by Erica Monroe
CHAPTER FIVE
When our city’s famous Bow Street Runners appear, you know there’s trouble afoot…
-Whispers from Lady X, January 1812
Wolverston Hall
Eight days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston
By the time Gabriel made it to Hill Street, he’d already worked a full shift at the station, plus an hour spent with the magistrate, conferring on his most recent arrest. The thief in question had been caught with his hand in an aristocrat’s overcoat, his fingers closed around a particularly nice pocket watch. Arthur Garland was well-known at the station house, and likely would be sentenced to Newgate for the third time. Gabriel had little hope this stay would change his criminal predilections, as Garland was a longtime member of the notorious thieving gang run out of Rat’s Castle in St. Giles, and locking him up in the college kept him around other criminals of like mind.
Imprisonment served two functions, neither of which had anything to do with rehabilitating the criminal. It took Garland off the streets, and it allowed law-abiding citizens to think that illegal actions had consequences. In his years as a Runner, Gabriel had learned that for most people, it was not the actual sentencing that mattered, but rather the idea that justice had been served. Their world could return back to its preferred state of order. The good triumphed, and the bad were punished.
It was a fable, of course, as dismissive of the nuances of individuality and circumstance as the leading theories on predestination and social class. In his experience, a person’s individual character determined their worth, not the lot into which they had been born. Perhaps it was his friendship with Philip that had planted this kernel of truth, that all people ought to be treated as though they were equals—despite the laws of the day drawing definite lines in the sand between the classes.
He turned the corner, approaching Wolverston Hall from the rear. The street was unoccupied for now—most of the ton was either entertaining guests inside their homes, or off to visit one of Westminster’s many delights. He stole across the street swiftly, silently, coming to a stop in front of the iron gate that marked the end of Wolverston’s property.
He remembered this gate, remembered sneaking out with Philip to the tavern a few streets over. As two stupid young boys, those illicit tankards of ale had felt like the greatest of rebellions. How many times had they gone through this gate, too foxed to chance Lord and Lady Wolverston catching them at the front entrance?
“Friends forever,” they’d vowed. “May no dimber gels come between us.”
He pulled out the key Jemma had given him. The brass was heavy in his hand, weighed down by all the promises he’d broken over the last three years. The people tossed aside as if they had not formed the very foundation of his character.
Regret gnawed at him like a rabid dog with sharp teeth, its bite fierce and powerful enough to tear the breath from his chest. He should have been stronger. Should have fought his attraction to Jemma harder. Even now, when he ought to be doing this for his friend’s memory, for the pursuit of justice and all those ideals he claimed to believe in, it was Jemma who captivated his thoughts. Three bloody years later, and here he was, still hopping to because she’d asked him for help. All she had to do was bat those pretty lashes, wrinkle up that cute button nose, and he’d agree to anything she asked.
Jemma’s words about following his career in the scandal sheets echoed in his ears. Were you really proud of me, old friend? Or is that just something you say about a man you used to know, because it sounds polite?
Thrusting the key in the lock, he filed that thought away with the rest of unanswered questions he had. The key turned with ease, but the gate’s hinges squeaked as he opened it. So much for a furtive approach.
He slipped through the gap in the ivy hedge, stepping into the back garden. Shadowed by the tall vines, he waited for Jemma to emerge, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard. The servants must have finished unpacking Jemma’s things, for they seemed to have returned to their normal routine. Candlelight flickered on each floor of the house, but the empty yard told him the staff must be in the basement eating dinner, as she’d said they would be.
Everything appeared normal, yet the thought of Jemma living alone in the infamous townhouse made him uneasy. Too many things had happened at Wolverston Hall over the years for him to outright dismiss the notion of strange forces at work. As a boy, he’d delighted in the creepiness of the house. Traversing the long, dark hallways with a candle in hand sent shivers down his spine, but he’d felt powerful, as if he was facing all his demons.
He’d no idea what real danger was, then.
Now, a number of bloody scenarios played in his mind. Even if the supernatural claims were baseless, it bothered him that the new Earl of Wolverston had easy access to the house. If what Jemma claimed was true—and he was beginning to believe she was right—then David had already murdered his own brother. What would stop him from harming Jemma?
Nothing but Gabriel.
He had failed to protect Philip, but he’d be damned before he let Jemma get hurt.
As twilight’s gray and blue hues wrapped the townhouse in a moody embrace, candlelight danced in a third-story window, silhouetting her petite frame as she crossed from her dressing table to the window. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. How could he be so enamored with her still, after three years? It was not as if he had remained celibate during that time. When he’d had time away from work, he’d happily buried his problems in willing women who wanted nothing more than a night’s good time.
He ran his hand over the day’s growth of scruff on his chin, frowning. No matter how much he didn’t want it to be true, he’d felt more from simply embracing Jemma yesterday than bedding any other woman. She was a part of him, as much as his work with Bow Street. He couldn’t escape her.
