by Erica Monroe
“I’ve never cared about other women remembering me,” he said, with a pointed look at her. “Just you.”
***
When she was an inquisitive girl of seven, Jemma found a striker in the rubbish of the dead groom’s belongings, set aside for donation to the village poor. Furtively, she’d glanced about the stable yard, making sure no one saw her as she slipped the scissor-like apparatus into the pocket of her pinafore. Out in the fallow field her parents had long ago deemed too sandy for crops, when she was supposed to be studying for the next day’s French exam, she’d rubbed the flint blade against the steel part until a spark surged forth.
For an hour, she experimented, watching the red-orange flame dance in the waning sunlight, feeling the heat it produced against her cheek. By the time her governess finally discovered her, she’d born angry red, stinging burns across the tips of her fingers. From that day, she learned that if she was not careful, fire could be dangerous—but that did not abate her desire for a rousing blaze. Over the years, to the great consternation of her parents and governesses, she returned to that fallow field. Her fires grew larger, more unwieldy, an outward expression of the rebellious spirit she was forced to subdue in society.
So it had gone, until Rosie’s ruin made her realize the error in her ways. Temptation was as wicked, as reckless, as her parents always claimed. She could not sin and escape unscathed. Sensible, reasonable, predictable—those were the words she’d embroidered upon her adult life, from her marriage to Philip to her management of the Wolverston households.
But here, under the intense scrutiny of Gabriel Sinclair, as his voice dipped into that gravelly-good tone that scraped her skin in the most deliciously rough way, Jemma remembered what it was like to play with fire.
And she liked it.
Too much.
She liked the way his arms had wrapped around her, how the barest touch of his fingers against the small of her back had caused a frisson of heat so like that from the striker. How resting her cheek against the coarse cambric of his shirt felt like the spark to a burgeoning inferno—just waiting for her to give in to passion.
She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Such was the refrain she repeated to herself as she’d pulled back from him. As she’d told her maid that half-truth—she and Gabriel could never be friends. Applying that label years ago had been as dangerous as striking flint, for it’d allowed her to justify all the time spent with Gabriel occupying her thoughts. Their farce had gone on so long, burned so bright, it was only a matter of time before it ignited into a foolish, traitorous kiss.
That kiss, which had been the only thing in her life that had ever felt as it belonged only to her, apart from the desires of her parents, of society.
She was wrong. The silence stretched between them, making Gabriel’s last statement so much harder to ignore. It had been wrong to kiss him. Wrong to pine for him. Wrong to let him comfort her now, because of that shared history of secret mistakes.
But oh, how she wanted that comfort. Wanted him. His bravery, his candor, his fortitude. She loved how he treated everyone with dignity, and his dedication to truth and justice. He looked at her as though she did not need to earn his respect, because she already had it.
She could not remember ever feeling as loved, as accepted, as she did during those few months of being around Gabriel. Before she cast it all away to be practical and marry Philip.
She sucked in a breath. Reminded herself that she was not the girl she’d been once, but Lady Wolverston. Schooled her face into a blank expression, the one she wore whenever she had to face Georgina.
The seconds stretched into minutes and still the silence remained, until it was so thick, so stifling, she could barely breathe. It was with the utmost enthusiasm then that she jumped up from the settee at the sound of footsteps, running to the door, flinging it open and almost smacking into poor Ellen in the process.
“Milady,” Ellen said, her brows almost as sky high as when she’d walked in upon Gabriel embracing her. Just as she had a quarter of an hour before, her all-too-perceptive gaze piecing together everything. “May I present Lord and Lady Marlburg.”
Georgina swept past Ellen, coming so close that the redheaded maid had to jump back so as to not collide with her. Lord Marlburg lumbered in after her. Ellen brought up the rear, depositing the tea tray with the refreshed silver teapot, cups, lemon biscuits, and dainty petit fours. She looked at Jemma, expecting the usual dismissal.
