Beauty and the Rake

by Erica Monroe

  Then came the pain. Clowes dug in the knife. She felt her blood trickling down her throat. Tears rained down her cheeks, the salt mixing with blood. Red, red, red. She’d forgotten how other colors looked. The world swum before her, and she wanted to fall, to give in to the agony because at the end she’d be nothing. In death, she’d find release.

  His breath was hot, vile against her ear. “You’re always gonna be my victim, Abigail.”

  Victim. Over and over again she’d been his victim. She’d torn apart her friendships, given up her one greatest love because of what he’d done to her. Even in gaol, Clowes had held her captive. Michael was possibly dead now, all because he’d tried to protect her. Smithers was off fighting two men, all to save her.

  No more. She was done being a victim.

  With one great push backward, she rammed her elbows into Clowes’s gut, shoving him back against the stonewall. His head smacked against the stone, startling him enough that he released her. She tore from his arms, sweeping up the abandoned truncheon in her uninjured hand. She swung with wild, reckless abandon at his head.

  The clap of wood meeting bone resonated. Clowes slumped to the ground, broken and useless. But she didn’t give him the chance to get up. She clobbered him repeatedly, tears flowing down her face, blurring her vision. Still she slammed the truncheon down on his chest. Screams tore from her throat, indecipherable screams, raw rage coiled up so tight and finally released.

  Strong arms encased her. She lashed out against the hold, but it was Smithers, calm, resolute Smithers, telling her the bounder was out of commission and she needn’t flog him further. Sagging in his arms, Abigail let the truncheon slip from her fingers.

  24

  As soon as Smithers released her, Abigail ran back to Michael, settling in the snow beside him, careful not to upset him. Smithers was saying something—that the other assailant had turned tail and run when he’d seen her pummeling Clowes—but none of that mattered because Michael’s eyes were open. His breathing had stabilized.

  “Oh my God, Michael,” she gasped, seizing his hand in hers.

  He blinked up at her. “Abigail? I thought I saw you.”

  “I’m here. I love you. I was so wrong, Michael, so bloody wrong.” She feathered kisses upon his knuckles, needing to touch him and reassure herself that he was truly alive. “I never should have left. It was stupid and bitter, and I’d understand if you don’t forgive me, but God, I hope you do.”

  He reached for her, wincing in discomfort. She shook her head, telling him he should stay still.

  Instead, he brushed his hand across her jaw. “I love you too, you silly lass. You’re all I’ve thought about. I’m a miserable sod without you.”

  She leaned down, kissing him. He tasted of blood and combat. She’d never get enough of him. Never want to be anything but his.

  “All I want is to be your wife,” she whispered, drawing back from him. “To love you forever, no matter what bloody bad luck we might have. We’re in this together until the end.”

  He pressed his hand to her good hand. “And I’ll hold you close, no matter what. We’ve fought against a maniac. What more could happen?”

  She smiled, squeezing his hand back. “Knowing us, nothing ordinary.”

  He winked, the mischievous rogue, flirtatious even in his darkest hour. “Mrs. Strickland you shall be. It’s about time we had some pretty in our line of lunatics.”

  Smithers coughed, pointing to the garden gates. Two Peelers raced across the snow, truncheons slapping against their legs and top hats bobbing. “Charming as this all is, sir, perhaps we ought to delay until your officers get their report? While Miss Vautille’s glove was a nice field dressing, you’ll need proper care.”

  “Of course,” Michael agreed. He gave Abigail’s hand a squeeze. “We’ll have plenty of time together, my love.”

  Abigail’s heart filled at his words. They had the rest of their lives ahead of them. Together, they’d build new identities, each bolstering the other in times of sadness. She looked down at her injured hand, wrapped up in Michael’s larger palm. Michael had seen her tattered soul, but he had not flinched. He cared not that she was part beast, part beauty. Instead, he understood that her scars were a part of her now, as much as her flaxen hair or her love of literature.

