The Scandalous Widow (Gothic Brides Book 3)

by Erica Monroe

  “I want to find the gold buttons,” Gabriel said. “I know they were cut off Wolverston’s jacket. Presumably by the same men who murdered him and attacked his brother. The Forster family has put up a large reward for the return of them.”

  Osborne leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Gold, ye say? That’d be a nice damn day.”

  “So you haven’t seen them.” Gabriel scrubbed a hand through his hair, sighing. “Unfortunate. The money the new earl has pledged would set you up nicely.”

  “How nicely?”

  Gabriel looked toward the back of the shop, making sure Mrs. Jennings couldn’t hear them. “Enough to get your own shop.”

  The glint in Osborne’s dark eyes told him he’d made the right assessment. Osborne followed Gabriel’s gaze, lowering his voice as he replied, “I haven’t seen the buttons. But I know someone who might have. What will that get me?”

  “If it helps me find Wolverston’s killers, I’ll make sure you get paid.”

  A wide smile spread across Osborne’s lips. Hope played across his dark skin, like the sparkle in Jemma’s eyes when he’d said he’d help her. Gabriel ignored the voice in the back of his mind that said too many people were counting on him with this case.

  For a second, Osborne hesitated, as if debating with himself the wisdom of sharing his information. After a final glance at the door, he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mauly Jives on Jacob’s Island.”

  The name sounded familiar, though Jacob’s Island was the last place he would have thought to check. Located on the south bank of the Thames River, the rookery was part of Bermondsey, on the outskirts of London. Once home to the affluent, Jacob’s Island had become a squalid stain on the Southwark borough. The jobs that had made the town prosperous no longer existed, as the timber and boat building companies had moved their processes down the River Neckinger to Rotherhithe, in conjunction with the plans to expand the Commercial Docks.

  On a good day, he returned from a trip to Jacob’s Island with only his purse filched, and all his limbs intact.

  On a bad day…well, bad days in the stews tended to result in loss of life.

  He pushed that thought away before it had time to spin into a thick web of worry and dread. There’d be no bloodshed this time, not with Jemma accompanying him. He’d keep her safe, by any means necessary.

  “She’s got a gang,” Osborne said. “The worst of the worst, all tied up around Madame Stuart’s brothel. If ye wanted to fence gold, ye’d go to her.”

  Gabriel remembered why the woman sounded so familiar—her gang of child thieves had showed up in several of Bow Street’s cases, though none he’d personally worked. “I’ll check her out. Did you hear anything else?”

  “‘Fraid that’s it,” Osborne said. “Best of luck to ye both, gettin’ leg-shackled.”

  “Thank you,” Jemma said, with a smile.

  Gabriel turned to leave, Jemma’s hand in his. It ought not feel so right to stand here with her, yet…he could not explain the effect she had on him, the way his body was drawn to her, as if she were what he’d been missing his whole life.

  “Sinclair?” Osborne’s tentative tone, so different from the cocksure way he usually spoke, gave Gabriel pause. “Just…be discreet, eh?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Always. Discretion is the better part of valor and such.”

  Osborne shrugged. “Whatever ye say.”

  A crash from the back made them all jump. Arching his brow, Gabriel silently exchanged a glance with Osborne, who mouthed the words “Mrs. Jennings.” He waited a second to see if Osborne needed help, but the other man made a quick shooing motion and then placed his finger over his lips.

  He held open the door for Jemma, then followed her out into the street. Slowly, carefully, he shut the door behind him, making sure that the movement did not jostle the bell above the door. Osborne went to the front of the shop and locked it, then headed to the back.

  Gabriel turned, his back to the shop. He had been so reticent to enter St. Giles, but now he lingered, wishing to prolong the moment of fantasy in which Jemma really was his.

  Jemma pulled her hand from his. “Shall we go?”

  And just like that, the moment was over. He remembered precisely who he was, and who Jemma was: he, the outsider, and she, the one who had always belonged.

