by Dawn Brower
For a few glorious, perfect minutes that night, he’d thought he could be. That maybe, just maybe, she returned his fancy. Philip had been called away from their dinner to discuss some business deal with a friend, and he and Jemma were alone in their rented supper box. Conversation flowed as easily as it always did. For an hour, they’d talked about anything and everything, the sound of Jemma’s laughter filling him with inexplicable pride that he had amused her, her every smile making him feel as though he’d solved ten difficult cases. He forgot why he shouldn’t love this woman—all those very wise, honorable reasons he’d recited to himself in the six months prior, when Philip had begun courting her.
He knew only that she was the most beautiful, engaging woman he’d ever met, and she made his heart slam against his chest like the pound of his Hessians against the cobblestones when he chased down a suspect on his patrolman route.
When she’d leaned against him, her eyes starting to drift closed, her chin lifted up toward him and her lips parted, he’d known exactly what to do. He’d kissed her. Soundly, passionately, as a woman like Jemma deserved to be kissed. And she’d kissed him back, thoroughly, enthusiastically. In that moment, it was as if all of time had slowed to a standstill, and there was only Jemma, her hands on his shoulders, her lips on his, her soft mewl of pleasure.
Nothing had ever felt more right than touching her, holding her in his arms.
Then they’d heard Philip’s voice, the sound of his footsteps, and they’d sprung apart guiltily. Jemma patted her hair, and he straightened his cravat. The next day, before he had to testify in the magistrate’s court on one of his arrests, they’d met outside of Bow Street and agreed it had been nothing more than a stupid mistake. They’d had too much to drink. No one needed to know, because it’d never happen again.
She’d married Philip a month later. For a while after, he accepted Philip’s invitations to different social gatherings. But it grew to be too much—to see Jemma on Philip’s arm, wishing she was his. He’d told Philip he was simply too busy with work, and his promotion to Principal Officer happened soon after, making the lie into truth.
The large door began to creak open, revealing a long carpeted hall. He set his shoulders back, affixed his most imposing scowl on his face to greet the butler.
Except it wasn’t the butler whose head poked out from behind the door.
It was Jemma.
Not Jemma, he corrected automatically. Lady Wolverston.
But knowing that didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Three long, rotten years had passed since he’d last seen her, but his body reacted as though nothing had changed. There was that sudden rush of heat he’d always felt upon seeing her for the first time—the quickening of his breath, the slam of his heart against his chest. She still had the same high cheekbones, the same chocolate doe eyes, the same little dimples.
He tore his eyes from her face, but that was an error, for the subtle curves she’d had as a girl of twenty had blossomed into the full-fledged voluptuousness of a woman. Desire hit him so fast, his cock hardened even as he told himself he was the worst of cads to want a woman clothed so entirely in the black gowns of heavy mourning. But it didn’t matter, because all he could think about was tossing off her big jet bonnet and running his hands through her soft, silky brown hair, like he’d ached to do that night in Vauxhall.
She blinked up at him, a small, grateful smile forming across her lips. Damned if that didn’t make him feel like the luckiest man in the world, to be the reason she’d smiled.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Gabriel,” she said, opening the door.
He hadn’t realized how he’d longed to hear her say his name again. From her pretty bow-shaped lips, his name sounded like a prayer, reverent and powerful. He was halfway to cupping that sweet, heart-shaped face of hers in the palm of his hand, when he realized what he was doing and snatched his hand away.
If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. She’d always been gracious like that, knowing exactly what to say to put someone at ease. “Polished society manners,” she’d called it once, attributing it to her mother’s endless diatribes on etiquette.
Gabriel had seen both sides of the aristocracy—first as the son of a viscount, and then as a Runner hired for protection and detection. Nobody was as genuine as Jemma, as truly kind. She treated everyone with respect, regardless of their social class.
If only she’d been able to love like that too, she could have been his.
