It Started With a Whisper

by Dawn Brower

  Even now, he kept seeing curtains move at the brothel, as prostitutes and their patrons realized what was going on outside. People’s curiosity would soon surpass their desire to keep their sexual proclivities private, and there would be a mass exodus.

  Time to start closing off the brothel so they could question everyone. He motioned to Patrolman Green to guide the brother back inside, and then he called to the other patrolman who had first found the bodies. “Wilcox?”

  Once he’d finished ridding himself of mutton, Wilcox had stationed himself at the corner, claiming he was looking for the coroner. Gabriel had allowed him to save face with the pretense. But now he needed the younger man’s help.

  Wilcox wiped the arm of his sleeve across his mouth, abashedly returning his stare. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again. It was just—”

  “Your first dead body.” Gabriel nodded swiftly. Wilcox hadn’t been on the job more than a week, whereas Patrolman Green had served four years already. “Happens to us all. Nothing to be ashamed of. Here, help me turn him over, would you? I’d like to get a look at his wounds before the coroner comes.”

  Wilcox’s lower lip shook, and his skin began to take on that puce hue again.

  “Steady, lad,” Gabriel said encouragingly, as he grabbed hold of one side of the corpse.

  Wilcox set his shoulders back, notched up his chin, and grasped the other side. Together, they rolled the man over, careful to not disturb his wounds.

  “There we go. Very good, Wilcox.” Gabriel patted the patrolman’s arm, half to ensure the man wouldn’t run off and retch again and half to praise him.

  “Bloody hell, he looks bad.” Wilcox’s voice only shook a little bit, so Gabriel released the man’s arm and turned his attention back to the scene.

  Bad was an appropriate estimation of this victim’s state. The dead man had defensive wounds on his arms and hands, as if he’d thrown his hands up to protect his face. A blade of some sort had slashed into his skin, leaving behind shallow cuts. Likely, the same blade that had ended the attacker’s life. He’d verify that later with the coroner.

  The pools of blood corresponded to his current position, so Gabriel doubted he’d been moved since the final blow. And his purse was empty of coin. That too supported the companion’s story.

  Yet, something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t shake the niggling sensation that he was missing something.

  Gabriel frowned, letting his gaze travel from one end of the street to the other. He took it all in: the stink of the pre-dawn emptying of the brothel’s chamber pots by the maid, the blood splattered on the stones and on the front wall and door of the White House, the bruises purpling the dead man’s face and neck. There was so much damage done to his face it was harder to imagine what he would have looked like before.

  Even with the disfigurement, he seemed familiar. But why? His dress marked him as far outside of Gabriel’s current social circle. He squinted. Unless he’d met the man before he’d joined Bow Street, back when he was nothing more than the unfettered fourth son of a viscount, desperate to find a purpose for his life.

  He reached into the man’s pockets, hoping to find something identifying. Luck was with him, for in the man’s pocket was a silken handkerchief embroidered with a crest.

  When he unfolded the fabric and saw the sword with a wolf on either side of the blade, the ale in his stomach lurched precariously, and he barely stopped himself from suffering the same fate as Wilcox.

  God, he’d been a fool. He should have asked Green for the victim’s name immediately. He’d been so consumed with detailing the scene, he’d missed the obvious. “Wilcox, go tell Mrs. Berkeley no one is to leave the brothel. This is the Earl of Wolverston.”

  “Oh, bollocks,” Wilcox cursed, summarizing Gabriel’s feelings well.

  Here he was, staring at the corpse of a man he’d once considered a friend. A man who had married the only woman Gabriel had ever loved.

  Chapter 1

  One can expect large crowds at the funeral of the beloved Earl of Wolverston today, as anyone who is anyone in the Upper Ten Thousand will be flocking to the village of Monmorte. Word has it Prinny is even making a special trip from Brighton to memorialize his old friend...