But Jemma knew she’d catch hell from Georgina if she served the tea herself, so she nodded for Ellen to pour each guest a piping hot cup and pass them a plate for pastries. Only then did she dismiss the maid, motioning for Ellen to shut the door after her.
Georgina did not wait for the door to click shut before she started in with her commentary. “Wolverston Hall, Jemma? Really? Whispers from Lady X has not stopped talking about you moving in here. Just when the scandal of the ghastly murder was dying down!”
That ghastly murder was my husband and best friend.
Jemma clenched her jaw, determined not to respond. She needed Gabriel to hear about David’s jealousy of Philip, so she’d have to sit through Georgina’s diatribe.
“Darling,” Marlburg responded half-heartedly, dropping enough pastries for three people onto his tiny dessert plate. His lackluster remonstrance was as effective as it always was: not in the least.
Georgina’s gaze had settled on Gabriel. Her face scrunched up with disapproval, making her resemble the pug dog she’d had as a child. “Why is he here?”
“Darling,” Marlburg tried again, around a mouthful of lemon biscuit. Crumbs fell onto his tawny mustache, sticking in the bushy bristles. “That’s Gabriel Sinclair from the Bow Street Runners. Do be kind.”
“I know who he is. I do not understand why the Rogue Runner is here, when Philip’s murderer has already been caught. Philip was not close enough to him to warrant a second visit, no matter what he may have told you, Jemma.” When Jemma did not respond, the Marchioness of Marlburg turned her glare back upon Gabriel. “Don’t you have other doorsteps you could darken besides ours?”
My doorstep, not yours.
Jemma barely kept the ire from her voice as she passed Georgina the plate of pastries. If she could make it through this interview without throttling Philip’s cousin, then she’d consider it a success. “I asked Principal Officer Sinclair for an update on the gold buttons that were cut from Philip’s coat.”
Marlburg looked up from his second lemon biscuit, interested for the first time since he’d arrived. “The ones from Prinny?”
Jemma nodded.
“Good.” Marlburg shoved more biscuit into his mouth, speaking around the mouthful. “We sure would appreciate those being returned, Officer Sinclair. Very important to the family, you know.”
Jemma stiffened, biting down on the urge to remark that for a “member of the family,” Marlburg hadn’t managed more than a few words at the funeral for a man who had once considered him a close friend.
Gabriel caught her eye, giving her an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.
She relaxed against the settee, her irritation lessened by his acknowledgment. He saw her—the real her, the one she couldn’t show around her family, blood or marital.
“I thought the buttons belonged exclusively to Lord Wolverston?” Gabriel made the pointed question sound so casual, Marlburg didn’t think to object.
Marlburg kept his gaze on his third lemon biscuit. “When the Prince Regent gives you a gift, it’s an honor to the entire family.”
“Those buttons were a sign of distinction,” Georgina added, delicately picking at her first petit four with her fork, as a bird pecks at a bug in the sand. While her husband was round-faced with large jowls, Georgina was tall and spindly, her nose sharp as a beak. “Well-deserved, of course, as the Harding-Forster family is one of the finest in England.”
Since you tell everyone you meet that, it simply must be true.
Jemma shoved a petit four into her mouth to keep from speaking. She adored Nicholas and his wife Felicity, but she’d happily never talk to Georgina again. Of course, Georgina could talk about herself for hours—and had, several times—so Jemma didn’t have to speak much to begin with.
“Although, I remain baffled that Prinny blessed Philip with the buttons, when he’s always been closer to Marlburg.” Georgina patted her husband’s hand, and he started, his chin jolting up from his plate.
“Quite true, quite true.” This sentiment thus uttered, he went back to eating.
“Or David,” Jemma put in, to nudge Georgina in the right direction. “I always thought that the Prince Regent had a soft spot for David.”
Georgina perked up at the mention of David. The two were a year apart in age, and had always acted more as brother and sister than cousins. “Who could blame him? Wolverston is the most amiable of men. There is not a soiree he isn’t welcome to, and he is the life of the party.”
