Secrets in Scarlet

by Erica Monroe

  He’d be content to hold her hand as she fought against the demons of her past. She might not heal tomorrow, nor even in the next year. Claremont and the rest of society had tried to shame her, but their efforts had failed.

  Poppy was a woman with fire and determination, and damn it all, she was worth something. She had not deserved to be cast aside like a dirty rag. No one did.

  He’d keep telling her this till she could face the world with her head held high.

  She perched on the edge of the settee, her bare feet dangling over the side. Thaddeus came to stand in front of her. Clad only in his breeches, he grabbed for her hand, raising it to his lips and placing a feather-light kiss across her knuckles. He wanted to linger in this sitting room forever, pretending that their problems wouldn’t exist.

  There was something to be said for the protection of felonious influence. The location of Atlas’s loft was widely unknown—that combined with the secret entrance assured him they were safe here. Atlas had managed to protect Poppy when the Met had failed. All those years spent arresting men he’d considered criminals…and now Thaddeus found himself deeply indebted to the greatest thief of them all.

  Strange incident by strange incident, his definitions of right and wrong were collapsing. Yet instead of mourning those toppling walls, he felt unrestricted. Perhaps this was what Sophocles had meant when he’d said, “As for me, I know nothing.” Thaddeus couldn’t return to the life he’d led previously. Yet with Poppy so near to him, he was awake and alive like he’d never been before.

  “I love you.” He kissed her.

  “As I love you,” she smiled.

  “Thank you for telling me about what happened in Surrey.” He ran his thumb from her ear down to her chin, tracing the curvature of her jaw. Strong and pointed, like the woman he loved. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

  She leaned into his touch, that small, sad smile on her lips breaking his heart. “Perhaps the truth shall set me free.”

  “It’s a start,” he agreed. “I believe pain lessens in stages. So many people bury their emotions, and they expect you to do the same. But you, Poppy, who loves so deeply and so freely—you hurt absolutely, for you feel every strike.”

  “I never thought of it like that,” she said. “So, the pain makes the pleasure more. Without the ache, we might never know what true bliss was like.”

  “Perfer et obdura–dolor hic tibi proderit olim,” he quoted, clasping her hand in his. “Be patient and tough, someday this pain will be good for you.”

  “I know this one.” She rubbed her thumb against his, her pert nose wrinkling as she thought. The name came to her, her eyes lighting up. “Ovid.”

  “Very good,” he praised. “The lady knows her Latin.”

  “I had run out of gothic novels to read,” she confessed. “The library was right next to Madame Genet’s shop, but it was a quarter of the size of yours. It was either Ovid’s poetry or scientific principles.”

  “When we are married, it shall be your library too.”

  That brought a gleeful shriek from her, as she tossed her arms around his neck and kissed him. He sank into the kiss, wanting to remain in this safe place longer, when he didn’t have to face the reality that he was unemployed.

  Bloody hell, he’d sort that all out once they were out of London. Figure out how to inform his mother and father that he’d left, and no, they certainly couldn’t tell all their friends where he was. He suppressed a groan, imaging his mother’s outrage. He’d probably hear her hollers all the way in bloody Scotland. If joining the Met hadn’t already banned from the family, this surely would.

  Right now, he’d concentrate on the warm woman in his arms, resting her head against his shoulder. He breathed in the honey and vanilla scent of her and decided that from now on, his first job would be to remind her she was magnificent.

  Poppy’s hand slipped to her stomach. “There’s the chance that I may be with child.”

  Thaddeus grinned, covering her hand with his own. He couldn’t think of anything more wonderful. All this time he’d wanted a family that loved him for him, and now he had one. “Then we shall raise both our children to know that they can be anything they damn well please.”

  “I never felt strong until I met you.” She dropped her hand from his, leaned forward and kissed him. A sweet kiss, a show of gratitude that left him wanting her more. “Every time I pushed you away, thinking I was protecting myself, you pulled me back into your life. You wouldn’t let me stay trapped. You loved me when I couldn’t love myself.”

