She stood to leave. Reaching back to the pull the hood of her cloak over her hair, Kate turned a final gaze toward Detective Quinn. A frown marred his brow again and creased his mouth in a firm line. He let out a low, pitiful moan and his body tensed before going still. Whatever his dreams, they brought him no pleasure.
Kate knew the terror of being haunted in one’s dreams.
His lips moved and Kate thought he might speak. She leaned closer and could no longer resist touching the lock of hair on his forehead. Caressing the glossy strand, she pushed it back into his hairline before trailing her fingertips along his dark eyebrow. She skimmed her fingers down the ridge of his cheekbone and then traced the firm edge of his jaw. His skin felt cool under her fingertips, but warmth kindled inside her from the contact.
Beyond tending to her brother’s wounds, Kate hadn’t touched a man in nearly ten years. Mr. Thrumble had kissed her hand and once, and in a moment of uncharacteristic exuberance, laid a chaste kiss on her cheek, but she‘d never reached for him. And when he touched her, it set nothing inside her aflame.
Kate jerked her hand away. Detective Quinn said he had no right to touch her, and she certainly had no right to trace the contours of his face, no matter the rush of pleasure it provoked.
Kate stood. She couldn’t help Detective Quinn, and remaining near him only stoked odd sensations—urges and notions she’d stifled for years.
As Kate crossed toward the door, Detective Quinn began to moan again. She glanced back to see him flailing, wrestling the blanket from his body as if he were fighting off an assailant.
His distress called to her, tugging at memories of nights spent wrestling her own dreamtime foe. She turned back and he seemed to settle again, arms falling limp at his sides. Drawing close enough to arrange his blanket, she whispered to him. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
As nonsensical as it seemed to reassure such a strong man, Kate couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. They were the words she’d craved on many a lonely night.
Kate squeaked in surprise when Detective Quinn reached for her, his hand striking out to clasp her wrist. Eyes just open in sleepy slits, he watched her a moment before speaking a single word.
“Anne.”
Tight. His grip was so tight, she feared he might crush her wrist. She plucked at his fingers, trying to release herself, but he held fast.
“Detective Quinn, I am not Anne. Kate. My name is Kate. Please let me go.”
He loosened his hold but didn’t release her. Then his eyes widened, recognition flashing in his expression.
“Kate.”
The rasp in his voice as he spoke her name made Kate shiver. She pulled away. He was far too close and she was suddenly far too warm.
With his free hand, he pushed back the hood of her cloak and stroked her hair.
“My God, you’re beautiful.”
“I’m…” Instinct urged her to deny it, but the words dried on her tongue as he slid his hand around the nape of her neck and drew her near. He tugged her closer and something sparked in his blue eyes—desire and a need so stark and raw it made her tremble.
“I am going to kiss you, Kate.” He whispered the words, throaty and low.
Her mind shouted no, but her body pulsed yes in response. Improper desire warred with the panic welling at the edges of her mind.
Oh, his mouth. Warm and firm, his lips coaxed her to take the pleasure he offered. He moved his hand, still cupping the back of her neck, and threaded his fingers in her hair. Wicked delight skittered across every inch of her skin, turning it to gooseflesh.
Just for a moment, she let herself go, opening to him, allowing him to plunder as he pleased. But he seduced her gently, tilting her head just so and angling his mouth so that he could explore more thoroughly. The detective kissed her with shocking tenderness.
Kate had never been kissed with such care. She'd never been kissed like this at all—in a manner that set her body on fire and turned her mind to mush. Surely she would melt, right here in this tiny room in Whitechapel, in the arms of a stranger with haunted eyes and a sinfully delicious kiss.
But that wouldn’t do at all. It was wrong, all wrong. She'd shirked her duty to Rose, abandoned her post at the clinic, and what of Mr. Thrumble, the man who would soon ask her to be his wife?
She pulled away from Detective Quinn, pressing back against his hold on her neck. “Let me go. I should… I must go.”
