by Erica Monroe
Once a rake, always a rake.
3
Later that morning, Michael leaned back in his chair in his home office. Since he had a few minutes before Knight would arrive, he re-read the gaoler’s report. Clowes’s bellicose behavior had escalated after his arrest. The worst criminals behind Newgate’s walls had nurtured his horrific tendencies. Aided and abetted by a few members of the Chapman Street Gang, Clowes had started a riot inside the prison. Only by the grace of God had the guards survived.
Clowes was the last one left of any importance in the old crew, after Effie Larker’s death and Boz Larker’s hanging. He’d been poised to take over the old operation, so the longer he was free, the better chance he had to get in touch with his old compatriots.
A knock sounded on his office door, followed by a familiar call. “Smithers let me in.”
He glanced at the clock: twelve in the afternoon. Never had he been so glad for Knight’s dogmatic punctuality. “Come in.”
The door opened, and in came not only Thaddeus Knight, but his new wife as well. The smile on Michael’s lips froze.
“Mrs. Knight,” he said, dropping as formal of a bow as he could manage in the little space between his desk and the back wall.
Poppy curtsied back to him. She was a dimber lass, he’d grant Knight that. Almost two heads shorter than the willowy Knight, she had startlingly red hair and a smattering of freckles that should’ve marred her features but somehow made her endearing.
Yet Poppy Knight perplexed him. No matter how much he complimented or teased her, she never responded favorably to his overtures as other women did. His flirtations were tried and true, honed by years of practice. He didn’t want to seduce his friend’s wife, of course, but he’d expected she’d at least find him amiable. After their twelfth meeting, he’d given up on winning her over.
She sat in the chair across from his desk. Knight took the other seat, his angular face a mask of imperturbability, as it always was. His posture was relaxed, his white linen shirt and gray waistcoat fitting his trim body far better than his blues ever had.
Knight wound Poppy’s hand in his own with such ease that Michael found himself strangely envious of their connection.
Shaking off that maudlin feeling, he cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect you to come too, Mrs. Knight.”
He should have known, of course. The two went everywhere together now. But to a meeting on police matters? Really, Knight should control his woman better.
“Poppy,” she corrected him, as she did every time they met. “And I’m sorry for the intrusion, but your missive said it had to do with the Larker case.”
Michael arched a brow at Knight, silently questioning if his friend was sure he wanted to discuss dangerous business in front of his wife. Knight nodded. Poppy followed their quiet exchange with a frown.
Women these days. Can’t live with them, can’t be happy without shagging them.
No use beating around the proverbial bush any longer. He cut to the point. “Frank Clowes has escaped.”
Poppy’s face went ashen.
Knight’s lips set into a firm line. “How is that possible? Last we spoke, he was bound for transportation.”
There was a note of disapproval in Knight’s tone that Michael didn’t appreciate. As if he had already judged the management of the situation and found it lacking.
“People escape. You should know that, Knight, given the family you married into.” Michael directed a pointed glare toward Poppy.
“My brother was innocent,” Poppy objected, her eyes narrowing. “If he hadn’t escaped on the way to Newgate, they would’ve hung him for a crime he didn’t commit. A crime your father arrested him for, need I remind you.”
Knight patted her hand and murmured something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “there, there.” It was comforting to know marriage hadn’t made Knight any less awkward in his social interactions. Perhaps there was a god shining down upon Michael after all.
But when he glanced at Poppy again, he saw only love in her eyes. Women did not look at Michael that way. He was the recipient of seductive winks and salacious appeals to deities, not gentle, unbridled affection.
It was better this way. Knight was shackled to the same woman for the rest of his life, but Michael could have sex with any prime article he chose.
“My father made a lot of mistakes, including arresting your brother,” Michael conceded. The worst of those mistakes had been driving his wife into an early grave, but Poppy didn’t need to know that. “Rest assured, Mrs. Knight, I am not my father. When I give you my word as a gentleman that we will catch Clowes, know that you can trust it.”
