Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel

by Carlyle, Christy

  He reached the door marked with the number four and knocked lightly. Rolling his head, he spread his feet and assumed a posture that planted his weight firmly, ready for anything.

  The door swung wide and a young woman observed him from the other side of the threshold. It’d been awhile since he’d seen Rose, but this girl looked much as he remembered her. The resemblance made hope flare, a warm ember in his chest. A dingy patch of bandage at her neck and bruises marring the skin around her eyes fit Mrs. Guthrie’s description of Rose’s injuries, but it was the crooked, toothy smile that made relief turn Ben’s knees to jelly.

  “Rose.”

  “Well, if it isn’t Detective Sergeant Quinn. Been far too long since I’ve seen yer ‘andsome face.”

  Ben ducked his head to hide a grin.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find you, Rose. You gave Mrs. Guthrie and the ladies at the Fieldgate Clinic quite a fright when you disappeared last night.”

  “She’s aw’right, isn’t she? That Mrs. what’s her name? I never liked the notion of her going to The Ten Bells. And when she never returned with ya—”

  “The fault there lies with me, I’m afraid. I was a bit far gone last evening. I’m sorry I couldn’t come and speak to you. It seems you’ve an interesting story to tell. Shall we discuss it now?”

  The young woman took her turn ducking her head at Ben’s declaration, and a soul-deep disappointment replaced his jubilance at finding her. She would lead him no closer to finding the Ripper than the boy he’d tripped over in the stairwell.

  “Mrs. Guthrie is well. And eager to hear of your circumstances. I fancy she wishes to help you.”

  “Wot? Her? And ‘ow might she ‘elp the likes o’ me?”

  “I have no idea. But she seems a rather resourceful sort of woman.”

  She flashed the jagged grin again. “That she does, detective. That she does.”

  “May I come in, Rose? I need to take down your statement. I’d like to know exactly what happened to you last night.”

  Rose shuffled her foot against the frame of the door, rubbing at the chipped paint and splintered wood. Then she lifted her head and peeped into the hall, looking both ways as if to ensure they weren’t being watched.

  “I’m looking after me sister’s wee ones, but come in with ya. I’ll tell the truth of it.”

  Ben ducked his head and followed Rose into to a room as cramped and unpleasant as any he’d ever seen, and he’d seen quite a few during his years of policing in Whitechapel. Slats of wood and bedding had been rigged to stack on top of one other, and other crude pallets of fabric scraps were laid out in front a small potbelly stove. A few children were asleep on the pallets, one small girl sat peeling a potato, no doubt to add to the boiling pot on the stove, another little girl worked on sewing in the corner, and one young lad stood near Rose protectively, his scrawny arms crossed over his chest. Ben counted seven children in all.

  Rose pointed to a wooden stool, and he settled himself, feeling the tug of soreness in his muscles. He hated the ache. It reminded him of Penhurst and his suspension.

  He lifted his hand to reach for the pad of paper and stub of lead pencil he often used to take notes during an investigation, but Rose began picking at her lip and darting her gaze about the room. She was nervous enough, and he needed to put her at ease.

  “Would you start at the beginning, Rose? Tell me where you were last night prior to the attack.”

  “I was working, wasn’t I? Same as every night.”

  “Where? Which streets? Do your remember?”

  “Course I do. Thrawl Street, sometimes as far as the Whitechapel Road.”

  Ben wasn’t certain if she was avoiding the heart of her story or purposely obscuring the facts.

  “Which street were you attacked on, Rose?”

  She looked back at the young boy at her elbow and lifted her head toward him, urging him to the opposite side of the room. If she was concerned about the child hearing some detail, he wasn’t nearly far enough away to avoid overhearing.

  Rose leaned toward him and lowered her voice.

  “He trailed me to Osborn Street. That’s where it ‘appened.”

  Ben whispered too, turning his body toward Rose, away from the children in the corner.

  “He followed you?”

  “Aye. Just as ‘e always does.”

  She knew him.

  “Tell me his name, Rose.” In his eagerness to get the facts, Ben forgot to lower his voice and his question echoed in the low-ceilinged room.