He released her, lifting his hand from her neck and holding it aloft, signaling he wouldn’t restrain her. Lying back, he turned his face away and stared at the ceiling above him as if something there required his intense scrutiny.
Kate looked up and found cracked, peeling paint stained with smoke and a collection of cuttings from newspapers. The words Ripper and murder featured in the headlines on nearly every scrap.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Guthrie.” He spoke the words quietly, but the sound echoed off the ceiling above him.
Unclear whether he apologized for kissing her or for being too soused to do his job, Kate stared at his muscular frame a moment longer and then started for the door.
“Wait.”
The single shouted word made Kate jump. For a moment she heard Andrew’s Scottish burr curling around the word. Her husband had a beautiful voice, or at least she’d thought so upon meeting him. Afterward she heard it too many times in anger, remembered too many foul condemnations, to find any beauty in his accent. No brogue could ease the cruelty of his words.
“You cannot walk these streets alone. Let me find you a cab.” He spoke the words as he rose from his bed, wincing as he moved. He reached for the neck cloth she’d helped rid him of earlier and stopped short. Pressing a hand to his ribs, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“You’re wounded.”
Kate’s impulse to help made her want to reach for him, to do what she could to ease his pain.
He lifted a hand to stop her and his mouth twisted in a grimace.
“Don’t worry yourself over me, Mrs. Guthrie.” His voice, so warm and throaty deep before, was clipped and chilly now.
“I might say the same to you, Detective Quinn. I can make my own way.”
Kate didn’t wait for his reply, and she imagined whatever wound stalled his movements would make it difficult for him to follow. She moved quickly, plunging into the black night and praying her eyesight would adjust to the darkness.
Fog choked the streets now, muffling sound, and wrapping everything in a gray luminescence. It seemed to stifle the pungent stench of Whitechapel but carried a bitter, metallic flavor of its own.
She had used a shorter route to reach The Ten Bells from the clinic, cutting up from the Whitechapel Road across Osborn Street, but alone in the dark, it seemed more prudent to follow Commercial Street all the way down. Carriages still moved along the busy thoroughfare, though Kate could barely see them through the murky shroud of mist that hung in the air. She concentrated on remaining on the pavement and not bumping into any of the men and women who milled along the street.
When a carriage seemed to veer toward the pavement, hooves skidding on the cobblestone and the squealing grind of wheels sounding far too near, Kate stumbled away and into the arms of a man reeking of spirits and grime.
“You’re a sweet thing.”
“Mrs. Guthrie! Cab for you, missus.”
From above, the cabman’s call cut through the night, and Kate extracted herself from the man on the pavement long enough to call back to him.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Guthrie.”
She saw the dark silhouette of the hansom cab driver as he leaned over the roof and spoke to her.
“Sergeant Quinn sent me for you. Take ‘er to Fieldgate Street Clinic, ‘e said.”
Kate tripped as she took the single step up into the cab, gripping the enormous muck-covered wheel to steady herself.
She closed the double doors over, securing herself in the cab. Safer and warmer in the close confines than she had been mom
ents before, she thought of Detective Quinn with gratitude sending the carriage. Gratitude and a dangerous jumble of emotions that still hummed in her veins.
Shaking thoughts of Detective Sergeant Quinn from her mind, Kate focused on what needed to be done. If her fob watch was still accurate, she would be late returning home to Moreton Terrace. She’d have to offer some explanation regarding her whereabouts this evening. What would Will say if he learned she’d spent an hour in a drunken detective’s Whitechapel lodgings?
CHAPTER FIVE
December 5th, 1888
“Explain it to me again. And start at the beginning, if you please. Exactly how long have you been sneaking off to Whitechapel on your own?”
Kate reached up and tucked another pin into her hair. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before turning to face her brother.
