by Dawn Brower
“You were right,” Jemma murmured, as they came upon the hack stand. They stood side by side, waiting for the carriage to arrive. “People don’t even look up when we go by. It’s like the servant’s garb makes me invisible.”
He turned to face her.
Underneath the golden glow of the gas street lamp, she was magnificent.
A lone chocolate brown curl escaped from her big mob cap, softly caressing her high cheekbone, just as he longed to do. The dowdy dark gray dress she’d secured from her friends must have been made for someone taller and heavier than her, for it hung from her petite frame loosely, resembling more of a sack than the haute couture she usually wore. Yet the heavily starched white apron she’d tied around her waist hinted at her true curves.
“You could never be invisible,” he told her, his voice too husky, too rough to hide how she made his body stir—no matter what she wore. “A man must be the most infinite of fools to not admire you. You’re radiant, Jemma. You always are.”
A pretty blush pinked her cheeks. For a second he thought he’d embarrassed her. His lips were already forming an apology when she smiled, a wide, glorious smile meant only for him. His breath tore from his chest, so struck was he by her, this woman who was everything he’d ever wanted, and so much more.
The hack pulled up, the driver jumping down as soon as the carriage came to a stop. “Two?”
“Aye.”
“Where’d ye wanna go?”
“St. Giles.”
Reeling back, the coachman fixed him with a look that left no question as to his doubts for Gabriel’s sanity. “Why in God’s name ye wanna go there?”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Do you usually ask your customers their personal business?”
“All right, all right, don’t get yer underdrawers twisted,” the man huffed. He scrutinized them, probably debating if they could afford to pay his fare.
Gabriel did not flinch under the man’s gaze, but Jemma fidgeted, her eyes dropping to her leather half-boots. That was the only part of her attire that did not fit—her boots were too new-looking, free from scuffs or streaks of dirt. He made a mental note to have her trek through a puddle, at least.
The thieves and fences they’d talk to tonight made their careers out of quickly cataloging people, identifying them as possible marks or threats to their safety. Rookery denizens were the most observant lot he dealt with—sometimes more than the Runners themselves.
They must have passed the test, because the driver gave a perfunctory nod. “I can take you as far as Leicester Square, but no further. I ain’t no fool. I know better than to tromp through Little Ireland at night.”
“Can’t you take us to Oxford Street?” That would be a significantly shorter walk to the places they planned to visit.
The driver scrunched up his face, reminding Gabriel of a petulant child. “No. It’s either Leicester Square, or get outta my stand.”
Gabriel considered. The less time Jemma had to spend in the dangerous parts of London, the better. Since it was after sunset, there wouldn’t be traffic from Robert Barker’s View of the Battle of Waterloo panorama on Castle Street—but there’d probably be crowds in the square, due to the many shops and popular entertainment venues. On their way to Compton Street and into St. Giles, they’d still have to pass a bagnio that was more brothel than bathhouse.
It was still safer than walking all that way, and he doubted he’d find another cab driver willing to take them closer.
“That’s acceptable.” He started to approach the carriage, but the coachman reached out, grabbing his arm and holding him back.
The driver held out his hand. “I’ll be needin’ yer fare up front.”
Gabriel pulled the coin purse out of his inside pocket, selected the fare as indicated by the driver, and handed him the money. The driver hopped up on his stand behind the carriage, and Gabriel held out his hand to help Jemma onto the squabs. Once Jemma was settled, Gabriel pounded on the roof to let the coachman know they were ready to start. Soon, the carriage was off, the steady slap of the horse’s hooves against the cobblestones a comfortable, familiar sound.
He leaned back against the squabs, his head resting on the back wall of the carriage, enjoying the clear night air blowing in through the carriage’s open front. Due to June’s colder than normal temperatures, the night was crisp and clear, free of summer’s stifling heat. Twilight was the perfect time for a drive.
And he had the perfect partner.
Sitting far, far too close to him.
The small hack forced them almost on top of each other. He tried to scoot over to the right more so that Jemma would have room, but he hit the windowed wall. All he succeeded in doing was elbowing her as he readjusted.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
She gave him a tentative smile. “It’s fine.”
He sucked in a deep breath to calm his nerves, but that was a mistake. All he could smell was Jemma’s peony soap; all he could feel was the warmth of her thigh, pressed so tightly up against his leg. This, he thought, was certainly the seventh circle of hell. Surely, life could not get worse than being so utterly near the woman he loved, and not being able to touch her.
But then she turned her head, speaking almost directly into his ear, her breath hot against his skin. “I found something tonight.”
This was definitely worse. The noise of the street meant he couldn’t back away, not if he wanted to hear her. He was trapped for the half-hour ride to Leicester Square.
Trapped, as a gentle breeze blew the ruffles on her mob cap so that it rubbed against his cheek.
Trapped, with the bosom of her too loose gown dipping precariously as she leaned toward him.
Trapped, as he prayed to God and all of the saints that his arousal wouldn’t be too obvious, and they could get through this trip with his dignity intact.
“I found something in my things,” Jemma said. “A letter he’d written to me, dated a week before his death, but which he never gave me.”
