The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  As her belly churned, she tried to think rationally. Two years were two years. It was not as if he’d been unfaithful to her…. then why did she feel as if he had?

  It was because of Kitty. The cold, calculating bitch who had sold her to a disgusting lecher.

  Rosie’s fingers clenched the doll’s satin skirts. Why hadn’t Andrew fought to save her back then? Why had he abandoned her to those monsters?

  With a cry of rage, she threw the doll across the room. She watched, bosom heaving, as it flew through the air and smashed against a wall, pieces scattering on the ground.

  Slowly, she went over. She crouched and picked up the largest piece—the doll’s face: still white, still pretty, still composed. She turned it over in her palm, and her breath jammed at the discovery.

  The inside of the figurine wasn’t white, pretty, or composed. Here, the unglazed clay was dark and rough. Before being hardened by fire, the pliable material had been deeply scored, slashed with random marks.

  All this time... her beautiful companion had been scarred on the inside.

  Scarred on the inside.

  Scars on the inside.

  Out of nowhere, memories pelted her.

  I thought you came to me because of what I used to do, and I didn’t like that…. She didn’t sell me. It was my choice. I wanted to put food on our table and fucking was an easier way to do it than thieving or running with cutthroats…. We all have to be good at something, and I’m a good pimp.... No one has ever given me what you have—passion, sweetness, joy. I don’t deserve it, but you make me feel like a different man.

  Awareness prickled through her like sensation through an awakening limb.

  “Rosie, are you all right?” Mama entered in a swish of forest green velvet, a sleeping Sophie in her arms. “I thought I heard something…” Her gaze went to the fragments on the floor.

  Rosie stood, swallowing thickly. “I think I broke something, Mama. And I—I’m not sure how to fix it.”

  “Are you ready to talk about it?” her mother said quietly.

  “May I hold Sophie while we do?”

  Cuddling her sleeping sister close, she sat next to her mama on the window seat and told the other about Kitty Barnes—about everything.

  “I was so hurt, Mama, that I just ran away. I didn’t give Andrew a chance to explain,” she said miserably. “Now that I’ve had a chance to think, I suspect there’s more to the story than I realized. More to his story.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Mama murmured. “Given your own history, it’s no wonder you’d react that way. And I think you’re right about Corbett. He’s a complex fellow. I realized that when I met him all those years ago.”

  “What was he like then?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “Charming, confident… and young.” Mama hesitated. “Despite what he must have seen of the world, he wasn’t as jaded as one would expect. His sense of honor was still intact, and there was a tenderness in him that life hadn’t managed to extinguish. It was those two qualities, I think, that prompted him to aid in my quest to find you.”

  “Andrew is honorable and tender,” Rosie said, her voice scratchy, “and he’s been through so much. More than you know. His mother was addicted to drink, and she brought him into the trade when he was only…” She bit her lip, not wanting to betray her lover’s confidences. “The point is, he had every reason to resent his mama. But he didn’t. He loved her. And despite the fact that he’s a pimp, he’s a good man—just ask anyone who works for him. He’s generous and strong and caring.”

  Mama regarded her with compassionate eyes. “You love him.”

  “I do.” Rosie’s voice hitched. “I’m so confused!”

  “Because he hasn’t told you he loves you?”

  “No, he did. In fact, I’m the one who hasn’t said the words. I was going to the night that Kitty appeared. Now I don’t know what to do.” Belly clenching, she recognized the crux of her dilemma. “How can I love a man who’d love a woman like Kitty? Who’d leave me with her, knowing what she intended to do?”

  “First things first. What makes you think Corbett loved Kitty Barnes?”

  “He told me he started sleeping with her when he was fifteen. He didn’t end the affair until two years ago. Why would he consort with her for that long—even if it was on and off—if not for love?”

  “How old was Kitty when the affair began?”

  Mama’s question made Rosie blink. Her heart began to thud. “I… don’t know.”

