Three Nights of Sin

by Anne Mallory

  But Jacob Worley was gone. Slipped back into the stalls to become a memory. A bad one.

  Gabriel stood in the same spot a second later, eyes dark. “Marietta?”

  Something spiked within her. New fear and lingering desire. “Yes?”

  “Why are you back here? It’s not safe.” He motioned toward the market and she blindly followed him back into the crowded area.

  How to respond? With a question, with the truth, with an accusation?

  “I just had to catch my breath,” she said.

  Her mind had decided for her. Lied to him.

  Worley’s words circled her brain, battering and coy. Mrs. Fomme. Anastasia’s journal had mentioned a Celeste F. Abigail’s had mentioned a C. F. Celeste Fomme had been a dragon of society at one time, until something had driven her to the country. She hadn’t attended ton events in years.

  When Marietta had tried to mention the links between the journals, Gabriel had answered through seduction. He had pushed aside the matter, even with the overwhelming evidence of their import. She had let him push it aside, trusted him to return to it later.

  The journal. She needed to read it. Now.

  “I’m going to head back,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could. “I’m only a burden to you here. I need to gather notes for Kenny’s defense.”

  “I have already taken care of those papers. You approved them.” His eyes turned unreadable.

  She smiled. It took effort. “I thought I might go over them again and write out some memory aids. He stumbles when he gets nervous. He needs to remember what to say.”

  Hard green eyes watched her. His lips tightened, and for a moment she thought he would hold her there. “As you wish. Take the carriage. I will see you in an hour.”

  She bobbed her head and hurried away, her feet following her immediate need for flight instead of the more careful need to allay suspicion.

  She saw Gabriel watching her as the carriage lurched forward. The carriage where they had…She shook her head, pulling her fingers from the soft cushions, the velvety blanket. She couldn’t read his eyes from here, but his demeanor was dark. Accusatory. Murderous. Not like the lover he had been. A changeling. A seducer who always got his way.

  It hadn’t been Jacob Worley in Anastasia Rasen’s house. It had been someone else. And Gabriel had been winded from running. Running from where?

  An inkling of suspicion edged with terror seeped through her.

  The carriage moved along the street. The horses seemed interested in a Sunday jaunt rather than getting her to the house in the speed she desired. She considered exiting and running ahead, but the horses were moving just fast enough to dissuade her.

  She might need fresh running legs before the afternoon was over.

  The carriage pulled in front of the house and she bolted from it before the horses came to a complete stop. The driver yelled something, but she just waved a hand and fumbled with the front door. It took three attempts of shoving her key into the lock before she finally managed to turn it. She flew up the stairs to his room and grasped blindly beneath the chest. There.

  She scraped the journal across the floor and flipped it open.

  January 2nd, 1813. L.D., C.F., J.M., A.F., T.R., and I have taken it upon ourselves to indulge in some fun. We have formed a club.

  C.F. Celeste Fomme. A.F. Amanda Forester. J.M. Anastasia’s journal had mentioned a Jane and Mr. Moreton. Jane Moreton. Anastasia? There was no A.R. She looked the initials over again and stopped. T.R. She had heard someone call Anastasia Rasen Tasia before. T.R.

  All of the murdered women were part of this club and prominently mentioned in the journal Gabriel had been trying to keep her from. The journal he went dark over every time he caught her reading. He had reacted almost violently when she had read the part when they had found their favorite, the man of incomparable beauty with the gorgeous eyes—

  The book slipped from her hands…

  Gabriel. Archangel. Avenger.…and slammed against the floor.

  Chapter 16

  Her heart stopped beating. She knew it did, for the house was entirely still. Nothing moving. Nothing making a sound. Not even her own heart.

  How could—

  What had—

  This couldn’t be happening—

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Marietta twirled on the hardwood and whacked her elbow into the chest. The staccato of raps echoed from the foyer.

  What if it was Gabriel? Her pulse jumped, her heart kicking back into a full gallop. The pain in her elbow numbed as her breath grew short and her head grew light.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  No. Gabriel would simply walk in on cat feet. He could have murdered her where she sat, with her back to the door. She pushed off of the hardwood and gingerly walked through the doorway and into the hall. Her hand clutched the banister as the stairs rose to view and she stepped on a creaky board that echoed her distress. Who would knock at the door?

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Mrs. Rosaire and Clarisse had keys. Jeremy seemed to possess one as well. And the servants from his Mayfair home—she had heard the one say he’d forgotten the key, so assuredly any of them would be able to enter.

  Perhaps it was Jacob Worley come to murder her after causing her to separate from Gabriel. No, that didn’t make sense. It hadn’t been he in Anastasia’s house—he didn’t have the right build. And apart from that, he could have dispatched her in the alley. Besides, whether Jacob Worley was innocent or not, Gabriel…Gabriel had every reason to kill those women.

  He had been telling the truth about knowing the participants in the journal. And then lied afterward, when he said he was testing her. She had thought him deliberately provocative, instead of playing some twisted game with her.

  She hadn’t seen his eyes. He had looked away when he said he didn’t know the women in the club. That should have told her the truth right there.

