The Scandalous Widow (Gothic Brides Book 3)

by Erica Monroe

  “Thank you, Gabriel.” She smiled, and this time, it did not feel so forced. “But I knew who I was marrying, and what our marriage would be like. I chose that life, because it was the best for Rosie, and for my family.”

  “But was it the best for you?” His voice was gravelly, the words an almost growl, the roughness cascading down her spine and filling her with a delicious, unexpected warmth.

  “Perhaps not.” She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, imagining what life could have been like, if she’d not acted out of duty. She thought of a hundred forevers, happy, perfect moments where she loved deeply and absolutely. Every possibility was different, yet they all remained the same—in each, she was with Gabriel. He’d sneak up behind her, whisper the most risqué thing he could think of, his hardness tenting his breeches, leaving no question as to his desires. Every dark alcove in London’s fancy establishments explored, every secret shared, never running out of new things to learn about each other.

  Definitely not.

  In the end, her happiness did not matter. She knew her place. She had been raised for one thing and one thing only: to marry well, by her parents’ standards. She had been too weak to go against them.

  Yet, after watching Rosie…perhaps she had been wise, too.

  “But it was not the worst. Do not mistake me. Philip and I were not in love, but I loved him. He was a good man, a decent man. Is it not better to have years of safety than a few months of blissful happiness? When Viscount Gramercy cried off, it crushed Rosie. I couldn’t stand that.”

  Hatred splashed across Gabriel’s usually inscrutable face, all the more forceful for its foreignness. “Viscount Gramercy is the worst of blackguards to do that to Rose. If I had a criminal charge that would stick, I’d arrest him myself.”

  “And I would be right there, helping you.” She raised her cup to him in a toast. “As I will be, when you arrest David.”

  “Jemma, I want you to know the right man wouldn’t leave you.” Gabriel spoke with such conviction, she almost believed him.

  But she’d watched Rosie sink from the vibrant, fearless younger sister she knew to a hollowed shell of a woman.

  “Perhaps not,” she said, with a sigh.

  She poured another cup of tea and took a long sip, buying a moment to think as the strong, hot brew slid down her throat. A moment later, she began again, with more alacrity this time. The past did not matter, not now.

  She returned them back to the topic. “Well, then. You are aware of the gold buttons that were clipped from Philip’s coat, yes?”

  “Aye. But I haven’t been able to recover them. Wolverston—” he paused as she winced, correcting himself quickly. “Forster, I mean, described them. Stamped with the Regent’s seal, then an olive leaf underneath for camaraderie. The buttons were given to Philip by Prinny, yes?”

  Jemma nodded. “They are one of four pairs, presented to the Prince Regent’s closest associates.”

  Gabriel whistled. “Quite impressive company Philip kept in the last few years.”

  “He would have still taken your calls,” she said gently. “But I understand why you went away, and so did Philip.”

  Gabriel colored, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I have been very busy with Bow Street—”

  “I know.” She reached for his tea cup, refilling it after he nodded approval. “We followed your cases in the scandal sheets. Philip was very proud.”

  As was I.

  Gabriel took the tea from her. “Thank you.”

  She did not question if he acknowledged the tea, or the compliment. Gabriel had never known what to do with praise. It was somehow comforting that fact hadn’t changed.

  “Being solid gold, the buttons must have been too tempting,” Gabriel said. “I did some digging into the man who supposedly attacked them, Cedric Glover. In his thirty-three years of life, he’d been to Newgate thrice, released from the prison hulks last year.”

  “Is that common, to have so many repeat offenses?”

  “Sadly, yes.” Gabriel frowned. “Unfortunately, most of London’s thieves start almost as soon as they can walk. They’re either on the streets working for a gang or their family teaches them how to filch, because they need the income. Most of the thieves we catch have already been to Newgate at least once by adulthood.”

  Jemma’s stomach tightened at the idea of those poor children, serving time in the pestilence-ridden gaol on Fleet Street. “That’s horrible.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I joined Bow Street,” Gabriel said. “I want to change that.”

