by Erica Monroe
The townhouse no longer simply belonged to him. In the span of seven days, Abigail had somehow managed to transition from houseguest to beloved resident. Cook delighted in making Abigail’s favorites dishes. Smithers regaled her with tales from his early Army service until he was hoarse. Mrs. O’Neal smiled now.
Clearly, his staff expected that he’d extend a proposal of marriage to the lovely Miss Vautille, if for no other reason than it would please them.
He crossed to the window. His office faced the back of his house with a view of the grounds. As he stared out the window, he didn’t see the snow-capped foliage laid out in a picturesque English garden. In its place, he imagined sooty, decrepit Whitechapel. Women huddled with their babies in threadbare coats, toes poking out from holes in their shoes. Men with bedraggled beards and sacks slung over their shoulders trudged home from the factories in the snow.
Prior to Abigail, he’d never considered the poor, outside of the crimes they committed. He frequented their hells and their dram palaces, but he’d always assumed he was a notch above them. He resided in good society. Not the high echelon of the Upper Ten Thousand, obviously, but as an inspector with the Metropolitan Police his name carried weight. On the surface, he was respectable.
Respectable men didn’t kiss women whose hearts they’d break.
Hell, he hadn't just kissed her, he'd groped her too. Virtue was the one thing Abigail had left to recommend her to a callous society that saw women solely in what purity they might contribute, a society that didn’t value her heart, her spirit, or her innovation.
Abigail might be able to perform as a ladybird, but it wasn’t what her heart desired. The joy in her voice when she discussed books was similar to his enthusiasm for his moral statistics map. She’d be happiest with a man who admired her for her intellect, not her body.
Yet he’d kissed her without regard to that, without promises made to secure her position, without thought for the future.
Michael had taken leave of his senses. Not that he ever had much sense to begin with, as his supposed friends would be quick to point out. Any attachment to Abigail would only end in sorrow. He was a man made for short affairs, not love.
Pushing back his chair, he stood up from the desk. On the wall opposite were portraits of the last three Strickland men, all in their Night Watch uniforms.
When the Met formed three years ago, he’d wasted no time in joining. He received a salary, ladybirds liked him in his blues, and family dinners were less awkward.
“Boy, you might make me proud after all,” the Old Bastard had quipped one night with too much port in him. “But I doubt that.”
A week ago, he would have said ascending the ranks in the Met was his ultimate goal. Now, he hadn’t the foggiest idea. He couldn’t let his men know that he had any doubts whatsoever about his purpose. They’d prey upon any show of insecurity. Use it as a reason to be mutinous. No, if he wanted them to believe he was in command, he had to appear wholly sure of himself.
Abigail Vautille had clouded his judgment. Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back on the balls of his feet. He remembered one night when he’d finally succumbed to Frances’s request to attend one of her bizarre occult séances. This mainly consisted of a circle of ninny-hammer women gripping a triangular contraption to channel the spirits of the dead. Michael had taken great joy out of informing Frances afterward that her “spiritualism miracle” was no more than him nudging the planchette.
He didn't need a talking predictor board to know he was doomed to repeat his father's mistakes. How could he not? He'd never known any different.
He'd shared countless kisses in his twenty-eight years, but none of those experiences had ever been like this. When he kissed Abigail, it was more than the sum of two lips pressing together. During his most poetic moments—damn it all, since when did he have poetic moments—he'd describe kissing Abigail as a tidal wave. Surging through and leaving him both rapturous and devastated.
Smithers knocked, opening the door. “Marcus Hume, sir.”
Michael motioned for Hume to enter. Smithers closed the door after him.
“Good morning, sir.” Hume placed an ironic lilt on the title of respect.
Michael appraised the older sergeant slowly, taking no pains to hide his critical eye. Hume had been with the Met since its establishment three years ago, and the Watch for seven years prior to that. Because of Hume’s lower-class background—father was a butcher from the Highlands and mother had Huguenot lines, if Michael’s memory served—his promotions had come at a slower interval. He had no family history of policing, and his half-Scottish ancestry did him no favors with the superiors.
And he was a pompous ass.
Hume returned his scrutiny, brow arched, and posture relaxed. His short, wavy hair was streaked with early gray, though he was only ten years Michael’s senior. Ashen scruff flecked his upper lip and his chin.
Michael’s customary smirk slid onto his lips. “Well, what is it? Out with it, old man.”
Hume’s eyes flashed. “It’s about the girl, sir. But if you’d prefer to spend your time tupping her in the comforts of your home—”
“I would watch your tone, Sergeant.” Michael’s voice crackled with barely suppressed fury, surprising even him. He smoothed his hands across his breeches, composing his expression. “The girl is protected here.”
Leaning back against the door, Hume stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, his elbows out. “Highly convenient for you.”
One of these days, Michael was going to throttle him.
“Nothing about this is convenient. Miss Vautille was tortured for information because we didn’t act fast enough,” Michael retorted. “Or do you need a reminder of how you told Knight he was a bloody fool for investigating the Larkers in the first place?”
“We all thought it,” Hume jeered. “And you’d do better to forget Knight. He’s not coming back. Got that new wife of his.”
