Jasper felt a surge of optimism; perhaps the old man was still alive.
“So, I g-give you the papers, you charge Ryan with Finch’s murder, and you release Haslem.”
“Ryan is already in custody for the murder of Janssen and Finch.”
Jasper laughed. “J-Janssen?”
This time Anderson’s smile was not an expression of amusement. “Yes, J-Janssen. That investigation is closed, Detective Inspector.”
“B-But why would Ryan imitate the m-method of the earlier k-killings?”
Anderson shrugged, his expression one of annoyance. “I don’t know—nor do I care. What matters is whether we have an agreement.”
“What about all the p-people on Baker’s ship?”
Anderson frowned. “Who? The escaped slaves?”
“Yes, those p-people.”
“They’ll go with Baker. He has the authority—indeed the duty—to return them to their owners.”
“I w-want them released.”
Anderson’s nostrils flared. “You are in no position to demand such a thing.”
“Oh, I believe I am.”
“I could kill you right now—then get the papers from your bank.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I don’t need to make you such a generous offer; I could tie up all the loose ends, my lord.”
Jasper crossed his arms and smiled with a confidence he was far from feeling. “You can kill me and take whatever papers my v-valet deposited.” Jasper smiled at Anderson’s sudden comprehension. “But the f-first place y-you’ll find the real documents will be on the front p-page of a newspaper. If no N-New York paper will take them—d-doubtful, since there are over th-three hundred—then they’ll make their w-way to the London Times, which is owned b-by a friend of m-mine. You r-really don’t think I came here without t-taking precautions? All the witnesses m-might be dead, but I’ve written a c-compelling statement of my own to go along with F-Finch’s. I am a d-decorated officer—my word will c-c-carry some weight. As to why you should r-release those people? How about the fact that you are not only allowing men to g-go free who are guilty of conspiracy, murderer, and treason; you’re actually r-r-rewarding them with lucrative employment? No. You’ll have your p-papers after those p-people on Staten Island have been released.”
Anderson’s eyes bored through Jasper, and Jasper experienced real fear—an emotion he’d believed he was no longer capable of feeling since Balaclava. After some of the longest moments in Jasper’s recent memory, Anderson tossed back the rest of his drink and stood.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to have a boat at Staten Island—a boat that had better disappear five minutes after the last passenger boards. Haslem will be free within the next few hours. There is a carriage out front waiting to take you and Detective Law wherever you’d like to go. I shall expect the papers by the end of the day tomorrow. All of them.” He put on his hat and picked up his cane. When he got to the door, he turned around. “I can see you are a man accustomed to getting his way, my lord, and that you’ll be tempted to dig around in these murders even though a woman was arrested for the first two and Ryan has confessed to Finch and Janssen. But leave it alone; let go of your need for justice this once.” His mouth pulled up into a twisted smile. “Instead of thinking about what you haven’t managed to achieve, be grateful for what you have.”
“And what is that, M-Mr. Anderson?”
He smiled wryly. “You mean other than freeing an innocent man, putting a confessed killer in jail, liberating fifty-some fugitives, and helping to conceal a treasonous conspiracy that might have driven my nation to war? I think we both know the deaths of Sealy, Dunbarton, and Janssen were likely a mercy for many, many young girls. Forget about justice and be satisfied with that, my lord. Be satisfied with mercy.”
CHAPTER 36
What became known as the Great Police Riot was the only matter on most people’s minds in the days following the chaos of June sixteenth.
The Sixth Precinct’s arrest of one of its own for the murders of two wealthy businessmen didn’t sell as many papers as the pitched battle on the steps of City Hall. As a result of the larger story—and probably with a little assistance from the mysterious Daniel Anderson—Terrence Ryan barely occupied more than a few columns on the front page of the major newspapers, quickly drifting into the hinterlands once he’d signed a full confession for both murders.
