Beauty and the Rake

by Erica Monroe

  Michael stifled a groan. Of course, his entire case would hinge on a false beggar vomiting in the back of an alley. Christ, could his luck get any worse?

  “So they don’t notice me,” Jared continued. “Ye’d be surprised what a man can get away with, when everybody thinks ’e’s just some dumb old codger.” Jared winked, and again Michael had the feeling the beggar was far smarter than he’d originally assumed. “Randy says, ’e’s goin’ on ’oliday, paid for by Clowes.”

  He remembered Clowes’s note: You’re never gonna stop me. I’ll always win. God, he’d hoped the threat meant Clowes was out of the country. Yet the phrasing of the words could just easily indicate the bastard was taunting them before he made his attack.

  The sinking feeling in Michael’s stomach now equated to a steel anchor. “Did he say where he was going?”

  Please don’t say Ireland.

  “Land o’ the Paddies.” Jared’s nose turned up. “Can’t fancy why, meself. Bloody bunch of bogtrotters. Who’d wanna go there?”

  Michael gripped the arm of the chair, his nails digging into the fabric. “You’re certain?”

  Jared appeared insulted. “I might’ve been foxed, but I got me good ears. Cub said Ireland, and I don’t mean the tiny land by way of St. Giles.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Releasing his grip on the chair, he massaged the pressure points on the side of his head. He needed to remain calm. Detached. Logical. “What does Randy look like?”

  Smithers entered with the tea, effectively ending the conversation. Jared blustered through Smithers serving his tea, demanding four lumps of sugar.

  “Enough,” Michael demanded as Jared gestured for his sixth splash of cream. “Your bloody tea isn’t even tea anymore. Tell me what Randy looks like. Could he pass for Clowes?”

  Jared settled back in the chair, sipping his tea delicately. The bounder might as well have his pinkie up in the damn air.

  “Now.” Michael’s tone was so lethal even Smithers snapped to attention.

  Hastily, Jared swallowed his drink. “Suppose so, yes. ’Bout the same weight and both of ’em be tall. Hair’s the same too, I’d say.”

  “God’s balls,” Michael ground out. “The bastard’s loose on the damn world and we got fooled. Again.”

  “That’s luck for ye,” Jared shrugged. “I still get my blunt, right? I got bills to pay.”

  “As if you would actually pay your debts,” Smithers retorted.

  “I could ’ave paid some of ’em,” Jared argued. “I could ’ave some real vowels. Ye don’t know what I ’ave.”

  As they bickered beside him, Michael’s whole world whirled on its axis. He didn’t need quill and paper to recognize that Randall Russell had taken Clowes’s place on the steamer to Ireland.

  Damn it all! He shouldn’t have let Abigail leave. His calculations had indicated that Clowes wouldn’t leave the country without tying up the loose ends—namely him, Knight and his wife, and Abigail. It was simply a matter of probabilities.

  Michael swore under his breath. Just like when Knight had first come to him with the Larker case, he’d brushed aside his experience in favor of the easier answer.

  You’re never gonna stop me.

  But he would stop Clowes. He had no choice. When it came to Abigail’s welfare, he’d protect her at all costs, even if it meant his own life. He’d promised her he’d guard her, and instead he’d allowed her to flee—maybe straight into the arms of a murderer.

  He had to find her.

  Springing up from his chair, he interrupted Smithers mid-rejoinder. “I’ve got to get to Abigail. She could be in trouble.”

  That was all Smithers needed to forget the argument with Jared. “I’ll get my gun.” He scurried from the room.

  “So, me blunt?” Jared asked, holding out his hand.

  Michael threw some coins into the man’s hand. When Jared went to sit back down in the chair and finish his tea, Michael grabbed his elbow, towing the beggar from the room with him. He sprinted with Smithers to the hack station, arriving just as a cab pulled up. Bounding into the cab, he ordered the driver to Whitechapel, with an extra fare to come if he made it quick.

  Abigail would not pay the price for his failure again.

  Nothing felt right anymore. Not the flat where she’d grown up, not the Ten Bells where she’d had her first sip of gin at three years old, not the path she used to travel to the factory. No matter where Abigail went in Whitechapel, the falseness of her own existence struck her.

