“My sources were less forthcoming when I inquired as to Mr. Henley’s companions. Apart from various prosti—soiled doves, he has occasionally been seen with the worst scum Whitefriars has to offer, the Gibbons brothers among them. On rare occasions, he has been seen with gents, and rarer still, genteel ladies.
“I am devising a plan whereby I may be able to cross his path, Miss O’Rourke. Should that be the case, I shall follow him and send to you of his location immediately, but you should know that I am bound to notify the Home Office, as well.”
She nodded. She had no objection to the Home Office benefiting from Mr. Renquist’s investigations. In fact, if they could manage it on their own, she would not have become involved. But, should she find him first…
Mr. Renquist cleared his throat and went on. “Mr. Henley departed his last accommodations rather quickly, and the proprietor has a small box of items he left behind. If you are inclined, I shall purchase it from him for the unpaid portion of the rent.”
“Did you see what it contained?”
“The proprietor wished me to pay for that pleasure.”
“Then yes, please. Acquire it by any means. If it contains even the smallest clue…”
“Aye, Miss O’Rourke. Consider it done.”
Nancy tugged her sleeve, wanting to leave. “Oh, miss, should we really be here? Like as not, she isn’t receiving.”
Gina held her ground on the stoop of the Race home in Russell Square. “Then I shall leave my card. How can I not offer my condolences? Christina was very good to me when I had few friends in the ton.”
“Yes, miss, but—”
The door opened and a maid in a starched white apron answered.
“Is Miss Race at home?” Gina asked.
“She is, but she is not receiving this afternoon, miss.”
Gina took a card from her reticule and passed it to the maid. “Will you please tell her that Miss O’Rourke is here? I think she may wish to see me.”
The maid nodded and hurried away, leaving the door open but no invitation to step in.
Nancy tugged her sleeve again and whispered, “T’ain’t a good time, miss.”
“She may only have been a fiancée, but she is nonetheless bereaved.” James had not given her details of what had happened last night and Gina was desperate to assure herself of Christina’s safety. Pray she had not been present for the awful deed, or that Henley had not gone after her when his attack on Gina failed.
The maid was back and opened the door wider to admit them. Nancy looked down at the floor and went to sit on a small chair in the foyer, where servants were accustomed to waiting, while Gina followed the maid up a flight of stairs and down a corridor.
After a soft knock, the maid opened the door to admit Gina and closed it after her. The draperies had been drawn and the room was cast in gloom. She blinked to adjust to the darkness. “Christina?”
A deep and melancholy sigh answered her. “Thank you for coming, Gina. I wondered if you would.”
She followed the sound of the voice and found Cristina, still in her wrapper, curled up in a chair, at least a dozen handkerchiefs abandoned on the floor near her. She knelt beside the chair and took one of Christina’s hands.
“I am so sorry, Christina. I blame myself. Had I not asked for his help…”
“It would have happened anyway.” The girl looked down at her with infinite sadness in her hollow eyes. Her face was flushed and puffy from crying.
“But I forced him out of hiding. Had he stayed away—”
“Stanley has been hiding for weeks now, Gina. Mr. Henley was blackmailing him. It did not begin with you.”
“Blackmail? But what could Mr. Henley have held over Mr. Metcalfe’s head?”
“I cannot say. Other than his attendance at an event that went horribly wrong, Stanley was not the sort to engage in wrongdoing. I believe he felt complicit for something, though he swore he did not know the full measure of the consequences.”
The Brotherhood. Of course. Mr. Metcalfe had said as much to her in their short meeting. Had Mr. Henley been threatening to turn him over to the authorities if he did not pay hush money? But there had to be more. Mr. Metcalfe had readily admitted his involvement with the Brotherhood to her. He’d said he knew things. Things Mr. Henley would kill for.
“Did he ever talk about that night, Christina? Did he ever tell you anything that might damage Mr. Henley?”
She nodded, and her unbound dark hair fell over her face, shielding her as she began to weep again. “I cannot tell you without damaging Stanley’s reputation.”
“Did he tell you what the key opened? He hurried away before he could—”
“He only told me to give it to you, and that you would know what it opened.”
But she didn’t. Unless this, too, was something she had forgotten that night. But she could only press Christina for the one thing that might save her life. “Please reconsider, Christina. If Mr. Henley killed Mr. Metcalfe over the knowledge you hold, and then suspects you might know, too, he might want to silence you, as well.”
She gasped and pushed the hair away from her face to look at Gina. “Surely not!”
“I cannot be certain, but can we put anything past the man at this point? All I know for certain is that Mr. Henley must be stopped, by whatever means possible. Stanley would not want you dead, and your best protection is to tell the authorities, the Home Office and whoever else will listen. The more people who know the secret, the less reason Mr. Henley would have to kill for it.”
“I will not be leaving the house for several months, Gina. Can I be safe in my own home?”
Gina wished she could reassure her. Wished none of this had ever happened. Wished, too, that she’d never enlisted Christina’s help. She shrugged. “I do not know.”
