by Erica Monroe
-Whispers from Lady X, June 1816
Wolverston Hall
Hill Street, Mayfair, London
One week since the death of the Earl of Wolverston
Wolverston Hall had the dubious honor of being one of the few things the aristocracy and working class alike agreed upon: the flat-faced, brick-fronted townhouse simply did not belong with the rest of the second-rate houses adjacent to London’s most presentable square. No fault could be found in the layout of the house, which conformed strictly to the Building Act of 1774. It featured a half-moon window above the front door, a canopy that stretched across the three street-facing, regularly spaced sash windows on the ground floor, approximately five hundred square feet of floor space, and the usual steepled roof. Narrow in design, it was joined on either side to townhouses of similar architectures, rented by neighbors who both firmly regretted their long, long leases.
The house had been rebuilt after the Great Fire of London, but that did nothing to abate people’s suspicions. It wasn’t the appearance of Wolverston Hall that mattered, but rather the long, checkered history of the plot of land it sat upon. Everyone knew at least one story about the house, for there were so many to choose from. First, the suicide of the fourth Earl of Wolverston, who had hung himself from the attic rafters. Then, the supposedly accidental death of one of the upstairs maids, who had fallen from the third story window onto the street in one mangled, horrible pancake of flesh and bone. Gabriel himself preferred the one about the thief who stowed away in the wine vault, only to get locked in. When the butler finally found him, he’d gone half-mad from dehydration. Crime, it seemed, did not pay after all.
He recounted these stories to himself as he strode down the street, for they were a welcome reprieve from the memories that assailed him. Fog clung to the early morning air, little wisps of gray mist reminding him of the thin satin ribbons Jemma favored—or had favored, three years prior. He didn’t know what she loved now. That thought shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.
He kept walking, hands balled up into fists at his side, gait steady despite the uneasiness of his mind. He didn’t want to see Jemma, didn’t want to have to talk about Philip, didn’t want to pretend he hadn’t failed his own friend because he was too damn weak to deal with wanting his wife. He couldn’t shake the thought that maybe if he’d kept in touch with Philip, his childhood friend wouldn’t be dead and Gabriel wouldn’t be visiting his widow.
When he arrived in front of the house, he couldn’t hold back the siege of recollections anymore. Letting out a long, shaky breath, he paused outside. Once, this had been the primary London residence of the Forster family, but Philip had wanted a fresh start for him and Jemma, free from the sordid history of Wolverston Hall. He’d purchased a larger, more modern townhouse on Grosvenor Square and relocated there. Until the death of his mother a year prior, the house on Hill Street had been the Dowager Countess of Wolverston’s residence when she was in London.
Gabriel hadn’t gone to the funeral. He’d sent his regrets, claiming that he was in the middle of an important case. That was a lie—he’d been free. He just couldn’t summon up the courage to pretend that he was the same close friend of the family he’d been before Philip married Jemma. Too much had changed in the last three years.
God, he’d been a bloody fool, thinking he’d have more time to make things right with his old friend.
The gate was unlocked, as it had been when the dowager countess lived here. He gulped for air, his trembling fingers wrapped around the handle. He remembered visiting Wolverston Hall as a boy on school holidays. His own family’s townhouse was fourth rate at best, located in Holborn on Red Lion Square. He’d loved Wolverston Hall—the mystery surrounding it, the grandeur of the Forster’s old antiques. What was de rigueur for Philip was exciting for Gabriel, a treasured memory.
Devil take him. The more he thought about it, every damn good memory of his adolescence seemed to have Philip in it.
Then, his early twenties, post-graduation from Eton. He’d been adrift, muddling along with no idea what to do with his life. Every week, he’d attend the Dowager Countess’s dull as hell dinner parties, where he’d end up lingering at the card tables, wishing the night was over so he could return to the solitude of his flat. Philip never had that problem—he pulled people in with his charisma and good temperament. Everyone loved him, from the older matrons to the fresh-faced innocents in their first Season.