  Perhaps their worlds did not collide for a reason. She felt like the balm to his tired, broken soul, but that did not give him a right to demand more from her. He would not take what she could not give.

  This time, as long as it was what she wanted, he would be strong enough to be her friend—and only her friend.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Our ancestors would be shocked to see Bermondsey as it is now. Since the closure of Thomas Keyse’s Spa Gardens, what was once beautiful foliage and magnificent townhouses is squalid due to industrialization. Be wise: avoid Jacob’s Island at all costs.

  -Whispers from Lady X, January 1816

  Jacob’s Island, Bermondsey

  Nine days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston

  If St. Giles was dangerous, then Jacob’s Island was hell. A pestilence-filled, graveyard-smelling hell, where the pungency of death clung to everything like the thick black shroud David had worn the night of the funeral. How it had galled her, to see him parade about in that outrageous black monstrosity, when he was the reason Philip was dead. And just like that night, Jemma couldn’t think clearly.

  Gabriel held a lantern high in his outstretched hand as they disembarked from the ferry at St. Saviour’s Docks, located on the east side of Jacob’s Island. It was then that Jemma began to feel it: the ache of unfulfilled dreams, the sting of regret, as if the ghosts of the pirates executed upon the dock never rested. She hadn’t wanted to know the history of this place, but their ferryman was determinedly loquacious. Never again could she see the River Neckinger on a map and not think of the Devil’s Neckerchief, the gibbet used to hang convicted buccaneers.

  She tugged her shawl tighter around her, as they approached the deep, muddy chasm Gabriel told her was Folly’s Ditch. The closer they got to the ditch, the more that sensation of unrest increased, shifting from the spirits of the past to the very real tragedies of the present.

  At first, she thought the overwhelming stench was too much like that of the cemetery at the Church of All Souls: the mossy ground sodden after the recent rains, the ripeness of decaying leaves, mildew stretched across wet stone. But this was so much worse.

  Rank and foul, like a hundred cartons of rotting eggs collected in this one spot. Her eyes stung, her nose burned, and her stomach tossed all at once, the nausea so pervasive she had to grab the rotting wooden railing to steady herself.

  “Are you all right?” Gabriel asked, eying her with concern.

  She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to open her mouth to let in the moist, rancid air. She shook her head, not wanting to cause Gabriel undue stress.

  Worry lines creased Gabriel’s forehead. “Do you want to go back? I can meet with Mauly Jives myself.”

  She stood stock-still on the rickety wooden bridge across the ditch, grasping the rail for dear life. She made the mistake of looking down into the murky water, so laced with scum it was as if a great spider’s web stretched across it. Bubbles of gas broke through the spectral colors of grease, as decaying weeds floated by. Across the way, dead fish littered the water. She followed that line of vision to the filth-strewn walls of the houses, each with a drain pouring into the water. Some houses had buckets set out next to the river, ready to dip in.

  Did the people drink from this sewer, too? She couldn’t see any other sources of clean water.

  Oh, God. She clutched her roiling stomach, willing it to still. She had not been prepared for this. St. Giles had been bad, but she had been able to retreat back to the familiar streets of the West End.

  Here, there was no escape. Every inch of Jacob’s Island was as decrepit, as degraded, as this damn ditch. She looked to her right,
and far off in the distance the water was red, either from the blood of the slaughtered animals or the dye used on their carcasses at the tannery. She didn’t want to know which.

  With each breath she took in, her panic amplified, until it almost choked her. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she scolded herself, hating her own weakness. This was where people lived, and she couldn’t make it past the first bridge.

  What did it say about her, that she spent her days in the gilded cage that was being the Countess of Wolverston, never realizing these people existed in such abject poverty? Her purse full of coins weighed heavily in her pocket, one more reminder that she had so much, and these people had nothing.

  Every excuse she’d ever made over the years about why she didn’t have time for charity work, every problem she’d ever complained about, every lie she’d ever told to make life a little easier on herself, all echoed in her mind in an overwhelming cacophony of ignorance and failure.

