Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B)

by Gail Ranstrom

  She nodded, and her unbound dark hair fell over her face, shielding her as she began to weep again. “I cannot tell you without damaging Stanley’s reputation.”

  “Did he tell you what the key opened? He hurried away before he could—”

  “He only told me to give it to you, and that you would know what it opened.”

  But she didn’t. Unless this, too, was something she had forgotten that night. But she could only press Christina for the one thing that might save her life. “Please reconsider, Christina. If Mr. Henley killed Mr. Metcalfe over the knowledge you hold, and then suspects you might know, too, he might want to silence you, as well.”

  She gasped and pushed the hair away from her face to look at Gina. “Surely not!”

  “I cannot be certain, but can we put anything past the man at this point? All I know for certain is that Mr. Henley must be stopped, by whatever means possible. Stanley would not want you dead, and your best protection is to tell the authorities, the Home Office and whoever else will listen. The more people who know the secret, the less reason Mr. Henley would have to kill for it.”

  “I will not be leaving the house for several months, Gina. Can I be safe in my own home?”

  Gina wished she could reassure her. Wished none of this had ever happened. Wished, too, that she’d never enlisted Christina’s help. She shrugged. “I do not know.”

  Christina sniffed. “It would feel like a betrayal if I told now.” A fresh storm of weeping shook Christina’s shoulders. She buried her face in her hands and Gina could not imagine the depth of Christina’s sorrow until she thought of losing James. Oh, she was prepared to leave for Ireland and never see him again. But to know that he no longer breathed, no longer smiled? Intolerable, unbearable.

  “If I could turn back time, I would rather die myself than be the cause of Mr. Metcalfe’s death or your grief. And, though I would never ask it again, I cannot ever thank you enough for your help, and everything you’ve done. I will leave you now, but should you change your mind and decide to tell me Mr. Metcalfe’s secret, send to me and I shall come at once.”

  Gina closed the door after herself, catching one last glimpse of Christina, her dark head still bowed over her hands.

  A heavy mist descended, obscuring the light from the single lamppost at the end of the street. A dense fog would follow, and Gina shivered.

  She’d begged off the affair she was slated to attend earlier, pleading a crushing headache. James had feigned disappointment, though she had read the relief in his deep violet eyes. And when the household had retired for the evening, she’d crept downstairs to “borrow” some clothing from the laundry tub. Now dressed in a gray woolen dress, brown boots a size too large and a frayed brown shawl over her head, she was virtually unrecognizable.

  “Miss Gina?”

  Or so she’d thought. “Is that you, Ned?”

  The boy stepped out of the mist and pulled his cap off his tousled head. “Aye, miss. I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “I did not know how to dress. Will this be suitable?”

  He grinned. “I ‘spose so, miss. Wasn’t takin’ you anywhere fancy tonight. One o’ the lads said ‘e saw Mr. H go in the Cat’s Paw. That’s a gin house near Petticoat Lane.” He stood back and squinted at her through the gloom. “They won’t let me in there, miss. Say I gotta shave first. But y’look like you belong there, miss. Won’t no one bother you if you keeps yer head down.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Listen, miss.” He put his cap on and pulled the brim low over his forehead. “You orders somethin’ to drink, and then you just disappears into the walls and listen, if y’know what I mean. Maybe you’ll see Mr. H, maybe not. Maybe you’ll ‘ear something about where ‘e is.”

  Yes, she thought she could do that much. But what did one order in a gin house? She pondered that as Ned started off at a fast pace, leading her farther and farther from familiar surroundings. She wondered if she’d ever be able to find her own way home. “Will you wait for me, Ned?”

  “Aye, miss. Outside.”

  She took comfort from that much, at least, as her environs became poorer and more dismal. They passed taverns and public houses where raucous conversations carried into the streets and drunks lay where they’d been tossed. The women she’d seen were surely disreputable, since all women with a mind to their reputations would be safely home after dark in this area.