“I saw you standing outside, but you looked so deep in thought I didn’t want to interrupt. Won’t you come inside and have some tea?” She gestured at the open door, making him wonder how long he’d been standing there silently like a slack-jawed buffoon.
He followed her inside, expecting to see the same extravagant, if not a bit archaic, accoutrements lining the entrance hall. Instead, the furniture was covered with white drop cloths, the paintings removed from the walls. Boxes and trunks were stacked up against all the walls, creating an obstacle course they had to navigate around to reach the parlor. What the hell? That made no sense.
“Lady Wolverston, are you moving into Wolverston Hall?” he asked, as they entered the parlor. He half-expected the furniture to be covered there too, but the parlor at least showed signs of habitation. A silver tea tray was set up on the coffee table, with the same sky blue settee across from it that he remembered.
“Jemma,” she insisted. “We have never stood on formality, and we shouldn’t now.”
No, they’d been far too familiar for that. Philip had once thanked him for spending so much time with Jemma. He’d said he felt that his bride was safe with Gabriel, since he was a patrolman for Bow Street. Before that day, Gabriel had wondered if his friend suspected his inappropriate regard for Jemma—but after that, he knew that in Philip’s eyes, he posed no threat.
After all, Philip had already inherited the Wolverston earldom, and the fortune that came with it. Gabriel couldn’t compete with that.
“Jemma, then,” he said, her name like lead upon his tongue, because he never should have had the right to address her that way. “Why are there so many boxes?”
“Because this is my new home.” Her smile was half-hearted at best, as she busied herself with pouring the tea.
“If anyone could make this house a home, it’s you.” Once, he’d thought home was wherever Jemma was, and he’d spent his hours eagerly anticipating the next time he’d see her.
When she poured tea into a cup for him, he leaned forward. “I take—”
“Honey, not sugar, and milk, not cream.” She met his gaze, her smile widening, this time reaching her eyes. “I remember.”
He shouldn’t feel so touched she’d recalled how he liked his tea. It didn’t mean anything, did it? She’d always had a good memory, and they’d taken tea with each other many times.
She passed him the teacup, and he took it, careful to not brush hands with her a moment longer than was proper. The temptation to reach for her was too great otherwise, and he was determined to respect the boundaries she’d put on them three years before.
I’m marrying Philip, she’d said. You must understand that. I can’t do this with you, not after Rosie.
Her feelings didn’t matter. His feelings didn’t matter. Nothing had mattered to her then but saving her sister’s reputation. As Lady Wolverston, Jemma would be able to pave the way for her sister to rejoin society. Never in the same space she’d occupied before—even a marriage to Prinny couldn’t make the dragons forget Rosie’s ruination—but at least they’d be together again.
Three years later, and still nothing in the scandal sheets about Rosie’s return.
He took a sip of the tea, as he did every morning when he arrived at work. The strong brew focused his mind, re-centered him. “Why are you moving into Wolverston Hall, Jemma? You used to hate this place.”
“Confession?” She dropped her voice lower, as if sharing a secret, and he leaned forward far more eagerly than he ought have. “
I still hate it here. But it was either here, or rent something outside of my means. I can’t stay at Wolverston Estate or the townhouse in Grosvenor Square, not now.”
“Surely Wolverston hasn’t evicted you?” He frowned. He’d never liked David. Philip’s younger brother had none of his charms and all of his vices. Still, forcing his brother’s wife out of her home seemed extreme.
“Please don’t call him that.” The sharpness to Jemma’s tone startled him.
“Wolverston? That is his title now, yes?”
“Aye.” Jemma grimaced. “But it is not one he deserves.”
“I’d imagine it is hard to see him take Philip’s place as the earl,” Gabriel said, choosing his words carefully, for he recognized the hard clench of Jemma’s jaw. He set his cup down on the table. “Especially given the circumstances. It must remind you of what you’ve lost.”