Not Gabriel. As the fourth son of a viscount, his fortune wasn’t sufficient enough to attract attention. There were too many other suitable candidates on the Marriage Mart, men who weren’t so awkward amongst polite society.
“Honestly,” the countess said one night, shaking her finger at him, “you’re worse than a wallflower. I invite you to these parties for a reason, Gabriel. I want you to be happy—you’re never going to find a woman if you won’t talk to anyone.”
He forced himself to open the gate, dully registering that the house was abuzz with activity. Curtains were pushed aside as servants cleaned the windows, the pots of flowers outside were watered, and the sound of neighing horses echoed from the mews. All these things faded into the background as he shut the gate behind him. Three steps took him to the door of the house that had been more of a home to him than his own family’s townhouse.
He brushed his fingers against the black-painted wood, unable to shake the hold of the past.
I took your advice, Lady Wolverston. When the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen came in the room, I introduced myself.
And it had been easy to talk to her, the conversation ebbing and flowing naturally. Never did he feel like an awkward oaf around her. They spent most of the night together at the card tables, chatting about everything and nothing.
It had been the bloody best night of his life.
Until the clock struck nine, and Philip extricated himself from the old dragons clamoring for his attention. He’d sidled over, put his arm around her, and tugged her close. “I see you’ve met Miss Jemma Gregory, my betrothed.”
His world spun on its axis in that moment. Single word sputters were all he could manage. “What? When? How?”
“Yesterday. We grew up together on neighboring estates. I need a wife, and she needs a husband.” Philip shrugged. “We’ll suit nicely, I think.”
He remembered nodding. As if this was the most natural of things, that two people should be leg-shackled for eternity, for no other reasons than their equal social classes and amiable temperaments. In their world, he supposed it was.
He knocked on the door. Harder, louder than was necessary, but etiquette escaped him when confronted with Wolverston Hall and all its ghosts. Why had Jemma wanted to meet him here? She hated this place.
“I can’t explain it,” she’d said three years ago in Vauxhall Gardens, that night when six months of dancing around his attraction to her finally exploded in a fiery embrace. “When I visit, I hear strange creaking noises, which Philip says is just the house settling. But I swear to you, Gabriel, everything feels different there.”
He’d believed her. Hell, he’d told her he’d protect her from the strange, man-shaped shadow she claimed to have seen in the drawing room, the one Philip said was nothing more than a trick of the light. She’d laughed, and said he couldn’t save her from her own wild imagination…but God, how he had wanted to be her white knight. The one she turned to when she needed help. The one she loved, above all others.
For a few glorious, perfect minutes that night, he’d thought he could be. That maybe, just maybe, she returned his fancy. Philip had been called away from their dinner to discuss some business deal with a friend, and he and Jemma were alone in their rented supper box. Conversation flowed as easily as it always did. For an hour, they’d talked about anything and everything, the sound of Jemma’s laughter filling him with inexplicable pride that he had amused her, her every smile making him feel as though he’d solved ten difficult cases. He forgot why he shouldn’t love this
woman—all those very wise, honorable reasons he’d recited to himself in the six months prior, when Philip had begun courting her.
He knew only that she was the most beautiful, engaging woman he’d ever met, and she made his heart slam against his chest like the pound of his Hessians against the cobblestones when he chased down a suspect on his patrolman route.
When she’d leaned against him, her eyes starting to drift closed, her chin lifted up toward him and her lips parted, he’d known exactly what to do. He’d kissed her. Soundly, passionately, as a woman like Jemma deserved to be kissed. And she’d kissed him back, thoroughly, enthusiastically. In that moment, it was as if all of time had slowed to a standstill, and there was only Jemma, her hands on his shoulders, her lips on his, her soft mewl of pleasure.
Nothing had ever felt more right than touching her, holding her in his arms.
