by Dawn Brower
She paused, looking down at her hands. Her fingers felt so naked without her diamond wedding band, but keeping it on had only made her sadder. “I can’t help but wonder if he knew something was going to happen to him, and I’d need a place to live.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply thought Wolverston Hall would serve your purposes well.”
“He was thoroughly logical,” Jemma agreed. “Not that it saved him in the end.”
Gabriel gave a swift nod, half-condolence, half-acknowledgment. “Which is why I’m here. Why do you think Philip’s brother would want him dead?”
“Money.”
Gabriel’s brows raised at her blunt answer. “Why would David Forster need money? The Wolverston estate is well-funded, isn’t it?”
He didn’t need to follow through with that thought for her to get his intended meaning. After all, she’d married Philip for his money. For the options it would open up for Rosie, should she ever come back to London. While Lord and Lady Sayer had washed their hands of their youngest daughter, content to keep her in Nottinghamshire, Jemma couldn’t give up on reuniting with her.
“The estate has money,” Jemma clarified, pointedly not commenting on the past. She couldn’t focus on that, not until Philip’s murderer was brought to justice. “So did Philip, because he had made several wise investments on top of what he inherited. As the second son, David inherited less money, but by no means a small amount.”
“Yet it wasn’t enough?”
“Not when you gamble at high-stakes hells every other night. David spent his winnings as quickly as he racked up more debt.” Jemma bit out the words, barely able to keep her voice from shaking.
David had every advantage in the world—money, a family who cared little about scandal, parents who viewed him as more than cattle—and he’d squandered them all.
“That answers my next question, then,” Gabriel said. “Do you know the nature of Forster’s debts?”
“More than I should,” Jemma admitted. “About a year into our marriage, David knocked on the door of Wolverston House—that is, the townhouse on Grosvenor Square, which he now owns. Philip wasn’t home, so the butler came and got me, due to the…unusual circumstances of David’s appearance.”
“How so?”
She had Gabriel’s attention now, and she hadn’t even reached the worst part of the story. “His face was bloodied, his coat and breeches ripped.”
“He’d been in a fight.”
“Aye.” Jemma had been more shocked by the damage done to his wardrobe than his cuts and bruises. David was nothing if not fastidious about his dress. “He didn’t want to tell me what happened, but when he learned Philip was in the country and wouldn’t be back for a few days, he gave in. He said I needed to write to Philip immediately and request he send five hundred pounds to a gaming hell in Shadwell—I don’t remember the name. Something to do with playing cards.”
Gabriel sat straight up, his posture ramrod straight. “The King of Spades?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“Victor Mason’s hell.” Gabriel tugged on the hem of his coat, as he always did when he was concerned. “That’s one hell of a place to owe money to, pardon the pun. Mason runs the Kings gang. We estimate they’re responsible for a third of the crimes committed in the East End.”
“For all I know, David owed them money too.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. How she wished she hadn’t done what David asked—if only she’d insisted on hanging him out to dry. Maybe this Mason rogue would have taken care of him, and he wouldn’t have been able to hurt Philip.
If wishes were horses, I’d have ten stables full, and why in the world would I want that many horses?
She sighed, remembering Philip’s favorite phrase. He’d never believed in regrets, while she was swallowed up by them.
“As soon as he got my letter, Philip rushed home to pay off David’s debts. He was furious that David had involved me, but David swore it’d never happen again.”
“Did he keep that promise?”
“No. Or at least, not exactly. Philip tried to keep it from me, but I overheard many fights between them about David’s gambling.” She gave him a sheepish look, for eavesdropping wasn’t ladylike. “I suppose I should feel some shame about listening in, but I was concerned.”
“I’m glad you did. First rule of crime-solving: people are far more likely to be themselves when they think no one is watching, or in this case, listening.” The pride in Gabriel’s voice shouldn’t have heartened her so much, yet it did, for it was so unexpected to be admired for her mind. She had forgotten what that felt like. “People put on masks when they’re out in public. Half an investigation is sorting through the facades to get to the truth.”
She knew that better than most. It was why she never felt comfortable in the great ballrooms of Almack’s or promenading on Rotten Row. In fact, outside of Felicity and Claire, she could only think of one person she’d never hidden her true self from: Gabriel.
But she didn’t dare tell him that, not after three years. He’d probably already moved on, and if so, he had every right to. Any chance she’d ever had with him, she’d lost when she married Philip.
Gabriel’s question broke into her thoughts. “What did they say when they fought?”
“It was largely the same fight, over and over again.” She rubbed at her temples, trying to remember the exact words they’d used, and coming up empty. “Every time, David had gambled away another large sum, and he’d come to beg Philip for money. Outside of the holidays, that was the only time we’d ever see David—when he was in debt again. But Philip had blinders on when it came to David. He always helped him out, until finally, I told him David was never going to learn to stand on his own if Philip kept rescuing him.”
“So Philip stopped bailing him out.” When she nodded, Gabriel continued. “How long ago was that?”
“Three months.”
Gabriel leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement, as they always had when he had a new case. “And you said they had a fight the night before Philip died?”
