bodies for medical research. Unprincipled doctors would often enlist bands of resurrection men. The Select Committee that looked into anatomization in 1828 estimated that around 500 bodies were supplied by resurrection men every year to surgeons.
By the time the grave robbers in the Italian Boy case were found, London had already become aware of a new kind of resurrection man: one who killed his victims and sold their corpses, instead of waiting for fresh bodies to turn up in the cemeteries. In 1828 in Edinburgh, Scotland, two serial killers had been convicted in the deaths of sixteen victims, all sold to a surgeon. Their names were William Burke and William Hare.
Yet it is not the Burke and Hare case that truly changed the laws in England, but instead that of the Italian Boy. On November 6, 1831, surgeon George Beaman of the St. Paul’s parish in Covent Garden began to examine an unusual corpse. The fourteen year old boy’s body had come to him from the usual source—a few grave robbers—but the corpse had signs of trauma. The freshness of the corpse shocked Beaman, and there were no signs that the body had ever been buried.
Beaman and his associates Richard Partridge and Herbert Mayo tricked the resurrection men into waiting while they called the Metropolitan Police. The Met arrested John Bishop, James May, Thomas Williams, and the carter Michael Shields. After much investigation, the corpse was finally identified as that of an Italian street peddler, who roamed the streets with his little white mice asking for money. Perhaps it was the youthfulness of the victim, or perhaps it was the Londoners’s fascination with the culture of the Italian street performers, but the case took hold of the town’s attention fast.
John Bishop and Tom Williams lived in Nova Scotia Gardens in Bethnal Green (the same rookery where I have placed Friggard’s Pawn). Williams had married Bishop’s daughter, and little was known about his past. Eventually, Superintendent Joseph Sadler Thomas of the F-Division of the Metropolitan Police would realize that Williams was actually Thomas Head, a petty thief who had graduated to grave robbing. John Bishop was an accomplished resurrection man, and it is estimated he stole about 500-1,000 corpses before finally meeting his maker at a hangman’s noose.
James May had known Bishop for approximately four years. On that fateful day, when going to drink with Bishop, he met Williams for the first time. After much drinking at the Fortune of War public house—a noted hang-out for resurrection men that in the early part of its tenure is rumored to have allowed men to stash their wares in the pub’s benches—the men began to discuss the resurrection trade. Money hadn’t been as good as they wanted it to be, and the drunken men decided to take matters into their own hands. Fresh corpses paid better, and so they’d murder to get one.
The London Burkers, as they came to be called, were an odd set. May turned state’s evidence and so he avoided execution. The carter Michael Shields was released after it was determined he had no prior knowledge of the murder the Burkers had committed. In the beginning of the investigation, Bishop displayed an egotism and pride that I have used as a model for my villain Finn. When asked what he did for a living by Thomas, Bishop is reported to have said, “I’m a bloody body snatcher.”
But that megalomania couldn’t save Bishop. He and Williams met their fate in December of 1831, and their bodies were given to surgeons for anatomization. In the end, I suppose, they had come full circle with their chosen profession.
After the case of the London Burkers, a reexamination of the Murder Act became imperative. In July of 1832, the Anatomy Act was passed, which legitimized corpses from the workhouses and unclaimed bodies to be dissected. By the end of the decade, the profession had almost entirely disappeared. I have placed A Dangerous Invitation in the winter months after Bishop and Williams’s execution, before the passing of the Anatomy Act.
Kate and Daniel’s visits to Jacob’s Island most likely could not have happened, due to the cholera outbreaks on the island at this time. But for the purposes of the Rookery Rogues, I have chosen to place those cholera spreads at a later date.
For further information about resurrection men and the Italian Boy case, I highly recommend reading Sarah Wise’s book The Italian Boy: A Tale of Murder and Body Snatching in 1830s London.
