The Scandalous Widow (Gothic Brides Book 3)

by Erica Monroe

  But not Jemma.

  Never Jemma.

  Some ladies studied the upcoming fashions in Costume Parisien with rapt attention. Others painted or embroidered. Jemma did none of those things well. She had different talents: remembering circumstances in painstaking detail and understanding the changes in people’s features. It was a language all its own, with a defined structure, and set responses.

  From the first day she’d met Gabriel at one of the Dowager Countess of Wolverston’s dinner parties, Jemma had always been able to read volumes of emotions in his hazel eyes. She tracked the slight tick in his jaw, so minute most would think it involuntary. But Jemma remembered—Jemma knew—that it meant he was considering what she’d said.

  A little flicker of hope lit within her. The tiniest of sparks, composed of all her wishing and wanting for someone to believe her. Felicity and Claire said they did, but Jemma suspected they were merely supporting her because she was their friend. They did not have the power to actually do something—Gabriel did.

  He steepled his fingers together, the tips resting on his lips, as he always had when he was intrigued by something she’d said. Hope burned brighter, encouraged by his response.

  “Don’t you find it odd that David was able to fight off the attacker, but Philip couldn’t? They both trained with Gentleman Jackson.” The famous pugilist had a saloon on Bond Street, next to Angelo’s Fencing Academy. “Philip beat David every time they sparred. I remember him saying David didn’t have the instincts for fighting. He was too easily distracted, and his form was sloppy. You sparred with Philip. He was good, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but that was three years ago,” Gabriel replied. “A lot can change in that time.”

  She didn’t need reminders of that. Twice now, her life had spun on its axis because of the events of one night. First, when Rosie’s pregnancy was revealed in Whispers from Lady X, effectively ruining her reputation. Jemma hadn’t just lost a sister when Rosie went to the convent—she’d lost any chance at marrying for love.

  Now, because of the events of one night, Philip was dead, making her a widow at twenty-four.

  “He may not have been in the same shape as before, not to mention that actual street fights are quite different from mills in the ring,” Gabriel continued. “When you’re sparring, it’s often with the same opponents, so you learn to anticipate their moves. There’s rules to bare-knuckle boxing that you aren’t going to have when you’re fighting for your life. I learned that the hard way when I became a patrolman.”

  Jemma let her gaze travel down Gabriel’s frame, telling herself she was merely tracking the differences of three years past, even as her giddy heart fluttered against her chest in that old familiar way it’d always done whenever she looked at him. He was fitter, harder, his biceps bulging against his navy superfine coat. His waistcoat framed his chiseled abdomen. She remembered what those firm, tight muscles had felt like under her inquisitive fingers. How touching him had felt absolutely sinful, no matter how innocent the action should have been.

  She’d tried to ignore it before. Told herself it didn’t matter how she felt, because Philip was a logical, solid choice. Marrying him came with no unexpected, messy complications, for he never demanded more of her than she could give. Being with Philip was easy, comfortable. They had not loved each other as husband and wife ought, but they had cared deeply for each other.

  She’d always thought that was enough, until that night Gabriel kissed her in Vauxhall and turned her world upside down.

  And because of her blasted perfect memory, she’d been able to recreate that kiss in her mind over and over again in the last three years, torturing herself with it.

  “I suppose that makes sense.” Her cheeks were red hot. He must know what she’d been remembering—there was a darkness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, too much like how he used to look at her to be anything but desire.

  She shouldn’t long for Gabriel—not now, not ever. He’d never been hers to begin with, and they’d agreed that kiss had been the worst of mistakes, a trespass against the friendship they’d formed through Philip.

  Philip. His name alone was a sharp reprimand. When she’d married him, she’d made a promise to honor him, even in death. Starting with making sure his real murderer paid for leaving him bloodied and broken outside the White House. She leaned forward, setting her cup down on the table.

  “Jemma—” Gabriel began, hesitantly, as if he was trying to decide the best way to tell her she should let this go.

  “No, please don’t.” Swiftly, she held up her palm to stop him. “You used to say that crimes go unsolved because people don’t know where to look. They don’t consider all the possibilities. I’m telling you about a different possibility—the least you can do is listen to me, please. For Philip.”

  Gabriel opened his mouth, then shut it. He gave a perfunctory nod of agreement. “For Philip, then. What exactly do you suspect David of, and why?”

  “I don’t know if that thief was simply a stroke of luck for him, or if David hired him, but I think David used that robbery to cover up killing Philip.” She smoothed down her dress, looking down at her hands, not willing to chance meeting Gabriel’s gaze. It was not the first time she’d voiced her theory, yet the words weighed heavy on her tongue.

  Gabriel frowned. “That’s quite an accusation.”

  “I know.” She grimaced. “I heard them fighting the night before Philip died. And now you know why I called you here, instead of meeting you when I was at Wolverston Estate. David told me I could keep my old quarters there, but I couldn’t sleep a wink. I kept feeling like he was watching me.”