“Yes.” Her stomach roiled, and she lowered her hands to her midsection, as if that could stop her innards from rebelling. “I shouldn’t have told Philip to cut off David. When David came by again, he was furious with Philip—but still, Philip wouldn’t pay him. He told David he’d find something for him to do around the estate, a way to work off the debt. David wouldn’t hear of it. He said sons of earls did not work.”
Gabriel’s lips curled up sardonically at that. “No, just sons of viscounts.”
She wanted to tell him she didn’t think less of him for his job. That, in fact, she admired him more because of his dedication to doing the right thing. But she doubted he’d believe her, not after she’d told him she couldn’t marry a man who didn’t have a title. Still, she could at least try.
She managed a rueful half-smile. “Those were always my father’s qualifications. I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m proud of what you do. It’s why I called you—”
“We’ve never lied to each other before, Jemma. Let’s not start now.” Gabriel fixed her with a quieting no-nonsense stare. “You called me because you knew I’d help.”
“I’m not lying,” she protested, before she realized what he’d said. “You’ll help? Really?”
“Of course I will.” Gabriel shot her another look, this one saying he couldn’t believe she’d even ask that. “Philip was my friend. If that robbery wasn’t random, I want to know.”
“Thank you, Gabriel.” She started to reach for his hand to squeeze it in gratitude, but stopped when he pulled back from her. Had she lost the right to touch him at all, even as a friend? She tried to ignore the ache that thought sent through her, telling herself it was probably better this way. She’d already hurt him once. The last thing she wanted was to cause him anymore pain.
“It’s what I do,” he said this as though it summarized everything: he was Bow Street, and Bow Street was him
.
She couldn’t help but feel she’d been right in refusing him. The Runners were a part of him—leaving them would have been akin to cleaving off an arm or a leg. Her father would never have accepted a patrolman, not so soon after Rosie’s scandal, and she didn’t want to be the woman who’d made him lose such a vital piece of his identity.
She rubbed her hands together, ready to begin investigating. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now. “When do we start?”
“Easy, Jemma.” Gabriel’s rich laugh was impossibly wonderful, even better than his deep bass voice. Delicious heat coursed through her at the sound. “I know you hate waiting, but these things take time. It may take us weeks to uncover anything.”
She bit her lip to keep from groaning out loud. Weeks? She’d never been a patient woman. When she wanted something, it was with a pressing immediacy. She acted instinctively, with little delay.
The idea of waiting and watching David put on a show as the devastated, grieving brother made her sick to her stomach. But if it meant she’d finally get justice for Philip, then she’d do it.
“I can wait.” She must not have sounded convincing, because Gabriel eyed her skeptically. “Fine—I can wait, impatiently.”
That amendment got her a smile, before he was back to business.
“Despite their huge row the night before, David and Philip still met for the theater and wenching?” Gabriel stopped, his eyes widening. “Er, I did not mean to be insensitive. I know it must be a delicate subject. I’m sorry, Jemma.”
“Don’t be.” She shrugged. “I knew he visited there. He’d been seeing Theresa Berkeley at the White House for years, long before we married. He asked me if I wanted him to stop going, but I didn’t see any reason to. It was not as if we married for love, and the White House was discreet. Theresa made Philip happy, so why should I fault her?”
“Because your husband was having an affair with her.” Gabriel spat the words out, as if he could not fathom her nonchalance. “You deserved better.”
His indignation on her behalf shouldn’t have warmed her, yet it did. No one had ever defended her honor before. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to be married to Gabriel—to have that sort of undying loyalty and respect paid upon her by a man she loved.
When Philip had asked her if he ought to stop visiting Theresa, she couldn’t bring herself to say yes. Though they were wed, they still functioned as the friends they’d always been. How could she be angry with Philip, when she too loved another?
“Thank you, Gabriel.” She smiled, and this time, it did not feel so forced. “But I knew who I was marrying, and what our marriage would be like. I chose that life, because it was the best for Rosie, and for my family.”
“But was it the best for you?” His voice was gravelly, the words an almost growl, the roughness cascading down her spine and filling her with a delicious, unexpected warmth.
“Perhaps not.” She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, imagining what life could have been like, if she’d not acted out of duty. She thought of a hundred forevers, happy, perfect moments where she loved deeply and absolutely. Every possibility was different, yet they all remained the same—in each, she was with Gabriel. He’d sneak up behind her, whisper the most risqué thing he could think of, his hardness tenting his breeches, leaving no question as to his desires. Every dark alcove in London’s fancy establishments explored, every secret shared, never running out of new things to learn about each other.
Definitely not.
In the end, her happiness did not matter. She knew her place. She had been raised for one thing and one thing only: to marry well, by her parents’ standards. She had been too weak to go against them.
Yet, after watching Rosie…perhaps she had been wise, too.
“But it was not the worst. Do not mistake me. Philip and I were not in love, but I loved him. He was a good man, a decent man. Is it not better to have years of safety than a few months of blissful happiness? When Viscount Gramercy cried off, it crushed Rosie. I couldn’t stand that.”
