A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Callie hadn’t said a word on the drive back to Tilda’s, and Amelia hadn’t bothered to keep up the pretense. She’d tugged off her wig when they were safely away and let down her natural hair, leaving it loose and unbound. They hadn’t said a word as they returned the costumes, and Callie had only linked her arm with Amelia’s as they’d walked back to the offices after all of that. There were no words for the revelations that had been unearthed today, for the details that had surprised her, for the sheer volume of emotions that now coursed through her.

  They’d parted ways at the offices, Callie squeezing her hand before going to her duties there.

  Amelia sank onto the bench where she had first waited for the Rogue that day, gripping onto the wall behind her as if it could give her the balance she so desperately required.

  How had she thought that she could endure any of this? Had she overestimated her own strength? Not anticipated the still-lingering emotions? Whatever it was, she had been entirely unprepared for what she had encountered there.

  Perhaps Gabe was right. She was not nearly as skilled, or as qualified, or as hardened as she thought herself.

  She clutched at the wall with her fingernails, thinking back on all she had learned in recent days and weeks. Her father, whoever he was, was at the root of everything. Her mother was partially to blame for marrying such a worthless creature, but if she had loved him as wildly as her aunt had said, could she really be blamed for such folly? Mr. Cole should have known better. He ought to have been honest enough to steer Mary away from him, knowing he could never provide for a family.

  And what had happened to make them uproot from London and move to Surrey without him? She knew he had never come there, she never remembered any man giving her mother pleasure with his presence. And why had they changed their name to Palmer? Why had they then become Tribbetts upon leaving the cottage? Why all the secrecy?

  Why hadn’t he loved them enough to be with them through all they endured?

  Why?

  She was lost and flailing, and suddenly nothing was certain anymore.

  “Amelia?”

  Slowly, painfully, she looked up into the icy blue eyes of Gabe, staring down at her with furrowed brow and questioning gaze.

  She swallowed with difficulty, her mouth and throat dry and raw. “I met my aunt today,” she croaked, her voice breaking a little. Suddenly, everything was too much, too close to the surface, and she hiccupped with the rising tide.

  Gabe grabbed her arm and pulled her into his office without any resistance from her, closing the door soundly behind him. He slid his grip to her hand and squeezed hard.

  She squeezed back, unable to raise her eyes to his again. “I found out her name some time ago, but I couldn’t go to her, not until I was ready. And then Callie and I went today. I concocted a story, and she accepted it.” She swallowed back a lump, nearly choking in the effort. “She… she told us… everything.” Her voice broke again, and she felt herself being drawn closer to Gabe, his arms wrapping gently around her, cradling her head against him. “Every… everything about my mother I wanted to know, I now know.” She slid her hands up to latch around Gabe’s neck, her body shaking with the forthcoming tears. “I have an aunt. I have cousins. And I couldn’t tell her who I was. I lied to her, and she is my…”

  The words died on a sob, and she lost all resistance to the forces within her. She sobbed in agony, her cries loud and unrestrained, burying her face against Gabe, whose hold on her tightened. It was as if her heart were breaking in pieces, incinerating in the flames swirling in her chest, singeing every other part of her in the process. She felt as though her mother had died all over again, and she was mourning her loss twice over.

  She’d never cried over losing her the first time.

  Would it have hurt this much if she had?

  Her cries became more and more panicked as confusion swirled, as her world fell into chaos, and everything she knew was suddenly thrown into the unknown.

  Gabe murmured soothing words that she could not hear, and when that did not help, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the chair behind his desk. He sat down gingerly and held Amelia tightly in his lap, her legs tucked between him and the chair, his arms still holding her close to him.

  His lips dusted across her hair and her brow, and she could feel him speaking to her, could hear the low hum of his voice, the sound soothing away her shudders. Minutes passed as she cried, as he held her, as he attempted to comfort the woman in his hold and the girl within her.

  “It’s all right, love,” she finally made out as his mouth traced her ear lightly. “It’s all right.”

  Amelia pressed her face into his neck as the cries began to fade, clinging tightly to him. Her breath was unsteady, and she suddenly felt weak, depleted of all energy and strength after such an outburst. She craved the warmth that he provided, adored the soothing strokes of his arms sweeping along her spine, and breathed in the scent of him as a balm to her soul.

  “There you are,” he praised when she finally stopped shaking. “There’s my girl.”

  She smiled against his skin and kissed his neck gently, nestling in a little. His girl. It was a lovely thought, and she certainly felt like his at this moment, held in this way.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, one hand sliding down to play with the edge of his collar.

  “For what?” he asked in a rather mild tone, nuzzling against her and entwining one hand with hers. “I’m quite content. This is the brightest part of my day, I can assure you.”

  Amelia snickered and leaned her head back enough to take his face in her hands and kiss him, taking quite a long time to do so, toying with his lips as much as she dared. Then she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder, wondering if she could stay like this forever.

  “So,” Gabe began in a serious tone, taking her hand again, “your aunt.”

  She nodded against him, absently playing with his fingers.