He hadn’t been a gentleman for years, but Poppy didn’t need to know that either.
“Do you have any leads?” Knight asked, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed with the customary excitement of a new case.
“I shouldn’t discuss this with you,” Michael reminded him. “Since Whiting, the whole division is barred from sharing information with the public.”
Knight winced. “Ah. Terribly sorry about that.” If Knight hadn’t put together the file on Whiting’s involvement—with the help of the enterprising factory worker that was now his wife—none of this would have happened.
Frank Clowes would still be terrorizing the city, and Knight would still be with the H-Division.
Damn it all.
“I want you to be careful,” Michael said. “Both of you. I’d like you to leave town until Clowes is found. In the course of investigating, we discovered Clowes is responsible for three other murders tied to the Larkers.”
Poppy shuddered. “I can’t believe I ever thought he was nice. The blackguard.”
“He has a way about him,” Knight stated. “He seems affable at first. But Effie Larker chose him as her hatchet man for a reason—he’s as sick and twisted as she was.”
Michael drummed his fingers on Clowes’s file, open upon his desk. The twenty-year-old brute had grown up in Spitalfields as the son of false mendicants like Kip Jared. The elder Mr. Clowes still haunted a street corner in Bloomsbury, scars dyed into his skin with berries. From an early age, Frank Clowes had learned the only way to make money was to cheat.
Ignoring every dictate by the superintendents, Michael passed the file to Knight. “We received a note from him.”
Knight opened the file. “What did it say?”
“That he was going to come after whoever helped put him in prison. That’s why I wanted to meet with you.” He stressed the “you,” but Poppy took no notice of his exclusion.
Knight didn’t look up from the file. “I’m glad you sent for us.”
Michael resisted the urge to groan in frustration. “Of course.”
Lost in thought, Knight flipped through the papers. After one read, the information would be cemented into his memory for life. While Knight discovered clues in patterns, Michael looked at the numbers, dealing in probabilities and variables. Together, they’d made one hell of a team.
Knight should’ve remained with the Met and helped them out. Then, maybe, they wouldn’t have Clowes out on the damn street.
And Clowes would be Knight’s problem instead of Michael’s.
“Newgate was not kind to him while he awaited sentencing,” Michael continued. “Apparently the criminal lot doesn’t like it when you kill young girls.”
“Perhaps there is justice after all,” Poppy muttered.
“Two girls murdered.” Knight tilted his head to examine a particularly gruesome sketch from a different angle. “One fifteen, the other seventeen. I’d heard there was new evidence against him when the trial began. How did I miss this before?”
Michael sighed. His friend hadn’t missed anything—there hadn’t been any evidence to find before. Knight maintained his perfect record for accuracy in detection.
“Whiting buried it,” he clarified. “The deaths were listed as suicides, and he made sure no one looked closer. When I was helping to clear out his offic
e, I found some of his old files.”
Poppy exchanged a glance with Knight, and he swiftly closed the file.
“You said he’s targeting anyone who was involved in capturing him.” Poppy’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Has anyone heard from Abigail recently? It was because of her that we knew the true depth of Clowes’s involvement.”
Michael’s gaze drifted to the promissory note, buried under a stack of files. Poppy didn’t seem to notice, but Knight’s eyes narrowed as he followed Michael’s movement.
Knight’s eyes narrowed. “Have you seen Abigail?”
“Actually, yes. I met her in Cruikshank’s gaming hell.” He didn’t think Poppy would appreciate the details of his arrangement with Abigail, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
“In a hell?” Confusion flickered in Poppy’s eyes until she remembered. “Ah. Retrieving her father, most likely.”
“Indeed,” Michael said. “Mr. Vautille had been at the faro table with me. By the end of the night, he owed me two hundred pounds.”