Christina sniffed. “It would feel like a betrayal if I told now.” A fresh storm of weeping shook Christina’s shoulders. She buried her face in her hands and Gina could not imagine the depth of Christina’s sorrow until she thought of losing James. Oh, she was prepared to leave for Ireland and never see him again. But to know that he no longer breathed, no longer smiled? Intolerable, unbearable.
“If I could turn back time, I would rather die myself than be the cause of Mr. Metcalfe’s death or your grief. And, though I would never ask it again, I cannot ever thank you enough for your help, and everything you’ve done. I will leave you now, but should you change your mind and decide to tell me Mr. Metcalfe’s secret, send to me and I shall come at once.”
Gina closed the door after herself, catching one last glimpse of Christina, her dark head still bowed over her hands.
A heavy mist descended, obscuring the light from the single lamppost at the end of the street. A dense fog would follow, and Gina shivered.
She’d begged off the affair she was slated to attend earlier, pleading a crushing headache. James had feigned disappointment, though she had read the relief in his deep violet eyes. And when the household had retired for the evening, she’d crept downstairs to “borrow” some clothing from the laundry tub. Now dressed in a gray woolen dress, brown boots a size too large and a frayed brown shawl over her head, she was virtually unrecognizable.
“Miss Gina?”
Or so she’d thought. “Is that you, Ned?”
The boy stepped out of the mist and pulled his cap off his tousled head. “Aye, miss. I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“I did not know how to dress. Will this be suitable?”
He grinned. “I ’spose so, miss. Wasn’t takin’ you anywhere fancy tonight. One o’ the lads said ’e saw Mr. H go in the Cat’s Paw. That’s a gin house near Petticoat Lane.” He stood back and squinted at her through the gloom. “They won’t let me in there, miss. Say I gotta shave first. But y’look like you belong there, miss. Won’t no one bother you if you keeps yer head down.”
“What shall I do?”
“Listen, miss.” He put his cap on and pulled the brim low over his
forehead. “You orders somethin’ to drink, and then you just disappears into the walls and listen, if y’know what I mean. Maybe you’ll see Mr. H, maybe not. Maybe you’ll ’ear something about where ’e is.”
Yes, she thought she could do that much. But what did one order in a gin house? She pondered that as Ned started off at a fast pace, leading her farther and farther from familiar surroundings. She wondered if she’d ever be able to find her own way home. “Will you wait for me, Ned?”
“Aye, miss. Outside.”
She took comfort from that much, at least, as her environs became poorer and more dismal. They passed taverns and public houses where raucous conversations carried into the streets and drunks lay where they’d been tossed. The women she’d seen were surely disreputable, since all women with a mind to their reputations would be safely home after dark in this area.
“Where are we, Ned?”
“Whitechapel, miss. Just around the corner.”
And, true to his word, he halted at a sign with a painted black cat raising one paw. Beneath it was a low door with a stone stoop to step over, and she wondered if that was to keep sewage out during a heavy rain. A dim light cast a yellow glow in a window just above the door. She was relieved the rising fog kept her from seeing more clearly. The stench was bad enough without having to see what caused it.
She took a sixpence from her boot. Would that be enough? Should she take off the boot and shake out a shilling? Sensing her hesitancy, Ned gave her a little push over the threshold.
Gina had never been in an establishment like this one. It was dirty, foul smelling and dark; she had to stop just inside the door to brace herself and take her bearings. A long counter against one wall served as the bar and had shelves behind it with bottles of various sizes and colors. Were they all gin? At least ten tables were scattered to each side of the door but only a few were occupied this late at night. Another door opposite the one she’d entered was closed, and she wondered if it led to the privy or apartments where the light had shone just above the tavern door.
A man sitting at a table was staring at her and she quickly went to the bar and placed the sixpence on the grimy surface. The barkeeper, an unshaven man with few teeth and dirty hands, shuffled toward her, looked down at her coin, took a tin cup from the counter behind him and went to a barrel. He pulled the tap, seemed to measure the amount with one squinted eye and brought the cup to Gina.
She kept her head down and neither of them spoke. As he walked away, she breathed with relief and took her cup to a table near the door. She had passed the first test. Now, according to Ned, all she had to do was make herself inconspicuous.
After a moment, all interest in her ceased and the low tones of conversation resumed. Once she became accustomed to the drone of voices, she could distinguish a few words. Her eyes adjusted to the meager light of the few candles and the dirty oil lamp on the bar, and she noticed four men at a back table. Though she could not make them out, or catch their conversation, there was something hauntingly familiar in the tone.
As she strained to hear, she lifted her cup to her mouth and took a sip. She nearly choked. Struggling to catch her breath and not spit the swill back into the cup, she forced the liquid down her throat. Gin? This was gin? Dreadful! How could anyone drink it? She coughed and took another swallow to force the first down. Her eyes watered and she wiped them with the back of her sleeve.
When she looked up again, she was startled to see that attention was again focused on her. Too late, she remembered to keep her head down. The brown shawl she’d kept over her head had fallen back when she coughed and she hurried to pull it back into place.
An argument erupted at the back table and Gina froze. She knew that voice now. And she could never forget the inflection of his voice when he swore. James Hunter. But what was he doing here? Looking for Mr. Henley?
