by Erica Monroe
She pushed herself up slowly from the chair, as though it took a herculean effort to align all her spindly joints in order. When she stepped out from the alcove, Jemma’s breath sucked in. Like the man at the door, her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. Clothed in a long, flowing white dress streaked with black grime, she moved with such lithe grace she appeared to float across the dirt floor.
“Ibbitt says you are from Bow Street.” Mauly Jives’s quivering, high-pitched voice, uttered from cracked, pouty lips, sent a chill down Jemma’s spine. It was as if she was hearing a small child, trapped inside this glassy-eyed adult. “Ibbitt says many things, and not all of them are true. Which is it, then? Are you Bow Street, or have you come to take tea with me?”
“Can it not be both?” Gabriel’s expression revealed no discomfort—rather, he looked at Jives as if the idea of drinking tea made from sewer water would be delightful.
Thankfully, Jives shook her head. “No. It cannot.”
“Then it is the former.” Gabriel had the good grace to look disappointed, though Jemma had a hard time holding back a sigh of relief.
Jives wove a finger around one of the haphazard curls resting against her cheek. Once, her snowy white hair had probably been an ordered chignon, but now it resembled more of a frizzy rat’s nest. “Why are you here, Bow Street? I have paid the bribes. You are not due for another two weeks.”
Gabriel stiffened, and Jemma leaned almost imperceptibly closer to him, not wanting to risk an open show of support. There was something about Mauly Jives that she found unsettling. Beyond the woman’s wraithlike appearance and breathy affectations, Jemma sensed a keenness to her, as though she saw far more than she wanted people to realize.
Jives glided across the floor, coming to a stop directly in front of Gabriel. She leaned in, her eyes darting from the crown of his head to the bottom of his toes, sizing him up.
“‘Tis not the bribes,” she declared, with a shake of her head that set her ringlets dancing. “And ‘tis not the gels. It must be the other.”
Gabriel nodded. “You’ve received certain goods I need information on.”
Jives pulled back from him, her pert nose wrinkling in distaste. “I do not talk about my deals, Bow Street. You must understand that. Not only would it be bad business, it could be fatal. A woman makes enemies in these parts, and when you’ve lived as I have—you have quite a few.”
She said this with such pride that Jemma thought she might have the key to getting Jives to help them. It was worth a try, at least.
“It’s harder for us.” Jemma stepped out from behind Gabriel, her gaze never leaving Jives’s face. “We’re expected to be docile and sweet, when we all know damn well that doesn’t get you anywhere. Men want to define us, put us in boxes, subdue us.”
She saw a flash in Gabriel’s eyes, a question she could not answer now, before it was snuffed out. He stayed silent, letting her take the stage with Jives.
“My sister Rose was different.” The words popped out before she could stop them, shocking her. She hadn’t meant for this to turn personal. “She was wild and free, no matter how they tried to confine her. I’ve never known anyone who was more full of life.”
Jives clasped her hands together, her attention now completely on Jemma. “What happened to her?”
“A man broke her heart, but it was the vile rumors that really broke her.” The familiar sting of pain rushed to the surface, but Jemma forced herself to go on. “She wasn’t like you, or me. She did not have the mettle needed to survive.”
Some mettle I have, for I gave up on the only man I ever loved, all so I could be safe.
Jives turned, waving her hand for Jemma to come along with her. She spun the heavy blue chair around, moving it quicker, easier than Jemma would have expected.
There was a lot more to Mauly Jives than met the eye.
“I have made myself an empire,” Jives said, spreading out her arms as she leaned back in the chair. Though it was patched in two places, and stained in three others, it looked like a throne with her in it.
A throne for the undead, but a throne nonetheless.
“And I have made myself a countess.” It was her sole accomplishment. She’d married well, by society’s standards. Then why had marriage to Philip felt like the greatest of lies? They’d never hid what they were to each other—friends, helping each other achieve practical goals.
“Yet you are not happy.” Jives eyed her critically, those glassy eyes unexpectedly sharp.
“No.” Jemma took a chance, hoping it panned out. “And neither are you.”
Jives let out a loud, high-pitched laugh. “No, I am not.”
Gabriel looked from her to Jives and back again, his eyes widening and his jaw slightly agape. When she started to take a step back, to let him take the lead on the investigation as he had in all the other shops, he shook his head. That he trusted her enough to give her control over this made her heart swell with pride.