Then they’d heard Philip’s voice, the sound of his footsteps, and they’d sprung apart guiltily. Jemma patted her hair, and he straightened his cravat. The next day, before he had to testify in the magistrate’s court on one of his arrests, they’d met outside of Bow Street and agreed it had been nothing more than a stupid mistake. They’d had too much to drink. No one needed to know, because it’d never happen again.
She’d married Philip a month later. For a while after, he accepted Philip’s invitations to different social gatherings. But it grew to be too much—to see Jemma on Philip’s arm, wishing she was his. He’d told Philip he was simply too busy with work, and his promotion to Principal Officer happened soon after, making the lie into truth.
The large door began to creak open, revealing a long carpeted hall. He set his shoulders back, affixed his most imposing scowl on his face to greet the butler.
Except it wasn’t the butler whose head poked out from behind the door.
It was Jemma.
Not Jemma, he corrected automatically. Lady Wolverston.
But knowing that didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Three long, rotten years had passed since he’d last seen her, but his body reacted as though nothing had changed. There was that sudden rush of heat he’d always felt upon seeing her for the first time—the quickening of his breath, the slam of his heart against his chest. She still had the same high cheekbones, the same chocolate doe eyes, the same little dimples.
He tore his eyes from her face, but that was an error, for the subtle curves she’d had as a girl of twenty had blossomed into the full-fledged voluptuousness of a woman. Desire hit him so fast, his cock hardened even as he told himself he was the worst of cads to want a woman clothed so entirely in the black gowns of heavy mourning. But it didn’t matter, because all he could think about was tossing off her big jet bonnet and running his hands through her soft, silky brown hair, like he’d ached to do that night in Vauxhall.
She blinked up at him, a small, grateful smile forming across her lips. Damned if that didn’t make him feel like the luckiest man in the world, to be the reason she’d smiled.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Gabriel,” she said, opening the door.
He hadn’t realized how he’d longed to hear her say his name again. From her pretty bow-shaped lips, his name sounded like a prayer, reverent and powerful. He was halfway to cupping that sweet, heart-shaped face of hers in the palm of his hand, when he realized what he was doing and snatched his hand away.
If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. She’d always been gracious like that, knowing exactly what to say to put someone at ease. “Polished society manners,” she’d called it once, attributing it to her mother’s endless diatribes on etiquette.
Gabriel had seen both sides of the aristocracy—first as the son of a viscount, and then as a Runner hired for protection and detection. Nobody was as genuine as Jemma, as truly kind. She treated everyone with respect, regardless of their social class.
If only she’d been able to love like that too, she could have been his.
“I saw you standing outside, but you looked so deep in thought I didn’t want to interrupt. Won’t you come inside and have some tea?” She gestured at the open door, making him wonder how long he’d been standing there silently like a slack-jawed buffoon.
He followed her inside, expecting to see the same extravagant, if not a bit archaic, accoutrements lining the entrance hall. Instead, the furniture was covered with white drop cloths, the paintings removed from the walls. Boxes and trunks were stacked up against all the walls, creating an obstacle course they had to navigate around to reach the parlor. What the hell? That made no sense.
“Lady Wolverston, are you moving into Wolverston Hall?” he asked, as they entered the parlor. He half-expected the furniture to be covered there too, but the parlor at least showed signs of habitation. A silver tea tray was set up on the coffee table, with the same sky blue settee across from it that he remembered.
“Jemma,” she insisted. “We have never stood on formality, and we shouldn’t now.”
No, they’d been far too familiar for that. Philip had once thanked him for spending so much time with Jemma. He’d said he felt that his bride was safe with Gabriel, since he was a patrolman for Bow Street. Before that day, Gabriel had wondered if his friend suspected his inappropriate regard for Jemma—but after that, he knew that in Philip’s eyes, he posed no threat.
After all, Philip had already inherited the Wolverston earldom, and the fortune that came with it. Gabriel couldn’t compete with that.
“Jemma, then,” he said, her name like lead upon his tongue, because he never should have had the right to address her that way. “Why are there so many boxes?”