She pulled the shawl even lower over her head, took another swallow of the gin and stood. She had to get out of there before she was recognized. Three steps and she was out the door, scarcely pausing to catch her breath. The fog had thickened and disoriented her, but she turned in the direction she thought they’d come and took several steps.
A hand seized her elbow and spun her around. “Good God! It is you! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
Ned appeared out of the fog, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. She waved him off quickly, knowing that, no matter how angry Jamie might be, he would not harm her. The boy disappeared into the fog before James noticed him.
To make matters worse, Charles was fast behind James, a look of pure astonishment on his face. “Miss Eugenia! How…What possessed you to…”
James turned her toward Whitechapel Street and took long strides in that direction, pushing her roughly ahead of him, as if he were afraid she’d bolt if he didn’t keep her within sight every second. Rightly so.
“Charlie, run ahead and signal a coach. I’m taking Miss Eugenia home.”
Charles disappeared into the fog without further questions.
“You had better have a remarkable explanation for this, Eugenia. Apart from your reputation, you have risked life and limb coming to this part of town at night. Night? Hell, any time of day.”
“I…I…” But she couldn’t answer. She was so breathless from the pace he set that she could not say two words together.
“I cannot even imagine what your mother and Andrew will say when we tell them how out of hand you’ve become.”
“No! You cannot!”
“Oh, can I not? I rather think I can, Eugenia. In fact, I consider it to be my moral obligation to you and my duty to your family.”
“Moral obligation to me? And where, pray tell, was that mere days ago in Vauxhall Gardens?”
James shot her a dark look but pressed his lips together as they arrived on the wide High Street. Charlie had summoned a passing coach and the door was flung open, waiting for them. James wasted no time lifting her and placing her on the seat.
He turned back to his brother. “I will catch up to you at the Crown, Charlie.” He turned to her again, climbed into the coach and called her address to the driver.
Alone in the dark interior, Gina could only stare at James, sitting across from her and regarding her with such fury that she couldn’t think what to say. Was there no way to appease him?
He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Well, Eugenia?”
It occurred to her that he really had no rights where she was concerned, and decided to take that position with him. “I must say that I resent your high-handed treatment, sir.”
He laughed, though she could detect no humor there. “High-handed? Well, take a good look, Eugenia. What you see is me acting with all the restraint I can muster. But if you’d like to see high-handed, I’d be only too happy to oblige.”
She mirrored his action and crossed her own arms over her chest. “Furthermore, you will say nothing to your brother or my mother. Do you understand?”
“Me? Understand?” A look of astonishment passed over his face. “You cannot seriously think you will get away with this?”
“Oh, I shall. Have no doubt of that.”
“You are mad to challenge me, Eugenia. I am not in my usual accommodating state of mind.”
“Accommodating?” She sniffed. “All I have ever heard from you is ‘no.’ I cannot think of a single time you have accommodated me. From our mock of a courtship to…to…”
“I accommodated you when you confessed that you were going into society with the express purpose of asking questions and trying to ferret out Cyril Henley. I have kept my mouth shut and allowed your little subterfuge, and where has it got me? Here! Finding you in a Whitechapel gin house dressed like a…a…” He gestured at her woolen dress and shabby shawl.
“Servant?” she supplied.
“I was going to say a washerwoman, but if you bared a bit of breast—”
Her cheeks burned at that comparison and she gl
ared at him. “I imagine that is a subject about which you know a great deal.”
He was suddenly on the seat beside her, turning her face to his and bending close. “I have never purchased the services of a common whore, Eugenia.”
Chapter Eleven
Eugenia drove him to such extremes that he could scarcely comprehend his own reactions. Had it been any other woman, he would have walked away. Hell, any other woman and he would have left her in that tavern to fend for herself. But Eugenia? He looked into her eyes and saw not fear or confusion, but anger and a heavy dose of desperation.
He released her chin and leaned back against the squabs. “What is it you are not telling me, Eugenia?”
Her sigh nearly made him relent. “I do not know what you are asking.”
“Why? Why must you push yourself to such lengths? What drives you to such foolhardy endeavors? I think you are bent on self-destruction, and I do not know how to stop you.”
She dropped her gaze to her hands, twisting the gray woolen fabric of her dress. “You cannot stop me, James. It would be better for us both if you would stop trying.”
“You know we will catch Henley eventually. You know Cora’s death was avenged that night when Daschel was killed in the catacombs beneath the chapel. And yet you press on with an almost crazed determination—against all good sense, against all reasonable care for your safety. There has to be more that drives you. What is it, Eugenia? Why can you not leave this to me?”
For the first time, he saw a flash of fear in Eugenia’s eyes and he recalled the night at Vauxhall Gardens, when she’d hinted that it was already too late to save her. “Answers,” she said so softly he barely heard her above the rattle of wheels and harness.
“To what?”
“That night. That night in the catacombs.”
“You know the answers. You know who killed Cora, and who kidnapped you. If you are looking for an answer to why…well, there is no answer to that but for the darkness in some men’s souls.”
A Rake by Midnight Page 12