  “You were a puzzle, at first,” he admitted, with a sly half-smile that made her kiss him once more. When she drew back, he grabbed hold of her arm and gave a little tug, so that she was flush against his chest. “Then you came into my office and you started to talk about Shakespeare with such fire that I thought ‘This girl. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for.’”

  “So, any girl who talked about King Lear would have intrigued you?” Poppy teased.

  “Yes, there were hordes of them lined up. You just happened to be the first through the door,” he said dryly. “I can’t possibly think why you’d want distance from me. Could it be because I worked the most hated job in all of Spitalfields? Or because I drew you into a case that got your friend tortured and maimed?”

  His flinty questions cast a somber overtone to their reunion.

  Poppy laid her head on his shoulder.

  “It’ll all turn out fine,” he told her, but even he didn’t believe his assertion.

  “I’m sorry you were dismissed,” Poppy said, linking her fingers with his. “It’s not right. You’re trying to help the people, and instead of being rewarded, you’re punished.”

  “Thank you. I know you didn’t like the Met to begin with.”

  “But it was important to you, and I love you,” Poppy protested. “What’s important to you is going to be important to me. From now on, we’re a team, you hear? You and I, taking on the world.”

  “I like the sound of that.” He laid his head on top of hers. Her devotion steadied him.

  She peered up at him. “What will you do now?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” he confessed. “My brother has invested some of my savings in a fund that should give us a small, but secure, profit. I have enough money that I estimate we’ll be fine for a year or so in Scotland, but I’ll need to find a job with comparable pay to support you and Moira after that.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself so far, and I can continue to do so.”

  He pulled back so that he could look her in the eye. “You’re going to be my wife, Poppy. While I have no doubt that you can get by on your own, I want to make sure you and Moira are safe. You shouldn’t be working such long hours.”

  For a second, he thought she might protest. But instead, she kissed him. “I shall have to get used to being taken care of, then.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find something,” he said, more to convince himself than her.

  What could he do when his skill set matched police work and not much else? There wasn’t a huge market for philosophers who could read four languages and dissect crimes.

  Running his thumb across hers, Thaddeus remembered how smug Whiting had looked upon dismissing him. If Strickland didn’t decide to take up the case, the Larkers would go free forever, and Whiting would never pay for betraying the Met.

  And he and Poppy wouldn’t be able to remain in London.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Poppy agreed.

  His strong Poppy, willing to fight when the odds were stacked against them.

  “But we’ve dallied long enough.” He pushed himself up from the settee, going to collect the rest of his clothes. “I’ll go back to my townhouse to pick up some supplies, and then I’ll come get you. I shouldn’t be long.”

  She shook her head. “Absolutely not. The Larkers are out there, Thaddeus. If we leave, we leave together. You’ll need someone to watch your back.”
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  “You should stay here,” he told her. By the resolute set to her jaw, he suspected he’d already lost this battle.

  “I’m not taking the chance that I’ll lose you.” She eyed him through narrow slits, her hackles raised. “I’m tired of being scared, of hiding. How can I stay here knowing you might be in danger? When we can’t trust the police?”

  “Stubborn chit,” he sighed, but he couldn’t put any effort behind his words. He loved her fire.

  She hopped down from the tureen, going toward the corner where her half boots sat on the lion skin rug. “It’s settled. I’ll tell Edna to keep Moira upstairs while we’re out.”

  For a second, he watched Poppy as she moved about the room, loading her flintlock pistol. Decision, purpose, and drive, all combined in this petite woman with the Surrey voice.

  24

  When they approached Thaddeus’s townhouse, it was past two in the morning. Under the cover of a cloudy, starless night and a new moon, Thaddeus handed Poppy down from the hired hack and went to pay the driver. As the carriage rolled away down the street, Thaddeus leaned in to whisper to Poppy.