“Two hundred pounds?” Poppy’s mouth dropped open, then shut, then opened again, resembling a fish out of water. It’d be amusing if he didn’t suspect she was going to shriek at him.
“I should hope you excused the debt,” Knight said.
Michael waved his hand insouciantly. “Miss Vautille would not allow me to.”
Knight’s gaze narrowed in on the vowels. “Is that the note?”
Michael nodded. “Suffice to say, Miss Vautille and I have reached a mutually agreeable arrangement. You need not worry.”
“May I see the note?” Poppy’s voice left no room for disagreement.
This was why he didn’t have long-term relationships. When women used that tone, it was because they were too used to getting their own way. And he, like every man before him, was powerless to disobey.
He passed the note deliberately to Knight. Poppy scooted closer, peering over his shoulder. When Poppy’s face reddened and she pushed back her chair, fists planted on her hips, Michael knew he was a goner. She leaned over the desk, starting to make a grab for something to hurl in his face. Knight grasped her arm, tugging her back to him.
“I’m sure it’s not what it looks like, love,” he murmured soothingly.
But Poppy was having none of his consoling this time. She pushed out of his hold, two quick steps bringing her right in front of Michael’s desk. “You despicable, rotten, vile scoundrel!”
He opened his mouth to defend himself, but then thought twice of it. Why should he have to account for his actions? If Miss Vautille was a virgin, he was doing her a favor. Her first time with him would be far more pleasurable than with any of the other men she could expect to take on as a woman of the town.
He’d guard her for the next two weeks—whatever happened between them was no one else’s business.
“I think you’re overstating matters.” He calmly pried the note from Knight’s hands.
“Don’t try and deny it. I see your signature on the note.” Anger made Poppy’s voice uneven. “You’re no better than a whoremonger!”
He heaved a sigh. Knight was going to owe him at least three ales for this conversation.
“Mrs. Knight, plenty of women engage in the flesh trade. Are you objecting to the fact that your friend is now a lady of easy virtue, or to me being with her?” He held Poppy’s gaze, refusing to be cowed. “Because if your objection is to me, you’re quite right. I am a rogue. But it is my reputation that will ensure your friend greatly…enjoys, shall we say, her time with me.”
When Poppy stammered in response, he continued. “But if it is her new occupation that bothers you, then you must consult her, not me. She proposed our arrangement, so I can only assume it was amenable to her.”
“She has no money!” Poppy started toward him again.
He took a quick assessment of things in the room that she could throw at him and decided he’d best duck.
“Poppy,” Knight tried again softly. “Do try and remember this is my friend you’re talking to.”
Michael’s lips curled into a small smile. His friendship with Knight had transmuted from an office rivalry to geniality. He had sparring partners and lads he could call upon if he wanted a jolly good night of carousing, but Knight was the only real friend he had.
“Yes, he’s an ass,” Knight continued. “But I sense there’s more to this story.”
“Let’s say for a moment I believe you’re capable of honorable intentions,” Poppy ventured, her lethal glance at him belying her words. “How are you going to watch over Abigail when you’re at the station? I remember Thaddeus’s long hours.”
Michael shuffled through the papers on his desk, this time emerging triumphantly with a new sheet. “I’ve taken the time off. I’ll allow Miss Vautille to stay with me until Clowes is found, and then I’ll send her back to her family with a full load of groceries.”
Knight nodded. “That sounds vaguely acceptable, if you sleep in separate beds.”
He pasted a smile on his face that he hoped passed for acquiescence, and not questioning Knight’s sanity. Clearly, Knight was too besotted with his wife to see Abigail’s beauty. Any man in his right mind would be a fool to refuse the chance to lay with her.
“You have to let me see her,” Poppy charged. “She won’t take my calls. I’ve stopped by a few times and talked with her younger sister, but Abigail refuses me. You’ve got to let me in.”
“I will speak to Miss Vautille on your behalf,” Michael promised. “But given the current situation, I think it’s best if you leave town until Clowes is captured.”