The Sixth Precinct claimed that the arrest of one of its own was evidence that corruption in the Municipal-controlled police department was nowhere as bad as the reformers had claimed.
White Street claimed it was evidence of Municipal incompetence.
Symington’s death—a peaceful passing in his sleep—made only a corner of the financial section.
The dismissal of all charges against Amos Baker never made it into any of the papers Jasper read. Nor was there any mention of the disappearance of fifty-three freedmen and women from the quarantine facility on Staten Island.
Haslem was freed and, wisely, took his mother to Canada.
Jemmy Hart was still missing, but no body had been found. Jasper paid another visit to the Old Brewery, but Hart’s associates were also gone. Jasper hoped it was the transient way of life, rather than anything nefarious, that accounted for Hart’s unknown whereabouts, but he wasn’t optimistic.
Jasper and Law had finally been given an office of their own—the roomy one across from Davies’s. No decision had yet been made about bringing in more detective trainees, but Jasper believed an actual office was a step in the right direction.
As for domestic matters, Jasper had moved into the house on Union Square the same day he’d been released from McCarty’s basement.
The first week in the new house had been hectic, but Paisley was a miracle worker, and now, after ten days, life had settled into a pleasant routine.
Jasper had just finished his breakfast and was reading through the shipping news when Paisley entered the room.
“This just came for you, my lord.” He handed Jasper a cream envelope; on the back flap, the initials HMD were embossed. Jasper recognized the envelope because it was the fourth of its kind he’d received from Mrs. Dunbarton since moving into his house, and the second in two days. Yesterday’s envelope had contained an invitation to a play to be put on by the young ladies of Mrs. Dunbarton’s school.
“You can take this.” Jasper motioned to his almost empty plate. “Please pass along my compliments to Mrs. Freeman.”
Paisley looked torn. The new cook was turning out to be a strong-willed individual who wasn’t tolerating Paisley’s attempts to maintain dominance over the kitchen. His valet was accustomed to ruling the roost with an iron fist and didn’t like ceding power. However, he did like how much more Jasper had been eating since Mrs. Freeman joined their staff.
Jasper opened Mrs. Dunbarton’s latest envelope; it contained an invitation for dinner that night. He was rather surprised at both the invitation and the short notice, as he’d just had dinner at her house a few days earlier. She’d made it her mission to introduce him to every individual involved in charitable enterprises in the city. Her dinners included the sort of people who valued her good works over her scandalous disregard for mourning.
Jasper had decided he quite liked the clever, sharp-tongued little woman. While her wit—when it came to him—was as barbed as ever, he found her company oddly … stimulating.
Perhaps that’s because you speak to her rather than just take her to bed.
Jasper had to admit that was a fair observation. In the past, an invitation to a widow’s house had generally meant an invitation to her bedchamber, but Mrs. Dunbarton appeared genuinely interested in his acquaintance rather than his person.
That knowledge left him vaguely uneasy.
You needn’t fret; once she gets to know you, she’ll learn you’re just a cracked, empty vessel and quickly move on.
Jasper was not in a mood to be drawn.
In addition to dinners, she’d given him guided tours of her boys’ school,
girls’ school, and both the libraries, as well as a small farm across the river in New Jersey. With each visit, more ice had melted, until he’d been able to see the person who lived behind the facade. Her devotion to the poor and downtrodden was not mere posturing; she was one of the most selfless people he’d ever met.
Jasper penned an acceptance to her invitation and rang for a footman to run the message next door.
He finished reading the last of the morning papers and then headed to his chambers. As he made his way up the stairs, he realized he was smiling. It took him a moment to pinpoint the source of his pleasure: it was the invitation to dinner tonight. For the first time in as long as he could recall, Jasper was actually looking forward to the evening ahead.
* * *
Cates answered the door when Jasper rang the bell at eight o’clock that evening.
“Good evening, my lord.”
The older man behaved as if their night brawling with members of the Dead Rabbits, Roach Guards, and Bowery Boys had never taken place; perhaps Jasper had imagined it all.