  Would you feel betrayed? Have you fallen for me, Marietta?

  Dear God. She closed her eyes.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  He had every reason to kill those women. Maybe if he had told her that he knew them, explained—

  “Gabriel, open the door,” a cold distinguished voice intoned. “I know you are in there. You are slipping. I heard the floorboard.”

  Marietta paused at the top of the stairs, undecided. She could slip out the back, but what if this man, whoever he was, knew about the other door? What if there were others with him?

  She made her decision, a safe one, and walked into her room. She secured her pistol and opened her window, sending a quick thank-you that it was facing the street.

  She stuck her head through the open frame and looked down at the front stoop. A tall, severely dressed man was already looking her way, cataloging everything about her from the shoulders up. She said another thank-you that she hadn’t changed from her servant’s garb. She looked like just another maid in a house.

  Albeit one sticking her head from a window.

  “Mr. Noble isn’t here presently. You can find him in the market. Good day.”

  She started to pull her head back inside.

  “Hold.” The man hadn’t moved from his position, but his eyes had narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Felicity, the maid.” She took a stab at her distant cousin.

  “You are not a maid.”

  “I assure you I am.” She tilted her chin up.

  “And I assure you that you are not. Come down from there, or I will assume that even though your speech and bearing are above a maid’s, your manners are not.”

  Outrage washed through her, but she tamped it down, unwilling to let her pride be overcome by stupidity. “I do not wish to converse with you at present. You may call for Mr. Noble at a future date or time, or you may search him out. Good day.”

  She pulled her head back through the frame and waited twenty beats of her racing heart. When she looked through the window again, he was gone. She grabbed
her traveling case and pulled a shaky hand along her clothes. It would take her far too long to pack everything. She would have to abandon her things.

  She glanced at her personal items. Notes, gifts, lockets, remembrances. No. She would have to take her memories with her and leave the physical representations behind. She grabbed only the items that were portable and held monetary value.

  Tears pricked her eyes. No. Not yet. Later, when she was settled somewhere safe—a boardinghouse or neighbor who had never heard the name Gabriel Noble—then she would allow the tears to fall. Then she would figure out what she was going to do.

  She gave herself five minutes to pack, and when the time was up, buckled her case and headed for the stairs, the journal secured in her shoulder bag. She would take as many of the documents in the kitchen as she could stuff into her bag.

  Five more minutes. It was all she could risk. She had already been back at the house far too long. Gabriel could return any minute. He would walk through the front door. She would go through the kitchen.

  She stepped into the kitchen and walked to the table, grabbing the first handful of papers and shoving them into her bag. Her hand was on the second handful when a voice stopped her.

  “Lift your hand. Now.”

  She whirled to see the man from the front stoop standing in the shadows. Her hand went to her pocket, where she’d stowed her pistol.

  “Don’t move.” He emerged from the shadows, pistol already in hand.

  Marietta backed against the table as he walked toward her, tall and stately, examining her as if she were a bug to be squashed.

  She wet her lips. “How did you get inside the house?” She knew she’d locked the door after her. And she hadn’t heard a sound.

  He remained motionless, the pistol held calmly in his hand. “I used a key. Who are you and what are you trying to steal?”

  A small measure of relief rushed through her. He wasn’t in the house because he was after her. He thought her a thief. Still a poor position to be in.

  “I am simply a maid Mr. Noble hired. I’m cleaning up.”

  He raised a brow. “Gabriel never lets anyone touch his personal items or messes.” He motioned at the table. “Let’s try answering the question again.”

  Time was wasting. Gabriel could be home any minute. “You have to let me leave.” She spread her hands. “I won’t touch anything else. Everything I have packed is mine. I give you my word.”

  The journal might be stretching it, but it was hers, dammit.

  “Why the hurry? What is your full name, Felicity?” His voice was commanding and conciliatory at the same time. As if part of him were in control and part in deference.

  “My name is Felicity Rose. My brother is in trouble. I must get to him right away.”

  The last two statements were definitely true.

  “Sit.”

  Marietta squared her shoulders. The man looked quite capable with a pistol in his hands, but she didn’t think he would shoot her. There was something upright and noble about him.

  Same impression she’d had about Gabriel.

  She stepped forward before she could reconsider. “I must leave. Good day, sir.”

  “The documents you have just shoved into your bag are not yours. Remove them. Now. Then I will consider your request to leave.”

  If she could escape, it was worth it to leave them behind. She knew the facts of the case. Had already given Kenny what he needed to defend himself. The additional notes weren’t worth her life. She nodded and pulled the papers out, quickly dumping them onto the table.

  “There is still something in your bag. Remove it.”

  “It is only my journal. I had it before I appeared in this room.”

  The bag was ripped from her grasp and large hands deftly removed the book. He flipped the cover. An unidentifiable emotion flashed over his face. She pulled her own pistol from her pocket.

  He looked up and his eyes briefly registered surprise before it was masked. “So you truly did have a weapon. Who would have thought a waif such as yourself so armed?”