  -Whispers from Lady X

  Wolverston Estate

  Essex, England

  Four days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston

  On the day that Jemma Forster, Countess of Wolverston, buried her husband, the rain poured down from the sky at a torrential rate. It was as if the heavens too needed to express their devastation at the loss. The large droplets pounded upon the steepled roof of Wolverston Estate, a steady drum-drum-drum that reminded Jemma of the dirges that had been played so long ago at the funeral for a drowned groomsman on her parents’ estate.

  She had been a child then, as innocent as the lily-white gowns she wore, and as wild as her untamed brown curls. At seven years of age, she had already scared off two governesses, for she did not like to listen, and she could not be persuaded to do as she did not want. She was thus oft confined to her bedroom, as little girls who refused to be sensible were not granted the privilege of being seen or heard by adults.

  When the clock struck the witching hour that fateful night, her governess had long passed into slumber, leaving Jemma free to creep from bed unnoticed, and slide over to the nursery’s big bay window that overlooked the garden. She saw a man, cloaked all in black instead of his hunter green livery, striding across the back gardens toward the fog-shrouded pond. The silver full moon illuminated him, reflected off the water to cast the shadows of the trees as nefarious arms, snagging his coat in their eager grip.

  She did not cry out her window for him to stop as he waded into the lake. She had not known she should. It seemed like a great game as he submerged entirely, only the barest hint of his top hat visible in the murky water. She watched and she waited with wide eyes and a delighted smile for him to reemerge. Of all the nights she had sneaked from bed, this was by far the most interesting.

  Then, she had not understood what it meant to die. She could not piece together that the man she had seen floating in the pond was the reason why the butler bore the same expression as cousin Nicholas when he’d been punched in the gut by a neighbor boy. When finally her governess took pity on her and endeavored to explain, she had been left with more questions than answers. For months after that talk, she had expected the groom to spring from the tack room bearing shiny red apples for her favorite pony, as he had always done.

  She had not learned to fear death yet. Like most children, she knew only the immediate. The permanence of death escaped her.

  Now, she understood it all too well. When Jemma was sixteen, her mother contracted a fatal influenza. A year ago, her father had passed from acute heart failure.

  But neither of those losses had shaken her the way this one did. She had not been particularly close to her parents—they had been distant figures in her youth, more than happy to delegate the raising of Jemma and her younger sister Rose to a legion of governesses and tutors. She mourned their loss, and then she moved on.

  This…this was different. Her husband was dead, his blood spilled on the cobblestones of Soho Square. His body, soon to be laid to rest in a knot-free elm coffin lined with white fine-weaved crepe. All that was left of him, soon to be placed in a dark, dank hole in the ground.

  No, Jemma did not need any more reminders of the constancy of death.

  What she needed was justice.

  And nothing—not the threat of scandal, not the disapproval of Philip’s family, not the pain of past mistakes—would keep her from getting it. She prayed so fervently that all her efforts would be for naught, and Philip’s death would prove to be as random as everyone else claimed.

  As she set down another completed rosemary bundle onto the silver tray on the table, she couldn’t shake the sick sensation that Philip’s death hadn’t been just another Covent Garden robbery. And if she was right—then he�
�d been killed by the very man who should have protected him.

  His brother.

  The same brother who’d inherited everything Philip owned, except for the small townhouse in London that Jemma would relocate to tomorrow.

  She placed a hand on her stomach, willing her breakfast to stay down. She had to remain calm. Focus on the funeral.

  The preparations were all in order. Yards and yards of black fabric had been brought from London to Wolverston Estate for the funeral: dull bombazine to cover the mirrors in the house, cloaks for the chief mourners, baize draped all over the room where Philip’s body was laid out. Black cloth even covered the interior of the Church of All Souls, where the funeral would take place.

  Upon entering Wolverston Estate, the guests would be given the rosemary cuttings, each trimmed to three inches. The bundles contained three sprigs, tied together by a black silk ribbon. Each mourner would deposit his rosemary onto Philip’s coffin to ensure that his memory would not be forgotten by the living.