  Then he stopped, mid-reach, and listened. Something rustled, like the swishing of a dress, or the opening of a cloth bag. No one else appeared to be outside. Though the streetlamps provided some light, there were many dark areas where someone could hide.

  Too many areas. They weren’t safe out in the open.

  With his hand on Poppy’s back, Thaddeus guided her forward. She huddled behind him as he unlocked his front door, following him in. Blackness enveloped them. He’d drawn all the curtains before he left for Kate and Daniel’s flat. As he struck the lucifer and dropped it into the lantern he kept in the front hall, it was eerily quiet.

  Until Poppy’s gasp ripped through the air.

  His house was in shambles.

  The two chairs that lined his front entrance wall were overturned. The petite table he usually kept pushed up against the stairwell had been toppled, the third leg chopped off. Each of his painstakingly chosen portraits of ancient philosophers had been pulled down from the wall. There were great gaping holes where the paintings had once been, as if someone had been searching for a wall safe.

  “Christ,” Thaddeus cursed.

  He ushered Poppy behind him again, but he did not maintain a firm grip on her. As much as he would have liked the physical reassurance that she was safe, he needed both hands: one for the lantern, one for his truncheon, which he unsheathed from his side.

  “Do you have the flintlock?” he asked Poppy, his voice low.

  “Yes, but I only know how to shoot it in theory,” she murmured back, hanging on to the tail of his coat.

  “It’ll have to do.”

  Thaddeus advanced down the hallway, picking his way over the remains of his once carefully ordered life. Though he shined the lantern in every corner, there was no sign of anyone else.

  He knew not to become optimistic. The intruder could still be in the house. They checked his parlor, again finding nothing. This room had fared better, mostly upturned furniture and a few smashed vases.

  Keeping Poppy behind him, he went to the library. God, he prayed, please let his library remain untouched.

  His stomach plummeted toward his feet.

  Books were ripped from the shelves, creating large gaps where once there had been meticulous organization. Ragged piles of literature covered the floor, spines cracked, pages curled back. The floor was a phantasmagoria of colors. Even the cozy corner where he’d sat with Poppy had been wrecked. The settee and armchairs had been slashed. Stuffing piled out onto the floor, white tufts mixing with equally white parchment. The remains of his favorite novels, gutted.

  The library been his refuge away from the disorder of the world, but now there was only chaos. He stood there, jaw dropped, eyes wide.

  Whiting’s betrayal had cost him his job, that large part of his identity. This completed the destruction of the studious man he’d been before.

  He’d ruin Whiting if it was the last damn thing he did. Thaddeus imagined Whiting’s face turning bright red as his hands wrapped firmly around the inspector’s throat, squeezing the life out of him. Fists clenched at his sides, he stood in the middle of this devastating library and rage coursed through him. Violent, biting rage, boiling at the seams of his consciousness.

  But that would solve nothing. He was a reasonable man, damn it. He’d get revenge upon Whiting, yes, but in this moment, he needed to focus.

  Poppy stepped over to the sitting area and kneeled. Her face contorted wretchedly as she plucked from the rubbish his leather-bound volume of Frankenstein, half of the pages hanging from the spine by one lone string. There was no telling where the rest of the book had ended up.

  “Oh, Thaddeus,” Poppy murmured, somehow able to convey soul-shattering sadness in those two words.

  He came to stand behind Poppy, drawing her body flush against his chest. He held her close to keep her safe, to quiet his mind.

  “What do we do now?” Poppy whispered, huddling beside him.

  Thaddeus gnawed at his bottom lip. As much as he didn’t relish dragging Poppy with him, remaining on the ground floor unaccompanied was more perilous. At least together, he’d be able to protect her better.

  “We check upstairs.” He headed for the door, looking over his shoulder one last time. No change. He hoped the indomitable Mrs. Clery was up to the task of righting the damage.

