Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel

by Carlyle, Christy

  “Now ‘ow can I ‘elp a lovely piece like yerself?”

  The man’s low growl pricked the hair at Ben’s nape, but when the drunk reached for the woman, he had no choice.

  Ben strode across the floor of the pub, heart hammering in his chest, and stopped so close to the woman he could smell the scent of lavender wafting off of her. After months of living in Whitechapel, he’d almost forgotten anything could smell so pure and fresh.

  “Might I have a word with you, miss?”

  The blonde woman turned, her body so close she brushed her arm against the lapels of his coat, and looked up at him with eyes the color of a stormy winter sky. Gray flecked with chips of blue, they were bright and unshadowed.

  His shifted his gaze to her mouth. Her lips, plump and still red from the cold, moved and he realized she was speaking to him.

  “Can you help me find Sergeant Quinn, sir?”

  “Yes, I know where you can find him.” The only difficulty would be removing her from The Ten Bells before acknowledging his identity to all and sundry.

  She darted her clear gaze around the pub again.

  “Is he not here then?”

  He had a lying nature, or so his father had told him often enough. It proved useful in his work as a detective, but the flavor of lies changed over the years. He couldn’t bear the bitter tang of falsehood these days. It tasted far worse than Max’s cheap ale. Yet he had to learn why she’d come to such a dangerous place with his name on her tongue.

  “I know where you can find him. Just up the road.”

  Her eyes spread wide with shock, perhaps suspicion. And Ben could see every bit of color. Blue and gray, yes, but green too, and a bit of gold that matched her hair.

  She bit her lower lip, just piercing the edge of it with straight, white teeth, and a surge of desire assaulted him. Ben tensed, held still, and waited for the ache to ease. No woman had as much as caught his eye in an age, and now this tiny, out-of-place lady had him dissecting the shade of her eyes.

  “You’ll take me to him?”

  There was a tremor in her voice. So the beauty was frightened of him, and well she should be. They were made of different stuff—he of darkness and the clinging odor of Whitechapel and she of honeyed hair and the calming scent of lavender.

  “I can show you the way.”

  “Will you not give me his address?”

  “And send you out in those streets alone?”

  She turned her gaze to the darkness that had fallen over Whitechapel beyond the pub’s windows.

  Ben took her sharp nod and glare of defeat as agreement. She took one last look about her, as if hoping to find a more appealing option.

  “All right, yes, if you would, sir. Take me to him. It’s not far, you say?”

  Kate was a fool to trust the man. The intensity of his gaze unsettled her, and she couldn’t stop studying his formidable frame. Towering over her, he’d loomed so much larger than any other man in the pub. Tall and broad-shouldered, she suspected he’d won every battle he’d ever fought and doubted few would menace her on Whitechapel’s streets with him by her side.

  Perhaps that was it—his size and the notion he’d protect her from any danger they might encounter that made her agree to accompany him to the lodgings of Sergeant Quinn.

  Or was it the pain she’d read in his gaze? He’d winced in the pub, almost imperceptibly, just the slightest tightening around his eyes, as if his body fought him as he moved. And beyond the physical pain she suspected, Kate glimpsed sadness, a desolation she’d sometimes seen in her own reflection during her marriage to Andrew. Loneliness, self-reproach, hopelessness—it was all there in his cobalt blue eyes, or so she imagined. They’d exchanged only a few words, but with his pained, unwavering gaze he seemed to convey so much more.

  Enough for her to trust him to take her where he said he would. Enough for her to believe he meant her no harm.

  But the moment the pub doors swung closed behind them, he drew close, far too close, and grasped her by the arm when she tried to step away. Panic welled up as he leaned down and whispered near her ear.

  "You've found Detective Quinn."

  She saw his breath puff out in a cloud of white in the winter air, but for a moment Kate couldn't make sense of his words. Then shock replaced her fear.

  "You? You're Sergeant Quinn? But why did you not—"

  He lifted a finger between them and she thought he might actually press it to her lips to quiet her.

