Lady Rogue

by Theresa Romain

  “Lady Isabel,” he said softly. She winced at his use of her title. “I’ve always been aware of the end. Haven’t we come to it?” He was so inscrutable, but his eyes were fathomless. She wanted to swim in them.

  “What does that mean?” She clutched one of the bedposts, needing something solid to grasp. “You always thought of me as temporary?”

  He answered her question with one of his own. “What would you do if you were not afraid?”

  She blinked. “You remind me of my own wish to be braver.”

  His smile was small and wistful. “Even the bravest person in the world is afraid sometimes. Bravery has nothing to do with fear. But had you no fear, what would you do?”

  The answer came to her lips in a second. “I would be with you.”

  “You see? You will not be with me.” He adjusted the box in his arms. It was too large and heavy, coming between them, and she wanted to toss it away.

  “You haven’t asked me,” she retorted.

  “I cannot, Isabel. I haven’t the right. You’ve the money and the connections. What would you give up for me? What would you lose?”

  She slapped the bedpost with the flat of her hand. “Why must I lose anything? If you intend this conversation as some noble gesture, I find it lacking.”

  “And how did you intend the boots?”

  “As an apology for having you shot. As a gift because I think of you often. As a sign of how much your comfort means to me.”

  “Ah.” He looked at the box lid. “That is most kind. You’ve been cushioned, and it’s not your fault. It’s no shame. It’s a good thing, to have a comfortable life. So good that I don’t want to take it from you.”

  “Why, though, must I lose . . . what are you saying?” She struggled to understand. “I will still have money. A house. I would not change at all if we were together.”

  This was the wrong thing to say. She could tell at once.

  “I don’t mean that there would be no place in it for you,” she added hurriedly. “I mean that there is. So much of my life has changed recently, that being with you would be a lovely continuation.”

  “In an affair? Would you keep me as your lover?” His mouth went tight at the corners, the look that was not quite a smile and not quite a grimace. “I would not be satisfied with that.”

  “So marry me, then,” she flung at him, and now he was the one to hesitate.

  “Best not,” he finally said, as if she’d asked him whether he would take another biscuit with tea. “You’re a marquess’s daughter. I’m a grocer’s son.”

  “And? So?” She had abandoned her pride; now a sense of injury swelled within her. “I never reminded you of that. You reminded yourself. And you’re just as superior in your way as I am in mine, Officer Jenks.”

  He only lifted a brow, so she continued, pacing the width of the room from wardrobe to bed to wall and back. “Presuming I’m sheltered. That I cannot handle harsh truths. My body lives in ease, yes, but my heart has dealt with truths you’ve never imagined. You have parents who love you, Callum. A brother who cares enough to fight with you. An occupation that gives meaning to your every day.”

  He waited her out in silence, his mouth looking grimmer and grimmer. “It’s not easy,” he said, “to work for my bread.”

  She rounded on him, hands flying. “I didn’t say it was easy! I said it had meaning. And by God, the choices you have just by being male.” A harsh laugh. “Yes, I have money through no virtue of my own, but what can I do with it? Before I wed, nothing. Even as a widow, I haven’t the freedoms you so often take for granted. To feel safe when you walk into an alley. To leave the house alone. To know that the law of the land and the unspoken laws of society regard you as competent to handle your own affairs, rather than regarding you as ignorant and inferior, then making sure such assumptions are true by placing insurmountable obstacles in your path.”

  He shook his head.

  She felt empty, hollowed out by the escape of words she’d been waiting to say a long time. “I will leave no imprint on the world when I die, Callum. You leave one every day. It would be worth a lot of money to me to add meaning to my life.”

  “Easy to say when you’ve never been short of money.”

  She sighed. “Please! Don’t you see? We both have privilege of different sorts. If we pulled together, what couldn’t we do? In life, in investigations—all of it. I know that you are concerned for my welfare, or my reputation. But then who is it, really, who’s separating us?”

  His fingers tightened on the sharp edges of the box, denting and crumpling it. “Circumstance,” he said. “The world. We met only by chance, connected by crime. First your husband’s death, then my brother’s.”

  “That’s not all that connects us now,” she said.

  “It’s not. But is there enough to draw us together, when you and I live in different worlds?”

  She held up a hand. “Wait a moment. There are plenty of worlds that can belong to both of us. Vauxhall was one of them. And the theater—you live at the heart of the theater district. But who goes? Everyone.”

  “There’s a bit of a difference,” he said dryly, “between the boxes used by the rich and the seats on the floor where people buy oranges as a rare treat.”

  “What about the Duke of Ardmore’s music room, then? We belonged there equally ill.”

  He cracked a smile.

  “Or your parents’ grocery. We had a fine visit. I got to meet your mother, which was nice since I never had any sort of a mother at all.”

  “To what end?” he said quietly. She had known the question was coming.

  She didn’t know. All she knew was she didn’t want there to be an end, and she didn’t see how there could be anything but.

  “If you are asking the question,” she said, “then you have already determined your own answer.”

  “You are the one with much more to lose than I if we are together.”

  “Ah, so you are being noble!” Her tone was bitter.