  She could not change the past—and maybe she no longer wanted to, for that act of violence had brought her to Michael. It had made her stronger. Forced her to see that she could withstand anything.

  She’d never be alone again.

  Once Michael was treated and dismissed from London Hospital, he went with Abigail to the Vautille’s flat. The driver let them off on the outskirts of Whitechapel, for the roads were too narrow to permit the hack. With her hand lightly placed on his arm, Abigail led him through back alleys, picking carefully around the piles of rubbish. Her pace never slowed, even as she wove around a man and his dog, both passed out in the middle of the pathway. Whenever they came upon someone she knew, she greeted them with a cheery smile and an inquiry about their family.

  He’d loved her in his townhouse, exploring a whole new world, but he loved her even more in her natural surroundings. He imagined this was how she’d looked before the attack, confident and at ease. She directed him around one corner and into the street, expertly pulling him between two stopped carriages. A coster’s cart had tipped over, making the road impassible. Two men hurriedly scooped up the fruit, depositing it back into the cart.

  She grinned. “You’ve got to move quickly around here.”

  He winked at her. “I like to take my time when it comes to you.”

  Laughing, she took his hands in hers and tugged him down another thin path. They reached Baker’s Row. A three-story tenement building flanked a crumbling courtyard with weeds poking out from the fragmented stones. The tenements divided into four sections, each with individual staircases.

  A few children chased each other around, while others played in the dirt, as though this was an impressive garden and not a shambling ground better fit for demolition. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, resisting the urge to look away. This was Abigail’s home, and she loved it. He’d see the good in this place.

  She took the stairs to the middle flat, sliding her key into the lock and opening the door. He hesitated at the entrance, but she hauled him inside with her.

  “Bess? Bess, are you here?” She called, undoing the strings to her bonnet.

  “Abbie!” A young girl burst into the room, flinging herself immediately at Abigail.

  He’d know the girl as Abigail’s sister in an instant, even without an introduction. She was a spitting image of Abigail, except for the fact that her hair was ginger. She had the same apple blossom cheeks, the same sparkling blue eyes, even the same defiant stance.

  “Bess, I want you to meet someone.” Abigail drew back from the embrace, reaching for his hand again. “This is Inspector Michael Strickland.”

  “Hello there.” He bowed to her, giving her his most winning smile. If ever he’d wanted to make a good first impression, it was with Abigail’s sister.

  “A Peeler,” Bess pronounced with absolute contempt. “Why are you bringing a pig into our home?”

  Apparently the Vautille women were destined to dislike him on sight.

  “I’m not just a Peeler,” he protested, not entirely sure how to react to a nine-year-old’s disdain.

  “When I went away, I met him.” Abigail squeezed his hand, reassuring him that she wanted him here. “And I’m bringing him here because I wanted you to know we’re betrothed.”

  Bess’s eyes narrowed as she looked from her sister to Michael and back again. For a moment, neither she nor Abigail spoke. He observed their silent exchange curiously. Bess raised her eyebrows and Abigail smiled in response.

  “Are you happy?” Bess asked finally.

  Abigail let out a chuckle, dropping Michael’s hand to ruffle Bess’s hair. “The happiest, Bessieboo. You don’t have to worry
about me anymore.”

  Bess pulled back, eying him with open skepticism, but her posture relaxed. “I’ll be watching you,” she told him solemnly. “Don’t hurt my sister.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he told her, matching her serious tone.

  “You two will do just fine. You’re both bloody stubborn,” Abigail declared. “Where is Papa?”

  “In his room,” Bess answered.

  Abigail knocked on his door, entering after he answered. Bess followed her after, and Michael hung back in the doorway. Vautille sprawled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. A toppled tin cup rested on a chest of drawers by his bedside, next to a plate with crumbs.

  Vautille pushed himself up when they opened the door, swinging his legs around. His eyes were as red as they’d been in the gaming hell, but his hands did not shake as he gripped the side of the bed.