Philip. That ought to do it. A reminder of the reason why they were in this damn carriage to begin with.
“What did it say?” He managed to keep his voice calm, yet gruffer than he’d wanted.
Even Jemma’s closeness could not distract him from the import of her words. “Philip knew he was going to die.”
Jemma’s hands trembled as she pulled the letter out of the pocket in her apron. The pearly white foolscap was all too familiar, purchased from Philip’s favorite stationer on Jermyn Street. She’d bought him a quire for their first anniversary—he preferred practical gifts above all others.
“You understand me, Jemma,” he’d said, when she presented him the box from Cauthier & Son. “How many women would think to not only buy their husbands paper, but to research the precise stationer he preferred? I am the luckiest of men to have you as my wife.”
He’d loved it so much that he’d requested she buy it for him every year. A quire sat in the trunk in her sitting room, ready to be wrapped for their third anniversary. But she wouldn’t be able to give him that gift, or any others, ever again.
She turned the plain paper envelope over in her hands. In the dim twilight, underneath the gas lamps, the writing was barely visible, but she didn’t need to see well to trace the indents of his quill with the pad of her ring finger. Jemma, he’d written, in his neat, thin script. One word. No indication of when—if—he’d planned to give it to her.
“Jemma?” Gabriel’s tentative voice broke into her thoughts.
She ought to hand him the letter. That was why she’d brought it with her, after all. But her fingers wouldn’t cooperate, gripping the paper tightly.
This was it. The last letter Philip would ever send her—a letter from the grave.
A chill spread over her, just as it had the night of his funeral. Time seemed to slow. Since she’d moved into Wolverston Hall, she’d felt as though someone was watching her. Last night, before she retired to bed, an intense need to open the
trunk at the foot of her bed struck her. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else.
The servants had already unpacked all of her things—everything except that trunk, which she’d asked them to leave to her. She didn’t want anyone to know about the gold filigreed snuff box she’d hidden toward the bottom, which most certainly did not contain snuff—nestled inside were clippings from scandal sheets detailing the Rogue Runner’s many exploits.
She’d never thought Philip knew about that box.
Yet, when she dug it out from the trunk and opened it, there was the letter, nestled on top of the clippings. Now she knew why she’d felt like someone was keeping an eye on her.
It was Philip. His ghost, pushing her toward justice for him. Perhaps it was true what they said: the souls of the violently murdered could not rest until their killers had been punished. Was Philip doomed to walk the Earth, his troubled spirit bound to this plane of existence, while David lived the grand life he’d stolen from his brother?
Her whole body shook at the thought. Guilt clogged her throat, made it impossible to speak. She should be further along; she should have made David pay.
A calloused hand wrapped around hers, enclosing her ice-cold fingers in warmth and anchoring her to the present. Time started back up again. She breathed freely.
“Do you want me to read the letter?” Gabriel asked gently, the heat of his breath welcome against her frigid cheek.
“The light’s too bad.” That was the real reason, right? Not because she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. “I’ll read it to you. I’ve memorized it already.”
Gabriel forced a smile. “That memory of yours is something. I wish I had your ability to recall things so precisely.”
“No, you don’t.” Jemma shook her head sadly. “To be able to forget—that’s a blessing.”
“I never forgot you,” Gabriel blurted, his cheeks turning crimson when he realized what he’d said.
It was all too much. Her brittle spirit could barely handle the week’s whiplashed emotions—the solemn sadness of grieving for Philip, against the euphoria of being so close to Gabriel. His leg brushing hers, the heat of him penetrating through her cotton dress, apron, and petticoats. His words tickling her cheek. For a second, she could do no more than stare at him, and imagine what their life could have been, if only she’d accepted his proposal.
“Or Philip,” Gabriel added hastily, as if he sensed the turn of her thoughts.
“Nor I you.” She owed him that truth, though she wouldn’t expound on the full extent of her feelings. She lifted the letter up, careful to keep a firm grip on it, so that the moving of the carriage wouldn’t cause her to drop it.
Gabriel nodded, encouraging her. She began reading.
“My dear Jemma.” She’d never been anyone’s dearest, loved all above others. Philip had saved that appellation for Madame Therese. “If you are reading this, I am dead.”
“How matter-of-fact of him,” Gabriel murmured, and she nodded.
“Others might rhapsodize sentimentally, but I have always believed in brevity. You are more than my wife: you are my best friend. Thus, I have seen the solicitor to ensure Wolverston Hall is yours upon my death. May this house keep you safe, when I cannot.”
Gabriel held up his hand, stopping her. “Why would he think the house could protect you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that all day.” She frowned, staring down at the page, though in the dying light she couldn’t make out more than faint scribbles. “Philip always loved Wolverston Hall. He bought the townhouse in Grosvenor Square because I didn’t share his ardor. Maybe he hoped that I’d grow to love Wolverston Hall, if he left it to me.”
Gabriel’s concerned expression lessened, but did not disappear. “Perhaps.”
“Shall I continue?”