“You make it sound so dramatic, as if I’m some suspicious character in a Conan Doyle story.” She infused her voice with a nonchalance she didn’t feel and smoothed a hand across the waist of her plain, gray gown. Normally she’d take time to brush or launder her blue Whitechapel dress after each visit, but she’d returned late last evening. After an uncomfortable conversation with Will, there’d been no time for anything but a few hours of restless sleep. And she wasn’t returning to volunteer this time. She fully intended to keep her promise to herself and stay away, as Mr. Thrumble would no doubt wish. But after fitful sleep interrupted by nightmares featuring the predator who hunted women in Whitechapel, Kate had to check on Rose. Even if Rose knew the man who’d attacked her, Kate felt a sense of responsibility to see about the young woman’s care. She'd failed her last night and had to make amends in whatever way she could.
Rose had been sleeping when the cabman returned Kate to the clinic the previous night after her—what could she call it?—odd encounter with Detective Benjamin Quinn. Alice insisted she would send word of Rose’s condition and make sure a constable came to take her statement in the morning, but Kate had been the one to clean the young woman’s wounds. She’d spied the bruises that told of Rose’s ill treatment. Rose had suffered someone’s uncontrolled violence, even before her encounter with an assailant she claimed to be the Ripper.
Yes, she had to see Rose again. Waking early, Kate had secured a few shillings in a little fabric pouch and would make sure Rose received those too, unless the young woman was offended at her offer of charity. Ducking into a clinic in desperation was far different than taking a handout, however freely given. But Kate would try, and she’d make sure ensure Rose knew of other charities, resourceful people and organizations eager to aid and capable of assisting young women when their circumstances grew dire.
But first she had to get past her irritated brother. Following in their late father’s footsteps as a physician and newly licensed by the Royal College of Physicians, Will had always made her proud. Intelligent, brave, and with the kindest heart of any man she’d ever known, Kate knew Will, a former soldier, took the role of brotherly protector seriously. But she’d never told him about Andrew’s rages, never disclosed a single detail about the injuries and torment suffered at her husband’s hands.
Before joining the army and serving in Afghanistan, Will had been prone to recklessness. She’d feared what he might do to Andrew if he found out about his cruelty. She couldn’t face losing her beloved brother to the gallows, no matter how she’d longed for someone to end her husband’s violence.
Turning to Will, she gazed into eyes as cloud gray as her own. He’d so often thanked her for the care she gave him when he’d returned from the war, but she felt an equal measure of gratitude in return. Her brother’s kindness, his quiet strength, had taught her fortitude, even in her darkest moments with Andrew. And Will had no idea what an example he’d set for his younger sister.
She reached out and offered him a quick embrace.
“I’ve already explained, and I would be happy to do so again. But not right now.”
Will seemed taken aback by her show of affection, but signs of irritation still lingered in the narrowness of his gaze and firm set of his mouth.
“Shall I make an appointment with you, then? When might you fit me in? I never imagined your schedule was so full.”
Though she sometimes enjoyed their sparring, she’d no time to banter now.
“Forgive me, but I have an appointment this morning. I will return for luncheon with you and Ada, and Mr. Thrumble.”
It was an important luncheon. Mr. Thrumble had indicated his desire to speak to Kate alone. He’d propose again today. Then they’d discuss details of their upcoming nuptials, finally set a date. Kate had the sense Solomon would treat the plans for their marriage as a kind of test for her, to judge whether her skills at organizing events and managing the fine points of the ceremony measured up to his expectations for a wife. The notion made her shudder when she pondered it too long.
“Where is this appointment? Who are you visiting? Is it not early for visiting?”
A giggle rose up and Kate made no attempt to stifle it. She smiled at Will but read no answering amusement in his expression.
“You can’t be serious. Do you truly wish me to provide you with every detail of my comings and goings?”
Andrew was gone. No man controlled her anymore. If she had any say in the matter, no man ever would. Not in the way Andrew had. The thought brought Mr. Thrumble to mind. He'd been clear about his expectations for a wife, and it was an exacting list, a part of why she’d refused his first proposal years before. Was she any more prepared for the bonds of marriage now?