  She belonged in neither the gritty rookeries nor the respectable Cheapside.

  Even time with her sister was strained now. Too many lies lay between them. She’d managed to field Bess’s inquiries on her whereabouts so far. Eventually she’d run out of easy answers or get trapped in a falsehood.

  While the frozen rose had pleased her, Bess sensed something was strange about Abigail’s behavior since her return. The night before, she’d fetched Abigail a bowl of broth warmed on the hearth and said she hoped it took away the chill. Abigail had thanked her, preferring Bess to think she felt ill—it was a less upsetting story than the truth.

  With Bess in mind, Abigail set out for the market. It was Tuesday afternoon, so the majority of vendors would be looking to unload their less palpable food before it soured. She’d be able to bargain with the merchants she knew personally. If Abigail brought Bess a penny pie, she might be convinced that everything was back to normal.

  She passed the Infirmary for Asthma, Consumption and other Diseases of the Chest, waving at one of the nurses as she continued up Paternoster Road to the southern entrance of the market on Crispin Street. Weaving around the carts and benches set up outside the walls, she arrived inside.

  The cruciform market-house stood in the center of the square, framed by four L-shaped buildings with individual courtyards. Houses faced either the surrounding streets or the inner marketplace. Though the market-house was but a single story with an added attic, Abigail had always found it ominous, for the four wings had no windows, plain sides, and a domed roof. The clock face built into a rectangular turret ticked mercilessly, counting down the minutes until she’d have to face Michael again.

  Four more days. He’d said he’d come for her in four more days.

  How could she possibly come to grips with everything that had passed between them in such a short amount of time? She couldn’t.

  Surveying the busy market, she decided to start with the closest building, where her father’s friend Smythe leased a fruit stall. She hobbled into the chaos, expertly navigating through the stalls packed to the brim with merchandise. The market noise was deafening, but to Abigail this was a second home. Neighbors gabbed with a butcher, while frolicking children almost upset the balance of a girl with a bushel of flowers in her arms. With her cloak billowing, her black gloves back on her hands, Abigail could vanish in this market.

  No one would be the wiser. That anonymity had appealed to her after the incident.

  Then she remembered the intensity of Michael’s gaze. The knowledge that finally, after a lifetime of being inconspicuous, someone had seen her for who she really was.

  Suddenly obscurity wasn’t so attractive.

  “Abigail?” A woman’s voice startled her from her reverie. “Abigail, is that you?”

  Abigail turned as the woman touched her shoulder. Poppy. If only she’d kept walking! Too late now. Not only was Poppy affirmed of her identity, but the child holding her hand reached for Abigail.

  “I was on my way out,” Abigail insisted lamely. “Places to be, you know.”

  “Abigail, please,” Poppy implored, her suppliant eyes never leaving Abigail’s face.

  God, how Abigail hated Poppy’s eyes. The color of sparkling emeralds, Poppy’s gaze captivated her, made her want to comply with whatever Poppy asked. Even if it meant going against everything Abigail held dear.

  So she stood still. The noise of the crowd became a dull roar, replaced by the sound of Poppy’s voice. The previous si
x months faded. She was flung back into the past, skipping home from the factory with Poppy’s two-year-old daughter, Moira, clinging to her hand. Bess had always walked with Poppy, prattling on about her day.

  “I’ve missed you,” Poppy said.

  “So have I,” Abigail blurted, regretting the words when Poppy’s face lit up. “It doesn’t change anything.”

  Poppy’s grin disappeared. “How long are you going to stay angry with me, Abbie?”

  Abigail glanced pointedly at her injured hand. “As long as I bear these scars, so I’d say for eternity.”

  Poppy let out a frustrated sigh, whatever she’d been about to say forgotten as Moira tore free of her mother’s hold.

  Moira flung herself at Abigail. “Abbie!”

  Reflexively, Abigail bent to embrace the girl as she had so many times before. When she went to pull away, Moira clutched at the back of Abigail’s dress, keeping her captive. For a second, Abigail considered prying her tiny fingers loose, but then discounted the idea.

