The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  “He is not.” Sybil bit her lip. “Besides, if anyone needs money, it’s Alastair. Remember how he showed up that time, deep in his cups, demanding that Aunt Charlotte lend him funds?”

  “Girls, that is enough,” the dowager said. “These are members of our family you’re casting aspersions at. Family is everything; haven’t I taught you that?”

  Sybil looked chastened, Eloisa sulky.

  Sensing that the interview had come to an end, Rosie didn’t want to push her luck.

  “Thank you for your time.” On impulse, she added, “And on the topic of family, if I can be of assistance in any way, please let me know. I’m certain my late husband would want his generosity to be shared with his kin.”

  That was a lie, of course. Just because Daltry had been a tight-fisted miser with his relatives, however, didn’t mean that she had to be.

  The lines on Lady Charlotte’s face eased. Her eyes warmed. “How kind of you. Your support is appreciated, my dear.”

  “And if there’s anything that we can do for you,” Miss Eloisa chimed in, “please let us know.”

  “Anything at all,” Miss Sybil said diffidently.

  It was an opening that Rosie hadn’t expected. Yet the three seemed in earnest, and she knew she couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by.

  “Since you asked,” she said with thudding hope, “I do have a favor to ask.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Two nights later, Andrew found himself in the not altogether comfortable position of riding in a carriage with his lover’s father and uncle, both of whom were armed to the gills. He’d just arrived at Kent’s office for a briefing when the news arrived that the mudlarks had located the shooter’s hideout. He’d insisted on accompanying the mission as had Harry Kent, who’d happened to be at his brother’s office. Now Kent’s partners were in a carriage behind them, their small caravan winding through the dark, twisting streets of St. Giles.

  The older Kent looked out one window, his gloved fingers drumming on his knee whilst the younger looked out the other. Conversation during the ride had been stilted. The one thing Andrew had in common with the other two—Primrose—was a topic he didn’t want to delve too deeply into. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, the Kents were tolerating his presence in Primrose’s life, and he didn’t want to push his luck.

  Andrew knew Primrose deserved better than him; he also knew that every moment they spent together made it more difficult for him to contemplate ever letting her go. With their every encounter, he discovered more to adore: her passion, theatrics… even the fact that she could be, on occasion, a wee bit daft. And, Christ, when she opened to him like a flower, exposing her vulnerable core—there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her.

  He loved every enchanting iota of who she was.

  He knew his feelings but hadn’t shared them with her. The time wasn’t right. There was mayhem and murder to deal with and, besides, she’d been clear that she wanted an affair with no strings attached. Especially now, when her efforts to gain social approval were bearing fruit.

  In bed last night, she’d told him about her success with Lady Charlotte. He wasn’t surprised; Primrose could charm birds from their leafy perches if she wished. In this instance, she’d convinced the respected dowager and her charges to put in a good word for her in the right circles. Her new relations had done more than that: they’d sung her praises. Now tongues were wagging about Primrose’s kindness to her new family and her grace in the face of tragedy.

  “I’m on the path to respectability once more!” Primrose had said happily.

  He was glad for her—glad that she was finally getting what she wanted. But it made him even more reticent to declare his love. The last thing he wanted was to pressure or burden her with the feelings he had no right to have.

  Thus, he forced himself to take their affair day by day, to enjoy every moment that she was his—and it wasn’t difficult. His nights had become an orgy of pleasure. She, a novice, was teaching him about desire. Her natural sensuality astounded and entranced him, and she was growing bolder by the minute.

  Last night, when she’d thanked him prettily for the diamond necklace, her hands had wandered farther and farther south. When her fingers had circled his cock, his breath had hissed through his teeth. It had been her first attempt at frigging him, and the way she’d explored his erection with feather-light caresses had nearly driven him out of his mind…

  With a touch—hell, a smile—she brought him more pleasure than any of his previous lovers had. She was showing him that sex could be more than a physical exchange. His gut knotted as he thought of Kitty, of the years he’d spent tangled in her web. It shamed him more than ever that he’d once mistaken his feelings toward her for love.