  “Well, I met that woman fourteen years ago, and I’d give her more than a decade on Corbett,” Mama said bluntly. “Which means that she was at least twenty-five when she began an affair with a fifteen-year-old. A boy only months older than your brother is now. So you tell me: do you think love is the true explanation for why he got tangled in her web?”

  The realization slammed into Rosie—and made her ill. She hadn’t even thought of the age difference between Kitty and Andrew at the start of their relationship. Of how vulnerable he must have been back then. How easily he could have been preyed upon by an experienced bawd. One who’d not only taken him to her bed but sold his services to others.

  His words suddenly surfaced from two nights ago. I knew it wasn’t right… it never was… I tried to end it… I don’t know why I let her back in…

  Rosie’s heart splintered. Because she knew why he’d let Kitty back.

  It was the same reason she’d tried to win the ton’s approval. The same reason she’d made all those stupid mistakes over and over again and made the worst of one of all by marrying Daltry. The same reason she’d been afraid of falling in love with Andrew—the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  She doubted her own self-worth… as Andrew doubted his.

  “Andrew couldn’t rid himself of Kitty,” she said in a pained whisper, “because he didn’t think he deserved any better.”

  “Knowing what I do of that woman,” Mama said, her eyes hard, “I am certain she had tactics for keeping him under her thumb. For taking advantage of his good character.”

  It killed Rosie to think that Kitty had gotten her claws into Andrew. And it killed her even more to realize that she hadn’t seen it. How similar she and Andrew were. How, beneath his powerful self-possession and all his success, he harbored his own insecurities… even as he’d worked toward curing hers. He’d made her feel cherished, beautiful—never dirty or damaged. And what had she given him in return?

  With throbbing remorse, she realized that she, in her own way, had also taken advantage of Andrew’s noble nature. After all he’d done for her, protecting her, loving her, she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. Instead, she’d doubted him, blamed him for not rescuing her from Kitty—when he’d, in truth, been little more than a boy himself. A victim of the circumstances just as she’d been.

  She understood that now.

  “Oh, Mama,” she said fitfully, “I’ve treated Andrew so shabbily!”

  “Your reaction is understandable.” Mama’s eyes were overly bright. “Because of the mistakes I made, you didn’t have security or love for the first eight years of your life. Is it any wonder that Kitty’s appearance would trigger your fears of abandonment—of being betrayed?”

  “The past is not your fault, Mama.” Keeping her sister in the crook of her arm, Rosie reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it. “You always did your best by me, and you’ve taught me to be strong. I couldn’t have wished for a better mother,” she said sincerely. “I love you, and I’m sorry I don’t say it often enough.”

  “Dearest.” A tear trickled down Mama’s cheek.

  “And thank you for helping me figure out what I need to do next.”

  “What is that?”

  “I have to apologize to Andrew—and listen to what he has to say.” Rosie swallowed. “But I think… I think the past doesn’t matter any longer. Because I love him, Mama. If he can forgive me for all my mistakes, then surely I can do the same for him.”


  “My little girl, all grown up.” Mama laid a hand on her cheek.

  Sophie chose that moment to wake up, her rosebud mouth puckering into a howl.

  “Good thing you still have another,” Rosie said ruefully.

  She rose, rocking her sister and humming a tune. The crying turned to gentle cooing.

  “You’re a natural with her, you know.” Mama’s smile had an edge of wistfulness. “Soon you’ll be ready for a child of your own.”

  The thought of having a babe—Andrew’s babe—made Rosie’s heart thump but not with panic. For the first time, the idea of motherhood seemed almost… desirable.

  Cuddling her sister, she said with feeling, “Andrew and I have a lot to iron out before that.”

  “The important thing is that you know you love him. I didn’t realize what your papa meant to me until it was almost too late.”

  “So that is why my ears are burning,” came Papa’s voice.

  He entered the sitting room, Edward following behind. Both were attired in fashionable garb that set off their lean, lanky figures and handsome dark looks—though Edward’s cravat was, as always, slightly askew. Papa’s amber gaze went to Rosie; yesterday, he’d given her a wide berth, and she knew he was trying to gauge her present state.