  “That’s the one thing, Lady Isabel, that I’ll never manage to be.”

  She pressed at her temples. Why had she invited him in here? Had she thought the boots would make a terrible day better? They were not magical boots. This conversation would have had to happen eventually, without the playacting of partnership to keep them together. “I don’t want you to be anything but who you are.”

  “Yet you tried to make me into something I wasn’t.”

  When he set the box down on the bed, her fingers went cold. “What was that?”

  “Anything but an Officer of the Police. Upholding the law.” He looked bleak. “That’s all I should ever have been and done.”

  “I am sorry you think so.” She turned away so he wouldn’t see her eyes well up. So he wouldn’t know how much it hurt that he would strike her from his life like an account dealt with, totted up, excised. “You realize now that you cannot forgive me for asking for your help switching the paintings?”

  “No. I cannot forgive myself for giving it. And it’s not only that there’s no space for me in your life, Lady Isabel. There’s no room for you in mine.”

  She heard him go, but did not turn around to watch. Her ears strained for his every footfall, though, until she could hear no more, and then the front door closed him out.

  Darting to the window, she watched him depart. He walked away with a straight back, stubborn and proud and ethical and rigid and lawful and handsome and dear and unattainable.

  There was no question in her mind now: she knew she loved him.

  On the bed remained a pair of expensive new boots fitted just for him. They would never be worn, she supposed.

  He had been clear about the matter: this was the end. They were done, and they would go their separate ways. Everything had to do with money; money and duty. Hearts had nothing to do with their situation at all.

  Stubbornly, her heart ached like a wound within.

  She knew she would never ask him to come back to h
er, and he would never offer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He’d done what he thought was right, severing the connection with Isabel, but somehow it all felt wrong.

  The inexplicable presence of the pearl brooch bothered him. The gift of the boots bothered him. The mysterious death of Andrew Morrow bothered him.

  Yet those were distractions, all, from his work for Bow Street.

  But the work was itself the greatest distraction of all, yet not distraction enough. Not for his heart, which ached for her summons. His eyes, which wanted to learn her every expression. His skin wanted her touch; his ears craved her voice.

  He was in trouble. He’d thought he’d caught himself before the longing became irrevocable. Instead, every day without her was more flavorless than the one before. And as the son of grocers, he understood the importance of flavor. It was the difference between sustenance and pleasure. An existence, or a life.

  But life with her would turn into existence, as he became nothing more than an appendage to a woman caught up in the whirl of the ton. No, this was best. Best to work, and work some more, and do what good he could even as his heart gave up and took leave of his body.

  He had a long and grueling day, pounding the pavement for hours as seemingly every pickpocket in London tried his hand. When he arrived back at his James Street rooms at half six, feet throbbing in his damaged old boots, he wanted nothing but food and a long rest.

  “You’ve a visitor,” said Mrs. Sockett brightly. “A gentleman.”

  Callum’s spirits heaved up, then dashed down all within the space of his landlady’s greeting. Isabel! Not Isabel. “In the parlor?”

  At her affirmation, he turned his steps toward that fussiest of rooms—then halted, found a few coins in his pocket. “Would you get me a plate, please? From the Boar’s Head? Whatever they’re serving tonight that’s hot.”

  “’Course I will!” She patted his cheek, an odd motherly gesture, then set aside her broom and went on the errand.

  No listening at the door for a little while. That was good. And a hot dinner would be good too.

  He opened the parlor door, hardly caring who awaited him within. But the person who faced him—no. His head snapped up. His body recoiled. He slammed the parlor door closed, himself still on the outside.

  Sir. Frederic. Chapple.

  That utter snake. That complete bastard. Sir Frederic Chapple called on Callum in his rooms, as if . . . what? As if he deserved any more time from the Jenks family? As if he was owed an apology for his time in prison?

  He wouldn’t dare. Callum would kick him heels over arse and enjoy every moment of it.

  Callum held fast to the door handle, keeping it closed. He tugged in a long breath. Another. All right. Sir Frederic Chapple was here, and either he would be reasonable or he would be kicked heels over arse.

  Callum opened the door again, then entered the room as calmly as if he had been expecting this caller all day. “Sir Frederic.” He tossed his hat aside and took the spine-cracking chair, as Sir Frederic already had the comfortable one. “Why are you here?”

  The baronet’s round face had gone pouchy, his skin mottled, no doubt from too little sleep and too much drink. “I didn’t feel right about going north without speaking to you again. Turned my carriage back, then thought better of it and headed on, then back again—more times than I can count.”

  “How nice for you.” Callum folded his arms.

  “I wanted to apologize. For your brother’s death.” Sir Frederic’s eyes looked mournful. “No one was supposed to die.”

  At the words brother and death, a chill spike of anger stabbed through Callum. “So you’ve said, yet people did die. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You seek to ease your conscience, but I can’t remove the burden for you.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  Callum leaned forward, pinning the bloodshot old eyes with his gaze. “Do you need me to? Do you need me to tell you it was all worth it, Sir Frederic? That your clever scheme to rob the Royal Mint was worth a half-dozen lives?”