“I’m well aware of Knight’s state of marital bliss.” Michael moved back to his desk. “What have you found that involves Abigail Vautille?”
Hume pulled out the chair across from him and sat. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out an all-too familiar tattered paper and passed it to Michael. “You’re going to want to read this.”
“Another note?” Michael gulped down his tension, determined to appear unaffected in front of Hume. He took the paper. His hand remained steady, though his breath came in irregular pants.
The note read “You’re never gonna stop me. I’ll always win.” At least this time it didn’t appear to be written in blood. The ink was black and crackled in places. He studied the words for a minute. Wherever Clowes was, he didn’t have access to well-mixed ink, or decent stationary. He could still be in the East End.
God’s balls, could nothing in his bloody life go right?
“So, he’s planning to make a move.” Michael brought his index fingers and thumbs together in a steeple. “We should double security around the house.”
Hume pulled from his coat several folded papers and handed them over. “I don’t know about that. Boys got a tip that he’s been spotted in the West End. Down by the Rat’s Castle.”
“That certainly doesn’t fit with the theory that Clowes is coming after both Miss Vautille and me.” Michael flipped through Hume’s report. Going off the initial account, several of the patrollers were now monitoring the various areas Clowes might go in St. Giles.
“Perhaps he’s sending the notes to distract us,” Hume suggested. “If we’re busy wondering what he’s doing, we won’t see the real attack coming.”
Michael nodded. “It fits his character. We’ll have to cover all the bases then. This report is a good start, but it’s not enough. We need solid leads. I want teams in both St. Giles and Whitechapel.”
“The superintendents aren’t going to like that,” Hume said.
Michael tapped the memorandum on top of one of the many piles on his desk. “Bicknell a
pproved moving any available men to the operation. He wants this solved as quickly as possible and I want him off my back.”
“Bicknell’s a tosser.” Hume grinned, catching Michael off guard.
Michael could count the number of times Hume had ever smiled on one hand. Apparently, all he’d needed to do was find someone Hume hated more than him.
“Our informants said his men have been inquiring about travel to Ireland.” Hume leaned over, turning the pages in the report until he got to an outline of plans Clowes’s men had made. “Heard he reached out to some of the rebels who think the Irish Reform Act didn’t go far enough in liberation. He’s going to take the best of his men with him and join forces.”
He’d factored Clowes leaving England into his equation, but it hadn’t rated highest amongst the possibilities. Perhaps he’d been wrong. He’d certainly made enough mistakes lately.
“The last thing England needs is that bastard working with the bloody extremists,” Michael groaned. “Have any of our men seen Clowes?”
“Jeffries did,” Hume replied. “Apparently he hasn’t gone further than a stone throw from Madame Massle’s brothel.”
“I know the place,” Michael said.
“Course you do.” Hume winked. “Redhead with tits the size of melons, I think you said.”
Somehow, his description sounded coarser when Hume said it.
“If Clowes is in Little Ireland, that’ll work in our favor,” Michael mused.
“How you figure? St. Giles is prime thieving territory.” Hume scrutinized his face, searching for clues.
“Oh, I just meant we might stumble upon a few extra arrests,” Michael replied, hoping the lie was convincing enough. He’d been thinking of Atlas Greer, who held court at the Rat’s Castle. As soon as Hume left, he’d pen a note to Knight and ask him to alert the Gentleman Thief.
“Suppose you’re right.” Hume didn’t sound convinced.
“He won’t be exposed for long,” Michael noted. “We have to act fast.”
“Jeffries reported Clowes has been gathering what’s left of Larker’s men. Must think we don’t have snitches that far back in St. Giles.”
Michael stifled a groan. The more power Clowes amassed, the harder he’d be to catch. But there was still hope.
“We should be able to take him at Massle’s before he leaves the country,” he said. “Dispatch a team as soon as possible, and I want you to lead the efforts, Hume. Clowes is a sick bastard and we can’t let him get away.”
Hume nodded. “I’ve already sent three men to keep watch. Was just waiting for your signal.”
He remembered why he tolerated Hume: while the sergeant was an ass, his actions were swift and efficient. “We need Clowes. Those guards’ deaths at the college are on our head too.”
“You don’t have to remind me.” Hume’s fists clenched against the arms of his chair. “One of those guards was a friend of mine.”
Michael frowned. “Too many have been hurt by this bleeder. Go get him. Get him hard, Sergeant.”
“With pleasure.” Hume rose from the chair, extending his hand to Michael. They shook hands as partners on the same mission: to reign down the fire of retribution on a man who’d destroyed the people they both loved.
He blinked, his eyes barely centering on Hume. Did he love Abigail? Of course not.
Caring what happened to Abigail was not the same as loving her. He liked spending time with her. She amused him, and he found their discussions oddly invigorating. They were friends. It didn’t matter that he dreamt of riding her like a green-broke filly, or that her kiss made his heart gallop. If they were to have sex, it’d be a purely physical connection. It’d have to be.
She’d be happiest with a man who could commit to her. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. He was made for short affairs, not love.