  Rose reared back, then surprised Ben by standing up and stepping toward the young boy she’d shooed away a moment before. She whispered in the lad’s ear, and he scampered out the door as if she’d sent him on an urgent errand.

  As Rose sat across form him again and fussed with the fringe on her tattered shawl, avoiding his gaze, Ben wished for Kate beside him. Perhaps she’d been right about her presence offering Rose some comfort and loosening her tongue. Ben considered how Kate might approach the battered young woman. He eased his shoulders back and moved his stool a bit closer to Rose.

  “You all right, Rose?” He gentled his tone. “Those bruises must smart. And how’s this healing?” He lifted his hand and gestured toward the bandage on her neck.

  Her eyes went wider, but her mouth softened, easing into something of her familiar grin.

  “I’m awright, guv. Kind you’d ask after the likes o’ me.”

  She wanted someone to care. And he did care. Finding her alive and well had been his first victory in a disturbing stretch of failures. Kate cared too, and he couldn’t wait to tell her he’d found Rose.

  But finding her wouldn’t be enough. She said her attacker was a man who trailed her every night. Just because she survived his attack the night before didn’t mean she would next time, or the next.

  He took a guess about the man’s identity, or at least his relationship to Rose. “Does he live here with you?”

  She dipped her head down, reaching up to play with her bottom lip, but finally nodded. “Off and on.”

  “I would very much like to know his name.”

  She swallowed hard, then again, and Ben feared she might start choking.

  “Jack.” She spoke the word quietly, but it was a name Ben couldn’t mistake. He released a frustrated sigh. Was she determined to maintain her story of being attacked by the Ripper?

  “Rose.”

  “No, not ‘im. Not that Jack. My Jack’s real.”

  Ben knew Jack the Ripper had taken on mythical proportions, and the newspapers did nothing but foster the notion. But he’d been at the scenes of the murders and knew the man and his deeds were all too real.

  “Will you tell me his surname?”

  She looked away from him again, trailing her gaze over each child in the room. Then she reached for him, grasping his lapels, and pulling him near. Pressing her cheek to his, she whispered a single word in his ear. “Sharp.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Solomon Thrumble stood with his back to Kate as she entered the sitting room. Ada and Will were nowhere in sight. So this was it—her moment alone with Mr. Thrumble. He would ask. She would give her answer. He would be pleased. And they would move on with their lives.

  But where was the answer she’d almost decided upon, been wrestling with for weeks? It wasn’t there when she searched her heart. Or rather it was there swimming around in a quagmire of doubt, accompanied by the no she’d given years ago.

  Standing before the fire, he lifted a small framed painting from the mantle—a watercolor portrait of her father. Mother had painted one of all of them, but Father’s always took pride of place in the family’s sitting room.

  “Your father was a fine man. A good doctor. Do you know he tended to my grandfather when he was sick?”

  The Selbys and Thrumbles had been connected for years, and Kate had long been friends with Solomon’s sister, Nerissa.

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  Kate wa
tched as Mr. Thrumble replaced the portrait, but he still stared at it rather than turning to face her.

  “I wager your husband was not a good man.”

  Taking two small steps to the left, Kate sank down on the settee when she felt the solid form of it pressing at the back of her knees. Knees that had gone loose and boneless. She hadn’t expected the conversation to turn to Andrew. Yet it somehow made sense that where she and marriage were concerned, there he would be too.

  Kate felt him, like a presence in the room, inhabiting every shadowed corner of the familiar space.

  She swiped at the perspiration on her forehead and realized her hand was shaking.

  “What makes you say such a thing?” She sat up straight and swallowed deep breaths, hissing them out as far as her corset would allow. The rhythm soothed her and she forced a calm expression when Mr. Thrumble finally turned her way.

  He laughed, a quick, mirthless chuckle. “Mrs. Guthrie, you have refused every offer of marriage that has been put to you in nearly ten years. One can only conclude you are either not overly fond of matrimony or your husband was a brute.”