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “Mama was just telling me what you mean to her.”

  His watchful gaze remained on her for another moment and then the grooves around his mouth eased. “Is that right, poppet? And what did your mother say?”

  “Well, she hadn’t actually said it yet,” she said impishly.

  “I’ll say it now,” Mama declared. “Your papa means everything to me.”

  Papa’s eyes flashed, and he crossed over to Mama, bending to kiss her cheek and murmur something in her ear. Edward sauntered up to Primrose.

  “Well, now you’ve done it. They’re at it again,” he muttered. “We’ll never make it to the luncheon in time.”

  “I’m surprised you want to go.” Rosie lifted Sophie into the air, the babe gurgling in delight. “Don’t these sorts of affairs bore you?”

  She knew her brother would prefer a visit to a museum over a charity luncheon any day. He was only going because the event was being hosted by the Hunts, dear friends of the family. Being in mourning prevented Rosie from participating in the public event—which was just as well. She had to plan her reunion with Andrew.

  What would she say? What would she wear?

  “Uncle Harry is going to be there,” Edward replied. “And he promised to show me and Frederick another of his inventions.”

  Good Lord. That explained her brother’s willingness to go.

  “If you want company, however,” he added gruffly, “I could stay.”

  “Thank you, I’ll be fine. And Edward?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you, dear.”

  Edward’s face reddened. “Good God, not you too. Is this excess of sentimentality catching?”

  “You’d best watch out.” She grinned at him. “By the by, your cravat is crooked.”

  Her parents came over. Mama took Sophie, and Papa cleared his throat.

  “Your mother tells me you’ve decided to patch things up with Corbett.”

  Rosie couldn’t tell from her father’s expression whether he approved of her decision or not.

  “I’m going to try,” she said earnestly.

  “You’re certain this is the future you want?” Her father’s eyes searched her face. “Certain that you wish to give up your title and money for this fellow?”

  “Yes, Papa.” She’d never been more certain of anything.

  “Then, whenever you are ready, I’ll invite Corbett over to supper.” Papa’s expression was stern, but his eyes smiled at her. “We’ll do this thing properly from here on in.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” Gladness flooded her, and she rose on tiptoe to kiss her father’s lean cheek. “I only hope Andrew will forgive me.”

  Papa snorted. “Poor chap doesn’t stand a chance.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and Libby entered. Curtsying, she said to Mama, “It’s time for Miss Sophie’s daily outing. I thought I’d take her to see the aviary at the Pantheon.”

  “I’m sure she will enjoy that.” Mama kissed Sophie before handing her over to the maid.