  “If anyone can, you can,” she said, echoing his earlier praise of her and Wolverston Hall.

  “Thank you.” He smiled, a real, genuine smile now, one that made her heart lurch precariously even though she knew it was all for naught.

  She couldn’t help but smile back at him, though it felt…unfamiliar, as if her lips had forgotten how to form that expression. She kept smiling, giving it another try, though it seemed ghoulish to be anything but despondent.

  Philip wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d never understood feeling just for feeling’s sake. Each emotion, each reaction, ought to serve a productive purpose.

  Gabriel’s brows furrowed, as if he’d just realized something. “Wait, what do you mean, you’ll be by my side when I arrest Forster?”

  “Because I’m going to help you.” She notched her chin higher, facing him with her most convincing I-will-get-my-way stare. “We’re in this together. As partners.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  This publication, which so often has recorded the exploits of Beau Brummel with approval, is disappointed—to say the least—to report that Brummel has cowardly fled to France to avoid paying his plentiful debts of honor. Being extravagant is one thing; being a wastrel is entirely another. We support Prinny in delivering the cut direct to Brummel, who is no longer worthy of our attention.

  -Whispers from Lady X, May 1816

  Gabriel was going to regret this. He knew this as a man condemned knows he is about to die, with the unshakable certainty that he was royally buggered. Yet no amount of acknowledgment would get him away from the inglorious mess he’d made.

  This should have been the easiest case he’d ever worked. Everything was as it seemed, right?

  Yet Philip’s bruised, bloated body haunted his dreams. That had never happened before—not after a case was closed, and especially not when the perpetrator had already met his maker. He’d interviewed all of Mrs. Berkeley’s girls, finally finding one who had been watching out the window when the attack upon the Forster brothers had occurred. The prostitute had confirmed David’s account of the struggle, though because of the angle of her window she couldn’t confirm which of the attacker’s blows had led to Philip’s death.

  Which meant there was a small possibility—infinitesimal, his superiors would say—that Jemma was right, and David had a hand in his old friend’s death.

  Gabriel rubbed his hand against his chin, deep in thought. Would David really conspire to kill his own brother? He was an utter arse, but it was a huge leap from lazy, arrogant pleasure-seeker to murderer.

  For as close as he’d been with Philip, he’d never really got along with his brother. Lord and Lady Wolverston had welcomed him with open arms, treating him as a third son. David never extended the same kindness. He’d either ignored Gabriel completely, or shown open hostility to him.

  They’d attended Eton together for a few years, but David was in a different class, due to the six-year gap between him and Philip. He was the baby of the family, spoiled shamelessly by his parents. While Philip had an ingrained sense of honor and duty, David was a hedonist, driven only by his own self-indulgent desires. He lacked structure, and rarely faced consequences for his actions. It didn’t surprise him at all that David had become an inveterate gambler.

  Was his uneasiness with this case coming from his history with both brothers, or was there something truly there? He couldn’t be sure. And because of that uncertaint
y, he needed to dig deeper, even if his superiors wouldn’t approve. If Philip’s own brother had betrayed him, Gabriel needed to know.

  He owed it to Philip to uncover the truth—the whole truth, not just the tidy facts the magistrates liked so much—behind his death.

  He owed it to Jemma, too. She, who had never been anything but kind to him, even when he’d overstepped the lines of propriety. She deserved to know what happened to Philip, so she could put his memory to rest without doubts.

  But there was no way on God’s green Earth that he’d let her investigate with him as partners. She must be mad to request it.

  When she fixed him with that challenging glare he knew all too well and jutted her chin out like she was ready to fight him, he gulped down the rest of his tea, buying himself a few moments of silence to think of a retort that did not contain the words “are you out of your blooming mind?” Women never appreciated it when he questioned their sanity.