  “Where are we, Ned?”

  “Whitechapel, miss. Just around the corner.”

  And, true to his word, he halted at a sign with a painted black cat raising one paw. Beneath it was a low door with a stone stoop to step over, and she wondered if that was to keep sewage out during a heavy rain. A dim light cast a yellow glow in a window just above the door. She was relieved the rising fog kept her from seeing more clearly. The stench was bad enough without having to see what caused it.

  She took a sixpence from her boot. Would that be enough? Should she take off the boot and shake out a shilling? Sensing her hesitancy, Ned gave her a little push over the threshold.

  Gina had never been in an establishment like this one. It was dirty, foul smelling and dark; she had to stop just inside the door to brace herself and take her bearings. A long counter against one wall served as the bar and had shelves behind it with bottles of various sizes and colors. Were they all gin? At least ten tables were scattered to each side of the door but only a few were occupied this late at night. Another door opposite the one she’d entered was closed, and she wondered if it led to the privy or apartments where the light had shone just above the tavern door.

  A man sitting at a table was staring at her and she quickly went to the bar and placed the sixpence on the grimy surface. The barkeeper, an unshaven man with few teeth and dirty hands, shuffled toward her, looked down at her coin, took a tin cup from the counter behind him and went to a barrel. He pulled the tap, seemed to measure the amount with one squinted eye and brought the cup to Gina.

  She kept her head down and neither of them spoke. As he walked away, she breathed with relief and took her cup to a table near the door. She had passed the first test. Now, according to Ned, all she had to do was make herself inconspicuous.

  After a moment, all interest in her ceased and the low tones of conversation resumed. Once she became accustomed to the drone of voices, she could distinguish a few words. Her eyes adjusted to the meager light of the few candles and the dirty oil lamp on the bar, and she noticed four men at a back table. Though she could not make them out, or catch their conversation, there was something hauntingly familiar in the tone.

  As she strained to hear, she lifted her cup to her mouth and took a sip. She nearly choked. Struggling to catch her breath and not spit the swill back into the cup, she forced the liquid down her throat.

  Gin? This was gin? Dreadful! How could anyone drink it? She coughed and took another swallow to force the first down. Her eyes watered and she wiped them with the back of her sleeve.

  When she looked up again, she was startled to see that attention was again focused on her. Too late, she remembered to keep her head down. The brown shawl she’d kept over her head had fallen back when she coughed and she hurried to pull it back into place.

  An argument erupted at the back table and Gina froze. She knew that voice now. And she could never forget the inflection of his voice when he swore. James Hunter. But what was he doing here? Looking for Mr. Henley?

  She pulled the shawl even lower over her head, took another swallow of the gin and stood. She had to get out of there before she was recognized. Three steps and she was out the door, scarcely pausing to catch her breath. The fog had thickened and disoriented her, but she turned in the direction she thought they’d come and took several steps.

  A hand seized her elbow and spun her around. “Good God! It is you! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Ned appeared out of the fog, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. She waved him off quickly, kno
wing that, no matter how angry Jamie might be, he would not harm her. The boy disappeared into the fog before James noticed him.

  To make matters worse, Charles was fast behind James, a look of pure astonishment on his face. “Miss Eugenia! How…What possessed you to …”

  James turned her toward Whitechapel Street and took long strides in that direction, pushing her roughly ahead of him, as if he were afraid she’d bolt if he didn’t keep her within sight every second. Rightly so.

  “Charlie, run ahead and signal a coach. I’m taking Miss Eugenia home.”

  Charles disappeared into the fog without further questions.

  “You had better have a remarkable explanation for this, Eugenia. Apart from your reputation, you have risked life and limb coming to this part of town at night. Night? Hell, any time of day.”

  “I…I …” But she couldn’t answer. She was so breathless from the pace he set that she could not say two words together.

  “I cannot even imagine what your mother and Andrew will say when we tell them how out of hand you’ve become.”