Thank You for Reading
Out of all the books you could choose, thank you for picking up A Dangerous Invitation. I hope you’ll take a few minutes out of your day to review this book – your honest opinion is much appreciated.
The Rookery Rogues Series
A Wayward Man: A Prequel to A Dangerous Invitation, Available February 2014
A Dangerous Invitation, Available December 2013
Secrets in Scarlet, 2, out Summer 2014
Scandal Becomes You, out Winter 2015
Acknowledgments
I am sure you have heard the old adage “it takes a village to raise a child.” For many writers, our books become like children to us. In the course of writing A Dangerous Invitation, I have found that while the actual act of writing may be solitary, by the end a published book reaches its intended audience it has been touched by many hands.
To my mother, who bought me my first Jane Austen novel and didn’t blink when I said I wanted to go to school for writing. Thanks for supporting me even in my literary purist days when I claimed I’d only read dead writers.
To my father, who unfortunately left this world before he could read this novel, but I know he’d like it because for some reason, he was always certain I could take on the world.
To my grandmother, my brother, Aunt Arlene, and the rest of my family for being ridiculously proud that I write novels. Thanks for believing I could do this.
To my wonderful critique partners and dear friends Jennelle Holland and Amy Nichols Pfaff, thanks for always answering my hare-brained questions from what to do when your flintlock won’t fire to how to slit a man’s throat in twelve seconds or less. I love you guys.
To the wonderful people who either beta read or critiqued this book in some state. Emma Locke, who gave me some of the best line edits I’ve ever gotten in my life. Darcy Burke, who is excellent at pointing out consistency errors that completely stump me. Evangeline Holland, who taught me about deep POV and helped me read maps (I hate maps). Lisa Lin, Jessica Grey, and Patricia Marquez, who always made me feel better about my work. Olivia Kelly and Andris Bear, for telling me that dark and angsty was definitely the way to go with my writing. Rachel Grant, who helped me with suspense elements.
To Deb Marlowe, who gave me the best cover quote I could ever ask for. I’m still stunned you think I’m something special.
To Isobel Carr, who answered my endless questions, helped me pick out new research materials, configured a print template for this book, and for a thousand other amazing things. I’m delighted to be your
Muppet.
To the Secret Curtsy Society of Valerie Bowman, Erin Knightley, Anne Barton, Ashlyn Macnamara, and Sara Ramsey, who read the first fifty pages of this book when it was in draft stages and still thought it was something special.
To Jenny DeWoody, who introduced me to regency romance novels and who forced me to realize I could write a book and that I was being a ridiculous ninny for not trying.
To the girls from the old Silvrwings RPG, and to Samantha Maurice, who have all known me since I was a bossy middle schooler convinced I knew everything about writing. I didn’t—and I still don’t—but thanks for making me feel like I did.
To the ladies at Heart of Carolina and the Beau Monde, who have taught me so much in the last year. I am forever grateful to be part of your groups, and so proud to be a member of the Romance Writers of America.
To my Teatime Romance sisters, thanks for giving me a blog to call home. You’re fabulous.
To my research goddesses, Máire Claremont and Delilah Marvelle, thank you for sharing your endless wisdom with me. I am forever in awe of your brilliance as writers and historians.
To my editor Meghan Hogue, thanks for never minding that I plan obsessively in advance. You are invaluable.
To the greats of nineteenth century British literature: Wilkie Collins, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot. From you I’m inspired.
And lastly, to everyone who said they were ready for a dark romance with nary a duke, earl, or viscount in sight. You’re my people and I love you.
About the Author
Erica Monroe is a bestselling author of emotional, suspenseful romance. Her debut novel, A Dangerous Invitation, was nominated in the published historical category for the prestigious 2014 Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic Suspense. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Heart of Carolina, Kiss of Death Romantic Suspense chapter, and the Beau Monde Regency Romance chapter. When not writing, she is a chronic TV watcher, sci-fi junkie, lover of pit bulls, and shoe fashionista.