“I failed Rosie,” Jemma said, sadness sunk deep into her words. “And I failed my husband. I couldn’t save either of them. But I can make sure the man who killed him pays.”
Jives caught on quickly. “And you think I can help you do that.”
Jemma nodded. “A man came to you with gold buttons with the seal of the Prince Regent and an olive branch. He would have wanted to move them quickly, I’d guess, and without any fanfare. Do you remember him?”
Jives drew herself up to her full sitting height, fixing Gabriel with a pointed glare. “I’ll talk, chippy, but not with him here.”
“I won’t leave her,” Gabriel objected immediately.
“It’s fine, really. Go. You can stand outside the door or something.” Jemma walked to him, squeezing his hand. She leaned forward, dropping her voice lower. “Just keep trusting me, please.”
Gabriel gave a stiff nod, and with one last uneasy glance toward Jives, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Jives watched their interaction. “You may have lost your husband, but that Bow Street is all yours for the taking.”
“We are friends,” Jemma protested, sounding half-hearted to her own ears.
“Do as you will.” Jives shrugged, and Jemma was again struck by the fluidity of her movements. “I like you, child. You’re an odd soul. I’m going to help you, but if a hint of this comes back on me, I will personally rip out your tongue and jam it into orifices that don’t see the sun, do you understand?”
Jemma blanched, that visual being more than she needed on top of an already disturbing day. “Yes.”
“I’ve got the buttons.” Jives stood up from that chair, crossing to a cabinet in the corner of the room. She pulled from her dress a skeleton key, jamming it into the lock on the second drawer from the top. It clicked open. She tugged out the drawer, picked up four gold buttons, and presented them to Jemma with her palm extended.
Jemma reached for them, and Jives snatched them back.
“You ought to know better, girly,” Jives scolded. “These are real gold—I had them checked. You owe me what I’d get from the sale, and then some, for bringing a Peeler here.”
“Of course,” Jemma agreed.
When Jives told her the amount, Jemma nodded. She pulled out the purse of coins, giving it to Jives. “That ought to be enough, plus extra.”
Jives opened up the purse, dumping the money in her outstretched palm. Her eyes lit up as she counted, grinning with satisfaction. “Very well. I did not like the bastard, anyhow.”
“So you remember him?”
Jives gave her an insulted look. “I remember everyone.”
“As do I,” Jemma said. “As do I.”
“Blond, mid-thirties, tall, but with a bit of a paunch that says he spends too much time drinking and not enough time bedding,” Jives recalled, ticking each quality off on her fingers. “Dressed like the very definition of a modern major toff, in Jacob’s Island, no less. I had to stop six of my gels and lads from frisking him. Bl
oody buffoon.”
That sounded like David, but it still wasn’t enough. “Did he have any identifying features?”
“A signet ring,” Jives said. “Wolverston crest, I believe.”
When Jemma arched a brow, Jives frowned at her. “I pay attention, dearie. No one gives a blooming rat’s arse for us out here. We look out for ourselves.”
Jemma couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been looking out for herself—and for others. She thought of Rosie, alone in that convent, never getting to know her son. Of Philip, and how he’d saved her from societal ruination. Of Gabriel, and how he’d dropped everything to help her.
She owed so many people so much. How would she ever repay it?
“Thank you.” She reached for Mauly Jives’s hand, not thinking. Surprisingly, the woman allowed Jemma to press her palm in thanks. “You’ve helped me more than you can know.”
“Good,” Jives said, a slow, coy smile forming across her face, reminding Jemma of a mischievous ghost.
With one last adieu to Mauly Jives, she left the room, returning to safety of Gabriel’s watch. Around him, she felt protected, secure. That was invaluable now, with the proof that David had set up Philip to be killed.
They left quickly. She couldn’t think of anything else to say—words didn’t come easily, not when the bite of David’s betrayal stung so ferociously. She had suspected it all along, but to have confirmation? That was something else entirely.
She wanted to reach for Gabriel, to confide in him, but something stopped her. For three years, she had analyzed every situation on her own before ever consulting with anyone else. Those habits were hard to break. All she could think of now was that this man she had considered family for the last three years had killed her dearest friend.
