It Started With a Whisper

by Dawn Brower

  They’d attended Eton together for a few years, but David was in a different class, due to the six-year gap between him and Philip. He was the baby of the family, spoiled shamelessly by his parents. While Philip had an ingrained sense of honor and duty, David was a hedonist, driven only by his own self-indulgent desires. He lacked structure, and rarely faced consequences for his actions. It didn’t surprise him at all that David had become an inveterate gambler.

  Was his uneasiness with this case coming from his history with both brothers, or was there something truly there? He couldn’t be sure. And because of that uncertainty, he needed to dig deeper, even if his superiors wouldn’t approve. If Philip’s own brother had betrayed him, Gabriel needed to know.

  He owed it to Philip to uncover the truth—the whole truth, not just the tidy facts the magistrates liked so much—behind his death.

  He owed it to Jemma, too. She, who had never been anything but kind to him, even when he’d overstepped the lines of propriety. She deserved to know what happened to Philip, so she could put his memory to rest without doubts.

  But there was no way on God’s green Earth that he’d let her investigate with him as partners. She must be mad to request it.

  When she fixed him with that challenging glare he knew all too well and jutted her chin out like she was ready to fight him, he gulped down the rest of his tea, buying himself a few moments of silence to think of a retort that did not contain the words “are you out of your blooming mind?” Women never appreciated it when he questioned their sanity.

  The tea was gone far too soon, leaving him scrambling. Better not to ask any questions at all, as they’d leave room for Jemma to expound upon all the reasons why she should work with him. Past experience had taught him he was no match for Jemma Gregory Forster at her most determined. Her nimble fingers moving about wildly as she gestured, leaving him wondering what it’d feel like to have those hands on him again. Her words tumbling from her lips swiftly, drawing his attention to her very kissable mouth.

  He set the tea cup down on the table, and tried not to swallow too noticeably when confronted with her fierce gaze. “Absolutely not. You cannot work with me.”

  There. He was proud of how firm he sounded.

  Until Jemma’s brows knitted together, and she scowled at him. “Why not?”

  “What I do is dangerous, Jemma.” He didn’t think she could dispute that, given she’d used that as another reason they’d never be together.

  I want safety, Gabriel. A solid, dependable husband.

  She’d apparently forgotten about that. She shrugged as though it was no longer a bother. “I can handle danger.”

  He decided it was not in his best interests to dispute that, as women didn’t like being told what they could do any more than they liked being asked if they were of sound mind. “I have years of training at investigation, and a network of criminal informants I can utilize—but not if you’re by my side. The places I’ll have to go to find information about Philip’s death aren’t nice places. I watch my back when I’m in the stews, even though as you said, I am quite the pugilist.”

  “I don’t need years of training, not when I have you.” She gave another little shrug; his objections mattered so little to her she couldn’t even think of a new response. “And if we are together, we can watch each other’s backs. You’ll protect me, I know.”

  Of course I would. I’d move mountains for you.

  He didn’t need to tell her this—from her triumphant smile, she already knew he would. He carded a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. “That’s the problem. I can’t focus on getting the intelligence you want if I’m looking out for you.”

  “Then concentrate on your own tasks, and I’ll protect myself. Philip taught me how to fence, and Felicity has prepared several chemical concoctions that do not require strength to use them defensively. I’m going with you, Gabriel, whether you like it or not.”

  She crossed her arms, the movement pushing her breasts up delectably in her stays, and for a full thirty seconds he forgot how to form a sentence, let alone reply eloquently. “If you don’t take me with you, then I will follow you on my own.”

  That was enough to snap his mind back to attention. “I’d sooner let you go to the devil than I would let you roam around the rookeries without an escort.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll go together.” She looked far too pleased with herself, a veritable cat who had not only eaten the canary, but a saucer of milk too. After glancing at the clock, she stood up, going to the bell pull near the door and yanking on it. “Just in time too, for my next guests are due to arrive soon, and I want you to meet them.”