  "This isn't the place for questions."

  He darted his gaze around, and Kate noticed the men and women near them on the street—some lurked in the dark corners, others gathered around costermonger's carts, and a few moved past them into the warmth of The Ten Bells.

  "Come. You're safe with me."

  His words eased a bit of her tension, and Kate nodded to him, indicating he should lead the way.

  They walked side by side along Commercial Street for a while, but Kate struggled to match his pace and fell behind when the street grew crowded as they approached Whitechapel Road. He looked behind him, making sure she still followed. Near a particularly rowdy group of men who stood shouting at each other around a chestnut seller’s cart, Detective Sergeant Quinn turned back for her and gathered her near, reaching an arm around to embrace her possessively. Her instinct was to protest, to push him back and make her own way. But she realized he only intended to keep her safe and allowed herself to take comfort in his height and strength, despite how his nearness unnerved her. He smelled of liquor, its sharpness undercut by a warmer spicy scent.

  Turning right into White’s Row, he led her along a stretch of buildings that looked to be private lodgings. He ascended the stairs of one building and Kate followed him, stepping carefully on the wooden slats of the stairwell. The street was so dark she could see nothing around her, though the sounds of voices and music drifting from the pubs along Commercial Road, even the calls of costermongers hawking their wares at this late hour, were reassuring.

  He unlocked a door and stepped inside. Kate followed, heart sinking and pulse galloping at the realization he’d led her into a dark, cold, and completely empty lodging room. The foolishness of her decision to come to his rooms alone—even if he was the sergeant she sought—made her queasy. Surely any uninformed constable could question Rose as well as this man, who smelled of drink and looked at her with haunted eyes.

  As he lit a lamp, she turned to exit the way she’d come, but he was too fast. His hand slammed against the door above her head and Kate felt the heat of his body as he loomed behind her.

  “Wait. Don’t run off. Not yet. Why did you come looking for me?”

  His breath heated the back of her neck as he spoke.

  Kate waited, sucking in air but afraid to exhale, and prayed the man would move away.

  But he didn’t move, merely hovered behind her, breathing heavily as if he’d run a very long distance rather than walking less than a mile with her in tow. There’d been a glassy sheen to his gaze when she’d met him at the pub, and she wondered if he was too soused to do whatever he wished to do with her. Kate sent up a silent prayer he’d simply pass out. She’d escape, find a constable, and get him to come and take Rose’s description of her attacker. It was what she should have done all along.

  Kate heard Detective Quinn inhale and turned her head as he leaned toward her. He breathed in the scent of her hair, sniffing her like a bloodhound memorizing the scent of its prey.

  Trying not to touch her body to his as she moved, Kate turned and backed against the door. She noted how the winter chill had chafed a pinkness to his mouth and cheeks. His blue gaze roved over her face, down her neck, her chest, and swept the length of her gown. Kate imagined he would have examined the boots laced to her feet if given half a chance.

  His far too-long hair lay in thick, dark waves, framing his face and dancing along the edges of his coat collar. A moment ago she’d have identified the color as black or brown, but now, in the lamplight, K
ate saw shades of red threaded through rich, dark brown.

  “You wished to speak with me. Here I am. How may I help?”

  A slight slur hid among his words as he stepped back and began removing his coat. The loss of his heat, his presence, left her feeling both bereft and relieved. Kate released a sigh and slumped back against the door. She’d been so fearful he'd harm her, and the tension of the moment drained her.

  "A young woman was attacked tonight, near Fieldgate Street. She insists…" Kate inhaled and released a shaky breath. "She says she'll only speak to you."

  He indicated a well-worn chair. “Please sit. Take it slow. Tell me the rest.”

  Kate wished for any other chair in the spartanly furnished room, preferably something further away from the tall, intoxicated detective, but she longed to sit and made her way on unsteady legs to the one he’d indicated.