  “We should be back by mid-afternoon,” Papa told Rosie. “Stay put, and if you need anything, Caster’s the guard on duty today. I won’t rest easy until we get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Rosie smiled at her family. “Have a lovely time, and send my best to the Hunts.”

  ~~~

  A short while later, Rosie was sitting at her old escritoire, trying to compose a letter to Andrew, when she was interrupted by Susie, one of the newer housemaids.

  Susie curtsied, holding out a vibrant, paper-wrapped bouquet. “These just came for ye, miss.”

  Heart racing, Rosie thanked the maid and took the fragrant flowers. She set them on the desk, rummaging through the foliage to find the note. It was sealed, her name boldly inked on the front. Hands trembling, she broke the wax.

  Shock jolted her.

  I have your sister and her maid. If you wish to see them alive, you will meet me at No. 3 Bulstrode Street in half an hour. I have eyes everywhere, so come alone—or your sister and the maid will die.

  P.S. Enclosed is a memento from Sophie.

  Rosie looked at the handkerchief: the initials SK were embroidered in pink silk, entwined with a garland of flowers. Mama’s handiwork was unmistakable. Proof that the villain—whoever he or she was—did indeed have Sophie.

  What should I do?

  Wings of panic beat in Rosie’s chest. She couldn’t risk Sophie coming to harm; she had to do something—and she couldn’t alert Caster. The kidnapper had been clear that she was to come alone: any wrong move on her part could result in Sophie’s demise.

  I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

  Resolve set her into action. There was no time to waste. To arrive at the given address on time, she would need to sneak out from the house and hail a hackney immediately.

  But she wouldn’t go into the situation unarmed.

  She grabbed her reticule, feeling the welcome weight of the pistol Andrew had given her. For added insurance, she paused to dash off a quick note, sealing it. She summoned Susie, instructing the other to give the note to Caster in exactly half an hour.

  After the maid left, Rosie waited until the hallway was empty. She descended the steps, her heart measuring out the frantic rhythm of her mission.

  Wait for me, Sophie—I’m coming.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Rosie arrived at her destination just shy of the appointed time. Bulstrode Street was located north of Mayfair, a relatively quiet lane off High Street in Marylebone. Number Three was a modest terraced townhouse with a plain brick front and an entryway recessed beneath a crumbling stone arch.

  Passing through, Rosie approached the front door—saw that it was ajar. She took a breath and pushed it open. She found herself in a cramped foyer, a closed door to the right, stairs ascending to the upper floor, and a dark, narrow corridor leading to the back of the house. As she cautiously crossed the worn threshold, heavy gloom and stillness shrouded her, the hairs on her nape shivering.

  “H-hello?” she called out.

  She strained to hear any sounds that might betray Sophie’s presence—and heard only the click of the door closing behind her, blown shut by some ghostly gust. The outside world grew distant as she ventured forward into the tomb-like space, the floorboards squeaking beneath her. She paused at the closed door; before she could decide whether to knock, it suddenly opened.

  She stood face to face with Sybil Fossey.

  Sybil appeared her usual diffident, mousy self, the only difference being that this time she held a pistol in her gloved hand, aiming it at Rosie’s heart.

  “Hand over your reticule,” Sybil said.

  Rosie gripped he
r bag. “Sybil, let us talk—”

  “Give it to me, or I will put a hole through you and then your sister.”

  At Sybil’s calm, measured tones, fear snaked down Rosie’s spine. She did as the other asked, and Sybil took the reticule, flinging it into the room behind her where it landed with a thump. Then she gestured at Rosie with the pistol.

  “Turn around and walk toward the hallway. I will be behind you. Make one false move, and I will shoot. Now go.”

  Heart pounding, Rosie started down the corridor. “Where is my sister?”

  “Be quiet and walk. Or she’s dead.”

  Did Sybil have accomplices? Were they holding Sophie and Libby somewhere in the house? Swallowing, Rosie obeyed Sybil’s commands. When they reached the last room at the end of the hall, Sybil said, “Go inside.”

  Rosie went into the small study. It was sparsely furnished with a sagging couch covered in moth-eaten pillows and a table flanked by two chairs and set with a tea service. The room had no windows, a single lamp the only relief from the gloom.

  Here, at the back of the house, the outside world had vanished completely. In here, anything could happen and no one would be the wiser. Fear washed over Rosie as Sybil closed the door.

  “Where is Sophie?” Rosie said.

  “Sit.” Sybil waved the gun at one of the chairs. “We’ll get to your sister in a moment.”

  She sat, her mind working furiously. “Why are you doing this?”

  Sybil took the opposite chair. Keeping the pistol aimed at Rosie, she picked up the tea pot, pouring liquid into the cups in front of them. Tendrils of steam curled upward.

  “Have some tea,” she said politely—as if this were a social gathering.

  Enough is enough.

  “I’m not doing another dashed thing you say until you tell me where Sophie is,” Rosie said.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Very well.” Sybil held the pistol steady. “By my estimation, your sister will be on her way home from her outing with her maid.”

  “Pardon?” Rosie whispered.

  “It was a ruse,” the other explained. “Since you came into Daltry’s money, I’ve been watching you. One can learn a lot from simply observing household routines—such as the fact that your sister’s nursemaid takes her for an outing at the same time each day. It was easy to compose a note saying that I’d taken her.”