As soon as Hume left, Michael pulled back out his chair. He went over the reports and crosschecked his map. While he had hope for Hume’s success in St. Giles, he wanted to be certain there wasn’t anything he overlooked. Hume’s report was detailed and contained information from four different informants, all of whom the Met trusted.
Numbers don’t lie, people do. If only he could convince himself that separating from her was in their best interests.
12
Though Abigail didn’t have much experience in the matter, she was reasonably confident it wasn't proper to ignore a woman for three days after kissing her. It was the eighth day of her stay at his townhouse, and she hadn't seen Michael since their outing in the garden.
She’d corned Smithers the night before. At first, he’d seemed so dour to Abigail: a mammoth of a man, with shoulders spanning the length of her arm and tufts of gray hair that stuck out at the tops of his ears. Now, she knew behind his gruff exterior was a man who cared deeply for Michael. A man who’d befriended her without reservations. Thanks to Smithers and Mrs. O’Neal, she now felt like she had friends again. They’d shown her kindness and made her feel wanted.
So, when Smithers claimed police work had consumed Michael, she wanted to believe him. Knowing that Michael was working hard to protect her from Clowes made her feel invulnerable.
But he still could have sent her a message. They were in the same house, for God's sake. It would have taken him five minutes to seek her out. He must know where she was, given she always came to the library in the afternoon.
She scowled at her dainty china cup. The pattern was not faded, indicating the set was most likely purchased within the last decade. It was newer than anything she’d ever drank out of before. Abigail frowned as she hefted the sterling silver teapot and refilled her cup.
If only the china had been cracked.
Everything in this house was far too nice for a girl like her.
Had Michael not come to her because he was giving her time to decide what she wanted? What did she want?
Before he'd kissed her—before he'd spun her entire world on its axis with his lips upon hers and his hands scorching her body as though her clothing was made of the thinnest silk—he'd told her she shouldn't want him. That she ought to want better.
Better than him!
As though she were a lady of Polite Society instead of a crippled weaver with a lifetime of tarting ahead of her. He was the cruelest blackguard to tease her so. She knew her place. This house might be an oasis away from reality, but it wouldn't last forever.
Michael had made that all too clear these last few days.
She was a fool to think he would return her feelings. It had been easier to ignore her desire when she could pretend that he was at most a teacher to her.
Abigail sighed. That kiss in the snow had been different. Real. She could no longer deny that every touch, every laugh shared with him, affected her. She’d learned nothing from him but how to become attached to a man she couldn’t have. He was the first thought in her mind in the morning, and the last when she went to sleep. With him, she felt alive again, as she had before the accident, but somehow better because she could share new moments with him.
She'd read enough novels in her short life to recognize the quiver of fancy. Though she knew it was a fool's exercise, she'd fallen asleep to thoughts of him the past few nights, imagining what their life could be like together. There could be no future for them, of course, but in those quiet moments with him, she'd allowed herself to believe their social standings shouldn't matter.
Michael had made her feel in those moments that she was truly worthy of a man like him.
She wasn't.
She ought to follow his example and spend the remaining days until Clowes was caught hunkered down in her room. Abigail sipped her tea, surveying the room.
She'd told herself when she sat down on the ivory chaise that she'd chosen this part of the library because it was the most comfortable. The lounge was directly in front of the fireplace, with two armchairs at either side of it, blocking off a small space.
But in reality, she'd come to this section because it h
ad been where she’d first felt close to Michael. Perched on this couch across from him, he'd spoken of his family's sordid history and for the first time in ages, she hadn't felt so alone.
It was the little things he did that touched her far more than they should. The stack of books on the table in front of her. Voltaire’s Treatise on Tolerance, a few more novels she’d always wanted to read, and one mathematics book where he’d tabbed the pages that had to do with his moral statistics map. Since she'd taken to coming in here in the afternoons, Michael made sure that there was always a blaze roaring in the grate.
But those could all be gestures of friendship. It did not indicate he felt anything for her, outside of carnal desire.
Enough of this. Abigail waved her hand dismissively. She was a smart, resourceful woman who didn't need the love of a man. In her new life, men would be a means to an end. To use until a superior bid came along, and again she’d begin the process.
She'd survive on her own. She always had.
Depositing her teacup on the low table in front of the chaise, she stood up. The girls of the BRLLS would have loved this library. If she could bring them here, maybe they’d forget about Poppy. Maybe they’d remember her instead.
Poppy always had the best books. The Gentleman Thief considered her family so whenever he acquired a book he’d already read, he gifted it to Poppy. The girls had been so delighted to have Poppy in the society that they’d elected her president, a position Abigail had always held.
And when Abigail had asked the girls not to ask Poppy to any future meetings, they’d ignored her request. Instead, Abigail never received another invitation.
Poppy got everything. The dashing husband, a new life outside of the factory, a library rumored to have more books than Abigail could count.
Abigail was left to fend for herself.
Navigating her way through the bookshelves, she passed the volumes of serialized novels that had kept her interest for most of the last week. Today she needed something different, for she'd been reminded that nothing lasted forever.