  The tea was gone far too soon, leaving him scrambling. Better not to ask any questions at all, as they’d leave room for Jemma to expound upon all the reasons why she should work with him. Past experience had taught him he was no match for Jemma Gregory Forster at her most determined. Her nimble fingers moving about wildly as she gestured, leaving him wondering what it’d feel like to have those hands on him again. Her words tumbling from her lips swiftly, drawing his attention to her very kissable mouth.

  He set the tea cup down on the table, and tried not to swallow too noticeably when confronted with her fierce gaze. “Absolutely not. You cannot work with me.”

  There. He was proud of how firm he sounded.

  Until Jemma’s brows knitted together, and she scowled at him. “Why not?”

  “What I do is dangerous, Jemma.” He didn’t think she could dispute that, given she’d used that as another reason they’d never be together.

  I want safety, Gabriel. A solid, dependable husband.

  She’d apparently forgotten about that. She shrugged as though it was no longer a bother. “I can handle danger.”

  He decided it was not in his best interests to dispute that, as women didn’t like being told what they could do any more than they liked being asked if they were of sound mind. “I have years of training at investigation, and a network of criminal informants I can utilize—but not if you’re by my side. The places I’ll have to go to find information about Philip’s death aren’t nice places. I watch my back when I’m in the stews, even though as you said, I am quite the pugilist.”

  “I don’t need years of training, not when I have you.” She gave another little shrug; his objections mattered so little to her she couldn’t even think of a new response. “And if we are together, we can watch each other’s backs. You’ll protect me, I know.”

  Of course I would. I’d move mountains for you.

  He didn’t need to tell her this—from her triumphant smile, she already knew he would. He carded a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. “That’s the problem. I can’t focus on getting the intelligence you want if I’m looking out for you.”

  “Then concentrate on your own tasks, and I’ll protect myself. Philip taught me how to fence, and Felicity has prepared several chemical concoctions that do not require strength to use them defensively. I’m going with you, Gabriel, whether you like it or not.”

  She crossed her arms, the movement pushing her breasts up delectably in her stays, and for a full thirty seconds he forgot how to form a sentence, let alone reply eloquently. “If you don’t take me with you, then I will follow you on my own.”

  That was enough to snap his mind back to attention. “I’d sooner let you go to the devil than I would let you roam around the rookeries without an escort.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll go together.” She looked far too pleased with herself, a veritable cat who had not only eaten the canary, but a saucer of milk too. After glancing at the clock, she stood up, going to the bell pull near the door and yanking on it. “Just in time too, for my next guests are due to arrive soon, and I want you to meet them.”

  “Guests?” He repeated incredulously. Whom had she invited? “You’re going to have people over, with the house looking like this?”

  Jemma placed her hands on her hips, fixing him with an equally disbelieving glare. “You are taking me to task for my housekeeping?”

  “Point taken,” he admitted. His home had changed little since she’d come by with Philip. Because he spent so much time at work, he was rarely home for more than a few hours at a time, and his flat definitely showed it. “But the Jemma I used to know would never have let anyone view her house with boxes everywhere. Isn’t it some cardinal sin against society?”

  “Maybe the Jemma you knew is gone.” She shook her head sadly. “Maybe she was a fool, who thought she knew everything about the world, only to find she was utterly wrong.”

  How thoroughly he’d missed the mark with his half-hearted joke. He got up from the settee, coming to stand behind her. Without hesitating, he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. She stiffened, the embrace unexpected, but settled against him, her head on his chest. For a minute, neither of them spoke. He stroked her back. Tried—failed—not to get lost in the feel of her against him, her fine muslin gown smooth underneath his touch. She snuggled closer to him, wafting the delicate floral of her soap to his nose. God, how he’d missed how she smelled, like peonies fresh after a summer rain. Softly feminine, yet with a touch of spice, so uniquely, undeniably Jemma.

  “I’ve never once thought you were stupid,” he murmured, as he moved his hand across her back in concentric circles. “You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever known, Jemma. Please don’t forget that.”