“Good evening, Cates.” He handed over his hat and cane and examined the man’s face as he slowly stripped off his gloves. Cates kept his eyes properly downcast—as a good English butler would—his person as immobile as a statue under Jasper’s inspection. “Mrs. D-Dunbarton tells me you were a s-soldier in the Queen’s Army?”
There was only the slightest of hesitations. “Yes, sir, many years ago.”
Jasper looked in the big foyer mirror, watching as Cates lifted his coat from his shoulders. “Where did you serve?”
“I was in India for seven years. I left in ’48.”
“I shouldn’t want to be there now,” Jasper said.
“No, sir.”
Jasper glanced around the foyer. “Am I d-dreadfully early or horribly l-late?”
“You are my only guest, Lord Jasper.” Mrs. Dunbarton was descending the curved marble stairs. “I hope you don’t mind we are dining à deux.”
Jasper smiled up at her. “Since I’ve already d-destroyed your reputation by d-dining alone with you once b-before, we m-might as well take advantage of the situation.”
She gestured toward the hall rather than the stairs. “I thought we’d dine on the terrace. At this time of the evening, it is actually quite pleasant.”
Jasper opened the door at the end of the hallway and followed her into a delightful room with two French doors open to the back garden.
“This is my breakfast room, but I find it infinitely more comfortable than the dining room in the summer. Whiskey?”
“Thank y-you.”
She poured two glasses. “I imagine things have slowed down now that you have the killer in custody.”
Jasper studied the landscape that hung over the large buffet. “Ah, w-well, crime n-never sleeps.”
“Did you just coin that phrase?” She handed him a glass.
“W-Would it impress you if I said I h-had?”
“You are quite impressive enough already.”
Jasper gave her an only half-mocking look of surprise. “Why, Mrs. D-Dunbarton—was that an actual c-compliment?”
Her gaze dropped to her glass. “I wonder—”
“Yes?” he prodded curiously.
She glanced up at him through her eyelashes; he’d have thought the action coquettish in any other woman. “Won’t you call me Hetty?”
This time his surprise was genuine; did the prickly widow like him?
“I’m sorry—that was dreadfully forward—and American—of me.” She turned away, and Jasper committed a far larger faux pas by catching her by the upper arm and stopping her. She didn’t try to pull away, but she didn’t turn toward him either.
The black crepe was warm beneath his fingers. “Why are you r-running away?” he asked softly.
“You must have women flinging themselves at you incessantly.”
Jasper smiled at the mental image.
“I’d like to think I’m different because I appreciate you for more than your appearance, but—”
“But?”
“I’m no better.”
Jasper turned her gently toward him. When she would not look up, he took her chin in his fingers and tilted her face. He smiled when he saw she’d squeezed her eyes shut.
“Look at m-me, Hetty.”
Her mouth twisted willfully, but she opened her eyes. “Yes, Jasper?”
He grinned at her spark of defiance. “D-Did you invite me to d-dinner to seduce m-me?” he teased.
Rather than making her smile, as he’d hoped, his comment elicited a grimace. “I’m such a foo—”
Jasper lowered his mouth over hers. She was tiny, and he had to bend almost in half.
Her body stiffened, but she didn’t move away. Her lips were unspeakably soft, and she tasted of whiskey. She was breathing in sharp, shallow gasps, and it took only a moment to discern she’d never been kissed—at least not properly. The knowledge helped restrain the surprisingly strong urges rampaging through his body, and he softened his kisses.
Her hands alighted on his hips, her fingers clutching him. Jasper drew her closer, and her lips parted.
It had been years—if ever—since he’d spent so much time kissing a woman. His last lover had been as carnal and jaded as Jasper, and they’d sated their passions in almost violent physical couplings. This was innocent yet satisfying.
It was Mrs. Dunbarton—Hetty—who broke away first.