  Rosemary for remembrance. So the old custom dictated, but Jemma had never needed help remembering. Her memory was impeccable; she recalled everything. Even the things she wished so badly she could forget, like a kiss from the man she hadn’t seen in three years, but would have to call on tomorrow.

  She tied a bow around another cutting and dropped it on the tray. Most of the guests were not coming to honor Philip’s memory. Their sharp words were like the talons of vultures, picking at the bones of her pain to glean on dits for their friends. They’d done it when her sister Rose had been ruined, and they’d do it again today.

  As if to prove her point, Philip’s cousin, Georgina, sauntered into the room. Georgina Harding Middleton never walked anywhere when she could glide; she never spoke plainly when she could lecture.

  “Why are you handling the gifts for the mourners, Jemma? You have servants for that.”

  Jemma continued assembling the bundles, ignoring the reproach. She had to pretend that everything was normal—as normal as it could be, given her husband’s death. “I wanted something to do. Besides, the servants are busy preparing for the guests.”

  “Harrumph.” Georgina made throat clearing sound like a cut direct. “I told you that you should have hired more servants for this. Are the handkerchiefs ready?”

  Jemma nodded. “Wrapped in silk cloth and placed by the door already, to be given to the guests along with the rosemary sprigs.” The black silk handkerchiefs for the favors had been specially ordered from Philip’s favorite haberdasher in Bond Street.

  After stopping at the house, the guests would go on to the church service. David would be in the front row, as though he really had tried so valiantly to save him, like the scandal sheets claimed.

  Jemma pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting another wave of nausea. God, if she were right…

  She told herself not to think about the possible ramifications, not yet. Tomorrow, she’d go to war.

  Today, she buried her best friend in the Wolverston family plot.

  “Good.” Georgina settled down on the settee beside her, but did not offer to help. Such work would be beneath her, of course. “The weather outside is absolutely wretched. I do hope this ends your desire to be part of the funeral procession. Even you cannot possibly think of trudging about in the mud in your mourning.”

  Jemma had been thinking about doing just that, but she knew better than to say so again. She sat still, her hands at her sides, fingers clenched around the dark muslin of her mourning gown. Society demanded she wear heavy mourning for a year, as if she needed a black gown to grieve. As if she’d ever, ever forget that Philip was dead, likely by his own brother’s hand.

  But she obliged. She had her existing gowns all dipped in black dye. She did what was expected of her, because she knew all too well how society turned on those who were different.

  David had spared no expense on the funeral, and he’d ordered four new black coats from Schweitzer & Davison on Cork Street in London. He’d never been frugal—it was important to him to be envied by the rest of the ton.

  Was he trying to do the same thing now, turning Philip’s funeral into the event of the Season, or was he hiding something else?

  “Unseemly.” Georgina sniffed, continuing on as though Jemma had expressed her true desire. “We are women of quality, Jemma, not some tavern wenches. We don’t do that. The very last thing we need is for Lady X to get wind of you being there. It’s bad enough she reported where Philip was killed.”

  Jemma forced herself to take a deep breath, lest she say something she’d regret. The nerve of Georgina, to lecture her on Lady X’s impact, when the scandal sheet had so ruthlessly reported Rosie’s scandal that she’d been forced to flee to a convent to have her baby. Even after the baby had been adopted out, Rosie remained at the abbey.

  You should move on, Rosie’s last letter had said. I have. I’ve built a life for myself here, Jemma.

  “Lady X is not to be trifled with.” Georgina’s brows arched downward with censure, as they always seemed to do. It was no wonder Rosie thought Georgina’s brows looked like two plump caterpillars.

  “I’m well aware of Lady X’s power.” Somehow, Jemma managed to keep her voice from shaking with fury. It had been three years, yes, but time had not dulled the ache for her sister, for the little nephew she’d never met.