  “Does she keep house as poorly as your mother did? Or did she learn better skills?”

  Amelia snorted and slapped his shoulder with her free hand. “She has servants, Gabe.”

  He shrugged a little, pulling her closer with the hand still about her back. “That doesn’t mean a thing. We have a servant here, and it isn’t any cleaner.”

  “Don’t let Callie hear you say that,” Amelia warned, smiling a little. “She’ll have your head.”

  “Did your aunt take her tea properly?” he asked with mild interest. “I couldn’t bear it if she only had one lump of sugar. That would put her squarely on the wrong side of Society, and you cannot be related to the wrong side.”

  Amelia bit her lip to keep from laughing. “She took no sugar.”

  He groaned dramatically and leaned his head back against his chair. “It’s worse than I thought. Outrage! Heathen!”

  “She was very nice,” Amelia insisted, now laughing in earnest.

  “But her teeth were horrid, yes? Stained? Crooked?” He gave Amelia a suspicious look. “Did she have warts?”

  Amelia shook her head and kissed the ridiculous man again, loving him for making her laugh when she felt so horrid. And loving him for holding her. And for simply being him.

  She loved him.

  And her broken heart began to mend. “You are the most charming man I know,” she told him with a smile.

  He gave her a crooked grin in return and kissed her nose. “Then you are sadly lacking experience with charming men, my dear. But I’ll let you have your delusions, so long as you tell me your aunt has a peg leg, a tone-deaf canary, and only one working eye.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There wasn’t anything quite like the seedy side of London.

  One might assume that they knew what to expect, and how dark and vile such places could be.

  There were many unpleasant places in London where one could find the dark and vile. But until someone had ventured into the truly criminal heart of its underside, the scope of London would be posit
ively radiant by comparison.

  Gabe had been there before. He had been a pillar of its society and a member of significance to its depravity.

  And that was before he had been known as the Rogue.

  Tonight, he was back into character, and it felt as familiar to him as breathing, and twice as refreshing. He was starting to forget who he really was and how he really behaved.

  But that wasn’t his fault.

  It was Amelia’s.

  She was uprooting his life and destroying any sense of sanity he had left. What’s worse was that he was so damned delighted by it. She amused him to no end, and he was always wondering where she was, what she was doing, what she was thinking, and how to make her laugh. How to tease her. What fresh insult to lay out, wondering with great interest what she would reply with.

  Their banter was something he had come to crave, and they were so good at it; the process invigorated him.

  He’d been unmanned by her tears the other day, so heartbroken by meeting her aunt that she had sobbed in his arms. He’d been helpless, and utterly clueless, and only thought to hold her and prayed it would be enough. It had seemed to work, and he’d set about restoring her smiles, but the experience had shaken him.

  A female and her tears had never meant anything to him before. Quite simply, he did not care. Never had and had never seen a reason to do so.

  With Amelia, however, it was all different. Her tears were the death of him, and nothing in this world had tormented him like that.

  Not even the goddess.

  He shook his head now as he headed towards the docks. An entire lifetime of feeling nothing but derision for women, and now two of them had him so tied up in knots he could barely see straight. It was quite simply bewildering, and he began to wonder if he had entirely lost his senses.

  It didn’t help that Rook had come to him only hours ago with the report that no one in his finer circles recognized Amelia’s picture, even the traitor circle he had managed to infiltrate. No ties to their investigation, no social connections of any certain rank, and no explanation for anything. He’d thought to ask Rook if he was sure they were truthful, but that was Rook’s specialty. He could always spot a lie, no matter how cleverly the liar tried to hide it.

  Apparently, his early interrogations had been quite the sight, if Weaver and Tailor’s reports were correct. Pity he hadn’t known him then. Gabe always appreciated the skills of interrogation.

  But he was grateful to get away from all of that tonight. Gent had given him all the information he’d gathered from the man who’d come to their offices, and now it was up to Gabe to investigate them.

  He’d pored over all the notes Trace had left, which had been minimal at best, and all the notes that any of them had made over the years as they’d tried to pick up where he had left off. Gabe himself had dedicated the entire year after Trace’s death to the investigation, practically living dockside and turning more into the man he had once been than had been comfortable for some of the leadership. Until Weaver had pulled him out, physically and officially, he had been obsessed by his work there.

  But it had given him purpose and closure, and some minor successes as well.

  It was now time to see what had changed and find what had been missing.

  He loved the docks, as twisted as that sounded. He loved the creaking of the ships in port, the whistles of shipmates to each other, the bawdy language, the brawling, the gambling. He enjoyed the rough atmosphere in general. It felt more genuine to him than any other place he had ever been. No one on the docks was ever trying to be something they were not.

  Except for him, he thought with a faint smirk.

  Even then, he belonged.

  He inhaled deeply as he neared the wharves, a few of the custom houses and warehouses still lit, despite the late hour. The scent of the Thames and its vessels was also something that would never become stagnant to him. It almost smelled of home.

  A movement to his left caught his attention, and he slowed his step, angling himself into the shadows of the crates near him.