He thought she might shy back, mortified by her behavior, but instead she laid her cheek against his chest and exhaled a long, shaky sigh, her slender arms tightening around his torso as she nuzzled him—like a small animal burrowing for safety.
They stood that way for several long but not uncomfortable moments.
Again, it was she who moved, releasing him and stepping back.
Her cheeks were a fiery red, her eyes a dark navy. “You feel as lovely as you look.” She swallowed. “But if you’d like to go—”
Jasper knew she wasn’t talking about dinner. “I’d l-like to stay, Hetty.”
* * *
Hy rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, breathing like a winded horse.
Cool, strong fingers slid over his sweat-slicked chest and pinched one nipple—hard.
Hy yelped. “Christ, Lorie! What the hell’s wrong with you?”
He turned his head to find Lorie staring at him. “You’re lathered like a winded nag and breathin’ like an old man.”
“I didn’t hear you complainin’ a minute ago.”
She snorted. “A minute is right.”
Hy swore under his breath.
Her hand slid down his body and she grabbed his limp prick, making him gasp. “I guess I should count myself lucky that this thing works at all.” She gave him an almost painful squeeze before releasing him and pushing off the bed.
They were in her room—an honor she’d not afforded Hy before. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why she’d afforded it to him tonight, and he was beginning to wonder if it was worth all the post-fucking abuse.
He’d been minding his own business, drinking with his cousin Ian, when she’d picked him out of the crowd and beckoned him up the stairs to what was certainly paradise. Now that he was doing his thinking above the waist, he wondered what she wanted.
He couldn’t say he knew Lorena Paxton well—he doubted anyone did—but he knew her well enough to understand that she was a businesswoman who didn’t give out free fucks.
She returned to the bed, naked but for black stockings, garters, and two glasses of whiskey. Good God, the woman was magnificent.
Wordlessly, she handed him a glass.
He paused—drinking in her tall, shapely body as she threw back her liquor—before emptying his own glass.
He groaned with pleasure as the fine whiskey burned its way down his throat. “The good stuff,” he said by way of thanks when she returned to the bed. She ignored his gratitude, instead crawling across the mattress on all fours, resembling a dangerous
cat. She settled her naked bottom on his hips and stared down at him.
“I need to ask you somethin’.”
Here it comes. “Yeah?”
“You know how Caitlyn sent Amy off on one of those orphan trains?”
“She told you that?”
Lorie rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”
“What about it?”
“I have some of her money—Caitlyn’s. It was tied up when she took the rest of her money, and now I wanted to send it to Amy.”
He shrugged. “Why are you tellin’ me?”
Her hand moved like a striking snake, and she twisted his nipple again—the other one this time.
“Goddammit!” he yelled. “Why’d you do that?” He held a protective hand over each nipple.
“Would I be askin’ you a favor if I knew where to send the damned money?”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. I went to that place—the charity—but they won’t give out information. I thought maybe since you’re a copper, they’d tell you.”
He glared at her. “You didn’t have to fuck me for that—you know I’ll do what I can.”
Her lips twisted in amusement. “Maybe I wanted to get you between my legs, Hieronymus Aloysius Law.”
“That ain’t my middle name.” God, did he hate that stupid name, which had stuck to him like glue at St. Pat’s after some wise arse hung it on him.
She gave him a smacking kiss while sliding her hand between their hips and waking the dead. “So you’ll ask?”
Hy groaned—this time with pleasure. “Aye, whatever you want.”
CHAPTER 37
Jasper was halfway through his morning routine—which he’d started later than usual, thanks to his late night—when Paisley entered the room.
He’d been working the small bag but stilled it with one hand while pushing his sweat-damp hair off his forehead with the other. “I n-need a damned haircut,” he said, while the matter was fresh in his mind.
Predictably, Paisley ignored him. “Mr. Law is here, my lord.”
Jasper had thought they were taking the day off. Had he gotten the date wrong?
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