  “Why are you so kind to me?” She tilted her face upward, befuddled by his declaration. “I mean, I know why you are helping me with Philip. You were friends for a long time.”

  “Since Eton.” He had few memories of the school that didn’t involve Philip. When they’d both graduated and settled in London, it was only natural that they’d carried on their friendship—even when he became a patrolman.

  If Philip hadn’t married Jemma, they probably would have stayed friends.

  But he had, and Gabriel couldn’t continue watching Philip live the life he wanted.

  And now Philip was dead, leaving Gabriel with nothing but questions.

  “That’s a long time,” Jemma murmured, starting to pull away from him. “I’m sorry I cost you your friendship with him.”

  He slung his arm around her, tugging her back to him, even though he knew he ought to let her go. Yet, he couldn’t, any more than he’d been able to stop himself from kissing her that night in Vauxhall, when she’d belonged to another.

  “You didn’t.” It was a lie, yes, but she did not need more pain. Not now. He needed only to look down at her widow’s weeds to remind himself of the grief she felt. He wouldn’t add onto that. “I told you, I was very busy at work—one doesn’t become a Runner without effort. And to answer your original question, I am kind to you because you are a good person, and you deserve such kindness.”

  He chose the simplest response he could think of, though it barely scratched the surface. He had a hundred reasons why he’d fallen in love with her, back when she was Miss Gregory, the oldest daughter of the Marquess of Sayer. From what little time he’d spent around her today, he doubted that list would be shortened.

  “Not just any Runner.” She caught his eye again, but this time, amusement flashed in her deep brown eyes. “The Rogue Runner.”

  “Now there’s an example of stupidity for you. That scandal sheet is all tawdry lies. I assure you, no debutante has ever fainted in front of me while exclaiming ‘take me, Rogue Runner!’ as they reported.” He did not add that it wouldn’t have mattered if they did, for the only debutante he’d ever wanted was her—the one he couldn’t have.

  “I did wonder about that,” she quipped. “Such melodramatic language for a sexual proposal!”


  He regretted having her so close to him, as his body no doubt reacted to the idea of her “sexually proposing.” Thankfully, he was saved from a response by the appearance of the servant she’d summoned earlier. Jemma jumped back, smoothing her hand down her dress.

  “I do beg your pardon, Lady Wolverston,” the young maid said, the rosy blush on her face making it all-too-clear what she thought she’d interrupted.

  “Nonsense, Ellen.” Jemma waved her hand dismissively, quick to put the maid at ease. “This is Gabriel Sinclair from Bow Street. He is a very old friend of Lord Wolverston, and has come to express his sympathy.”

  “Oh, I see.” Ellen did not look entirely convinced, but at least the pink on her pale, freckled cheeks subsided. “You rang earlier for me? I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I was across the house assisting the other maids with unpacking your boxes.”

  “Very good. The sooner we get unpacked, the sooner this dreadful place will start to feel like home.” Jemma offered Ellen an encouraging smile, which had the effect of further relaxing the maid, until she no longer eyed Gabriel with the mix of half-interest, half-suspicion female servants all seemed to exhibit around him. “I’d like to get fresh tea for Lord and Lady Marlburg and some of those lemon biscuits from Cook. They should arrive shortly.”

  “Yes, milady.” Ellen gave a smart curtsy, and off she went with a final look over her shoulder at Gabriel.

  Jemma laughed. “The Rogue Runner strikes again, I see.”

  “It’s a gift I never asked for. What can I say?” Gabriel rolled his eyes, shutting the door to the room again. “But do you really want Lord and Lady Marlburg to know I’m here? I thought you wanted to keep this quiet.”

  “I’ll tell them you’re helping me to recover the buttons, which isn’t a lie.” She moved back to the settee to await the arrival of the new tea tray. “Besides, my lack of housekeeping, and my move into Wolverston Hall, is far more scintillating gossip in Georgina’s mind. I’ll be surprised if she even remembers you were here, which I know shall be a blow to your ego.”