“It is more than that. Much, much more.” Jemma turned swiftly to face him. Her cheeks pinked with ire; fire burned in her brown eyes. Her hands wrapped around her cup, knuckles white.
He knew, before she said anything, that this was the reason she’d called him here. He kept silent, not daring to speak, bracing for impact. For her to react so strongly, her news must be big.
“I believe David had a hand in Philip’s death.” She did not wait for him to digest this before continuing. “And I need your help to prove I’m right.”
Chapter 3
All of London can sleep soundly when the Rogue Runner is on patrol.
Don’t be surprised when your blushing daughter considers a life of crime so Gabriel Sinclair will have to arrest her.
-Whispers from Lady X
Jemma expected Gabriel to immediately disagree with her. After all, the magistrate at Bow Street already determined there was no need to investigate further into Philip’s murder. In their eyes, the crime was solved, and the murderer already dispatched. When Gabriel’s superior, Sir John Townsend, had come to Wolverston Estate for the funeral, he’d made a point to praise David for ridding the world of a dastardly villain.
But Gabriel didn’t reel back from her in disgust. He didn’t even speak. He simply sat there, as still as a cuckoo bird in a broken clock, his gaze never leaving her face. She stared right back at him, letting his familiar features steady her. Same straight, noble nose. Same strong chin and wide forehead. Same mannerisms, that mask of reserve and solemnity that had the scandal sheets so fascinated with him. “How does he appear so composed when faced with the unsettling horrors of the world?” Whispers from Lady X wrote several months prior. The rest of society was equally baffled by the stoic Rogue Runner.
But not Jemma.
Never Jemma.
Some ladies studied the upcoming fashions in Costume Parisien with rapt attention. Others painted or embroidered. Jemma did none of those things well. She had different talents: remembering circumstances in painstaking detail and understanding the changes in people’s features. It was a language all its own, with a defined structure, and set responses.
From the first day she’d met Gabriel at one of the Dowager Countess of Wolverston’s dinner parties, Jemma had always been able to read volumes of emotions in his hazel eyes. She tracked the slight tick in his jaw, so minute most would think it involuntary. But Jemma remembered—Jemma knew—that it meant he was considering what she’d said.
A little flicker of hope lit within her. The tiniest of sparks, composed of all her wishing and wanting for someone to believe her. Felicity and Claire said they did, but Jemma suspected they were merely supporting her because she was their friend. They did not have the power to actually do something—Gabriel did.
He steepled his fingers together, the tips resting on his lips, as he always had when he was intrigued by something she’d said. Hope burned brighter, encouraged by his response.
“Don’t you find it odd that David was able to fight off the attacker, but Philip couldn’t? They both trained with Gentleman Jackson.” The famous pugilist had a saloon on Bond Street, next to Angelo’s Fencing Academy. “Philip beat David every time they sparred. I remember him saying David didn’t have the instincts for fighting. He was too easily distracted, and his form was sloppy. You sparred with Philip. He was good, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but that was three years ago,” Gabriel replied. “A lot can change in that time.”
She didn’t need reminders of that. Twice now, her life had spun on its axis because of the events of one night. First, when Rosie’s pregnancy was revealed in Whispers from Lady X, effectively ruining her reputation. Jemma hadn’t just lost a sister when Rosie went to the convent—she’d lost any chance at marrying for love.
Now, because of the events of one night, Philip was dead, making her a widow at twenty-four.
“He may not have been in the same shape as before, not to mention that actual street fights are quite different from mills in the ring,” Gabriel continued. “When you’re sparring, it’s often with the same opponents, so you learn to anticipate their moves. There’s rules to bare-knuckle boxing that you aren’t going to have when you’re fighting for your life. I learned that the hard way when I became a patrolman.”