  “No! You cannot!”

  “Oh, can I not? I rather think I can, Eugenia. In fact, I consider it to be my moral obligation to you and my duty to your family.”

  “Moral obligation to me? And where, pray tell, was that mere days ago in Vauxhall Gardens?”

  James shot her a dark look but pressed his lips together as they arrived on the wide High Street. Charlie had summoned a passing coach and the door was flung open, waiting for them. James wasted no time lifting her and placing her on the seat.

  He turned back to his brother. “I will catch up to you at the Crown, Charlie.” He turned to her again, climbed into the coach and called her address to the driver.

  Alone in the dark interior, Gina could only stare at James, sitting across from her and regarding her with such fury that she couldn’t think what to say. Was there no way to appease him?

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Well, Eugenia?”

  It occurred to her that he really had no rights where she was concerned, and decided to take that position with him. “I must say that I resent your high-handed treatment, sir.”

  He laughed, though she could detect no humor there. “High-handed? Well, take a good look, Eugenia. What you see is me acting with all the restraint I can muster. But if you’d like to see high-handed, I’d be only too happy to oblige.”

  She mirrored his action and crossed her own arms over her chest. “Furthermore, you will say nothing to your brother or my mother. Do you understand?”

  “Me? Understand?” A look of astonishment passed over his face. “You cannot seriously think you will get away with this?”

  “Oh, I shall. Have no doubt of that.”

  “You are mad to challenge me, Eugenia. I am not in my usual accommodating state of mind.”

  “Accommodating?” She sniffed. “All I have ever heard from you is ‘no.’ I cannot think of a single time you have accommodated me. From our mock of a courtship to…to …”

  “I accommodated you when you confessed that you were going into society with the express purpose of asking questions and trying to ferret out Cyril Henley. I have kept my mouth shut and allowed your little subterfuge, and where has it got me? Here! Finding you in a Whitechapel gin house dressed like a…a …” He gestured at her woolen dress and shabby shawl.

  “Servant?” she supplied.

  “I was going to say a washerwoman, but if you bared a bit of breast—”

  Her cheeks burned at that comparison and she glared at him. “I imagine that is a subject about which you know a great deal.”

  He was suddenly on the seat beside her, turning her face to his and bending close. “I have never purchased the services of a common whore, Eugenia.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Eugenia drove him to such extremes that he could scarcely comprehend his own reactions. Had it been any other woman, he would have walked away. Hell, any other woman and he would have left her in that tavern to fend for herself. But Eugenia? He looked into her eyes and saw not fear or confusion, but anger and a heavy dose of desperation.

  He released her chin and leaned back against the squabs. “What is it you are not telling me, Eugenia?”

  Her sigh nearly made him relent. “I do not know what you are asking.”

  “Why? Why must you push yourself to such lengths? What drives you to such foolhardy endeavors? I think you are bent on self-destruction, and I do not know how to stop you.”

  She dropped her gaze to her hands, twisting the gray woolen fabric of her dress. “You cannot stop me, James. It would be better for us both if you would stop trying.”

  “You know we will catch Henley eventually. You know Cora’s death was avenged that night when Daschel was killed in the catacombs beneath the chapel. And yet you press on with an almost crazed determination—against all good sense, against all reasonable care for your safety. There has to be more that drives you. What is it, Eugenia? Why can you not leave this to me? “

  For the first time, he saw a flash of fear in Eugenia’s eyes and he recalled the night at Vauxhall Gardens, when she’d hinted that it was already too late to save her. “Answers,” she said so softly he barely heard her above the rattle of wheels and harness.

  “To what?”

  “That night. That night in the catacombs.”

  “You know the answers. You know who killed Cora, and who kidnapped you. If you are looking for an answer to why…well, there is no answer to that but for the darkness in some men’s souls.”

  “I cannot go on without the answers. There is no future for me without them.”