  “So, he is aware you suspect him?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I think it was more that he was trying to figure out how much I knew. I told him I wanted to be there when everyone said goodbye to Philip. He told Philip’s cousin Georgina it was fine for me to stand at the edge of the graveyard with my friends, and that it didn’t matter if anyone saw me. He said to me several times last week how much he wished he’d been able to save Philip. I told him it wasn’t his fault, and he seemed to believe me.”

  Gabriel’s brows furrowed. “You’ve never been a convincing liar.”

  If only Gabriel knew just how right he was. She’d tried so hard—so very, very hard, when she felt as though she might break under the weight of the lie—to pretend she was content being Lady Wolverston. Philip had puzzled it out, of course. He knew her well, for they had been friends for so many, many years before being husband and wife.

  Philip simply hadn’t cared. Hadn’t felt the proprietary need to keep her as only his. To be hers.

  “What did he say when you told him you wanted to move into Wolverston Hall?” Gabriel asked.

  “I said I wanted David to be able to run the estate without worrying about what I thought. I said the memories of Philip were too much at the estate. At least when I visited here, we weren’t married.”

  “Isn’t Wolverston Hall part of the estate?”

  She shook her head. “Though the property has been in the family for generations, it was never entailed. Traditionally, it’s been the residence of the Dowager Countess of Wolverston, but she died last year. My dowry didn’t contain a house of my own, so I guess Philip decided to will the property to me.”

  She paused, looking down at her hands. Her fingers felt so naked without her diamond wedding band, but keeping it on had only made her sadder. “I can’t help but wonder if he knew something was going to happen to him, and I’d need a place to live.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply thought Wolverston Hall would serve your purposes well.”

  “He was thoroughly logical,” Jemma agreed. “Not that it saved him in the end.”

  Gabriel gave a swift nod, half-condolence, half-acknowledgment. “Which is why I’m here. Why do you think Philip’s brother would want him dead?”

  “Money.”

  Gabriel’s brows raised at her blunt a
nswer. “Why would David Forster need money? The Wolverston estate is well-funded, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t need to follow through with that thought for her to get his intended meaning. After all, she’d married Philip for his money. For the options it would open up for Rosie, should she ever come back to London. While Lord and Lady Sayer had washed their hands of their youngest daughter, content to keep her in Nottinghamshire, Jemma couldn’t give up on reuniting with her.

  “The estate has money,” Jemma clarified, pointedly not commenting on the past. She couldn’t focus on that, not until Philip’s murderer was brought to justice. “So did Philip, because he had made several wise investments on top of what he inherited. As the second son, David inherited less money, but by no means a small amount.”

  “Yet it wasn’t enough?”

  “Not when you gamble at high-stakes hells every other night. David spent his winnings as quickly as he racked up more debt.” Jemma bit out the words, barely able to keep her voice from shaking.

  David had every advantage in the world—money, a family who cared little about scandal, parents who viewed him as more than cattle—and he’d squandered them all.

  “That answers my next question, then,” Gabriel said. “Do you know the nature of Forster’s debts?”

  “More than I should,” Jemma admitted. “About a year into our marriage, David knocked on the door of Wolverston House—that is, the townhouse on Grosvenor Square, which he now owns. Philip wasn’t home, so the butler came and got me, due to the…unusual circumstances of David’s appearance.”

  “How so?”

  She had Gabriel’s attention now, and she hadn’t even reached the worst part of the story. “His face was bloodied, his coat and breeches ripped.”

  “He’d been in a fight.”

  “Aye.” Jemma had been more shocked by the damage done to his wardrobe than his cuts and bruises. David was nothing if not fastidious about his dress. “He didn’t want to tell me what happened, but when he learned Philip was in the country and wouldn’t be back for a few days, he gave in. He said I needed to write to Philip immediately and request he send five hundred pounds to a gaming hell in Shadwell—I don’t remember the name. Something to do with playing cards.”

  Gabriel sat straight up, his posture ramrod straight. “The King of Spades?”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “Victor Mason’s hell.” Gabriel tugged on the hem of his coat, as he always did when he was concerned. “That’s one hell of a place to owe money to, pardon the pun. Mason runs the Kings gang. We estimate they’re responsible for a third of the crimes committed in the East End.”

  “For all I know, David owed them money too.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. How she wished she hadn’t done what David asked—if only she’d insisted on hanging him out to dry. Maybe this Mason rogue would have taken care of him, and he wouldn’t have been able to hurt Philip.

  If wishes were horses, I’d have ten stables full, and why in the world would I want that many horses?

  She sighed, remembering Philip’s favorite phrase. He’d never believed in regrets, while she was swallowed up by them.

  “As soon as he got my letter, Philip rushed home to pay off David’s debts. He was furious that David had involved me, but David swore it’d never happen again.”

  “Did he keep that promise?”

  “No. Or at least, not exactly. Philip tried to keep it from me, but I overheard many fights between them about David’s gambling.” She gave him a sheepish look, for eavesdropping wasn’t ladylike. “I suppose I should feel some shame about listening in, but I was concerned.”