Hatred splashed across Gabriel’s usually inscrutable face, all the more forceful for its foreignness. “Viscount Gramercy is the worst of blackguards to do that to Rose. If I had a criminal charge that would stick, I’d arrest him myself.”
“And I would be right there, helping you.” She raised her cup to him in a toast. “As I will be, when you arrest David.”
“Jemma, I want you to know the right man wouldn’t leave you.” Gabriel spoke with such conviction, she almost believed him.
But she’d watched Rosie sink from the vibrant, fearless younger sister she knew to a hollowed shell of a woman.
“Perhaps not,” she said, with a sigh.
She poured another cup of tea and took a long sip, buying a moment to think as the strong, hot brew slid down her throat. A moment later, she began again, with more alacrity this time. The past did not matter, not now.
She returned them back to the topic. “Well, then. You are aware of the gold buttons that were clipped from Philip’s coat, yes?”
“Aye. But I haven’t been able to recover them. Wolverston—” he paused as she winced, correcting himself quickly. “Forster, I mean, described them. Stamped with the Regent’s seal, then an olive leaf underneath for camaraderie. The buttons were given to Philip by Prinny, yes?”
Jemma nodded. “They are one of four pairs, presented to the Prince Regent’s closest associates.”
Gabriel whistled. “Quite impressive company Philip kept in the last few years.”
“He would have still taken your calls,” she said gently. “But I understand why you went away, and so did Philip.”
Gabriel colored, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I have been very busy with Bow Street—”
“I know.” She reached for his tea cup, refilling it after he nodded approval. “We followed your cases in the scandal sheets. Philip was very proud.”
As was I.
Gabriel took the tea from her. “Thank you.”
She did not question if he acknowledged the tea, or the compliment. Gabriel had never known what to do with praise. It was somehow comforting that fact hadn’t changed.
“Being solid gold, the buttons must have been too tempting,” Gabriel said. “I did some digging into the man who supposedly attacked them, Cedric Glover. In his thirty-three years of life, he’d been to Newgate thrice, released from the prison hulks last year.”
“Is that common, to have so many repeat offenses?”
“Sadly, yes.” Gabriel frowned. “Unfortunately, most of London’s thieves start almost as soon as they can walk. They’re either on the streets working for a gang or their family teaches them how to filch, because they need the income. Most of the thieves we catch have already been to Newgate at least once by adulthood.”
Jemma’s stomach tightened at the idea of those poor children, serving time in the pestilence-ridden gaol on Fleet Street. “That’s horrible.”
“It’s one of the reasons I joined Bow Street,” Gabriel said. “I want to change that.”
“If anyone can, you can,” she said, echoing his earlier praise of her and Wolverston Hall.
“Thank you.” He smiled, a real, genuine smile now, one that made her heart lurch precariously even though she knew it was all for naught.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him, though it felt…unfamiliar, as if her lips had forgotten how to form that expression. She kept smiling, giving it another try, though it seemed ghoulish to be anything but despondent.
Philip wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d never understood feeling just for feeling’s sake. Each emotion, each reaction, ought to serve a productive purpose.
Gabriel’s brows furrowed, as if he’d just realized something. “Wait, what do you mean, you’ll be by my side when I arrest Forster?”
“Because I’m going to help you.” She notched her chin higher, facing him with her most convincing I-will-get-my-way stare. “We’re in this t
ogether. As partners.”
Chapter 4
This publication, which so often has recorded the exploits of Beau Brummel with approval, is disappointed—to say the least—to report that Brummel has cowardly fled to France to avoid paying his plentiful debts of honor. Being extravagant is one thing; being a wastrel is entirely another. We support Prinny in delivering the cut direct to Brummel, who is no longer worthy of our attention.
-Whispers from Lady X
Gabriel was going to regret this. He knew this as a man condemned knows he is about to die, with the unshakable certainty that he was royally buggered. Yet no amount of acknowledgment would get him away from the inglorious mess he’d made.
This should have been the easiest case he’d ever worked. Everything was as it seemed, right?
Yet Philip’s bruised, bloated body haunted his dreams. That had never happened before—not after a case was closed, and especially not when the perpetrator had already met his maker. He’d interviewed all of Mrs. Berkeley’s girls, finally finding one who had been watching out the window when the attack upon the Forster brothers had occurred. The prostitute had confirmed David’s account of the struggle, though because of the angle of her window she couldn’t confirm which of the attacker’s blows had led to Philip’s death.
Which meant there was a small possibility—infinitesimal, his superiors would say—that Jemma was right, and David had a hand in his old friend’s death.
Gabriel rubbed his hand against his chin, deep in thought. Would David really conspire to kill his own brother? He was an utter arse, but it was a huge leap from lazy, arrogant pleasure-seeker to murderer.
For as close as he’d been with Philip, he’d never really got along with his brother. Lord and Lady Wolverston had welcomed him with open arms, treating him as a third son. David never extended the same kindness. He’d either ignored Gabriel completely, or shown open hostility to him.