When he nodded, she started reading again. “Be vigilant, my friend. Do not let David trick you. He’ll seem saddened by my death. Perhaps he is, in some small way. You were right. You knew, long before I did, that his gambling would have grave consequences. I had to give him a chance to learn what it meant to be responsible, so I refused to pay his debt to the Masons. I did not anticipate how desperate this would make him. Your discovery of this letter means I failed, and the things I heard—the things I saw—have come to pass. David has killed me.”
She couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Water streamed from her eyes as she sniffled, clutching his letter. “He knew, Gabriel. He knew and he still went out with David.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” Gabriel ground out, his eyes dark and furious. “Don’t answer that. I know why he didn’t. He thought I didn’t care.”
She grabbed for his hand, squeezing it in her own, needing that physical connection to keep reading. “He’s my brother, Jemma. Whatever he has done, he is family. I do not regret standing by him, for I hoped I was wrong. It would not be the first time.”
The press of Gabriel’s hand against her own gave her enough strength to get to the next line. “Do give my regards to Gabriel. Knowing your clever mind, you already suspect David, and you’ve recruited Gabriel to help you. Try not to grieve for me too long, my dear. No point in wasting time on a dead man. -Philip”
A small smile toyed with her lips at that last line. She shifted so she could look at Gabriel, and found him smiling too.
He dropped her hand, but his chuckle dissipated the cold within her. “Only Philip would communicate from the great beyond and then demand we be practical.”
“The nerve of us, wanting to mourn him.” It felt good to laugh, even if it was just for a few seconds. “Is it enough to bring to the magistrate?”
“Even a missive from the dead isn’t enough to convict a peer.”
She let out a frustrated sigh, folding the letter and putting it back in her pocket. “So he gets away with it?”
Gabriel gestured to the hack. “Absolutely not. We’ll keep looking until we have enough. This is a step in the right direction, Jemma. We’ll get there.”
She had to believe he was right.
Soon, the carriage came to a stop at Leicester Square. Gabriel helped lift her down. Two seconds after they’d closed the door, the carriage took off, leaving clouds of dust in its wake.
“He wasn’t kidding about not staying.”
“With good reason.” Gabriel took her by the elbow, holding onto her. “Stay by me, Jemma. I need you to be within arm’s length at all times, so that if anything goes south, I can get you out of there immediately.”
After how close they’d been in the hack, his simple touch shouldn’t have affected her—but it sent little shocks through her, making her ever-alert to him. “I won’t leave.”
With every passing day, she knew it would be harder to say goodbye.
Chapter 6
It goes without saying that People of Quality do not go further than Oxford Street. St. Giles is home to no one but the worst of criminals, and no one who is respectable would dare traverse with such ilk.
-Whispers from Lady X
St. Giles Rookery, West End, London
Rivaled only by nearby Seven Dials, St. Giles was the worst of the West End, largely comprised of dram joints, flash panneys, and pawn shops. Chipped cobblestones marked fetid streets too narrow, too clogged with rubbish and feculence for even the most daring of hack drivers to steer through. Tumbledown tenements teemed with poor immigrants, Yiddish and Gaelic spliced together to form a discordant din, as voices drifted from the broken windows. Filth and pestilence clung to everything; the vile aroma only abated after several baths with lye, and denizens had neither access to large quantities of hot water nor money for soap.
Overall, the residents of St. Giles fit into three categories: those who had come to England with only the clothes on their backs and thus could not afford to live elsewhere; those who required the anonymity afforded by an overcrowded stew no one wanted to visit; and those who delighted in the many criminal opportunities presented by having so many thieves�
� dens naught more than a stone’s throw away from each other.
It was the third group of people that interested Gabriel the most. As a Runner, he depended upon a network of thieves, receivers of stolen goods, tavern-keepers, and madams who were all willing to trade secrets for blunt. Though some Members of Parliament claimed associating with criminals bred corruption within the ranks of Westminster’s elite police force, the information gained through these sources outweighed the risks.
Usually.
Tonight, with Jemma on his arm, Gabriel reconsidered the value in these contacts he’d so carefully cultivated over the years. Every minute spent in the dank, winding alleys made his stomach twist and turn with concern for her safety. They’d visited several public houses already to no success.
He had to give Jemma credit, though.
Her hand rested gently on the sleeve of his coat, and every once in a while she’d squeeze his arm, as if she knew he needed the physical reassurance she was safe beside him.
She let him do all the talking, her face a blank slate. He knew she was watching for any sign of falsehood, in that frighteningly accurate way she had of reading people’s unconscious tells. After each stop, they conferred, and she confirmed his suspicions: either nobody knew about the buttons, or they weren’t willing to talk to him about them in front of her.
They had one last place to go. Mrs. Jennings’s dolly shop was deep in the heart of the stews. He hated taking her there—there was little redeeming about the shops on Church Lane. They ranged from objectionable to vaguely illegal to downright dangerous. Mrs. Jennings fit somewhere in the second category, but any points she won from cooperating with Bow Street were negated by her foul, drink-addled temper and her vehement dedication to swindling everyone she came into contact with.