by Erica Monroe
For a second, she was tempted to place her palm over his. She stared down at her glove, the stitches of the black silk as normal to her now as the shape of her nose, or the natural part in her hair.
“I'd give him my life,” Papa rasped. “Let him take me to Marshalsea.”
She stopped mid-reach, stopped because the idea was so damn tempting. God, what was wrong with her, that she'd consider sending her own father to debtor's prison without remorse?
But he was her father, whether she liked it or not. Bess cared for him. How could she willingly send him to prison? She'd promised Bess they’d stay together as a family.
“And then Bess has no guardian,” Abigail explained. “She already believes you care more about the tables than us. If you go to prison, there's no chance we'll be able to pay your way out.”
“But you wouldn't have to do this.” Papa patted her knee, as if by touch alone he could make it all better.
Abigail scooted down toward the window, drawing the curtains. They’d left Whitechapel, headed through Spitalfields, and now were on their way to Cheapside. The houses here had two or even three floors, none of which required a tumble-down set of stairs up the side of the building. There was little rubbish in the streets here, and several of the carriages passing them had coats of arms appliqued to the sides.
Bess would have been beside herself to see this side of London. She probably would’ve demanded they stop every carriage to see if a duke was inside, even though Cheapside wasn’t fashionable enough for those lofty peers. Cheapside was a neighborhood for barristers, rich merchants, and apparently policemen like Strickland.
Every clop of horse hooves on stone brought her farther from the life she’d always known. She must remain strong, or she’d sink into the cushions of this carriage and never get back up. She thought of the man who’d visited her in the hospital—she couldn’t remember his face. She wasn’t even sure he’d been real. The laudanum prescribed to lessen the pain of her wounds had dulled her mind.
But whether he was a hallucination or a tangible person, she remembered his words. You’ll be fine, you hear me? You’re a fighter. You’re going to emerge from the other side stronger.
She turned in her seat to face Papa. Once he’d read her bedtime stories, taught her how to weave on the handloom, and brought her the last apple left from his cart so she could have a special treat for lunch. He’d disappeared inside himself after her mother’s death. Been the reason she had to sell her beloved books.
Though he sat within arm’s reach from her in this carriage, a chasm had opened between them.
As the scenery became steadily more residential, she drew herself up to her full height. “I’m no longer a little girl, Papa. You cannot pretend to be a hero any longer. I see you for who you really are.”
She shouldn't have glanced over at him. Shouldn't have seen his face fall, as if she'd struck him in the stomach with her fist. His hand shook like it did during a particularly unsuccessful round of cards.
Because a stab of pain, his pain caused by her, sliced through the icy layers of her heart. She grabbed for his hand, wrapping her numb fingers around his lightly. She felt nothing. Yet somehow this was right, to hold his hand in her damaged one and pretend that they still functioned as a normal family.
“Papa,” she murmured, “I didn't mean it.”
“We both know you did.” His fingers squeezed around her hand, thumb running over the indent in her flesh that had never healed.
She didn’t wince. Didn’t pull away. If she could have, she would have gripped his hand tight enough that he’d know she wanted to believe he could be better. Now that he’d be banned from all the gambling dens, maybe there’d be a chance for him.
“I deserve it, Abbie-girl,” he whispered. “I deserve your scorn. So, go on ahead and heap it on me, for all I been doin' is makin' you and Bess suffer for my mistakes.”
“Perhaps that’s not all you’ve done,” Abigail dithered.
He let out a derisive snort.
“You’ve got a second chance now,” she told him. “Don’t enrage Mason by trying to go back to the hells. The second you step foot in that door, you’ll be dragged off the premises.”
“I give you my word,” he replied, but the slight twitch to his brow made her doubt his words.
She sighed. At least Bess would be with their neighbor. Yesterday, she’d made sure that Mrs. Henderson knew the real circumstances behind her absence, so that she wouldn’t allow Bess to go along with any of Papa’s wild schemes. Bess was to bring her week’s pay to Mrs. Henderson, who would use it for the girl’s upkeep.
Papa looked out the window. They sat in silence for the rest of the ride, hands clasped, united for the small space of this trip. She tried to focus on the memory of Strickland’s broad shoulders filling out his superfine coat, his tanned skin and muscular forearms. At least, she told herself, at least he had not the face of an ape. At least he was not twice her age, as so many of the men would be when she took to the streets.
She needed a plan.
Not just a plan for the next fortnight, but a plan for her future. Something that wouldn’t involve her having to take charity from others. She’d earn her keep, damn it. Though she couldn’t keep her virtue, at least she could keep her integrity.
She reflected upon her options. How could she keep Bess safe if she ended up as a case vrow? Not only did the idea of being owned by a brothel turn her stomach, she’d be expected to reside there. She wouldn’t be able to watch over her sister. The money she made wouldn’t be enough to secure any sort of future for Bess.
Abigail crossed off that class of prostitute from her mental list. If she were to become a woman of the town, she’d have to wait on the street corners for men to seek her out. That didn’t seem particularly efficient, and she required blunt before the next month’s rent came due. Otherwise Bess wouldn’t have a place to live.