Hearing David’s new title slip so easily from Georgina’s lips made Jemma sick. Philip didn’t matter to his family anymore—it was as if he never existed. She spun on the settee, facing Georgina, the woman’s smirk goading her past caution. Words tumbled out faster than she could stop them. “I suppose people have forgiven David’s gambling vowels? Last I heard, Almack’s was considering banning him because he didn’t pay his debts of honor.”
Oh, devil take me.
She hadn’t meant to say any of that. She’d wanted to lull Georgina into a sense of security before she asked about David’s debts. She’d planned on pulling out the information from her slowly, in the course of normal conversation, so Georgina wouldn’t get suspicious.
No chance of that now. Blast it all, she’d be lucky to survive this tea without Georgina hurling a cup at her head.
Georgina stiffened, fixing Jemma with a lethal look. “David would have paid all his vowels with expediency, if Philip had simply helped him. It was not an unreasonable request, especially when an estate is as prosperous as Wolverston. Instead, Philip told David—his only brother, I might add—that he ought to work off the debt. As if Forsters or Hardings worked! Our lines are long and legendary.”
By her side, Marlburg took her bony hand into his plump palm, squeezing it. “Now, now, my dear, there’s no need to get upset. I’m sure Wolverston exaggerated what the old earl meant.”
“The old earl?” Jemma repeated incredulously, her voice shaking with insuppressible rage. “Philip has only been dead a week. You speak as though he’s been gone years.”
“How did Lord Wolverston react to his brother’s refusal of aid?” Gabriel’s firm, calm voice pierced the tension, causing all heads in the room to swivel toward him.
She’d forgotten he was there. Hell of an investigator she made, when she couldn’t keep her feelings from clouding her judgment.
Georgina glowered. “He was furious, and justifiably so. Philip wouldn’t help him, and then Prinny gave him those buttons! It was like a slap in David’s face.”
Gabriel sipped at his tea, watching them all without a hint of emotion upon his stony face. “It seems as if because he was the younger brother, he received much less than was his due.”
Jemma opened her mouth to object, but one look at Gabriel made her stop. If she wanted his help, she’d have to trust that he knew what he was doing, and that included interrogating witnesses.
Marlburg shrugged, his attention focused on shoveling a seventh lemon biscuit onto his plate. “Wolverston did fine for himself. If the man stayed off the tables, he’d be rich as Midas.”
“That is not true,” Georgina objected, with a glare at her husband.
Marlburg ignored her hard stare. Likely, he was used to it by now. “Man likes to gamble. Of course, so do I, and so does Prinny. Comes naturally to us of the fashionable set. Fortunes are made on those tables, and fortunes are lost. What does it matter, when it can all be made back?”
“How fortunate for you all, to be in a position to view money so cavalierly,” Gabriel said mildly. Despite the lack of derision in his voice, Jemma knew the full condemnation behind his words.
But neither Marlburg nor Georgina understood him. Marlburg went back to his biscuit, and Georgina preened, pleased to have her exalted financial status recognized.
“That is what we’re due, as aristocrats.” She smiled smugly. “If Philip had simply granted David a loan, David could have paid it all back with his next win. I hate to speak ill of the dead, mind you, but I found his treatment of David to be cruel. And then Prinny goes and gives him those gold buttons—one of them alone would have paid David’s debts, and then some.”
“What did you expect Philip to do? Pawn the buttons?” Jemma asked. “Then he’d be no better than Beau Brummel, evoking Prinny’s scorn.”
“David deserved the buttons more,” Georgina said, ignoring her question. “Philip didn’t even like wearing them. He said they were too gaudy, as if a present from royalty could ever be gaudy. Now no one has them, because the Rogue Runner here has not been able to locate them.”