  Of all of them, only Moira was innocent in this ordeal. She was but a child—she couldn’t understand why Abigail had disappeared from her life. Carding a hand through Moira’s red hair, Abigail held the girl close to her. Moira chattered on, unaware this embrace would be their last.

  Uneasiness flittered across Poppy’s fair face as she watched them. “I can’t apologize to you anymore, Abigail.”

  Poppy’s firm but low voice, with its Sussex lilt and the cadence of her Irish relatives, affected something in Abigail’s heart. Whether or not Abigail wanted to admit it, she’d always admired Poppy’s quiet grace. Her smooth gait was unmarred by the factories, for Poppy had grown up on a farm in Sussex. While she was hampered by bitterness and sorrow, Poppy had braved troubled waters and been rewarded with Knight’s love.

  Abigail would never have that same happiness with Michael. Regardless of how much she missed him, the dissonance between them couldn’t be repaired.

  She rose, patting Moira’s back. “I wouldn’t accept your apology anyhow.”

  “Oh, Abbie, I wish you wouldn’t speak so. In the beginning, I thought I deserved your wrath. I did.” Sadness dripped from Poppy’s tone. “I was willing to let you rant and rave about how I’d caused this. I thought that was what I deserved for emerging untouched, while you were scarred.”

  “It is what you deserve,” Abigail interrupted, though she’d started to question the veracity since the night she’d poured her heart out to Michael.

  His words came back to her. Place the blame where it lies and nowhere else.

  Looping her hand in Moira’s, Poppy gave her a gentle tug. Moira released Abigail’s dress, toddling back to Poppy. Mother and daughter stood side by side, mirror images that haunted Abigail.

  “I know you’re angry at the world,” Poppy said. “But I tried to get justice for Anna. Our friend. I wanted her family to know her killer had been punished. I don’t deserve your continued hatred for that. I want us to be friends again.”

  “You should have left the case to the Peelers,” Abigail said. She turned her back on Poppy and retreated, narrowly missing a stall full of potatoes.

  Moira babbled after her, but Abigail tried to block out the sound.

  “I should have.” Poppy’s voice carried. Just like no matter how far she ran, memories of Poppy would always follow her. “And if I could go back in time and change that, I would, but I can’t. I made a mistake. But I wasn’t the one who tortured you. It wasn’t me, Abbie.”

  Abigail spun around, insults ready on her tongue. Yet as she locked eyes with Poppy, she couldn’t form the words. She was so tired of clinging to her hatred. So tired of living in the dark.

  “No matter what you want to believe, I did not shove your hand in that loom.” Poppy stepped closer to her, her own perfect hand outstretched. “All I’ve wanted these past six months is to be your friend again.”

  Abigail looked from Poppy to Moira and back again. She thought of the dreams she’d had, where Poppy was the one brutalizing her. Dreams did not make reality. When she wished for things to be different between her and Michael, they did not magically become so.

  Clowes had left the country. He could not hurt her again.

  Michael had shown her light before he’d betrayed her trust. A new life, if only Abigail could break the chains of this one. But could she forgive Poppy? Could she pardon Michael?

  People hurried by, directing glares and curses at them for clogging the aisle. Still they lingered, within arm’s reach of each other, yet so far from the easy carefreeness they’d had before. Maybe they could never get back their old friendship.

  “I want to move on,” Abigail murmured. “I want so badly to forgive.”

  Tentatively, Poppy bridged the distance between them. Abigail held out her hand and Poppy took it, squeezing tight. They stood there in silence, not daring to speak, until Moira let out a giddy shriek. Latching onto the hem of her apron, Moira cleaved to Abigail’s side. Laughing, Abigail squatted, lifting Moira up into her arms.

  “You’ve grown so big,” Abigail marveled, shifting the toddler so that she was squarely on her hip.

  “Growing like a weed, Thaddeus says.” Poppy smiled. “I was going to visit Petticoat Lane after this and pick through the clothing stalls. She’s too big for most of her clothes.”