  Love didn’t take without giving. Love didn’t leave you feeling dirty and used.

  Love didn’t make a whore of you.

  It had taken him a long time—too long—to understand this. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Primrose about his stupidity. His weakness. He’d broken things off with Kitty too many times to count, and yet she would turn up like a bad penny after months or even years and somehow worm her way back into his bed. She’d never stayed long, only until she’d gotten whatever it was that she’d wanted. Money, usually.

  It sickened him to think of how he’d allowed himself to be used. He almost wished that it had just been about the sex, which had been depraved yet never satisfying. But his addiction to Kitty had been more insidious: she’d treated him like a whore, and he’d believed that he deserved it.

  He’d finally come to his senses two years ago—and Primrose had played a part in that, too. Around that time, her plight had come to his attention, and he’d begun to keep a watch on her from afar. He couldn’t explain it exactly, but witnessing her spirited struggle to overcome her origins had triggered a shift in him. Primrose’s bright determination had made him long to step out of the darkness. He’d ended his relationship with Kitty for good.

  Was it any wonder that he didn’t want to expose this ugliness to Primrose? Guilt churning, he told himself that it was for the best to protect her from the darkness that Kitty had brought into both their lives. His gut clenched as he recalled Primrose’s revelations about Coyner—he hadn’t known the truth of her history until she’d told him.

  He’d been aware that Primrose was reunited with her mama at age eight, but the circumstances surrounding that reunion had been shadowed in secrecy. When Kitty had re-entered his life sometime after that, she’d said that she’d dealt with a solicitor, had never known the identity of the man she’d sold Primrose to—only that he was some upstanding gent who’d promised to treat the girl like his own.

  I did right by Primrose, Kitty had claimed.

  Andrew hadn’t pressed her for details; a part of him hadn’t wanted to know. All that had mattered was that Primrose was back in the loving bosom of her family, and, by all accounts, a happy, carefree child.

  Hearing from Primrose about this bastard Coyner and his vile plans… it had made Andrew want to punch something. Himself, for starters. As relieved as he was that nothing had happened to her, he hated that he’d failed her. Hated that he’d allowed her to be exposed to such risk.

  “We’re almost there.”

  Kent’s words refocused him. Looking out the window, he saw they were deep in the heart of the rookery, on a street crammed with flash houses, taverns, and pawnshops. Gangs of ruffians eyed their passing carriage, spitting on the ground.

  “I cannot wait to get my hands on the bastard who shot at Rosie,” Harry said grimly.

  The words echoed Andrew’s own thoughts. He was surprised to see a bloodthirsty gleam behind the other’s spectacles. Apparently a vein of ferocity ran beneath that scholarly mien.

  Maybe he and Harry had more in common than he realized.

  “You’ll have to get in queue,” Andrew said.

  Harry looked at him—and grinned.

  “Let’s keep the blood
shed to a minimum, shall we?” Kent muttered as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Although, from the looks of it, there may be plenty to go around.”

  Vaulting from the carriage, Andrew could see what the other meant. A pack of brutes milled in front of their destination, a decrepit tenement. At a glance, he counted a dozen men.

  “Welcoming party, I see.” The comment came from McLeod, who along with Lugo and three additional guards, had joined them from the other carriage.

  “Twelve to our eight,” was Lugo’s laconic reply.

  “I like those odds,” Andrew said.

  The partners looked at him—and grinned.

  Shaking his head, Kent led their group toward the tenement. They hadn’t made it within ten feet of the entrance when a hulking, whiskered fellow in the rough-woven uniform of the stews blocked their path.

  “Wot’s yer business ’ere, eh?” he demanded.

  “We’re here to see someone,” Kent said calmly. “Step aside, if you please.”

  “Ye ’ear that? The guv’s ’ere to see someone.” Turning to his snickering companions, the man said, “Any o’ ye expectin’ such fine company?”