  “It’s fine, Jemma.” Gabriel’s reassuring voice broke through the dissonance. “Really. We can go back. I’ll come tomorrow, on my own.”

  She breathed in, then out, the air no longer burning her throat so fiercely. She focused on Gabriel’s face—his Roman nose, his strong jaw, his understanding eyes. He’d come with her on his own time, after working a hard day with Bow Street, because he believed there was truth to her suspicions.

  Because he too wanted justice for Philip.

  Because he was here for her.

  Oh, how she wanted to believe that last part—that no matter what, Gabriel would continue to be there for her. That she hadn’t ruined whatever chance they had at happiness. That she still had a right to happiness, after all her mistakes.

  Jemma took a shaky step forward. The bridge creaked in protest, but she did not stop. She would make sure David did not get away with murder.

  And then she would figure out a way to turn her fortunate upbringing into something good. Something that would help people who had so much less.

  She could do this, because she had Gabriel at her side.

  “One problem at a time,” Philip had always said.

  All she had to do was abide by that advice. One foot in front of the other in steady progress. She kept her gaze on Gabriel, and soon, she stepped off the rundown bridge onto Mill Lane.

  The houses did not improve upon closer inspection. Built so close together it was as almost as if they were on top of each other, the abodes hung out over the river, jutting into the mud. Even the most romantic-minded could not claim that this was a canal city like the great Venice, but rather a living, breathing sewer.

  These low-roofed dwellings stood up more by the power of prayer than any structural integrity. The dirt-spackled exterior walls threatened to collapse if one breathed too hard. Large holes appeared in several roofs, with remnants of past patch jobs clinging to the rotting wood. There was not a single unbroken window in the twelve houses that made up this stretch of the land. In some places, dirty rags were stuffed into the holes in a last-ditch effort to keep out the elements, but in general, the residents seemed to have given up on a battle they could not hope to win.

  If futility could be defined by a place, then it was here, in this strange maze of decrepit bridges and slopping muck.

  “Where is the Ghoul and Goblin?” Jemma asked, trying not to watch as children scampered barefoot through the cinder heaps.

  It was no use—that image would stick with her long after she left this place.

  “Over on London Street,” Gabriel answered. “Not far to go at all.”

  “I’ve never been happier to hear you say that,” Jemma said, picking her way around a literal pig-sty, set up in front of one of the houses. Unlike the children, the pigs looked remarkably healthy, flourishing in a land where offal was so easily obtained.

  Gingerly, they made their way across another ramshackle bridge. Gabriel led her down another corner, and then they were on London Street. Jemma let out a giant sigh of relief. Several minutes later they arrived at the intersection of London and Oxley, and Gabriel stopped so abruptly in front of a teetering wood and chipped brick building that Jemma almost collided into him.

  “This is the public house?” It did not look like any public house she had ever seen. The windows had bars over them—or the remains of bars, for rust had taken hold of the iron so stubbornly she doubted they would serve as a deterrent to a determined thief. The chimney of the building lurched off to one side, half-gone but still attached.

  She edged closer to Gabriel, wanting his strength, his protection, when faced with such unfamiliar circumstances. When he was nearby, she felt calmer, like she could face anything.

  “Aye.” Gabriel raised his fist, knocking upon the door. Paint crumbled off in his hands, once white but blackened by exposure to constant grime.

  The door swung open, answered by a tall, emaciated man with paper-thin pearly white flesh. The dark circles around his eyes stood out in stark contrast. His mouth was full of yellowed, broken teeth. He wore an ensemble so strange Jemma could not help but stare: black breeches with rips in them, a silver waistcoat that appeared three sizes too large, and a hunter green brocade coat that must have been from the last century. His right leg was encased in a purple stocking, while his left boasted navy blue.

  “Wot ye want?” he asked, punctuating the question with a great yawn.

  “This is the Ghoul and Goblin, yes?” She forgot to remain silent, so taken aback was she by him.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, until all she could see were two little dark slits in a sea of white skin. “Who’s askin’?”