  She watched him as he hung his coat on a hook and then peeled off a dark suit jacket, revealing a black vest and bright white shirt underneath. His movements were slow, measured, and the tightening around his mouth, nearly a grimace, added to her suspicion that he was wounded in some way. She looked away, trying not to gape at the way the vest hugged his chest and waist, the way the shirt strained at the broad width of his shoulders and bulged over the swell of his muscular arms. If such a man intended to harm another, he certainly had the strength to do it. She’d never met a man with a warrior’s physique and it fascinated her.

  “I would offer to hang your cloak, but it’s too cold in here to take it off. Let me see to a fire.”

  He knelt in front of her and gathered a few pieces of coal from a bucket, coaxing them into life in the grate of the small fireplace. For such a large man, he moved with remarkable grace, and she found it fascinating to study the flex of his thigh muscles as he kneeled, balancing on his haunches, stretching the fabric of his trousers so that nothing about the shape of his legs was left to her imagination.

  She looked up and found he’d caught her studying him. Whether from the heat of the fire or a fierce blush, her face flamed under his gaze.

  Voice low and deep, he questioned her again. “Tell me your name. And more about this attack.”

  Kate took a deep breath, frustrated at how it quivered as she exhaled. This man, Sergeant Quinn, if that was his name, set her on edge and the sooner the whole business was done the better. If Rose had encountered the Ripper, surely time was of the essence.

  She spoke quickly, trying to relate all the relevant information. “My name is Katherine Guthrie. I volunteer at the charity clinic on Fieldgate Street. We have a patient tonight who claims to have been attacked by Jack the Ripper.”

  Her words electrified Sergeant Quinn. He turned on her, closing the space between them, and grasped each of her arms above the elbow.

  “Are you certain she’s telling the truth? She believes it was the Ripper? Why haven’t you gone to police headquarters on Leman Street?”

  His firm touch wasn’t bruising, but Kate squirmed at the restraint. No man had restrained her since Andrew.

  Sergeant Quinn seemed to recognize her distress and released her, lifting his hands in the air.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I have no right to touch you.”

  “Her name is Rose and she said she would only speak to you. She says you’re a good man.”

  She looked dubious as she said the words and well she should be. Ben didn’t believe it either. If the Rose she referred to was the whore he’d known from her frequent visits to Leman Street, he found the news she’d called him a “good man” difficult to digest.

  He had never been kind to Rose, leaning on her to give up the man or men who bullied her and several other prostitutes to share their meager earnings. Stopping the gang wouldn’t stop the women from making a living by selling themselves, but it might have provided them a measure of safety and prevented a few broken bones and bloodied faces.

  “Miss Guthrie–”

  “Mrs. Guthrie, if you please.”

  Her snappish correction made him smile, and his face felt stiff and unnatural from the expression. She was lying. Or not telling the whole truth, he guessed. Her gaze darted away from his, studying the four plain walls, peeling wallpaper, fireplace, and few furnishings in his rented lodgings. When she did look his way, he noted the black centers of her eyes had grown large. Such a change was common among thieves who told him tall tales when questioned.

  “Mrs. Guthrie, then. Shall we go to the clinic now?”

  Pulling her cloak around her, the beauty stood and looked down at him as if he was more deserving of her pity than likely to give her help.

  Ben moved to stand and a wave of dizziness made his head spin and his stomach heave. Damn that second pint. And the third.

  “Are you sure you’re able? In your condition?”

  “I am not drunk, Mrs. Guthrie.” Now he was the one who lied.

  “How much did you drink?”

  He looked up into her stormy eyes. A few strands of blond hair had come loose and hung down, curling just at the ends. He read irritation in the firm set of her mouth and the flash of ire in her gaze. She looked as apt to strike him down as help him to his feet.

  But he was already down, and for some reason he could barely fathom he hated that the beautiful Mrs. Guthrie should see him at his worst.

  He stood, ignoring the protest in his muscles and the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. His failure to find the Ripper, the fight with Penhurst, his suspension—all of it chose this moment to drag him down like a millstone. He fought it, but his body rebelled against his will and he listed forward, far too close to Mrs. Guthrie.