  “Quite.” She motioned to the journal. “Put it in the bag and hand it back to me.”

  She needed the journal. It was the only link she had. And now that she knew the code, she knew all the answers were inside.

  His pistol was back up and pointed in her direction in an instant. “We seem to be at an impasse, Miss Rose.”

  Damn, he moved quickly. “We do.”

  “How did you come to possess Abigail Winstead’s journal?”

  Surprise followed by deep terror was the only thing she possessed at the moment. “Her name isn’t written inside. How did you know?”

  “What I don’t know is who you are and why you are here. Though I’m beginning to divine an answer to both.”

  The terror from his revelation and presence was offset slightly by his eyes, which mostly held curiosity.

  “I need that journal, and I need to leave this house. Please.”

  “You are related to the Winters boy. Miss Marietta Winters, I presume? You have the look of your parents.”

  Her pistol wavered slightly before she steadied it. “You knew my parents?”

  “No. But I saw them once.”

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Merely a butler. Or, I was a butler, I should say. Once a butler, always a butler.”

  That made an odd sort of sense. His mannerisms and carriage. The way he spoke. Dignified and censorious. Haughty, with a note of deference.

  She licked her lips again. “Whose butler are, or were, you?”

  “I was the butler to the Dentry estate. The personal butler of Lord Dentry.” He gave a small bow, his pistol steady.

  Dentry? She scooted around the table, keeping it in between them.

  He cocked a brow. “Is something amiss?”

  “You are the Dentry butler?” She laughed a little hysterically. “How do you know Gabriel Noble?”

  Something passed over his face. “I see.” His voice was measured. Darkness edged by resignation.

  “What do you see?” She edged toward the door, bag firmly in one hand, pistol in the other. Her urge to leave the house suddenly outweighing her need for the journal.

  The front door clicked open. Terror raced through her. Gabriel was home.

  “I see that you know nothing about me,” the man said.

  She tried to keep her hysteria at a manageable level as she readied herself to open the door and bolt. “Why would I?”

  “Gabriel? Marietta? You won’t believe what I just found.”

  Marietta nearly sagged with relief at the sound of Jeremy’s voice, then tensed again as she realized she couldn’t trust him either.

  Jeremy’s handsome face came into view. He stopped dead, staring at the butler. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to discover what you two have become involved in.”

  “Nothing,” Jeremy said quickly. “You should go back to the country.”

  The butler raised a brow. “I think not.”

  She reached forward and snatched the journal from him. Both men immediately turned to her.

  “I’ll let you two argue it out. Good afternoon.” She inched toward the door again.

  “Marietta, why do you have a gun?” Jeremy asked. “Why do you both have guns? What has happened here?”

  “Nothing to worry over.” She waved her free hand at him and clutched the journal, stepping back another foot.

  “You are not leaving with that book, Miss Winters.” The butler leveled his arm.

  She forced her voice to be calm. “I am.”

  “Which book?”

  The butler hesitated. “A journal that is not hers.”

  Jeremy stiffened. “Abigail Winstead’s, then.”

  She wanted to scream from the frustration and absurdity, the secrets and lies. “I need it. I will send it to you after my brother is released. I promise.” She clutched the book to her chest but held her pistol ste
ady. “I won’t tell,” she whispered. “I’ll do what I can to say nothing about him. I just want Kenny released.”

  Two piercing stares pinned her.

  “I just want Kenny released—” Her voice broke.

  “What do you mean, you’ll do what you can to say nothing about him?”

  She shook her head. The butler’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his pistol. “You have the advantage now, Miss Winters. What do you mean?”

  “I won’t implicate him. As long as Kenny is released, we will disappear.” Oh, God, Mark. She hadn’t spared a thought to her older brother. Gabriel had him. He would be angry when he discovered her gone. And he could reach Mark before she could. Her brooch. She could trade it for a hack ride. She would make it. They could flee to the Continent. Or the colonies. Make a fresh start. Give up everything.

  “Implicate whom?” the butler asked. It struck her that she didn’t know his name.

  Jeremy’s face was pale. His lips tight. He must know.

  She shook her head. “No.” She inched toward the door and his gun rose slightly.

  “I can’t let you go until you tell me.”

  “No. I said I wouldn’t implicate him, and I won’t.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her head kept a continuous sideways motion, as if he would eventually understand.

  “Yes, tell him, Marietta.” She swung toward the kitchen door behind her and the pistol was ripped from her grasp. Gabriel stood there, leaning against the edge, arms crossed, pistol hanging loosely from his fingertips. “Tell him who you suspect.”

  Chapter 17

  “Gabriel!” Jeremy sounded strange, but she couldn’t look his way. She could only stare at the man in front of her. He had come through the kitchen door after all. She couldn’t even dredge up the emotion to call herself an idiot.

  Gabriel didn’t move, but his gaze shifted behind her, much as the butler had when she’d peered from the window. “Sir,” he said to the butler. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you.”

  She slowly backed away from him. And away from the others—choosing the opposite corner. All exits blocked. No weapon. She felt around behind her for a knife—not that it would do much good against a bullet.