“That’s true.” Marlburg shoved his plate away, his thick brows furrowing. “Philip didn’t want to wear the buttons the night we went out. He said they were too ostentatious. David reminded him we were meeting Prinny.”
“At the theater,” Georgina clarified, with an upturn of her hook nose. “Marlburg wouldn’t ever go to the White House.”
“Of course, of course.” Gabriel waved his hand, as if this fact was so well-established it would never have entered his mind. “So Lord Wolverston wanted his brother to wear the buttons?”
“When you receive a gift from the Prince Regent, you wear it,” Georgina said this as though she were talking to a three-year-old. “Only someone who has never received a gift from Prinny would ask that kind of question.”
Jemma bristled, but Gabriel smiled indulgently.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve never had that honor. But I imagine it is a huge privilege. I understand only four pairs were made, right?”
She’d told him that—so why was he asking Georgina?
“Yes.” Georgina smiled at Gabriel for the first time since their interview had begun. “You have done your research, Rogue Runner! Maybe we’ll see those buttons again after all. What steps are you taking?”
Jemma didn’t think that was any of Georgina’s business, but she wanted to know too, so she remained quiet.
“I plan to interview pawnbrokers, until one of them remembers something about the buttons,” Gabriel said. “With any luck, I’ll be able to restore the buttons to their rightful owner, Lady Wolverston.”
Marlburg let out a loud sigh, dislodging some of the crumbs from his beard. “What will you do with men’s buttons, Jemma?”
“They should go to David.” When her husband coughed, Georgina quickly amended her statement. “Or Marlburg, of course. The Prince’s real friends.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Gabriel’s reply didn’t promise anything, but it was enough to content both Marlburg and Georgina.
The conversation shifted, with Georgina and Marlburg revealing all of the recent events Jemma had missed while she was in mourning. That was the sole benefit of being a widow—she’d be excused from soirees for a year, since it would be unseemly for a grieving widow to have fun after the death of her beloved husband.
An hour passed, and then Lord and Lady Marlburg were ready to say their goodbyes. Jemma let out a sigh of relief as she watched them climb into their large black carriage.
“I’ve never been so glad to see someone leave.” She closed the front door behind her, leaning back against it. “So was it enough to convince you of David’s guilt?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Gabriel reminded her, resting his elbow on the door, the stance bringing him into close quarters with her once more.
God, he smelled exactly as he had three years prior. Pine and spearmint, as crisp and forthright as he was.
“What m
atters, then?”
“Evidence. Things I can present to the magistrate. This has to be indisputable, if you’re going after a peer.” He ran a hand through his hair, as he always did when he was trying to puzzle through a problem. “But I’m starting to believe David really did have something to do with Philip’s death.”
“Which means we need to interview those pawnbrokers you spoke of.”
“We?”
She frowned at him. “Yes, we. We talked about this, and you agreed we’d be partners. I’m going with you.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But you’ll need different clothes, something working class. I can’t have you going around as Lady Wolverston—none of my sources will trust me.”
“I figured,” she said. “Felicity and Claire are pulling together some castoff clothes for me.”
Gabriel arched a brow. “You know I’d agree to help you?”
“I hoped,” she said. “And I thought it better to be prepared. I’m meeting with them tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” He nodded his approval. “We’ll meet tomorrow night then, after my shift.”
“Could you come by around seven thirty? The servants should all be taking their meal downstairs then. I will meet you in the back garden.” She didn’t want to take the chance that anyone would see him coming in from the street, not when the scandal sheets had already reported that she’d moved into Wolverston Hall. Gabriel’s visit today could be excused, but to visit again, this time at night? Whispers from Lady X had run with less.
“Good thinking.” The pride in Gabriel’s voice touched her far more than it should—her heart warmed at his approval. As he left with a promise to see her on the morrow, she thought again of that striker she’d once had, and the little flame that became a towering inferno.
Gabriel Sinclair was the key to finding answers about her husband’s death, but he was also the greatest temptation she’d ever faced.