  Abigail bounced Moira up and down, grinning at the girl’s squeals of joy. What would it be like to have a child with Michael? She imagined walking the market hand-in-hand with a tot Moira’s age, with Michael’s eyes and his infuriatingly symmetrical face. He’d be a good father, determined not to perpetuate the cycle the Old Bastard had started.

  “Can I ask you something?” When Poppy nodded, she continued. “How did you know Thaddeus was the right man for you?”

  “Because he saw the real me,” Poppy said without hesitation. “He was kind and generous, and he didn’t care about my past.”

  Abigail considered this. Michael had viewed her scars and didn’t think she was marred by them. He’d arranged that ball simply because she’d said she’d never been to one. Repeatedly, he’d gone out of his way to make sure she had everything she needed.

  He’d given her a choice. Leave the darkness behind and stay with him or surrender to the hurts of the past. He’d made a mistake in ignoring the Larker case, but he hadn’t been the one to torture her. If she detached herself entirely from the case—if she closed her eyes so she couldn’t see her hand—she could even understand why he hadn’t taken the case.

  That didn’t make what he’d done right.

  Neither of them could change the past. He shouldn’t have lied to her about when he’d become involved in the investigation. That hurt her, perhaps more than his initial ignorance, because when he’d lied it had been to her face. She’d been there before him, real and broken, and he’d fed her an uncomplicated answer.

  But he regretted his actions. She didn’t doubt that. She recalled the anguish splashed across his face, how his voice had broken when he’d asked her to stay with him. In the course of their two weeks together, they’d both changed. The man he’d been when she first met him—the man so concerned with his own desires—had transformed before her.

  I love you, Abigail. I am not a perfect man. But around you, I become something more.

  They were both at fault. She’d stewed over the hurt for the last six months, lashing out at anyone who tried to reach her. Yet he made her want to be better, just as he claimed she’d done with him.

  If they were willing to make mistakes, to stay with each other even when they were not at their best, wouldn’t that be the true test of love? She could accept that he was flawed, and he’d endeavor to make amends for his past errors. In accepting him, she’d gain that same level of empathy from him. She didn’t have to be perfect around him. She only needed to be herself.

  Just as she used to feel she was understood by Poppy. God, she missed their friendship.

  “I think I’ve found that man,” Abigai
l said. “I’ve been in hiding with Inspector Strickland.”

  “Because of Clowes,” Poppy supplied, as though that were the only reason, when Abigail was reasonably sure Michael had told her about the debt.

  Abigail smiled gratefully. “These past two weeks have been the best of my life.”

  Poppy let out a happy squeal so high-pitched, Moira wasted no time echoing it. “Oh, Abigail, I’m so glad to hear that.” She paused, her forehead crinkling. “Then what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Cheapside?”

  Abigail took a deep breath. “I ran. I…I’m not sure how to put the past behind me. How can I be with him if he knew about the Larkers? And then he didn’t tell me about his real participation in the case.”

  Moira tugged on the hem of her dress, babbling happily. Abigail leaned down, placing her gloved hand in the little girl’s much smaller palm. When Moira was around, she had a hard time remembering why she was upset about anything—the child’s enthusiasm was catching.

  Poppy watched them with a wide smile. “I’m not saying what he did was right, but if he’d told you originally, would you have felt at ease in his home?”

  “Of course not,” Abigail replied. “I’d have hated him just like the rest of the bloody Peelers.”

  “Then I’m guessing that’s why he didn’t tell you.” Poppy’s nose wrinkled as she thought. “Knowing Strickland, he probably figured he’d never see you again after these two weeks. He’s never been the most…” She endeavored to find the right phrasing. “Committed to the long-term.”

  “He asked me to marry him,” Abigail told her. “And I had accepted.”

  “To marry him?” Poppy squeaked. She rushed forward, wrapping both Moira and Abigail in a giant embrace. “Oh, Abigail! I never thought I’d see the day Michael Strickland married. But it’s you, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Obviously, he sees how special you are.”’

  Abigail blushed as Poppy pulled back from the clinch. She’d forgotten how much Poppy believed in her. “You’ve always been convinced I’m something grand.”