  “Not me,” a gap-toothed fellow called out. “Already ’ad me tea wif the King yesterday.”

  More guffaws came from the group.

  “Step aside,” Kent repeated. “I will not ask again.”

  “And I’ll not take orders on me turf from some nob.” A knife flashed in the leader’s grip. “Be gone, or I’ll gut ye like a fish.”

  When Kent didn’t budge, the brute charged. The investigator moved quickly for a man of his size, neatly sidestepping his attacker at the same time grabbing hold of the other’s arm, wrenching away the weapon with efficient force. The man yowled with pain, his knife clattering to the stones.

  Pandemonium erupted.

  A cutthroat came at Andrew, swinging for his head. He ducked the blow and went in low, plowing his fists into the other’s gut. The other staggered back a few steps, then came again. Andrew feigned to the right, catching his attacker off balance and landing a right hook to the jaw. Bone cracked against bone, the impact searing down Andrew’s arm. The other collapsed to the ground in a heap.

  His blood fired up, Andrew took stock of the situation: Lugo and McLeod were fighting in tandem, fallen cutthroats piling around them. Kent and the guards were also holding their own. He spotted Harry being circled by three villains. As he sprinted over, he saw Harry’s powerful hook and jab combination, and his brows rose.

  Andrew grabbed the scruff of one of Harry’s foes, plowing a fist into the bastard’s face. He threw the moaning man to the ground and went to Harry’s side.

  “You’re monopolizing the action, Kent,” he said.

  Harry swiped at a bleeding cut on his cheek. “There’s plenty to go around.”

  More cutthroats had joined the fray, five of them forming a ring around Andrew and Harry.

  Anticipation simmered in Andrew’s veins. “Excellent.”

  The ne’er-do-wells rushed all at once. Back to back, Andrew and Harry fought them off. Andrew traded punches with one burly cutthroat, at the last instant dodging the other’s blow—which swerved into the jaw of another villain, who groaned, crumpling to the ground. Andrew defeated his remaining opponent with well-aimed jabs to the gut. Pivoting, he saw that Harry had taken care of two more of the bounders. The remaining one stared at Andrew… and then turned and ran, his tail between his legs.

  Kent jogged up, followed by his partners.

  “Let’s find that shooter before we have to take on the whole damned rookery.” From his greatcoat, he produced whistles and passed them out to each man. “There are four floors to the tenement, so we’ll split up in pairs and each take one. If you find our suspect, sound the alarm.”

  Andrew and Harry were assigned the ground floor. Inside, the building was even more dilapidated than the exterior. The cesspit of human misery felt eerily familiar to the dwellings of Andrew’s childhood. He’d lived in more than his share of such places where sewage festered in the open and vermin invaded every crevice. Wailing babes and shouting adults sounded through the paper-thin walls.

  Andrew caught a movement up ahead: at the end of the corridor, a woman stood against the wall, her skirts raised, a man rutting between her legs.

  Her face was turned to the side as her customer took his pleasure, grunting, and even from a distance, Andrew could see her flat expression. It knotted his insides. Reminded him too keenly of his own mother and the resignation that had led her to drink away her cares… and her life.

  Until Primrose had asked about his mother, he’d never spoken of her. It had been strange bringing those memories into the light. Strange… but not unwelcome.

  “I count at least twenty doors, so we’d best start knocking,” Harry said.

  “Wait.” Andrew saw that the whore had finished with her customer. The man buttoned up his trousers, deposited coins in the woman’s palm, and disappeared around the corner. “Let’s speak to her first.”

  He approached her as she was pulling her patched skirts into place. “Miss?”

  The woman’s head snapped in his direction. She was young, yet life had aged her prematurely, her eyes filled with weariness.

  Still, she looked him and Harry up and down, working up enough sauce to say, “Lookin’ for some fun, me fine gents? I can show ye a good time, anything ye want—”

  “It’s information we’re after,” Andrew said.

  Her eyes shuttered. “Ain’t got none o’ that.”