  Rather than let him fall, she reached up, gloved hands shooting out from beneath her cloak and pressed her hands to his chest. The press of her palms, even through her knitted gloves, was a blissful balm, steadying him. He held still, allowing her to touch him, praying she wouldn’t move away until he gathered strength. He was determined not to make a complete fool of himself in front of the only woman who had ever visited his Whitechapel lodgings.

  But he couldn’t resist letting her take a bit of his weight. The contact, the warmth of her hands against his body, was tantalizing. She might have reached for him out of the same charitable compulsion that caused her to tend to whores in the East End, but Ben relished the only human touch he’d experienced in years.

  “Perhaps you should lie down.”

  “No.”

  "Just for a moment. It will do you good."

  Though he couldn’t recall reaching for her, Ben studied the contrast of his hands against the dark black wool of her cloak. He held her by the shoulders a moment longer and then forced himself to release her. He could bloody well rally the strength to walk to his own bed.

  As he moved away from her, she clasped him round the waist, perhaps thinking he was about to tumble over.

  “I can manage.”

  “Let me help you, sergeant.”

  He cringed at her use of his rank. He was a suspended detective sergeant, foolish enough to consume too much liquor and too far gone now to take the statement of a witness who may have encountered the creature he’d hunted for so long.

  They crossed the few steps to his bed, a rickety cot with nothing to recommend it. Sitting on the edge, he reached for his necktie. He could hardly undress in front of Mrs. Guthrie, but he’d be damned if he let his neck cloth strangle him if he fell asleep. He fumbled with the knot before smooth skin and nimble fingers brushed his hands aside. The lady had removed her gloves and her touch was blessedly cool. After tugging at the knot and slipping the tie free, she pulled the fabric and it hissed sinuously, sliding against the cotton collar of his shirt.

  The scent of lavender lured him, igniting his senses, and he inhaled deeply. But he stayed his hands, resisting the urge to reach for her again. Yet she stood so near. One tug and she’d be in his arms. There had to be curves under that shapeless cloak. Instead he complied when she pushed at his shoulders, leaned back, a
nd allowed his body to sink into the cot. He struggled to keep his eyes open and not drift off as she lifted the blanket up to his chin.

  Her ministrations were an unexpected gift, and he wasn’t worthy of any of it. Yet he would take it all, absorb as much of her goodness and calming fragrance as he could. He’d carry it with him when she was gone and solitude returned. How many lonely nights had he endured in these dim, dingy lodgings? How many evenings would the aroma of lavender linger to perfume the air after she’d gone?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kate lifted the fob watch on her skirt and shook it gently. An old gift from her father, it usually kept time faithfully. Could it be correct now? Surely she hadn’t been sitting in this dusty room in Whitechapel for nearly half an hour watching over a man she’d only just met.

  She’d intended to leave the moment the detective’s eyes slipped shut, to find a constable and go back to the clinic and see to Rose. The young woman might have vowed to speak to no one but Detective Sergeant Quinn, but the man was in no condition to do anything other than sleep off the effects of too much drink.

  Yet the sight of Detective Quinn as he drifted off to sleep held Kate captive. The giant of a man whose gaze was so pained and bleak looked gentle in slumber, his full lips softened and the pinch of a frown between his brows replaced with a plane of pale, smooth skin. She’d glimpsed so much weariness in his expression when she encountered him at the pub. It seemed a rare privilege to look on him now, when his handsome features were serene, peaceful.

  With his head turned toward her, a thick lock of dark auburn hair fell across his brow. Kate itched to stroke it back. No, she mustn’t. She had to go. Each moment wasted studying Detective Quinn’s features was time she should be working her last night at the clinic, tending to those in need. She was on the verge of accepting Mr. Thrumble's proposal—that was the proper course, practical. He needed a wife. As appealing as he might be to scrutinize, Detective Quinn didn’t need her. He needed nothing more than a good night’s sleep. So why did she feel a foolish sense of responsibility for him? The giant of man could surely manage on his own.