  “Gina—”

  “My entire life hinges on the answers, and there is no life without them.”

  A tiny seed of doubt began to take root. Had Eugenia told them everything that happened that night? Had they left any question unasked? Any truth untold? Or, God help her, had she lied? Had she been more involved with the Brotherhood than she’d admitted? Had she lied about what happened?

  He gripped her shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. “What have you withheld, Eugenia?”

  Those glorious dark eyes welled with unspilled tears. “That I do not know.”

  “What, damn it?”

  “What happened to me. I cannot remember most of it. Mr. Henley gave me opium, and my mind is a blur.”

  “But…what can you recall?”

  “Nothing until the ritual, when I was lying upon that altar. I remember Mr. Henley bending over me, and I thought he was going to…to …”

  “He was. But I still—”

  “And then you covered me and carried me from the altar. Someone asked me later if I was unharmed. Bella, I think. And I told her yes. But the truth is, I cannot remember. Only hurting. Aching in all my muscles. And my head pounding.” The waiting tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  “You do not know if you were unharmed? But here you are, Eugenia, whole and well.”

  “Not that….”

  Jamie groaned as understanding dawned on him. “You think that…things…might have been done to you while you were unconscious.”

  She nodded and he realized she was holding on to her composure by a slim thread.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  The anger was back, refining her grief and uncertainty. “And have everyone look at me with pity? Have Mama shut me away in a spinster’s room? Listen to whispers behind my back? I couldn’t bear that.”

  “But what did you mean to do? Find Henley and simply ask him?”

  “Yes! What other course do I have? Yes, I want him to tell me the truth—everything about those lost hours.”

  “Good God! And you think he’d actually tell you the truth? Don’t be naive, Eugenia. He’d lie just to see the pain on your face. Hell, he’d lie on principle.”

  “What other choice do I have? Who else can answer that question? How can I ever build a future or a f
amily without knowing if…if …”

  He wanted to feel compassion for her, but all he felt was anger that she’d endangered herself for such an inconsequential thing. “What earthly difference does it make? I’d venture to say that a good portion of brides are not virgin on their wedding night.”

  Her eyes widened and she regarded him with astonishment. “I must know! Before I could marry, my husband has a right to know if I am whole.”

  He was still gripping her shoulders and he shook her roughly, as if that would rattle some sense into her muddled thinking. “Any man who loves you would take you as you are, without questions or guarantees. Any man who wouldn’t is not worth your consideration.”

  “I cannot bear that I have lost that part of my life. I cannot tolerate the thought that I could go through life never knowing.”

  God help him, he could think of nothing to persuade her, nothing to comfort her, but to kiss her. To show her what his words could never say without disgusting her. He lowered his lips to hers, cherishing the salt of her tears mingling with the gin she’d had at the Cat’s Paw—a potent brew, drawing up his suppressed longing, his denied needs.

  Fear that he was taking advantage of her vulnerable state made him lift his head to mutter an apology, but she raised her arms to circle his neck and offered those rosy petals again.

  “Yes,” she whispered in a longing sigh. “Yes, Jamie.”

  It would have taken a stronger man than he to refuse that invitation. He deepened the kiss. And she did. Her heat, her taste, the sweetly innocent way she met his tongue, swept him into a tide of desire.

  He moved his hand to her breast and she moaned deep in her throat. Even through the rough woolen dress, he could feel the taut bud of her breast against his palm. Now the moan was his.

  This was madness. Insanity. He pulled away again. “Gina, you cannot mean—”

  “Don’t stop, Jamie. Not this time.”

  But the coach lurched as it drew up at the end of the street. Her eyes cleared as if she’d been sleeping and she seized the handle of the door. “Do not tell my family, Jamie. I beg you.”

  And she was gone, running up the steps and disappearing through the door. He sat there for a moment, waiting until he saw a light in an upper window. Pray she was safe for the night. Until he could decide what to do next.