  He seemed unaware of her distress. Kate breathed a deep sigh of relief. No one knew what she’d experienced at Andrew’s hands, and she didn’t wish to sift those memories here, now, with Mr. Thrumble. Attempting to match the lightness of his tone, she offered him a grin before responding.

  “I have great respect for the institution of marriage. You mention my father. My parents had the happiest of unions.”

  “Then he was unkind, your husband. And I’m sorry for it, Katherine. You need never fear such treatment at my hands.” His cheeks pinked when he spoke her given name. He’d used it only once before and had secured her permission before doing so.

  Was there another man in England as concerned with propriety as Solomon Thrumble? If such a man existed, Kate had certainly never met him. Detective Quinn would never—

  Mr. Thrumble kneeled in front of her and stifled Kate’s thoughts about what Detective Quinn would or would not do.

  Solomon reached for her hand. Then he bowed his head and cleared his throat.

  A gust of wind whined through a crack in the windowpane and Kate heard the ticking of the mantle clock as loud and close as if she had cupped her ear to its glass face. Each moment Mr. Thrumble remained there, kneeling like a penitent before her, Kate thought only of escape. Of going upstairs and splashing cold water on her face. Of going back to Whitechapel and helping Detective Sergeant Quinn find Rose.

  Mr. Thrumble lifted his head and Kate waited. Fatigue, frustration, even a trace of anger—she read them all in his expression. Yet she also recognized determination in the steely coolness of his gaze and the set of his jaw.

  “Mrs. Guthrie. Katherine, if I may call you so. I have waited so long. Won’t you—”

  Kate thought she heard a knock at the front door but guessed Sally or Will would hear it too. But the knock grew louder and the insistent noise stopped Mr. Thrumble midsentence. Kate turned her head toward the sitting room door and heard her name spoken in the entryway. Spoken in a voice that made her pulse flutter and a ripple of relief tickle the hair at the nape of her neck.

  She stood, but Solomon remained kneeling and stared up at her. He opened his mouth to speak, and Kate took a breath to explain. But before either of them could say another word the sitting room door slid open and the tall, dark figure of Detective Quinn filled the frame.

  He gazed at her face a moment before turning his attention to the man kneeling before her.

  “Is it about Rose?” The fact he’d come in person made Kate fear the worst.

  ****

  All the way to Pimlico Ben called himself a fool for seeking Kate at her home. She had an appointment, and whatever went on in her private life had nothing to do with him. One kiss afforded him no rights where Kate Guthrie was concerned, even if it had left him with an ache, an absence he suspected only she could fill.

  In his uncertainty, he’d even turned away from her doorstep where the cabman dropped him and walked the few streets up to Belgravia, toward the elegant townhouse of his sister, Annabel. She might be his younger sibling, but her sense and insight were faultless. In his dither over Kate Guthrie, he yearned for a woman’s perspective. But even as he walked briskly to battle the chill in the air, he knew that speaking to Bel would lead to their mother’s involvement—and then his father. No, that he could not stomach.

  He turned round and headed back toward Moreton Terrace, muttering to himself like a madman, arguing the merits and dangers of knocking on Kate Guthrie’s door. But the moment he reached her doorstep—of just the sort of whitewashed fashionable townhouse he’d imagined—the hunger to see her again quieted his doubts. Her brother, William Selsby, as the man identified himself, appeared far from pleased to find Ben on their doorstep, but he’d politely admitted him nonetheless.

  As he entered the Selsby home, more comfortably furnished than fashion allowed, Ben smelled a trace of lavender over the enticing scent of roasted meat and baked apples. The scent comforted and lured him in equal measure. And there was no more doubt. Once he’d caught her scent, he couldn’t have turned back if Goliath appeared in his path.

  The raw pleasure of seeing Kate almost made him stumble. It had been less than an hour since they’d walked side by side, even held hands like paramours. Still the sight of her in fine clothes—a peach confection that highlighted the gold in her hair—in her comfortable home was sweet perfection, aside from the little man kneeling at her feet.