  “Guests?” He repeated incredulously. Whom had she invited? “You’re going to have people over, with the house looking like this?”

  Jemma placed her hands on her hips, fixing him with an equally disbelieving glare. “You are taking me to task for my housekeeping?”

  “Point taken,” he admitted. His home had changed little since she’d come by with Philip. Because he spent so much time at work, he was rarely home for more than a few hours at a time, and his flat definitely showed it. “But the Jemma I used to know would never have let anyone view her house with boxes everywhere. Isn’t it some cardinal sin against society?”

  “Maybe the Jemma you knew is gone.” She shook her head sadly. “Maybe she was a fool, who thought she knew everything about the world, only to find she was utterly wrong.”

  How thoroughly he’d missed the mark with his half-hearted joke. He got up from the settee, coming to stand behind her. Without hesitating, he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. She stiffened, the embrace unexpected, but settled against him, her head on his chest. For a minute, neither of them spoke. He stroked her back. Tried—failed—not to get lost in the feel of her against him, her fine muslin gown smooth underneath his touch. She snuggled closer to him, wafting the delicate floral of her soap to his nose. God, how he’d missed how she smelled, like peonies fresh after a summer rain. Softly feminine, yet with a touch of spice, so uniquely, undeniably Jemma.

  “I’ve never once thought you were stupid,” he murmured, as he moved his hand across her back in concentric circles. “You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever known, Jemma. Please don’t forget that.”

  “Why are you so kind to me?” She tilted her face upward, befuddled by his declaration. “I mean, I know why you are helping me with Philip. You were friends for a long time.”

  “Since Eton.” He had few memories of the school that didn’t involve Philip. When they’d both graduated and settled in London, it was only natural that they’d carried on their friendship—even when he became a patrolman.

  If Philip hadn’t married Jemma, they probably would have stayed friends.

  But he had, and Gabriel couldn’t continue watching Philip live the life he wanted.

  And now Philip was dead, leaving Gabriel with nothing but questions.

  “That’s a long time,” Jemma murmured, starting to pull away from him. “I’m sorry I cost you your friendship with him.”

  He slung his arm around her, tugging her back to him, even though he knew he ought to let her go. Yet, he couldn’t, any more than he’d been able to stop himself from kissing her that night in Vauxhall, when she’d belonged to another.

  “You didn’t.” It was a lie, yes, but she did not need more pain. Not now. He needed only to look down at her widow’s weeds to remind himself of the grief she felt. He wouldn’t add onto that. “I told you, I was very busy at work—one doesn’t become a Runner without effort. And to answer your original question, I am kind to you because you are a good person, and you deserve such kindness.”

  He chose the simplest response he could think of, though it barely scratched the surface. He had a hundred reasons why he’d fallen in love with her, back when she was Miss Gregory, the oldest daughter of the Marquess of Sayer. From what little time he’d spent around her today, he doubted that list wou
ld be shortened.

  “Not just any Runner.” She caught his eye again, but this time, amusement flashed in her deep brown eyes. “The Rogue Runner.”

  “Now there’s an example of stupidity for you. That scandal sheet is all tawdry lies. I assure you, no debutante has ever fainted in front of me while exclaiming ‘take me, Rogue Runner!’ as they reported.” He did not add that it wouldn’t have mattered if they did, for the only debutante he’d ever wanted was her—the one he couldn’t have.

  “I did wonder about that,” she quipped. “Such melodramatic language for a sexual proposal!”

  He regretted having her so close to him, as his body no doubt reacted to the idea of her “sexually proposing.” Thankfully, he was saved from a response by the appearance of the servant she’d summoned earlier. Jemma jumped back, smoothing her hand down her dress.

  “I do beg your pardon, Lady Wolverston,” the young maid said, the rosy blush on her face making it all-too-clear what she thought she’d interrupted.

  “Nonsense, Ellen.” Jemma waved her hand dismissively, quick to put the maid at ease. “This is Gabriel Sinclair from Bow Street. He is a very old friend of Lord Wolverston, and has come to express his sympathy.”