  As they slid up the stairs, those mundane thoughts sharpened his focus. He’d always been the man with the plan. Facing danger daily on patrol, he knew to ignore it all, to center his mind on the one thing that he could control: his own reactions.

  And so, when his foot hit that final step, he saw his home with the distance needed. He’d mourn his lost things later. What mattered was Poppy’s safety.

  Thaddeus handed Poppy the lantern so that he could light the hall sconces. The flame flickered before gaining purchase, and soon they were bathed in a golden glow. That was comforting.

  “I don’t know what we’ll find, so if there’s danger, I want you to run.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” she insisted, as she passed the lantern back to him. Her voice was so convincing he might have believed she wasn’t scared if fear didn’t backlight her eyes.

  “Poppy, this isn’t negotiable,” he hissed.

  She opened her mouth to retort, but shut it promptly, grabbing for his arm. “Do you hear that?”

  A slam echoed through the hall, then another. The shutting of his trunks, if he had to guess, for the noise seemed to be coming from the bedroom. Setting his lantern down, he crept forward. He stopped at the door and put his ear to it. Poppy almost crashed into him, but she caught herself in time, hand on his back. She moved to stand next to him at the door, listening too.

  “It has to be here.” A woman’s voice, tight with irritation.

  “Effie Larker,” Poppy whispered, her fingers tightening against his coat lapel.

  “I ain’t seen it, Missus.” A man this time, vaguely familiar. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Imbecile,” Effie snapped, her high heels clicking on the wood floor of his room. She crossed what he estimated to be the full length of the room, probably approaching her helper. “Move over. Christ, if you want something done, you’ve got to do it yourself. You’d think I’d know that by now.”

  “We shouldn’t be here.” Another man’s voice, nervous, higher pitched. “He was a Peeler, and he’s probably got connections. I’m not getting collared for this.”

  Thaddeus knew this one: Jennings, Boz’s older guard. He turned his head to Poppy, arching a brow. She nodded.

  “No one is going to get caught, if you hurry your arse up,” Effie replied. “Jonah made it very clear he’d dismissed Knight. If you listened, you’d remember that.”

  “I do listen,” Jennings protested, which made the other man guffaw.

  “Clowes,” Poppy mouthed, and then she said something Thaddeus thought may
have been “I’m going to string him up by his toes for this.”

  Just in case, Thaddeus moved to his right a smidge to block the door from her access.

  Three against two. Thaddeus didn’t like those odds, but it could be worse. They ought to go now—but where the hell would they go? He couldn’t turn to the Met, not with Whiting still on staff. Strickland wouldn’t be home at this hour. If they went to Atlas’s loft, they risked leading the intruders back to Moira.

  Here, at least, they could gather information on what the trio planned. From that data, he’d form a more concrete plan.

  “What’s got you thinkin’ it’s here?” Clowes asked. “He’s been gone for a few days. Might’ve rid it if he’s smart.”

  “Jonah said the pig kept a detailed file on the case,” Effie explained. “After your fool move with the Vautille bitch, Frank, we can’t take any more chances.”

  Beside him, Poppy stiffened. Her hands froze on the flintlock. Thaddeus guessed she thought of her friend, laid up in the London Hospital.

  “We need to leave now,” Thaddeus whispered, trying to steer Poppy away. He had the information he needed.

  But Poppy wouldn’t move.

  “You told me to get answers,” Clowes protested. “How was I to know the whore’d get the Met involved?”

  Effie let out a loud puff of exasperation at that.

  “Besides, you liked puttin’ her hand in the loom. You laughed when all the blood started gushin’,” Clowes reminded her.

  “What was I supposed to do?” Effie asked. “You’d already cornered her. I took advantage of the opportunity and fixed part of your mess.”

  “I told him not to do it,” Jennings retorted.

  “If you’d nabbed the little girl, Abigail would have fetched us the bloody file,” Effie replied. “We could have disposed of them both afterwards. Now we’ve got a missing girl and a missing file!”