Three Nights of Sin

by Anne Mallory

  The journal unfolded like a story. Her eyes were glued to the elegant writing. It was fascinating and horrifying.

  We have a new one. He is so delightful. We call him our little avenger. He is more prickly than our last, full of spirit—seems to think we are blackmailers! I laughed, for it is nothing but the truth. And yet we have so much to teach him. I see the way L.D. looks at him. How they all do. He is beautiful. A crown jewel.

  A hand touched her shoulder, then drew along her throat, up under her chin to her cheek. She hadn’t even heard him walk up the stairs, she was so absorbed. She leaned into the touch, as she had for the past two days, and turned the page to the next entry, dated a week later.

  He is more beautiful than anything we’ve seen. And defiant. I have never seen a more defiant servant. Must be his mother putting ideas in his head. Or the way the other servants dote on him. He acts above his station.

  But there is something quite seductive in that. I doubt our little avenger would be as near to our hearts were he a beautiful face on a bland, eager package. There are so many of those and they can’t keep our interest for long. They don’t respond to the toys as well and their disgusting eagerness shows their breeding—like dogs.

  Not like our little avenger. And the sweetest part is the look in his eyes. When reminded of his place and what will happen to his family if he doesn’t comply, they always so blazingly speak of retribution. Banked fire and eternal damnation. I find it amusing that he thinks he might hold the key to our downfall. That he would try to beat us at our own game.

  The hand along her cheek stopped its movement. “What are you reading?” She was left staring at her hands as he plucked the book from her grasp. “Abigail Winstead’s journal? Where did you get this?”

  “From the stand inside your room. Speaking of which, I put that in my bag! How did you get it?”

  “You put all of the documents in your bag. I started going through them.”

  “Well you already dismissed the journal.” She waved her hand. “Hand it here.”

  “There is no reason to read this tripe.” He shook the book, his eyes a dark jade.

  “I beg to differ. It gives a terrible insight into the deceased woman.”

  “Here is an insight—she’s dead. This book is ten years old. Go through the more recent documents.”

  “But the book has a whole host of reasons why someone would want to murder her.”

  Gabriel paused in his movement, and she took it as a sign to continue.

  “They were debauched, this circle of six women.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward, as if spilling a dark secret. “I think they used men, younger boys, to do as they would. She hasn’t spelled it out yet, but it becomes more apparent in every sentence.” She lowered her voice further. “I think they had male sex slaves.”

  “Sex slaves? Quite a bawdy opinion for a woman who has just recently experienced the pleasure of sex herself.”

  “Stop poking fun. This is serious. They were using young men for ill deeds.”

  “Using them?” He seemed amused, but there was something in his eyes that made her shift in her seat. “I would think most men would be thrilled to have six—is that how many you said?—women use them.”

  Marietta bit her lip and looked back down at the book. “I don’t know. It sounds like some of the victims were willing, but there are a few they forced—”

  “Victims?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Most would scoff at your use. How old were these boys?”

  She mentally flipped back through. “Sixteen to twenty.”

  “A normal sixteen-year-old boy wouldn’t have known what hit him if six women pounced on him.”

  “I can’t believe that. You are saying that a man would have no regard for being taken advantage of?”

  “By six willing women?”

  “It doesn’t matter if the women are willing, if they are the ones doing the abuse!”

  “Are they ugly, wretched hags?”

  “It sounds like they were not. What difference does that make?”

  “Then the normal sixteen-year-old would have been best pleased, would he not?”

  She crossed her arms. “You are horrible.”

  “I am saying what most men would tell you.”

  “I don’t care.” She reached out and grabbed the journal. “It sounds like this boy right here didn’t want to participate, and they made him.” She flipped through it. “They called him a pet name because he stood defiant—their aven—”

  Gabriel plucked the book from her grasp and tossed it on the far side of the room, where it landed with a thwack against the hardwood floor. “Stop reading that.”

  “No!”

  His hand slipped to the back of her neck and gave it a gentle caress. Her eyes connected with his and he leaned forward. She leaned in as well, his lips met hers and she savored the feel—soft and strong.

  Her body was already responding—warmth rising, tingles flowing. He would have her. She would let him. It would be so easy to give in. Did that say she had no measure of resistance?

  She pushed away slowly. “I want to finish reading that book.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Testing herself turned to indignation. “You can’t tell me no.”

  “Can I not?” Green eyes full of challenge pinned her to her seat. “I seem to remember from the very first night of this little exercise telling you that I could, if you wanted my help.”

  “For matters that required it for the case.” She bit her lip as she stretched the truth. She clearly remembered the conversation and he was correct. But she’d been afraid of him then. How different the feeling of security made one act.

  “Desperation breeds strong capitulation, and you capitulated, my dear.” He tipped her chin up and ran his fingers down her throat. “With your stained dress and gaunt frame. Your desperate eyes.” His hand moved against her nape.