  But to Georgina—to the rest of the ton—Rose Gregory had ceased to exist when she’d entered the convent. A fallen woman could not hope to make a good match, and so she was no use to society.

  Jemma retied the black silk ribbon that had come loose around one of the sprigs, and threw it down on the silver tray atop the coffee table. Every decision she’d made in her adult life was for the good of her reputation, and what did she have to show for it now? Nothing.

  Rosie hadn’t wanted to return to London—even after Jemma had married Philip. She’d refused her sister’s offers to visit her in Nottinghamshire, and had asked that Jemma stop communicating with her.

  And now Philip was dead. No one cared to question David’s version of events.

  No one but her.

  Georgina’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “Good. I knew you’d see reason once I pointed out what your actions would do to the family.”

  Jemma didn’t care about the reputation of the Forster family. She cared about Philip, and what had really happened to him. “I will be in the graveyard tonight.”

  Georgina leapt up from her seat on the ivory settee, her sudden movement almost upsetting the whole tray of rosemary. “Jemma, that is absurd—”

  “No, Cousin, what is absurd is you telling me how to behave at my husband’s funeral.” Jemma spoke calmly, though she wanted to scream at Georgina. To scream at the whole bloody ton, which had decided Philip’s scandalous visit to the White House was more important than all the honorable things he’d done while he was alive.

  They’d already taken Rosie from her, and now Philip’s memory was being tarnished too. Everyone Jemma cared about left her.

  The black ostrich feather in Georgina’s bonnet bobbed wildly as she shook her head. “David won’t like this. Enough is enough, Jemma. Let Philip pass in peace, and move on.”

  “David understands.” Or so he claimed—but he could have told her that so she’d stop asking about the fight he’d had with Philip the night he died.

  “You’re playing on his guilt, when he almost died. We are fortunate he was not lost too.”

  “Yes, it is so fortunate.” She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “I’ll stay to the edges of the graveyard. Felicity and Claire will go with me. With this rain, no one will see us.”

  “I should have known Felicity would be involved. How atrocious—the Duchess of Wycliffe, recommending you attend your husband’s funeral!” Georgina clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You shouldn’t listen to my brother’s horrid wife. She is a disgrace to the Harding family line.”

  “I believe that’s a matter of opinion.” The b
ooming voice of the brother in question, Nicholas, echoed from the doorway. “I happen to find my wife delightful.”

  “You’re the only one,” Georgina muttered, with a loud sigh of resignation.

  With a frown, Jemma set down the rosemary, turning so she looked Georgina directly in the eye. Felicity had many quirks, but she was loyal to the core, and she’d proved her worth as a friend over and over again. “I won’t have you insulting Felicity in my house. She is one of my dearest friends.”

  Georgina started, her spine snapping ramrod straight. “There’s no need for rudeness, Jemma. When will the duchess be joining us?”

  Nicholas entered the room, taking the tray of rosemary from Jemma’s hands. His smile—sad yet supportive—was a balm to her tired soul. “She is relieving Aunt Elizabeth in her vigil.”

  Until Philip’s body was taken away for the funeral, the female family members took turns sitting vigil with him. The body had come home two days ago, after the coroner had released him.

  Jemma had passed the last two nights sitting by his side, watching over him. The disfigurement of his face made her sick—no amount of telling herself that his pain was over now and the wounds could not hurt him anymore made her feel better. The injuries done to him were vile and vicious, and it only fueled her determination to catch his killer.

  She’d known so very few good men in her life, and Philip had always supported and protected her. Theirs had not been a marriage built upon any great romance, yet they’d built an amicable life together as equals.

  So, swallowing her trepidation, she’d held his ice-cold, limp hand in her own, and murmured every prayer she could think of for him to pass on peacefully to heaven. And in that room, away from the rest of the world, she’d thought—she’d hoped—she felt Philip’s specter, watching over her for the last time.