  “No, I—”

  “Yet you drove away from it. Turned your carriage toward Northumberland and headed off with your pockets full. Even if I could ease your conscience, I wouldn’t do it. There’s no justice here.”

  “There’s not,” said the older man. “And I’m selfish enough to be glad about that.”

  Callum jerked to his feet. Crossed to the door and held it open. “Time to go.”

  The baronet kept his seat. “You’re a good man, Officer Jenks.”

  “I didn’t ask for your approval.”

  “You have it all the same.” Sir Frederic—Freddie, he tried to get people to call him—twisted his fingers together. “You know, you could have claimed the Royal Mint’s reward.”

  Callum tightened his fingers on the door handle. “I didn’t want it.”

  This was a lie, especially now. Twenty-five hundred pounds, he’d have got. At the time, he hadn’t cared about the money or the accolades. They’d all gone to Lord Hugo Starling. But now he couldn’t help thinking of Isabel. The reward money would have put Callum on a footing closer to hers; maybe close enough that he wouldn’t feel like such a fraud claiming a place at her side. All he had saved, scrimping on the job for years, didn’t even come close to that amount.

  It was a moot consideration now. They’d closed the door between each other and locked it.

  “Have you said all you must, Sir Frederic? I’ve work to be doing.”

  “You’ve always work to be doing.” The baronet gave a wan smile. “I’m here to offer my help, Officer.”

  And he explained: the same network of influence he held among London’s petty criminals could be used for good, rather than for robbery and murder. “My informants,” he said, “are now yours, if you’ll have them. They see everything, know everything. They can help you solve cases you thought you’d never touch.”

  Callum dropped his hand from the door handle, staring. “Why?”

  Sir Frederic sighed, looking like a popped balloon. “For justice. For atonement. I told you I was morally responsible. I can’t bring back the lost lives. Maybe I can help you save others, though.”

  Callum fought the impulse of revulsion—I don’t want a damned thing from you—and thought this over. He let the silence stretch, the baronet fidget.

  Harry Jenks was nothing but silent bones, when he should have been a husband now. Maybe even a father. A brother, of course, and a son.

  There was no good to be done there. But some good might be wrung from Sir Frederic anyway.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”

  Sir Frederic’s look of relief fell. But he nodded his agreement and rose to his feet, doubtless guessing this was all the reply Callum would grant him for now. “I’ll write to you when I reach home again,” he said. “And you can let me know how you want to proceed.”

  Callum already knew he would take Sir Frederic up on his offer, but he intended to let the man wait a while longer before telling him so. The baronet’s conscience might be salved eventually, but Callum wanted it to sting and burn as he traveled back north.

  When Sir Frederic passed through the doorway, Callum’s hand popped out, surprising them both. Gingerly, the older man took his fingertips in a handshake, one quick up-and-down before they both recoiled.

  “Thank you for listening,” said the baronet.

  “Thanks for coming back,” Callum said grudgingly. “Truly. It was brave of you.”

  “It was the right thing to do.” Sir Frederic ducked his head. Left the room. Exited the house.

  It was too silent with him gone. Callum could hear every breath, every tick of Mrs. Sockett’s beloved case clock. The house gave a creak, settling its old bones against an outside breeze.

  Of a sudden, dinner and sleep were the last things Callum wanted. He clapped his hat back on his head and thundered down the stairs, turning his steps to the Bow Street court that had been his ho
me for the past ten years.

  * * *

  Fox wasn’t pleased to see Callum. Likely he’d hoped to clear his desk and head home without further interruption. But Callum was relieved, more than he could say, to see the lamp-lit office and his magistrate’s familiar face behind the desk.

  “I need to speak to you, sir.”

  “Come in, of course.” Fox plucked off his pince-nez and tamed his disgruntled expression. “What’s on your mind, Jenks?”

  He indicated a seat, but Callum chose to stand. He tucked his hands behind his back, assuming the position he did when reporting on a case to his magistrate. “I have done something illegal, sir. But it was right.”

  Fox set the pince-nez down atop the paper he’d been reading. “So have we all, Jenks, but one never speaks of it. It can damage a case’s standing in court.”

  “The law.” Callum swallowed. Squared his shoulders. “The law failed to bring justice. Just as, in another case, it failed to give justice to my brother.”

  Harry was always on his mind, yet not every matter was of life and death. Sometimes a case turned on what sort of life one wanted. A fearful one or a secure one. A poor one or one enriched with ill-gotten gains. A scandal avoided, a wrong righted.

  Fox rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “There are some crimes for which a man cannot be charged, but of which he is guilty nonetheless. The law is a tool for unlocking justice, though it is not a perfect one. But why do you come to me at this hour?”

  “Because I just saw Sir Frederic Chapple again.”

  Fox cursed. “Why is he not up in Northumberland, instead of rubbing our faces in his escape from the gallows?”

  “He was never headed to the gallows,” said Callum. “Not one such as he. But we’ve arranged a way that he can make amends after all.”

  A hint of a smile touched the magistrate’s mouth. “Do I want to know?”

  Callum considered. “No, best not. But I wanted to tell you it had happened.”