She thought of how she’d learned to read. One letter at a time, then entire words, and finally full sentences. And when she’d realized her accent marked her as a factory girl, she had practiced every day to smooth out her natural dialect until she sounded perfectly bourgeoisie. She had been so very determined to become educated, so that she’d be able to leave Whitechapel someday.
So that she could become something more than this. An independent woman, free from the malice of poverty.
But fate had a cruel way of reminding her that she’d never be anything more than a broken, deformed weaver—now good for nothing but whoring.
Damn it all, if there were no future left for her, she’d make sure Bess still had a chance at a better life.
She watched as the traffic flashed by the hack window. If she’d taught herself how to read and speak without the stunted syllables of a born and bred rookery chit, then surely, she could learn the art of debauchery. It couldn’t be that difficult. What else was there to it besides lying on her back with her legs spread, pretending a man’s rod was the best gift in the world? She suspected the men who visited prostitutes didn’t expect genuine emotional investment in the copulation.
Tapping her fingers on the squabs, Abigail considered her options. Everyone knew that skilled lightskirts were in high demand amongst the rich, who married for money and not the suitability of their partners. A good courtesan could demand exorbitant fees. Enough that she’d be able to send Bess to school, and maybe even rent a house of her own.
The hack drew to a stop in front of a townhouse sandwiched between equally imposing properties. The house was two stories with pristine white paint over the stucco and brick, with well-tended flower boxes in each of the windows that blossomed even in this cold weather. Ivy covered the front of the house, a jungle in the middle of urban London.
Her breath caught in her throat as she peered out at the door. Red again. Red like the wine she’d need tonight to go through this seduction.
The carriage door rolled back, and the driver stood at the side, waiting for them to disembark. Papa moved forward to
help her down, but Abigail stopped him.
“I’ve got to do this on my own,” she told him. If Papa came inside, he’d try to talk Strickland into throwing him into Marshalsea instead. Bess had already lost one parent. Though Papa was a shoddy influence, he was better than nothing.
Abigail took the hand of the driver, sliding down slowly so as not to jar her knees. She pressed the return fare into the man’s hands, ordering him to take Papa back to their flat in Whitechapel. “By no means take him to a gaming hell, no matter what he says,” she said sternly. The driver nodded.
The carriage rolled away. She stood on the street, surveying Strickland’s massive townhouse. What did he do with all this space? Before her injury, all she’d needed in life had fit into one room: her books, enough food to survive, her three dresses and suitable appurtenances, and a sheet-covered palette to sleep upon.
But according to the rumors around Cruikshank’s, Strickland was prone to excess in all forms. He had some wealth, so he’d be an excellent start. Not high society, but respectable enough to command some attention. Her time with him would be a learning experience.
If she intended to become an accomplished ladybird, then she needed references. Men who could attest to how good of a lay she was. She swallowed down her dread, refusing to succumb to it. She’d done the only thing possible when entering into this agreement with Strickland, but she’d be damned if she didn’t control how this whole affair was conducted. By the time two weeks were over, she’d have the skills needed to sell herself in the fashionable West End.
Nodding sharply, she set off down the walk to Strickland's townhouse. While traffic on the adjacent streets echoed, there was no sign of activity here. All the toffs must be inside, drinking tea from fancy cups until they had to dress for dinner. As she took another step forward, she heard the slap of boots on cobblestone. She turned around, expecting to see someone else in the walk.
But there was no one there.
Had she imagined the sound? She replayed it in her mind again. Maybe she was overreacting. Surely, lots of things made that noise.
The silent street felt cryptic. Too quiet. Prickles crept up her neck. All her senses roared to high alert. Something wasn’t right.
“Is anyone there?” Her grip tightened on her valise.
There was no response. No one stepped out from a waiting carriage or emerged from the neighboring houses. She tried to tell herself this was nonsense. Why would anyone be following her? She hadn’t told anyone else but Papa and Mrs. Henderson that she was coming here, and she highly doubted anyone reading the betting ledger at Cruikshank’s would care enough to seek her out.
She couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was watching. A shiver sliced through her, leaving goose pimples on her arms. She sped up, her half boots pounding into the path. When she reached the door, she knocked as hard as she could, beating her knuckles into the wood. She glanced over her shoulder.
Her heart pulsated in her ears, but she was still the only person on the street. The fear made her mistrust everything. Her new plan, the fact that she’d let her father drive away, her own sanity.
She had a terrible feeling this was only the beginning of the danger she’d face in the next fourteen days.
4
Michael didn't know what he'd thrown himself into this time. He'd been in over his head before—hell, his entire life could be summarized in that one state of being—but this time was the worst of it.
Women had never been difficult for him. He understood those in his acquaintance as primarily simple creatures, with needs and wants similar to his own. Pleasure, good food, good wine, and proper compensation for their efforts.
But one look at Abigail Vautille on his doorstep, her satin fist up to bang on his door again, and he was lost. He forgot about Clowes. He forgot about the scrutiny the division would face. Damnation, he forgot his own name.
Because standing there was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. In the dim light of the gaming hell, he'd considered her ethereal. She'd been a gothic beauty, that black cape and golden halo enticing his every fancy.