  First rule of the rookery: no one knew anything.

  “We’re looking for a man. Big fellow, rides a bald-faced chestnut. Has an injured shoulder.” Andrew removed a bag of coins, dangling it, letting the clink of guineas get her attention. “This goes to the first person who points us in the right direction.”

  Second rule (which trumped the first): anything was available for a price.

  She licked her lips, her gaze scanning the empty corridor. “I might know ’im. But ye didn’t ’ear it from me—agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Glancing around once more, she said in a low voice, “Cove in the first room ’round the corner ’as a bandage on ’is shoulder. Been wearin’ it fer ’bout a week.”

  The timing fit with the attack on Rosie.

  Pulse quickening, Andrew said, “Have you seen him tonight?”

  The woman nodded. “Came in ’bout an hour ago, carrying a bottle o’ spirits. It weren’t rotgut but the fine stuff the nobs like. Cove must ’ave nicked it. Reckon wif posh drink like that, ’e’s still in there toasting ’imself.”

  “Thank you.” He handed her the coin bag.

  As he and Harry set off, he heard the woman gasp behind them. The twenty pounds he’d given her was more than she’d make in a year of selling her wares.

  Turning the corner, he and Harry found the room. He took out his pistol and positioned himself in front of the door while Harry went to the side, his back to the wall, firearm drawn. Andrew knocked on the peeling wood. No reply—and no sound of scuffling from the other side.

  A sense of foreboding prickled his nape.

  “I don’t hear any noise inside,” Harry said in low tones. “Do you think he came and left?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Taking a step back, Andrew slammed his boot into the door.

  The flimsy barrier burst open, and he charged inside. At a glance, he saw a single room… and a man slumped over the table at its center. The fellow’s head was turned away from them, the tallow candle next to him sputtering, emitting smoky light. As Andrew approached, the smell of vomit grew stronger, and he saw rats feasting on a pool of detritus on the floor. A half-finished bottle of cognac sat on the table.

  “Is he three sheets to the wind?” Harry kept his gun trained on the unmoving figure.

  Going to the other side, Andrew saw the man’s unblinking gaze. To be certain, he removed his glove and touched the man’s neck. No pulse beneath the c
ooling skin.

  “The bastard’s found another kind of oblivion,” he said grimly.

  Reaching for his whistle, he signaled the end of the hunt.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Pacing in her father’s office, Rosie said, “Are you certain they will come, Papa?”

  “I’m certain.” Papa stood by the window behind his desk, his keen gaze surveying the street below. “There’s still a quarter hour before the appointed time, so be patient.”

  “You’ll try not to alienate Lady Charlotte and the Misses Fossey, won’t you? They’ve been so kind to me of late—”

  “If they are innocent of the crime, then they’ll have no reason to be offended, dearest.” This came from Mama, who sat in one of the chairs that had been arranged to face the desk. She was dressed for battle in a stylish navy dress embellished à la militaire. “At any rate, your safety is more important than the ton’s approval.”

  Rosie bit her lip. Her mother was right, of course. Yet her new friends were doing wonders for her reputation. Their glowing accounts filled the gossip rags: the beau monde was eating up the tragic tale of the Young Beautiful Widow, and she was the Plucked Rose no more. She’d begun to receive notes of condolence from ladies (even some sticklers) and bouquets from gentlemen (these she promptly dispatched to the rubbish bin).

  The ton was now courting her; the acceptance she’d fought so long for was finally hers.

  Now she just had to live long enough to enjoy it.

  “What if no one confesses?” she said.

  “We don’t expect anyone to,” Emma said from her chair by the desk. “But even alibis can provide clues.”

  “We’ll sift the truth from the lies.” Mr. Lugo’s deep bass joined the conversation.

  He was the final member of the group who would be conducting the interview. For propriety’s sake, Andrew couldn’t be present, and Mr. McLeod had left for Gretna to hunt for clues. For a lot had happened since the discovery of the dead cutthroat two nights ago.