  She didn’t know what answer to give to that, so she waited for Gabriel, again scooting nearer to him. He surprised her by answering in a tone as flat as the bottom of the ferry they’d rode here on, “Tell Mauly Jives that Principal Officer Gabriel Sinclair is here.”

  What happened to using aliases? This couldn’t be the right play. Given what Osborne had said about Jives, surely this was only going to make her balk—or flee.

  But the oddly-dressed man simply shrugged, and stepped back from the door, holding it open for them. “Suit yerself, mate. ‘Tis yer funeral.”

  He closed the door behind them, and motioned for them to have a seat in the public house. The space was larger than Jemma would have thought from the outside of the building, full of mismatched tables and chairs. Half were occupied by people with the same sickly white skin and sunken, dark eyes. She slid onto a bench. Gabriel blew out the lantern, and set it down on the table. He slipped an arm around her, and her heart soared at the simple gesture.

  As if she was his, for real.

  She wanted that, more than she’d ever wanted anything—but it seemed impossible.

  Still, he had marked her as under his protection, and she was unspeakably relieved to have him here with her. His broad-shouldered, muscular build made him intimidating enough, but there was a coldness to his eyes, a hyper-alertness that made her think of a lion about to pounce on an antelope.

  Philip had defended her, but his protection had always been in the power he held over the rest of society. He’d delivered a swift cut direct to anyone who besmirched Rosie’s name in their presence, and soon, the rumors grew to naught more than tiny titters from a few persnickety dragons.

  This was far more primal. Gabriel’s posture was straight, yet loose, as if he was waiting for the right time to dig his teeth into the neck of anyone who dared so much as look at her in the wrong way.

  That shouldn’t have made warmth pool within her, nor should she have felt those telltale tingles of desire.

  But she did.

  It seemed she was always doing—and feeling—what she shouldn’t, when Gabriel was around. Three years ago, she had decided her head ought to be her guide. Now her heart kept acting as her touchstone, and she didn’t know if she could trust it.

  A few minutes later, the man from the front door reappeared, motioning for them to follow him. Gabriel picked up the lantern, and they set off. T
he man led them to a dark, narrow hallway, lit by a single dingy lantern. The smell of burning animal fat from the candle made Jemma’s nose twitch, but at least it was a far cry from the pungency of the outdoors.

  Down the hall they went, then they turned and went down another hall. This one had two lanterns. Doors lined the hall, salacious moans and vulgar curses echoing from behind them. She heard a crack from one of the doors, like a whip had been used.

  She gulped. Was this what it had been like at the White House, when Philip visited? The scandal sheets might not have revealed the nature of Mrs. Berkeley’s boudoir explicitly, but they’d dropped enough hints for Jemma to know the abbess practiced flagellation.

  In that moment, she was ignorant again. Philip had never introduced such tactics into their bedroom. Their lovemaking had been dispassionate at best, such a far cry from the sparks when she’d kissed Gabriel.

  He reached behind him, taking her hand in his and giving it a quick press of reassurance. How did he always know what she needed? She returned his squeeze, grateful for his stalwart company—grateful for him.

  They proceeded down another, thankfully quieter hall. Jemma began to wonder if they truly were descending into the bowels of hell. Even if the Ghoul and Goblin was joined with a brothel, they’d been walking for longer than she’d expected.

  Finally, the willowy man stopped in front of a red door. He knocked once, and then opened the door. Nodding at them, he stepped back, and then promptly headed back down the hall.

  “I suppose we should go in,” Jemma whispered.

  They entered together, Gabriel positioning himself in front of her, shielding her. She peeked out from behind his arm. Her curiosity outweighed her fear, for it was hard to be afraid when a man as strapping as Gabriel had made it his mission to protect her.

  A woman sat in a dilapidated blue armchair by the window, the curtains drawn back so that she could view the night sky. The moon lit her reflection in the glass with an eerie glow. For a foolhardy second, Jemma wondered if she was indeed a ghost—perhaps that of a lady pirate who’d met her death by the swing of the noose.