When he'd seen her in the hospital bed months prior, he hadn't been able to forget her. The nurses had patched her cuts, but her eye was still swollen shut then. The light sheen of perspiration upon her brow and the sick translucence to her almost-white skin had left him with the desire to rip Clowes's heart clean out of his chest for hurting her.
Even in her most downtrodden state, she’d been beautiful to him.
None of those experiences compared to now. Wisps of blonde escaped from her simple bun, framing her delicate face. Her skirt flared out around her hips; hips so rounded that visions of grasping onto her as he thrust into her hot wetness dotted before him. His throat grew impossibly dry. His gaze rested upon her plush lips, no longer pricked with dried blood as they had been in the hospital.
This was the best two hundred pounds he’d spent in his life.
“Inspector Strickland,” she said, her crisp tones startling him back to reality. “Would you let me in, please?”
Was it his imagination, or did she sound a little too urgent? She probably didn’t want to be seen by the neighbors. He jumped back from the door, holding it open for her.
She walked into the room, setting down the small, shabby portmanteau she carried onto the wooden floor of his entryway. Dust swirled up from the bag, winding around her skirt and clinging to the fabric.
She did not appear to notice it. Her blue eyes were wide and vibrant, fastened upon his face with an equal mix of trepidation and somehow...relief? Was she happy to be here with him? He quickly discarded that notion. Most likely, she was delighted she wouldn't have to spend two weeks upon his stoop while he gazed at her mutely.
What a nattering fool he was.
He shook his head. A clear mind, that's what he needed. The kind of clarity that only came with a hearty dinner. He tugged on the bell pull that hung in the hall, and the clang of a gong echoed through the house.
Miss Vautille jumped back at the sound, almost losing her footing. He grabbed for her arm, holding her steady until she recovered.
“My butler will arrive shortly,” he explained. “Smithers shall take your bag up to your room.”
She blinked. “My room?”
“Yes.” He’d decided it was better for her to have her own room. Less personal than if she spent all her time with him.
Her lips pressed into an adorable bow-shape, but she didn't question him further. He rather liked that about her.
He halted mid-thought. When had he started to use words like adorable? Puppies and kittens were adorable. Women ought to be dimber or coquettish. Christ, this was how smart men like Knight ended up leg-shackled for the rest of their lives. He pushed his fingers through his hair, ruining a half hour of his servant’s work.
Smithers appeared beside him. Though he was a large, hulking man, Smithers glided soundlessly, the product of many years spent first as a soldier and then in service. Michael gestured to the bag, and Smithers picked it up. His bushy gray-streaked brows creased.
Michael narrowed his eyes, signaling to Smithers not to inquire. Smithers tapped his finger to his bulbous nose and shrugged, his dark eyes twinkling as he set off toward Abigail’s room.
He held out his arm to escort her. “I thought I’d show you around the house.”
Her touch was light as she placed her hand on the crook of his arm. That touch sizzled through him, just as it had in the hell. Perhaps she felt it too, for her grip upon his arm tightened.
He sucked in one breath, then another, to quiet his wayward nerves. Clearly, the gin from the night before had come back to haunt him. This was a temporary madness.
He had things to teach her about seduction, not the other way around.
Striding down the hall, he slowed his gait to accommodate her staggered pace. He didn’t mind the imposition. He had never understood how women could move swiftly in those cumbersome skirts. He preferred the freedom
of movement that came with their nakedness, the removal of an absurd number of petticoats and outer trappings.
Yet Miss Vautille surprised him, for she matched his stride with a steadiness he had not accounted for. In not more than a minute, they had come to the third door on the right of the hallway.
He made a sweeping motion toward the bookshelves. “This is the library.” Of course, she could see this was a library. “Should you wish to read, please, be my guest. What I have is yours while you are here.”
She let go of his arm, proceeding into the room without further introduction. For a second, she stood in the center, her spine stiff and her hands outstretched. Then she was off, determinedly pacing toward the shelf of popular novels he'd collected over the years. He had not the sheer magnitude of Knight's library, but he still had a decent assortment of literature.
“I like this,” Miss Vautille declared, her black-tipped finger running along the leather spines of the books. “What you have is beautiful, and I am...” She pursed her lips, turning to face him. “I am surprised to see it all.”
“Did you not take me for a learned man?” He knew the answer already, for he took pains to appear a certain way to the ladies. Women weren’t impressed that he’d begun his own moral statistics grid of London, using a choropleth map developed by Charles Dupin.
“I will confess I did not,” she ventured, the slightest hint of pink cresting her cheeks.
Desire flashed within him. She was wrong. The library was not beautiful—she was.
“Fear not, Miss Vautille.” He strolled toward her, coming to a stop behind her. “I don't fault you for misconceptions I actively cultivate.”
Her hand paused on the volume of essays by Swift she'd been about to remove from the shelf. She tilted her head to meet his gaze. “We all live behind masks, don’t we? Sometimes I think it is the only way to survive.” As he'd done when he welcomed her inside, she gestured to the entirety of the room.
She let out a tinny laugh. “This world is harsh and barren, though I suppose you'd know little of that.”