  “Abbie, did you see the—” He stopped, catching sight of Michael. “What in the blazes are you doing here, Peeler?”

  Bess opened her mouth to speak, but Abigail nudged her and pointed toward the door.

  “Just a few minutes, I promise,” Abigail said. “Then we’ll talk more.”

  Bess departed. Michael stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “Michael has asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted,” Abigail told her father. “It’s done with, Papa. Clowes is gone. I’m happy.”

  Vautille blinked. He glanced up at the ceiling, as though it’d provide all the information he needed. But as in Cruikshank’s, no easy answers came to him.

  He centered in on the second matter. “The bastard is gone?”

  “I can personally attest to that,” Michael said. “My team has him in custody. He’s set to be executed next week.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Vautille muttered. “Newgate was too good for him.”

  Abigail explained the events of the last two weeks to her father, glossing over the more sexual parts of her time with Michael. When she’d finished the story, Vautille stood. He held onto the bed for support, his body trembling. Abigail came forward, letting Vautille hug her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I should never have let you go.”

  Abigail drew back from Vautille, a flicker of sadness in her eyes as she surveyed him. “It worked out well, Papa. This time. I love Michael. But if the same were to happen again, and it was Bess on the line…”

  “Never,” Vautille vowed vehemently. “I would never.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I don’t want to take that chance. I’d like Bess to come live with me and Michael. She’ll get a chance to go to school.”

  Vautille eased himself back onto the bed. He reached for the tin cup, frowning when he found it empty. “You’ll let me visit?”

  Michael traded a glance with Abigail. She nodded.

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re welcome in my home always.”

  Vautille sighed. “She should be with you.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail said, pressing his hand in hers. She hurried out of the room, likely to talk with Bess. The girl would probably have a million questions, given Abigail’s earlier descriptions of her inquisitive nature.

  Forced his fingers through his grimy grey hair, Vautille hunched on the bed. For a second, Michael considered following Abigail. He’d never been good in these situations—never known what to say. But this was Abigail’s family, and though her father had failed her once, it had not been through outright malice. Vautille was sick. Not in the same way his own mother had been, but still ailing.

  “I’ll take care of them,” he promised, knowing it was one promise he’d keep for the rest of his life. “I love your daughter, and I’m going to make damn sure she’s happy. Bess too, for she’s my family now as well.”

  Vautille raised his head, locking eyes with Michael, his hazy glance focusing for a second. He did not speak. But he nodded, a swift, decisive nod. Michael turned and left the room, going to rejoin Abigail. Michael couldn’t save Vautille from himself, any more than Abigail could, but at least he’d given him some solace.

  Later that night, as Abigail slept beside him, he laid his arm over her and held her close to him. She was everything he’d never known he wanted, and now the very idea of being without her sent him reeling. Somehow, she’d filled up the darkest spaces within him with her brightness.

  He’d be with one woman for the rest of his life, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

  Always a rake, but now her rake.

  On their wedding day, red was everywhere.

  Abigail’s dress was made from crimson silk, found in a stall on Petticoat Lane and remade by Poppy into something beautiful and daring. She held a bouquet of red roses. Even the carpet she walked to the altar was red, a crushed velvet soft underfoot.

  Red had become her liberation. She’d faced pain and suffering, and she’d come out on top. As she stood up in front of the priest, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens. Michael, glorious Michael, held her hand—her hands free of gloves, for she had nothing left to hide from him.

  It was a small service, with the only attendees being her sister, the Knights, and her father. Frances had declined their invitation. While Abigail was sad for Michael, he’d shrugged and said eventually she’d come around.

  They said their vows without hesitation. His steadfast faith in their union strengthened her. Whatever obstacles they’d face in their married life, they’d face them together. These words were a formality, a public expression of the bond they’d already formed. Their real vows, the ones stamped upon her heart, were those they’d uttered in his garden. To cherish each other forever; to be there in times of fortune and ill luck.