  “You were already strong and fierce. But food, comfort, and security have given you even more. Hopefully it didn’t clear your memory.” His fingers worked into her hair, cradling her head as it tipped back. “I said that you will do exactly as I say throughout the task. Everything I say. You agreed, if I recall.”

  Her memory was perfectly intact. Security gave her the nerve to keep arguing. “You aren’t being reasonable. This is my brother we are talking about. Both of my brothers. You think I would willy-nilly my time away on some mad woman’s journal if I didn’t think it was pertinent?”

  Strong lips captured the ent in pertinent. It was a scorching kiss, and she moved further into him. He was right. She didn’t deny it. Along with the food there’d been comfort and a sense of security. A strong sense. It made her feel powerful, not powerless, for once.

  She’d never felt quite as safe as she did when he was close to her. And wasn’t that a scary thought? To entrust those feelings to a man who already held all the power. Even when they were arguing about a silly journal—

  She pulled away, pushing into the chair’s back. Every thought purged from her head by a few skillful kisses. Manipulated. He manipulates women with little effort. When had she forgotten that the statement applied to her as well? A burgeoning friendship with the devil himself? “Whenever you don’t want me to do something, you seduce me!”

  “As if it is that easy. The snap of my fingers and you are seduced?” His face was a mixture of irritation and something else. Guilt?

  “With your kisses! With your proximity and searing looks.” The thoughts started to roll out faster and faster. “You are trying to control me. My God. Could my emotions have confused things that badly? I thought I was safe.”

  She was feeling a little hysterical as one thought crashed into another and her safety net ripped like a web dashed from its bindings.

  His eyes were hooded, his face dark. “You know little of what you are talking about.”

  “I know exactly what I am talking about. You are good, fantastic at it, I’ll give you that. How many women have
told you no? Very few, I’ll bet!” Hysteria built. Sharp and uncontrollable. “And to a one, I’m sure they were very happy with their choice. But I won’t allow myself to be controlled by you!”

  “Interesting.” He circled her. “So you will deny yourself the pleasure because you want to be the dominant one?”

  “There you go again with your games and dominance.” Frustration surged into her hysteria and she craned her neck to see him as he passed behind her. “I don’t know what you are on about, but why can’t you just be normal?”

  A lopsided, broken smile lifted his mouth, reflected in his eyes as he stopped in front of her. There was something in that smile, in the self-loathing gaze, that made her want to snatch back her words, even though she was so light-headed she felt close to passing out, erratic energy coursing through her.

  “Yes, why can’t I be normal? It’s an excellent question. One I ask myself frequently.”

  He turned. “Until the morning.” It was clipped, polite, informal. Like a butler to the mistress of the house.

  It wasn’t until she heard his door click closed down the hall, sealing her out, that she realized he had taken the journal with him.

  Chapter 13

  Marietta looked straight ahead while she walked, trying not to sneak glances at Gabriel. Her shop girl skirt snapped as she tried to keep pace with him.

  She disguised a look at him by pretending to watch a carriage click past. The sun was on a downward pitch and the rays caught his profile, setting half of his features in the light and half in shadow.

  The cityscape changed to a dingy gray as they entered the edges of the East End. Gabriel was dressed again as a longshoreman, but the cocky walk he had adopted previously was clipped and edged.

  He had retreated into the cold man he’d been when they’d first met. She fought to keep from rubbing her eyes. The night had been wretched. And alone. Muddled and confused thoughts vying with irritation and betrayal. Why had she suddenly thought he would be different from every other man?

  And was she being unfair? The last thought had made her toss and turn. Just remembering the look in his eyes before he left the room had left her numb. But he had to give her something, allow her to understand what he was thinking, or else she was going to continue to feel used. After they finished their business here, she was going to work up the courage to face his stoicism and ask.

  The numbers along the street increased until they were standing before a drab three-story building that matched the address written in Abigail’s note.

  The walk-up was dirty. Papers and food littered the cracks and crevices in the stairs and against the rail. She followed behind Gabriel as he strode up the steps. His fist rose to knock on the door, but before his knuckles made contact with the wood, the door opened.

  A man with a long scar beneath his chin stood in the frame, obviously on his way out. He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps “Pardon me” or “Good day” or some equivalent. Gabriel cocked his head to the side to receive the comment and his body moved fractionally to allow the man to pass.

  Then their eyes met.

  The moment suspended.

  The hair on the back of her neck shot straight out, trying to balance her on the suddenly thin beam on which the tableau stood.

  The man moved first, bolting back inside, the door crashing into the wall behind him. Gabriel went from a dead start to a sprint as he raced after the man. Stunned, the feeling that had coursed through her during the encounter with the barristers revived and poured through her again. Marietta hiked her skirts and ran as fast as she could in their wake. She rounded a corner in time to see the fleeing man toss himself through an open window, and she gasped as Gabriel dove through too. She looked to the right, then left. A closed door innocuously stood to one side.