She picked up the candle from the table next to the window, and left the room. In a few minutes, she appeared at the door to the servant’s entrance. He waited, ever-vigilant, alert to any possible threat. She paused, hand on the door, her gaze darting from one end of the courtyard to the next. Certain that no one was coming, she sprinted to him. When she arrived at his side, she dropped a bag of coins into his hand.
“For tonight,” she said. “I figured it was easier to give it to you now than have you pay for transport from your own funds.”
He pursed his lips. Usually, he’d submit an expense report with the cost of travel, but this wasn’t an official case for Bow Street. In private cases, it was up to the client who hired him to pay.
That was the custom—yet, he still hated taking Jemma’s money. It was another reminder of their difference in fortune that he didn’t need.
“Take the blunt, Gabriel,” Jemma ordered him, her voice low and urgent. “We don’t have time for this.”
He suppressed a sigh. She was right, of course. Most of the pawn shops he usually visited for information would already be closed, this late in the day. They’d be going to the public houses instead, as those remained open later, and they needed to get there before the night rush started. Tucking the coins in the inside pocket of his coat, he gestured for her to follow him, and made his way to the gate. He unlocked it, and she went through first, with him coming after her. He closed the gate slowly, careful to not put extra weight on the squeaky hinges. It shut silently.
He set a brisk pace, wanting to put distance between them and Wolverston Hall. Jemma trotted next to him, keeping up despite her shorter strides. They walked for approximately ten minutes in silence. A few people made eye contact or nodded cordially as they passed, but for the most part, people ignored them. No one recognized them.
“You were right,” Jemma murmured, as they came upon the hack stand. They stood side by side, waiting for the carriage to arrive. “People don’t even look up when we go by. It’s like the servant’s garb makes me invisible.”
He turned to face her.
Underneath the golden glow of the gas street la
mp, she was magnificent.
A lone chocolate brown curl escaped from her big mob cap, softly caressing her high cheekbone, just as he longed to do. The dowdy dark gray dress she’d secured from her friends must have been made for someone taller and heavier than her, for it hung from her petite frame loosely, resembling more of a sack than the haute couture she usually wore. Yet the heavily starched white apron she’d tied around her waist hinted at her true curves.
“You could never be invisible,” he told her, his voice too husky, too rough to hide how she made his body stir—no matter what she wore. “A man must be the most infinite of fools to not admire you. You’re radiant, Jemma. You always are.”
A pretty blush pinked her cheeks. For a second he thought he’d embarrassed her. His lips were already forming an apology when she smiled, a wide, glorious smile meant only for him. His breath tore from his chest, so struck was he by her, this woman who was everything he’d ever wanted, and so much more.
The hack pulled up, the driver jumping down as soon as the carriage came to a stop. “Two?”
“Aye.”
“Where’d ye wanna go?”
“St. Giles.”
Reeling back, the coachman fixed him with a look that left no question as to his doubts for Gabriel’s sanity. “Why in God’s name ye wanna go there?”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Do you usually ask your customers their personal business?”
“All right, all right, don’t get yer underdrawers twisted,” the man huffed. He scrutinized them, probably debating if they could afford to pay his fare.
Gabriel did not flinch under the man’s gaze, but Jemma fidgeted, her eyes dropping to her leather half-boots. That was the only part of her attire that did not fit—her boots were too new-looking, free from scuffs or streaks of dirt. He made a mental note to have her trek through a puddle, at least.
The thieves and fences they’d talk to tonight made their careers out of quickly cataloging people, identifying them as possible marks or threats to their safety. Rookery denizens were the most observant lot he dealt with—sometimes more than the Runners themselves.
They must have passed the test, because the driver gave a perfunctory nod. “I can take you as far as Leicester Square, but no further. I ain’t no fool. I know better than to tromp through Little Ireland at night.”
“Can’t you take us to Oxford Street?” That would be a significantly shorter walk to the places they planned to visit.
The driver scrunched up his face, reminding Gabriel of a petulant child. “No. It’s either Leicester Square, or get outta my stand.”
Gabriel considered. The less time Jemma had to spend in the dangerous parts of London, the better. Since it was after sunset, there wouldn’t be traffic from Robert Barker’s View of the Battle of Waterloo panorama on Castle Street—but there’d probably be crowds in the square, due to the many shops and popular entertainment venues. On their way to Compton Street and into St. Giles, they’d still have to pass a bagnio that was more brothel than bathhouse.
It was still safer than walking all that way, and he doubted he’d find another cab driver willing to take them closer.
“That’s acceptable.” He started to approach the carriage, but the coachman reached out, grabbing his arm and holding him back.
The driver held out his hand. “I’ll be needin’ yer fare up front.”
Gabriel pulled the coin purse out of his inside pocket, selected the fare as indicated by the driver, and handed him the money. The driver hopped up on his stand behind the carriage, and Gabriel held out his hand to help Jemma onto the squabs. Once Jemma was settled, Gabriel pounded on the roof to let the coachman know they were ready to start. Soon, the carriage was off, the steady slap of the horse’s hooves against the cobblestones a comfortable, familiar sound.
He leaned back against the squabs, his head resting on the back wall of the carriage, enjoying the clear night air blowing in through the carriage’s open front. Due to June’s colder than normal temperatures, the night was crisp and clear, free of summer’s stifling heat. Twilight was the perfect time for a drive.