  No matter what their hand of cards revealed, they’d play the game until they won.

  Epilogue

  Cheapside, London

  December 12, 1837

  Michael bounced his son in his arms, grinning when the little boy let out a loud giggle. Shifting Hugh so that the babe sat more on his hip, Michael pushed back the parlor room curtain and peered out. “What do you see outside? Is that a carriage?”

  The babe, too young to know more than a few words, simply stared outside with wide eyes. Michael dropped a kiss on his crown, letting his cheek rest against the top of Hugh’s head.

  Abigail entered the room, a cup of tea in her good hand. Over the years, she’d been able to increase her strength in her left hand, but she still felt more confident carrying things with her right. She never wore gloves anymore. He didn’t lament the loss of them, especially not when they retired to their bedroom for the night.

  “Any sign of her yet?” Abigail called from the doorway.

  “A carriage just arrived,” he said, nodding toward the hack that had pulled up. “But it’s unmarked. Could be her or could be one of the neighbors.”

  “Hopefully, she’ll get here soon. Poppy and Thaddeus will arrive in an hour.” She made her way to him. Sipping the tea, she leaned over his shoulder to look out the window. “Come on now, open the door. What’s taking the driver so long?”

  Just as the driver bounded from his stand onto the street, a child’s shriek resounded through the house. “Momma!”

  As usual, they heard their four-year-old daughter before they could see her. They both turned back around. Lily sprinted into the room, one foot clad in a black patent leather shoe, and the other still wearing only a stocking. Smithers trailed behind her, fruitlessly waving her right shoe.

  “I tried, Mrs. Strickland,” Smithers explained, extending the shoe to Abigail. “But Miss Lily has a mind of her own.”

  Abigail set her cup of tea down on the table and took the shoe. “Why don’t you want to wear your shoes, Lily?”

  “I don’t like them,” Lily announced, giving Smithers an arch look. “I can’t run in them.”

  “Lil, you know you’re not supposed to run in the house,” Michael reminded her, as he stifled a laugh from Smithers’s harassed expression. The old butler acted
annoyed, but everyone knew he loved the children almost as much as Michael and Abigail did.

  “You said not to run in the hall,” Lily corrected. “It wasn’t the hall. It was the kitchen.”

  Michael exchanged a glance with Abigail. “This is all on you, love. She inherited your love of the particular.”

  “You correct a man once on the time of day, and you go down in infamy as meticulous,” Abigail complained good-naturedly. She stooped down, sliding the shoe back onto Lily’s foot, much to her daughter’s chagrin. “Don’t you want to look nice for your aunt?”

  Michael readjusted the collar of Hugh’s shirt. “Even Hugh looks dashing.”

  Hugh gurgled an incoherent response to that, waving his chubby little hand at his sister.

  “Fine, I’ll wear shoes,” Lily grumbled with as much consternation as if they’d asked her to wear a hair shirt. After putting her shoe back on, she wove her way around the furniture, coming to stand at the window. Reaching up, she tickled her brother’s foot.

  Hugh laughed again. Though it had been only five years since they married, Michael had a hard time remembering what life had been like before. When he wasn’t at the Met, he was home with his family.

  Abigail lifted Hugh from his arms. He knelt down next to Lily, scooping her up in his arms. Soon she’d be too big for him to pick up—but for now, he’d relish the sound of her laughter as he held her up in the air, moving her around as though she were flying.

  The doorknocker sounded through the house, interrupting their tableau. Smithers dashed to go answer the door, but in a few seconds, a welcome voice echoed through the house. “Is anyone home?”

  “Auntie Bess!” Lily cried, running out into the hall.

  “At least this time she kept on both shoes,” Abigail murmured, as they followed Lily out into the hall. They stood back from the gathering for a minute, letting Lily embrace her aunt.