  “I’m glad you did. First rule of crime-solving: people are far more likely to be themselves when they think no one is watching, or in this case, listening.” The pride in Gabriel’s voice shouldn’t have heartened her so much, yet it did, for it was so unexpected to be admired for her mind. She had forgotten what that felt like. “People put on masks when they’re out in public. Half an investigation is sorting through the facades to get to the truth.”

  She knew that better than most. It was why she never felt comfortable in the great ballrooms of Almack’s or promenading on Rotten Row. In fact, outside of Felicity and Claire, she could only think of one person she’d never hidden her true self from: Gabriel.

  But she didn’t dare tell him that, not after three years. He’d probably already moved on, and if so, he had every right to. Any chance she’d ever had with him, she’d lost when she married Philip.

  Gabriel’s question broke into her thoughts. “What did they say when they fought?”

  “It was largely the same fight, over and over again.” She rubbed at her temples, trying to remember the exact words they’d used, and coming up empty. “Every time, David had gambled away another large sum, and he’d come to beg Philip for money. Outside of the holidays, that was the only time we’d ever see David—when he was in debt again. But Philip had blinders on when it came to David. He always helped him out, until finally, I told him David was never going to learn to stand on his own if Philip kept rescuing him.”

  “So Philip stopped bailing him out.” When she nodded, Gabriel continued. “How long ago was that?”

  “Three months.”

  Gabriel leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement, as they always had when he had a new case. “And you said they had a fight the night before Philip died?”

  “Yes.” Her stomach roiled, and she lowered her hands to her midsection, as if that could stop her innards from rebelling. “I shouldn’t have told Philip to cut off David. When David came by again, he was furious with Philip—but still, Philip wouldn’t pay him. He told David he’d find something for him to do around the estate, a way to work off the debt. David wouldn’t hear of it. He said sons of earls did not work.”

  Gabriel’s lips curled up sardonically at that. “No, just sons of viscounts.”

  She wanted to tell him she didn’t think less of him for his job. That, in fact, she admired him more because of his dedication to doing the right thing. But she doubted he’d believe her, not after she’d told him she couldn’t marry a man who didn’t have a title. Still, she could at least try.

  She managed a rueful half-smile. “Those were always my father’s qualifications. I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m proud of what you do. It’s why I called you—”

  “We’ve never lied to each other before, Jemma. Let’s not start now.” Gabriel fixed her with a quieting no-nonsense stare. “You called me because you knew I’d help.”

  “I’m not lying,” she protested, before she realized what he’d said. “You’ll help? Really?”

  “Of course I will.” Gabriel shot her another look, this one saying he couldn’t believe she’d even ask that. “Philip was my friend. If that robbery wasn’t random, I want to know.”

  “Thank you, Gabriel.” She started to reach for his hand to squeeze it in gratitude, but stopped when he pulled back from her. Had she lost the right to touch him at all, even as a friend? She tried to ignore the ache that thought sent through her, telling herself it was probably better this way. She’d already hurt him once. The last thing she wanted was to cause him anymore pain.

  “It’s what I do,” he said this as though it summarized everything: he was Bow Street, and Bow Street was him.

  She couldn’t help but feel she’d been right in refusing him. The Runners were a part of him—leaving them would have been akin to cleaving off an arm or a leg. Her father would never have accepted a patrolman, not so soon after Rosie’s scandal, and she didn’t want to be the woman who’d made him lose such a vital piece of his identity.

  She rubbed her hands together, ready to begin investigating. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now. “When do we start?”

  “Easy, Jemma.” Gabriel’s rich laugh was impossibly wonderful, even better than his deep bass voice. Delicious heat coursed through her at the sound. “I know you hate waiting, but these things take time. It may
take us weeks to uncover anything.”

  She bit her lip to keep from groaning out loud. Weeks? She’d never been a patient woman. When she wanted something, it was with a pressing immediacy. She acted instinctively, with little delay.

  The idea of waiting and watching David put on a show as the devastated, grieving brother made her sick to her stomach. But if it meant she’d finally get justice for Philip, then she’d do it.

  “I can wait.” She must not have sounded convincing, because Gabriel eyed her skeptically. “Fine—I can wait, impatiently.”

  That amendment got her a smile, before he was back to business.

  “Despite their huge row the night before, David and Philip still met for the theater and wenching?” Gabriel stopped, his eyes widening. “Er, I did not mean to be insensitive. I know it must be a delicate subject. I’m sorry, Jemma.”

  “Don’t be.” She shrugged. “I knew he visited there. He’d been seeing Theresa Berkeley at the White House for years, long before we married. He asked me if I wanted him to stop going, but I didn’t see any reason to. It was not as if we married for love, and the White House was discreet. Theresa made Philip happy, so why should I fault her?”

  “Because your husband was having an affair with her.” Gabriel spat the words out, as if he could not fathom her nonchalance. “You deserved better.”

  His indignation on her behalf shouldn’t have warmed her, yet it did. No one had ever defended her honor before. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to be married to Gabriel—to have that sort of undying loyalty and respect paid upon her by a man she loved.

  When Philip had asked her if he ought to stop visiting Theresa, she couldn’t bring herself to say yes. Though they were wed, they still functioned as the friends they’d always been. How could she be angry with Philip, when she too loved another?