  “Oh, I see.” Ellen did not look entirely convinced, but at least the pink on her pale, freckled cheeks subsided. “You rang earlier for me? I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I was across the house assisting the other maids with unpacking your boxes.”

  “Very good. The sooner we get unpacked, the sooner this dreadful place will start to feel like home.” Jemma offered Ellen an encouraging smile, which had the effect of further relaxing the maid, until she no longer eyed Gabriel with the mix of half-interest, half-suspicion female servants all seemed to exhibit around him. “I’d like to get fresh tea for Lord and Lady Marlburg and some of those lemon biscuits from Cook. They should arrive shortly.”

  “Yes, milady.” Ellen gave a smart curtsy, and off she went with a final look over her shoulder at Gabriel.

  Jemma laughed. “The Rogue Runner strikes again, I see.”

  “It’s a gift I never asked for. What can I say?” Gabriel rolled his eyes, shutting the door to the room again. “But do you really want Lord and Lady Marlburg to know I’m here? I thought you wanted to keep this quiet.”

  “I’ll tell them you’re helping me to recover the buttons, which isn’t a lie.” She moved back to the settee to await the arrival of the new tea tray. “Besides, my lack of housekeeping, and my move into Wolverston Hall, is far more scintillating gossip in Georgina’s mind. I’ll be surprised if she even remembers you were here, which I know shall be a blow to your ego.”

  “I’ve never cared about other women remembering me,” he said, with a pointed look at her. “Just you.”

  When she was an inquisitive girl of seven, Jemma found a striker in the rubbish of the dead groom’s belongings, set aside for donation to the village poor. Furtively, she’d glanced about the stable yard, making sure no one saw her as she slipped the scissor-like apparatus into the pocket of her pinafore. Out in the fallow field her parents had long ago deemed too sandy for crops, when she was supposed to be studying for the next day’s French exam, she’d rubbed the flint blade against the steel part until a spark surged forth.

  For an hour, she experimented, watching the red-orange flame dance in the waning sunlight, feeling the heat it produced against her cheek. By the time her governess finally discovered her, she’d born angry red, stinging burns across the tips of her fingers. From that day, she learned that if she was not careful, fire could be dangerous—but that did not abate her desire for a rousing blaze. Over the years, to the great consternation of her parents and governesses, she returned to that fallow field. Her fires grew larger, more unwieldy, an outward expression of the rebellious spirit she was forced to subdue in society.

  So it had gone, until Rosie’s ruin made her realize the error in her ways. Temptation was as wicked, as reckless, as her parents always claimed. She could not sin and escape unscathed. Sensible, reasonable, predictable—those were the words she’d embroidered upon her adult life, from her marriage to Philip to her management of the Wolverston households.

  But here, under the intense scrutiny of Gabriel Sinclair, as his voice dipped into that gravelly-good tone that scraped her skin in the most deliciously rough way, Jemma remembered what it was like to play with fire.

  And she liked it.

  Too much.

  She liked the way his arms had wrapped around her, how the barest touch of his fingers against the small of her back had caused a frisson of heat so like that from the striker. How resting her cheek against the coarse cambric of his shirt felt like the spark to a burgeoning inferno—just waiting for her to give in to passion.

  She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  Such was the refrain she repeated to herself as she’d pulled back from him. As she’d told her maid that half-truth—she and Gabriel could never be friends. Applying that label years ago had been as dangerous as striking flint, for it’d allowed her to justify all the time spent with Gabriel occupying her thoughts. Their farce had gone on so long, burned so bright, it was only a matter of time before it ignited into a foolish, traitorous kiss.

  That kiss, which had been the only thing in her life that had ever felt as it belonged only to her, apart from the desires of her parents, of society.

  She was wrong. The silence stretched between them, making Gabriel’s last statement so much harder to ignore. It had been wrong to kiss him. Wrong to pine for him. Wrong to let him comfort her now, because of that shared history of secret mistakes.