  She used precious seconds gripping the knob and forcing it open. She could see both men picking themselves off the ground, the stranger in the lead, Gabriel going from a somersault into a full-on sprint once more. Rubbish bins overturned and laundry ripped from its pins. A Yorkshire terrier gave chase and its little legs pumped after the two men, who were in no danger of being caught by the small bundle of fur.

  Marietta rushed after them, but she was about as useful as the Yorkie, trailing and yapping at their heels. Gabriel threw a hand out, and she followed the movement. The street formed a U. They would come right back to her. The men disappeared behind the buildings blocking the U of the street. She frantically searched the area and picked up the heaviest thing she could find—a misshapen rock near an upright bin.

  There was no place to hide. She just had to hope she looked docile enough for the man to pass. They curved back around and she could see Gabriel gaining on him. But the man was surprisingly agile. Then again, most footmen were. He headed straight for her, veering off the street. Her eyes went wide and she quickly backed up, cocking the rock back in her hand. He barreled straight for her. She let the rock loose. He dodged it and caught her in the midsection. She hit the ground and…nothing happened. No sounds, no smells, the image was static in front of her. Then it wavered. Gabriel’s face appeared in front of hers. His lips moved.

  Whoosh. She gasped, deep gaping breaths. She could feel his fingers tighten around her arm and then he was off again. She pressed one hand against her stomach. She thought rather inanely that all the butterflies may finally have been crushed for good.

  Gabriel returned a minute later, swearing. He crouched in front of her and moved her hand. A quick press around her ribs had her gasping. He prodded and pushed against her chest, her stomach, and under her arms. She was too dazed to say a word, only answering the questions he asked.

  “You will be fine. Bruising, definitely, the bastard. But nothing looks broken. Thank God.”

  He picked her up and set her on her feet. The coldness was gone from his eyes, replaced by something wild. “Come. Let’s investigate Worley’s room. Maybe he’ll have a lapse of judgment and return. We won’t get another chance if we leave.”

  He tucked her against him and led the way back to the building.

  Worley’s door was locked, but Gabriel made quick work of it. A few of the other boarders wandered by, but no one said anything. Nice neighbors.

  The room was dark. He took her arm and led her inside. She didn’t know what to think of his care in touching her again. Gabriel shut the door and opened the curtains. Marietta examined the decor. The bedroom was pretty average, if dingy. Nothing too exciting.

  There was a stack of parchment on the desk that was pushed up against the wall with some charcoal on top. She walked over and saw a partially completed sketch of a woman. She looked very similar to one of the women in the coroner’s sketches.

  “Gabriel. Look at this.” She moved the picture aside, but the rest of the papers were clean. There were charcoal marks on the wood of the desk and a few smudges on the wall in front.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Gabriel, I think Worley drew a picture of one of the victims.” She turned.

  He was just standing there, knuckles white around the cupboard handle, staring inside. “I think you are correct,” he finally said.

  She hurried over and looked around his shoulder. The window allowed just enough light to see sketches plastered all over the three walls. Women’s faces stared back. Handbills, notes, newspaper clippings. middlesex murderer captured! There were dates and times. Lists of names and places. Candle stubs clustered around the floor. A mad type of makeshift shrine.

  “Oh my.”

  “Quite.”

  There were handkerchiefs and scraps of lace pinned to the wall in between the other items.

  “What are these?”

  “Pieces from the victims? I don’t know.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. It all seemed too grotesque.

  “Let’s light the candles. Do you see any—ah, there we go.”

  Soon there was an eerie blaze on the floor, casting wicked shadows on the sketches. The sketc
hes were quite lifelike—even the one of the mysterious woman with a veil—making them appear more bizarre. The women’s eyes appeared to be looking down on them, and Marietta felt a shiver. It was as if she was in Abigail’s journal and these women were sitting in judgment. There was a yellowish tinge to Gabriel’s face, an odd effect of the lighting. Marietta took a quick look behind her; the last thing she wanted was for Worley to wander in while their backs were turned.

  She looked at the sketches. Most of them consisted of eyes, some of other body parts, a few of profiles or full faces draped with fabric or animals to partially hide the view. “There are four or five different women sketched here. Maybe more. And one looks considerably older than the rest. His mother, maybe?”

  “I don’t know.” Gabriel’s tone was gruff. “Perhaps.”

  “This one looks familiar.” Marietta touched a picture of a woman in profile. “Is there another picture of her from the front? Do you see one?”

  He crouched down. “I don’t know. Probably some woman on the street,” he said dismissively. “Do you see anything resembling a weapon? They never found one on any of the women. Leads me to believe the murderer is using the same weapon on each victim. A souvenir, perhaps?”

  Marietta went back to check the drawers in the desk and to search under the bed and under the pillow. She wiped her hands against her skirt. She felt dirty touching anything in the room. “I don’t see anything.”

  Gabriel was still staring in the cupboard.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her. “Nothing.”

  “What should we do?”

  His eyes were focused on the open window. He didn’t respond.

  “I know you don’t want to involve Dresden, but he will have to acknowledge at the very least that there are other suspects besides Kenny and Mark.”