“We'll figure it out. We always do.” Knight promised, putting his arm around Poppy. He glanced over at Michael. “And Michael will do his part.”
Michael bristled. “Of course, I will.”
Knight nodded swiftly, rising from his chair. “Thanks for letting us know about Clowes. I’ll reach out to Dagobert Gottlieb too. He might have heard something.”
Michael recoiled at the idea of involving Gottlieb. The fence had been one of Knight’s informants during his time with the Met. When he had tried to convince Gottlieb to assist them again, Gottlieb insisted he only trusted “Herr Knight.”
I can pick my own informants. I’m the inspector now, not you.
That line of thinking had put him in this mess in the first place. He hadn’t reached out to Knight in months for anything relating to the job. If his team were to see him as good of an officer as Knight, he had to do this on his own. Though he’d continued to see Knight on a weekly basis, it had been for ales at the Ten Bells or sparring in the gymnasium.
Sketching a quick equation on foolscap, he calculated about a seventy percent change that his officers would view him as incompetent for needing Knight’s connections. On the other side, there was a thirty percent probability he’d appear magnanimous.
Feasible. He’d faced worse odds before.
“So, you’ll talk to Gottlieb.” He pushed the paper away from him. “And the other?”
Poppy feigned ignorance. Her association with London’s greatest thief, Atlas Greer, was not widely known throughout the Met, but Michael was aware of her connections. The Gentleman Thief was her brother’s best friend. People claimed he knew every illegal movement within the city boundaries, and some that extended past London’s borders.
Knight gave a swift nod. “I’ll talk to him. And you needn’t worry. I'll keep my girls out of harm’s way—you just need be concerned about Miss Vautille.”
After they departed, Michael stared at the vowels, left on his desk by Poppy. Abigail Vautille would arrive in the next few hours, and he’d have to tame the hellcat into an amiable kitten that didn’t want to claw out his eyes.
He’d already begun to regret this contract.
The carriage wheels spun against the muck of the cobbled streets, a funeral dirge for the death of Abigail's innocence. Each turn of the spokes took her away from Baker’s Row and the life she’d kno
wn.
She ran her good hand across her washed-out blue skirt; picking at the seam of the patch Bess had sewn to disguise a tear in the fabric. Her once-spotless white sleeves were dingy, and without the horsehair pads that should have gone into the sleeves, the starched linen collapsed upon her bony shoulders. Her bright sapphire bodice was the only part of her outfit that did not bear some egregious offense to modern fashion.
“You don't have to do this.” Papa sat next to her, leaning back against the squabs as if this carriage was theirs, and not some hired cab they'd been able to afford only because Strickland had slipped her the fare that night in the hell.
I don't want you to have to walk all the way to Cheapside. She heard Strickland’s voice, low and gruff, yet somehow comforting. She'd lost her wits completely, if she thought that bastard—who was going to strip her of the one thing she'd kept hers for these last nineteen years—had good in him.
It was only that he didn't want his product damaged.
“We'll find some other way,” Papa continued, as though he hadn’t irrevocably sealed her fate already. She refused to look at him, chin raised high. Perhaps if she didn't turn her head, he wouldn't see the tears that dotted her eyes. No more crying. He didn't deserve her tears any more than Inspector Strickland did.
She spoke through clenched teeth. “You didn't give me any choice, did you?”
“I could go in your place,” Papa suggested. Now that he was sober, he was horrified by what he’d allowed her to agree to. His remorse was too little, too late.
“How would that work?” She sniffed. “I highly doubt Inspector Strickland fancies elderly cuckolds.”
Papa coughed. But what began as a delicate cough to express his discontent of her characterization of him transformed into a shoulder-shaking, gut-twisting hollow croup. He yanked out a handkerchief, hacking up a chunk of blood and fluid into it.
She ought to feel some measure of pity. The rookeries had been hard on him too.