And he had the perfect partner.
Sitting far, far too close to him.
The small hack forced them almost on top of each other. He tried to scoot over to the right more so that Jemma would have room, but he hit the windowed wall. All he succeeded in doing was elbowing her as he readjusted.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
She gave him a tentative smile. “It’s fine.”
He sucked in a deep breath to calm his nerves, but that was a mistake. All he could smell was Jemma’s peony soap; all he could feel was the warmth of her thigh, pressed so tightly up against his leg. This, he thought, was certainly the seventh circle of hell. Surely, life could not get worse than being so utterly near the woman he loved, and not being able to touch her.
But then she turned her head, speaking almost directly into his ear, her breath hot against his skin. “I found something tonight.”
This was definitely worse. The noise of the street meant he couldn’t back away, not if he wanted to hear her. He was trapped for the half-hour ride to Leicester Square.
Trapped, as a gentle breeze blew the ruffles on her mob cap so that it rubbed against his cheek.
Trapped, with the bosom of her too loose gown dipping precariously as she leaned toward him.
Trapped, as he prayed to God and all of the saints that his arousal wouldn’t be too obvious, and they could get through this trip with his dignity intact.
“I found something in my things,” Jemma said. “A letter he’d written to me, dated a week before his death, but which he never gave me.”
Philip. That ought to do it. A reminder of the reason why they were in this damn carriage to begin with.
“What did it say?” He managed to keep his voice calm, yet gruffer than he’d wanted.
Even Jemma’s closeness could not distract him from the import of her words. “Philip knew he was going to die.”
***
Jemma’s hands trembled as she pulled the letter out of the pocket in her apron. The pearly white foolscap was all too familiar, purchased from Philip’s favorite stationer on Jermyn Street. She’d bought him a quire for their first anniversary—he preferred practical gifts above all others.
“You understand me, Jemma,” he’d said, when she presented him the box from Cauthier & Son. “How many women would think to not only buy their husbands paper, but to research the precise stationer he preferred? I am the luckiest of men to have you as my wife.”
He’d loved it so much that he’d requested she buy it for him every year. A quire sat in the trunk in her sitting room, ready to be wrapped for their third anniversary. But she wouldn’t be able to give him that gift, or any others, ever again.
She turned the plain paper envelope over in her hands. In the dim twilight, underneath the gas lamps, the writing was barely visible, but she didn’t need to see well to trace the indents of his quill with the pad of her ring finger. Jemma, he’d written, in his neat, thin script. One word. No indication of when—if—he’d planned to give it to her.
“Jemma?” Gabriel’s tentative voice broke into her thoughts.
She ought to hand him the letter. That was why she’d brought it with her, after all. But her fingers wouldn’t cooperate, gripping the paper tightly.
This was it. The last letter Philip would ever send her—a letter from the grave.
A chill spread over her, just as it had the night of his funeral. Time seemed to slow. Since she’d moved into Wolverston Hall, she’d felt as though someone was watching her. Last night, before she retired to bed, an intense need to open the trunk at the foot of her bed struck her. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else.
The servants had already unpacked all of her things—everything except that trunk, which she’d asked them to leave to her. She didn’t want anyone to know about the gold filigreed snuff box she’d hidden toward the bottom, w
hich most certainly did not contain snuff—nestled inside were clippings from scandal sheets detailing the Rogue Runner’s many exploits.
She’d never thought Philip knew about that box.
Yet, when she dug it out from the trunk and opened it, there was the letter, nestled on top of the clippings. Now she knew why she’d felt like someone was keeping an eye on her.
It was Philip. His ghost, pushing her toward justice for him. Perhaps it was true what they said: the souls of the violently murdered could not rest until their killers had been punished. Was Philip doomed to walk the Earth, his troubled spirit bound to this plane of existence, while David lived the grand life he’d stolen from his brother?
Her whole body shook at the thought. Guilt clogged her throat, made it impossible to speak. She should be further along; she should have made David pay.
A calloused hand wrapped around hers, enclosing her ice-cold fingers in warmth and anchoring her to the present. Time started back up again. She breathed freely.
“Do you want me to read the letter?” Gabriel asked gently, the heat of his breath welcome against her frigid cheek.
“The light’s too bad.” That was the real reason, right? Not because she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. “I’ll read it to you. I’ve memorized it already.”
Gabriel forced a smile. “That memory of yours is something. I wish I had your ability to recall things so precisely.”
“No, you don’t.” Jemma shook her head sadly. “To be able to forget—that’s a blessing.”
“I never forgot you,” Gabriel blurted, his cheeks turning crimson when he realized what he’d said.
It was all too much. Her brittle spirit could barely handle the week’s whiplashed emotions—the solemn sadness of grieving for Philip, against the euphoria of being so close to Gabriel. His leg brushing hers, the heat of him penetrating through her cotton dress, apron, and petticoats. His words tickling her cheek. For a second, she could do no more than stare at him, and imagine what their life could have been, if only she’d accepted his proposal.