She allowed her frustration and uncertainty to spill into her voice. “Perhaps you’d like to lock me in my room and throw away the key.” It was a threat their mother would teasingly make whenever she and Will had joined forces for some nefarious childhood mischief.
A smile, warm and charming and much more familiar on his face than any grimace, lit her brother’s countenance. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest, then released it on a long sigh.
“I am merely concerned about your welfare, Kate. Your safety. Whitechapel is a dangerous place for a woman to wander alone. I need not tell you that.” He gestured toward her pile of The Illustrated Police News and other periodicals that chronicled the Ripper’s atrocities. She’d followed the news with what some might call “morbid curiosity.” Andrew certainly would have. But Will had never judged her, with regard to her preferred reading material or any other choice she’d made in life. He deserved the truth. Guilt at so many months of subterfuge made the back of her neck itch.
Kate opened her mouth to confess it—her trips to Whitechapel, her time spent with those whose need was deeper and uglier than anyone living on Moreton Terrace could imagine. Except perhaps for Ada, who'd grown up in the East End.
A soft rapping at the door cut through the tension between them. Ada’s face appeared around the doorframe, her forehead puckered in concern.
“Good morning, Kate. Were you expecting Mr. Thrumble this early?”
“Not at all. We’d agreed to a luncheon later in the afternoon.”
Ada glanced at her husband and stepped fully into the room, closing the door at her back. “He’s downstairs now. And he seems quite anxious.”
A fastidious man, Solomon made a point of being prompt. His appearance at Moreton Terrace so early, so many hours before their intended luncheon, didn’t bode well.
“He seems distressed. Angry, if I’m honest.”
Curiosity and concern for Mr. Thrumble vied with Kate’s desire to return to Whitechapel.
“Perhaps I should speak to him.” Will’s voice held a tinge of worry, and Kate offered him a small, gentle smile for his willingness to storm into the fray for her. He’d always wished to be her protector.
“He asked for Kate, but perhaps it would be best if you speak to him. Find out what has riled him so. He would tell me nothing.” Ada, usually hard to ruffle, appeared distressed.
“No, Will. Let me see to him.”
; Kate was out of the door before either Ada or Will could stop her. Facing Mr. Thrumble didn’t worry her. He’d proved himself the steadiest and most sensible of men. She imagined whatever had excited him would be easily resolved and he’d agree to return later.
Heavy footfalls sounded against the carpet of the sitting room floor—soft then loud—and Kate thought their unexpected guest must be pacing.
“Kate!”
Kate had never seen Solomon Thrumble so animated. Disheveled black hair and a fiery blush that mottled his pale skin were so unlike the image he usually presented that Kate imagined she was meeting his less meticulous twin. She shivered at the sense of unease that sounded like a warning bell in her mind. Men who changed their nature so easily could not to be trusted.
“Mr. Thrumble.”
He came to her, reaching to take her hands. Kate allowed him the familiarity, though he was usually scrupulous about adhering propriety’s rules.
After a moment he looked down at their joined hands and released her, stepping back as if she’d burned him.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Guthrie. I heard some distressing news and wanted to speak with you immediately.”
“Of course, shall we sit?” Kate indicated a chair, but Mr. Thrumble shook his head.
“You know Mrs. Norton, of course? She lives just across the way.”
Mrs. Margaret Norton, an aged widow and one of their long-standing neighbors, had always been a bit of a gossip and ineffectual matchmaker. She was the last person Kate expected Solomon to mention.
“Yes, of course. She and my mother were quite close, but we’ve seen little of her of late. Is she unwell?”
“No, not at all. Fit as a fiddle. And quite a keen observer of all that goes on beyond her front window.”
Mr. Thrumble fell silent and looked at Kate with an expectant arch of his eyebrows.
“I see.” But she didn’t. Not at all.
Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel Page 4