“Because this is my new home.” Her smile was half-hearted at best, as she busied herself with pouring the tea.
“If anyone could make this house a home, it’s you.” Once, he’d thought home was wherever Jemma was, and he’d spent his hours eagerly anticipating the next time he’d see her.
When she poured tea into a cup for him, he leaned forward. “I take—”
“Honey, not sugar, and milk, not cream.” She met his gaze, her smile widening, this time reaching her eyes. “I remember.”
He shouldn’t feel so touched she’d recalled how he liked his tea. It didn’t mean anything, did it? She’d always had a good memory, and they’d taken tea with each other many times.
She passed him the teacup, and he took it, careful to not brush hands with her a moment longer than was proper. The temptation to reach for her was too great otherwise, and he was determined to respect the boundaries she’d put on them three years before.
I’m marrying Philip, she’d said. You must understand that. I can’t do this with you, not after Rosie.
Her feelings didn’t matter. His feelings didn’t matter. Nothing had mattered to her then but saving her sister’s reputation. As Lady Wolverston, Jemma would be able to pave the way for her sister to rejoin society. Never in the same space she’d occupied before—even a marriage to Prinny couldn’t make the dragons forget Rosie’s ruination—but at least they’d be together again.
Three years later, and still nothing in the scandal sheets about Rosie’s return.
He took a sip of the tea, as he did every morning when he arrived at work. The strong brew focused his mind, re-centered him. “Why are you moving into Wolverston Hall, Jemma? You used to hate this place.”
“Confession?” She dropped her voice lower, as if sharing a secret, and he leaned forward far more eagerly than he ought have. “I still hate it here. But it was either here, or rent something outside of my means. I can’t stay at Wolverston Estate or the townhouse in Grosvenor Square, not now.”
“Surely Wolverston hasn’t evicted you?” He frowned. He’d never liked David. Philip’s younger brother had none of his charms and all of his vices. Still, forcing his brother’s wife out of her home seemed extreme.
“Please don’t call him that.” The sharpness to Jemma’s tone startled him.
“Wolverston? That is his title now, yes?”
“Aye.�
�� Jemma grimaced. “But it is not one he deserves.”
“I’d imagine it is hard to see him take Philip’s place as the earl,” Gabriel said, choosing his words carefully, for he recognized the hard clench of Jemma’s jaw. He set his cup down on the table. “Especially given the circumstances. It must remind you of what you’ve lost.”
“It is more than that. Much, much more.” Jemma turned swiftly to face him. Her cheeks pinked with ire; fire burned in her brown eyes. Her hands wrapped around her cup, knuckles white.
He knew, before she said anything, that this was the reason she’d called him here. He kept silent, not daring to speak, bracing for impact. For her to react so strongly, her news must be big.
“I believe David had a hand in Philip’s death.” She did not wait for him to digest this before continuing. “And I need your help to prove I’m right.”
CHAPTER THREE
All of London can sleep soundly when the Rogue Runner is on patrol. Don’t be surprised when your blushing daughter considers a life of crime so Gabriel Sinclair will have to arrest her.
-Whispers from Lady X, March 1815
Jemma expected Gabriel to immediately disagree with her. After all, the magistrate at Bow Street already determined there was no need to investigate further into Philip’s murder. In their eyes, the crime was solved, and the murderer already dispatched. When Gabriel’s superior, Sir John Townsend, had come to Wolverston Estate for the funeral, he’d made a point to praise David for ridding the world of a dastardly villain.
But Gabriel didn’t reel back from her in disgust. He didn’t even speak. He simply sat there, as still as a cuckoo bird in a broken clock, his gaze never leaving her face. She stared right back at him, letting his familiar features steady her. Same straight, noble nose. Same strong chin and wide forehead. Same mannerisms, that mask of reserve and solemnity that had the scandal sheets so fascinated with him. “How does he appear so composed when faced with the unsettling horrors of the world?” Whispers from Lady X wrote several months prior. The rest of society was equally baffled by the stoic Rogue Runner.