  But oh, how she wanted that comfort. Wanted him. His bravery, his candor, his fortitude. She loved how he treated everyone with dignity, and his dedication to truth and justice. He looked at her as though she did not need to earn his respect, because she already had it.

  She could not remember ever feeling as loved, as accepted, as she did during those few months of being around Gabriel. Before she cast it all away to be practical and marry Philip.

  She sucked in a breath. Reminded herself that she was not the girl she’d been once, but Lady Wolverston. Schooled her face into a blank expression, the one she wore whenever she had to face Georgina.

  The seconds stretched into minutes and still the silence remained, until it was so thick, so stifling, she could barely breathe. It was with the utmost enthusiasm then that she jumped up from the settee at the sound of footsteps, running to the door, flinging it open and almost smacking into poor Ellen in the process.

  “Milady,” Ellen said, her brows almost as sky high as when she’d walked in upon Gabriel embracing her. Just as she had a quarter of an hour before, her all-too-perceptive gaze piecing together everything. “May I present Lord and Lady Marlburg.”

  Georgina swept past Ellen, coming so close that the redheaded maid had to jump back so as to not collide with her. Lord Marlburg lumbered in after her. Ellen brought up the rear, depositing the tea tray with the refreshed silver teapot, cups, lemon biscuits, and dainty petit fours. She looked at Jemma, expecting the usual dismissal.

  But Jemma knew she’d catch hell from Georgina if she served the tea herself, so she nodded for Ellen to pour each guest a piping hot cup and pass them a plate for pastries. Only then did she dismiss the maid, motioning for Ellen to shut the door after her.

  Georgina did not wait for the door to click shut before she started in with her commentary. “Wolverston Hall, Jemma? Really? Whispers from Lady X has not stopped talking about you moving in here. Just when the scandal of the ghastly murder was dying down!”

  That ghastly murder was my husband and best friend.

  Jemma clenched her jaw, determined not to respond. She needed Gabriel to hear about David’s jealousy of Philip, so she’d have to sit through Georgina’s diatribe.

  “Darling,” Marlburg responded half-heartedly, dropping enough pastries for three people onto his tiny dessert plate. His lackluster remonstrance was as effec
tive as it always was: not in the least.

  Georgina’s gaze had settled on Gabriel. Her face scrunched up with disapproval, making her resemble the pug dog she’d had as a child. “Why is he here?”

  “Darling,” Marlburg tried again, around a mouthful of lemon biscuit. Crumbs fell onto his tawny mustache, sticking in the bushy bristles. “That’s Gabriel Sinclair from the Bow Street Runners. Do be kind.”

  “I know who he is. I do not understand why the Rogue Runner is here, when Philip’s murderer has already been caught. Philip was not close enough to him to warrant a second visit, no matter what he may have told you, Jemma.” When Jemma did not respond, the Marchioness of Marlburg turned her glare back upon Gabriel. “Don’t you have other doorsteps you could darken besides ours?”

  My doorstep, not yours.

  Jemma barely kept the ire from her voice as she passed Georgina the plate of pastries. If she could make it through this interview without throttling Philip’s cousin, then she’d consider it a success. “I asked Principal Officer Sinclair for an update on the gold buttons that were cut from Philip’s coat.”

  Marlburg looked up from his second lemon biscuit, interested for the first time since he’d arrived. “The ones from Prinny?”

  Jemma nodded.

  “Good.” Marlburg shoved more biscuit into his mouth, speaking around the mouthful. “We sure would appreciate those being returned, Officer Sinclair. Very important to the family, you know.”

  Jemma stiffened, biting down on the urge to remark that for a “member of the family,” Marlburg hadn’t managed more than a few words at the funeral for a man who had once considered him a close friend.

  Gabriel caught her eye, giving her an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.

  She relaxed against the settee, her irritation lessened by his acknowledgment. He saw her—the real her, the one she couldn’t show around her family, blood or marital.

  “I thought the buttons belonged exclusively to Lord Wolverston?” Gabriel made the pointed question sound so casual, Marlburg didn’t think to object.