Jemma let her gaze travel down Gabriel’s frame, telling herself she was merely tracking the differences of three years past, even as her giddy heart fluttered against her chest in that old familiar way it’d always done whenever she looked at him. He was fitter, harder, his biceps bulging against his navy superfine coat. His waistcoat framed his chiseled abdomen. She remembered what those firm, tight muscles had felt like under her inquisitive fingers. How touching him had felt absolutely sinful, no matter how innocent the action should have been.
She’d tried to ignore it before. Told herself it didn’t matter how she felt, because Philip was a logical, solid choice. Marrying him came with no unexpected, messy complications, for he never demanded more of her than she could give. Being with Philip was easy, comfortable. They had not loved each other as husband and wife ought, but they had cared deeply for each other.
She’d always thought that was enough, until that night Gabriel kissed her in Vauxhall and turned her world upside down.
And because of her blasted perfect memory, she’d been able to recreate that kiss in her mind over and over again in the last three years, torturing herself with it.
“I suppose that makes sense.” Her cheeks were red hot. He must know what she’d been remembering—there was a darkness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, too much like how he used to look at her to be anything but desire.
She shouldn’t long for Gabriel—not now, not ever. He’d never been hers to begin with, and they’d agreed that kiss had been the worst of mistakes, a trespass against the friendship they’d formed through Philip.
Philip. His name alone was a sharp reprimand. When she’d married him, she’d made a promise to honor him, even in death. Starting with making sure his real murderer paid for leaving him bloodied and broken outside the White House. She leaned forward, setting her cup down on the table.
“Jemma—” Gabriel began, hesitantly, as if he was trying to decide the best way to tell her she should let this go.
“No, please don’t.” Swiftly, she held up her palm to stop him. “You used to say that crimes go unsolved because people don’t know where to look. They don’t consider all the possibilities. I’m telling you about a different possibility—the least you can do is listen to me, please. For Philip.”
Gabriel opened his mouth, then shut it. He gave a perfunctory nod of agreement. “For Philip, then. What exactly do you suspect David of, and why?”
“I don’t know if that thief was simply a stroke of luck for him, or if David hired him, but I think David used that robbery to cover up killing Philip.” She smoothed down her dress, looking down at her hands, not willing to chance meeting Gabriel’s gaze. It was not the first time she’d voiced her theory, yet the words weighed heavy on her tongue.
Gabriel frowned. “That’s quite an accusation.”
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“I know.” She grimaced. “I heard them fighting the night before Philip died. And now you know why I called you here, instead of meeting you when I was at Wolverston Estate. David told me I could keep my old quarters there, but I couldn’t sleep a wink. I kept feeling like he was watching me.”
“So, he is aware you suspect him?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think it was more that he was trying to figure out how much I knew. I told him I wanted to be there when everyone said goodbye to Philip. He told Philip’s cousin Georgina it was fine for me to stand at the edge of the graveyard with my friends, and that it didn’t matter if anyone saw me. He said to me several times last week how much he wished he’d been able to save Philip. I told him it wasn’t his fault, and he seemed to believe me.”
Gabriel’s brows furrowed. “You’ve never been a convincing liar.”
If only Gabriel knew just how right he was. She’d tried so hard—so very, very hard, when she felt as though she might break under the weight of the lie—to pretend she was content being Lady Wolverston. Philip had puzzled it out, of course. He knew her well, for they had been friends for so many, many years before being husband and wife.
Philip simply hadn’t cared. Hadn’t felt the proprietary need to keep her as only his. To be hers.
“What did he say when you told him you wanted to move into Wolverston Hall?” Gabriel asked.
“I said I wanted David to be able to run the estate without worrying about what I thought. I said the memories of Philip were too much at the estate. At least when I visited here, we weren’t married.”
“Isn’t Wolverston Hall part of the estate?”
She shook her head. “Though the property has been in the family for generations, it was never entailed. Traditionally, it’s been the residence of the Dowager Countess of Wolverston, but she died last year. My dowry didn’t contain a house of my own, so I guess Philip decided to will the property to me.”