  The man began to move, grunting as he pushed himself upright. He positioned his short frame in front of Kate, as if to block Ben’s view of her. But his actions weren’t necessary to indicate what was already clear. This must be her fiancé. This was the man who had the right to touch her, kiss her lovely mouth, and, eventually, much more. Ben instantly, irrationally, loathed the man.

  Kate seemed to take no notice of the warning her fiancé signaled. She stepped around him and approached Ben.

  Lifting a hand, she grasped his arm, and Ben silently cursed the layers of shirt, coat, and overcoat that separated her bare hand from his skin.

  “Rose? Is she well? Have you found her?”

  The fire in the grate made her eyes glow, and the heat had reddened her lips and cheeks. The urge to lift his hand and touch her was overwhelming. He ached to trace the smooth curve of her cheek, sink his fingers into the pretty curls she’d arranged at the back of her neck, and touch his mouth to hers—just once more.

  “Rose is alive and we—”

  Before he could get the words out, Kate pressed close and embraced him. She fit in his embrace as if made for his arms, and he shook with the realization he could easily grow used to the press of her body against his.

  Her fiancé’s voice boomed against the walls of the sitting room. “Katherine! Control yourself. Sir, unhand her now.”

  Kate jumped at the sound of the man’s voice, pulled her body from Ben’s, and took a step away. She didn’t return to her fiancé’s side, but faced the man and paused before she spoke.

  “Mr. Thrumble, forgive my…exuberance. This is Detective Sergeant Quinn of the Metropolitan Police. He has come to tell me he’s found a young woman who’d gone missing. The woman I told you about earlier, the one I tended last night. I am so pleased to hear the news.”

  “I see. Well, whoever this Rose is, I am glad she’s well. Thank you, detective. Now if you will excuse us, we were just about to take luncheon.”

  Her fiancé’s clipped voice indicated he did not see at all. Was he unaware of Mrs. Guthrie’s activities in Whitechapel? He clearly knew few details of her encounter with Rose.

  Ignoring the man’s sharp glare, Ben focused on Kate, the way she nibbled her lower lip and clasped and then unclasped her hands. No use causing her distress. Was there any use being in her home at all? The man before him had staked his claim, and she seemed content to let him.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Guthrie, for upsetting yo
ur luncheon plans.”

  Ben glanced at Mr. Thrumble. The man stared back expectantly, hands clenched at his sides, as if resisting the urge to throw Ben out bodily. “I hope you’ll excuse me too, sir.”

  “I am more than happy to excuse you. Good day to you.”

  The dismissal, so stiff, so formal, so self-assured reminded Ben of his father, and he struggled to repress a grin. How had he failed to master that priggish tone?

  “Thank you for coming to deliver news of Rose. Won’t you join us for luncheon?”

  Kate’s voice wavered as she spoke, and Ben wondered if she was simply being polite or pleading with him not to leave her with Mr. Thrumble. No, that was wishful thinking. If nothing else, he suspected she was curious for more details about Rose.

  “Mrs. Guthrie.” Mr. Thumble hissed her name, as if only Kate might hear his admonition. But Ben didn’t need to hear the disapproval in the man’s voice to feel unwelcome at Moreton Terrace. Kate Guthrie’s future was set. He had no place in her life, and never would.

  Ben tipped his head toward her. “No, Mrs. Guthrie. Thank you. I knew you’d be anxious to hear about Rose, and now my task here is done. Good day.”

  He couldn’t wait on her reply, couldn’t glance at her another moment without blurting words best left unspoken.

  Striding from the Selsby-Guthrie townhouse gracelessly, he took the steps two at a time and walked in no particular direction before stopping on the pavement and inhaling deeply, grateful for the cool blast of air that robbed the warmth from his body. He began walking again, legs heating with the thoughtless movement of one foot in front of the other. He quickened his pace, impelled to get away from the trouble and temptation of Kate Guthrie. He’d done his duty toward her. She’d first come to him about Rose, and hadn’t he found the young woman and taken her statement? The whole matter was behind him now. Goodbye, Mrs. Guthrie. And good riddance to the ridiculous urges she provoked.