  Someone was sneaking along the back wall of a warehouse nearby and doing a rather impressive job, moving in silence and with ease. It was obvious that the lad did not wish to be observed, and the dark clothing would allow him a good deal of freedom down here.

  Gabe smiled. It was clear that he was quite young. What sort of nefarious work would he get himself into? The docks were a wealth of criminal activity at any given time, despite the security measures taken by the companies running them, and there was very little regulation over them.

  As an employee of His Majesty’s service, Gabe supposed it was technically his duty to prevent such things, but he felt no compulsion to do so. He was more curious than anything else. Besides, it was entirely possible that this could be tied to what he himself was looking for.

  He waited for the lad to choose a direction, and then silently followed behind when he did so.

  Amelia crept along the London docks as quietly as she could, smiling to herself at how familiar it felt. It had been years since she had come here, having escaped them when she could, and her friends down there helping her to do so. She would never forget their kindness to her, despite everything, and now that she was in need, it was to them she would turn.

  After all, they each owed her their lives at least once.

  Surely this was a small favor by comparison.

  In the few days following her interview with her aunt, whom she still thought of as Mrs. Chapman, as it was too familiar to think of her as “Aunt Dottie”, she’d found a sort of calm and clarity. Gabe had been instrumental in that, keeping her from melancholy and reminding her of the investigation at hand. He’d teased her through her dark times and made her smile, made her laugh, made her love him even more than she had before.

  Once she’d found her emotions in control again, she had told him of her interview with Mrs. Chapman, every detail she could recall, and all the information she had unearthed. Gabe had listened carefully and made notes, as surely as he would have done with any witness or client, but he’d held her hand the entire time, and that contact had sustained her. They discussed how they might proceed, speculated on what might have occurred, and how any of this related to what they already knew. There was no saying what else they might find, and she saw the question in his eyes when he looked at her.

  He did not know if she could bear any more of this.

  If she were perfectly honest with herself, she would admit to feeling the same questions hourly, but she would never tell him that. Even if this entire venture wracked her soul and shredded what remained of her heart, she would see it through.

  She had to know the truth.

  No matter the cost.

  Her father, presumably this Mr. Cole, if her mother had not engaged in less than savory deeds, had been a merchant with ties to smuggling. He had been gone frequently enough not to be known to her mother’s employers. He had been imprisoned.

  She knew the sorts of men who lived such lives and engaged in such activities.

  They had saved her life and given her an identity.

  If they knew her father, they would tell her. If they knew he was one of their own, they would ask for a piece of him. She was not inclined to give any part of him up to anyone else’s vendetta or vengeance, but it was an amusing thought.

  Amelia darted between crates and wagons, all abandoned for the night while their owners depraved themselves in whatever sin they chose. There was something for everyone down here, if one knew where to look. Closer to the East India docks, one could find a brothel. By the West Indies dock, a fighting club with limited rules and high stakes.

  But by the London docks, there was a gambling club.

  One she knew all too well.

  She had dressed in her men’s clothing again, as any skirt would have made her a target for unwanted attention. No one would look for her here, so she was not assured of any protection, should the need arise. She’d managed with
out it before, several times, but she was out of practice.

  She had no idea if the man supposedly tailing her on Gabe’s orders had managed to spot her or keep up with her tonight, but she’d not been stopped.

  Something began to tingle along the back of her neck, and she looked behind her warily, knowing she was a prime candidate for a mugging, being small and out alone. And it made no difference that she had nothing of value on her.

  There was nothing behind her, no one in sight, and only the sounds of the ships and the river met her ears.

  Amelia smirked in derision at herself. She was so out of practice that now her mind concocted all sorts of things, scaring herself with imaginary dangers. It was childish and silly, and if Gabe knew, he would laugh at her.

  That sent a cold chill down her spine.

  If Gabe knew…

  Well, he would be justifiably furious with her for going against his wishes, but if he understood, if he knew…

  She’d never know what would happen, because he would never know. She would make certain of it.

  She approached the back door of the customs house and knocked three times in rapid succession.

  The door swung open, and an aged sailor with multiple scars and a graying beard that hung to his chest poked his head out.

  “Mot de passé,” he growled, towering above her.

  “Tu pues de chien, Jean,” she replied with a smile, tilting her head back to grin up at him.

  His dark eyes widened, and he stepped back, looking her over. “Sacre bleu! Tribbie?”

  She nodded and put her hands on her hips. “In the flesh, mon ami.”

  He stuck his head out further, scanning the surrounding area. “You should not be here,” he told her in his heavy accent. “It is not safe for a woman.”

  Amelia gave him a look and frowned. “You know very well I am not that sort of woman.”

  “Oui,” he sighed heavily, shaking his head. “And you would only get into trouble if I sent you away.” He reached out an arm and pulled her in for a tight hug, which surprised her. Jean Valerie was not the sort of man to hug anyone, even her. His vest was old and worn, which left it soft against her skin, and it smelled of cigars and whisky, just as he always had.