She had no family left. Her mother was dead; her father not long after. She hadn’t heard from Rosie in ages. Philip was gone, killed by the brother-in-law he’d always wished she’d show more compassion toward.
That left no one but Gabriel.
Who was never hers to begin with, no matter how much she wanted him to be.
Jemma couldn’t shake the notion that for the first time in her life, she was truly alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We have the utmost sorrow for the new Earl of Wolverston, who assumes his title upon the brutal death of his brother. It might be uncouth of us to say so, but the earl has set new standards for mourning stylishly. We cannot help but wonder if we might have our next Brummell, but with a far better character of course.
-Whispers from Lady X, June 1816
Mayfair, London
Ten days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston
By the time they reached St. Saviour’s Docks, it was past midnight. Gabriel ought to have been dead on his feet, from working a full shift at the station and then tromping about Jacob’s Island. Instead, a restless eagerness filled him, as it always did when he was near the end of a successfully solved case. He paced from one corner of the platform to the next, his long strides eating up the distance, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat as they waited for the ferry to return. When he returned to his flat, he’d take out his energy on the punchbag he kept just for this purpose.
They were close—so close—to nabbing David. He could feel it in his very bones, in every breath he took of the putrid air. His mind sorted through every piece rapidly, forming a completed puzzle.
Yet, for all his excitement, Jemma remained eerily calm. She said little on the ferry ride back to the docks and even less on the hack ride to Mayfair. When the cab dropped them off a few streets away from Hill Street, Gabriel reached for her, intending to link her arm in his and escort her. She shied away from him, shaking her head. She uttered a terse “not now” before she continued on, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if to warm herself.
He followed, watching her with concern. While it was brisk for a June night, it wasn’t cold enough to warrant a chill. She hadn’t been the same since Mauly Jives confirmed David had contacted her to set up a buyer for the gold buttons. It scared him to see her like this, withdrawn and defeated.
Especially now that they had the gold buttons back. While the testimony of a well-known thief and fence wouldn’t hold up against the word of a peer, combined with the other incidents, it’d be enough to get the magistrate to listen to them. That was what Jemma had wanted all along—justice for Philip.
They came to the back gate. The house was quiet. Nary a candle burned, as the servants had retired for the night. The courtyard was lit only by the light of the moon, silhouetting them in a soft glow.
Jemma hesitated, key in her hand, a myriad of emotions splashing across her heart-shaped face. Worry, he understood. Exhaustion too, for it had been a long night. Yet there was something deeper, more intimate, he could not completely discern.
“I suppose this is good night,” he said reluctantly, not wanting to leave before he was certain of her wellbeing.
Hell, regardless of circumstances, he never wanted to leave her.
She sighed, slipping the key in the gate. It turned easily, and then the gate was open, and she was going through it. Fruitlessly, he searched for the right words to bring her comfort. To prolong their conversation. To prove he was worthy of her notice.
But he couldn’t think of anything, except how badly he’d buggered everything three years ago. The weight of his own inadequacies smacked against him, ridding him of that giddy elation of discovery.
She was halfway across the empty courtyard before he finally stepped through the gate, closing it behind him. He followed her even though she had not asked him to, overstepping his bounds once more—for the last time.
“I’m sorry, Jemma,” he said quietly.
She turned around. “For?”
For kissing her three years ago. For abandoning his friendship with Philip—and her. For not doing more, being more.
He settled on one word that encompassed it all. “Everything.”
Her lips tilted up skeptically on one side. “Everything is a very large concept, Gabriel.”
“And I have made some very large mistakes.” He fought the urge to reach for her, to push back behind her ear the wayward cinnamon curl that had escaped from her coiffure. He didn’t—he wouldn’t, not when she’d shied from him before.
“As have I.” Her voice, so tender, so sweet, was a caress of its own. “Maybe it is time we move on. Those sins have held us hostage for a long time, haven’t they? We beat ourselves up over and over again, for what? I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t breaking myself down to please someone else.”
To a lesser extent, he’d done the same. When he’d graduated Eton, he’d floundered without purpose, wanting to make a difference in the world but without any idea of how to go about it.
“Did you know it was Philip who convinced me to join the Runners?” Gabriel didn’t need an answer—her surprise was enough of an indication. “He said I was the most doggedly determined person he’d ever known. While that was damnably irritating in school, he figured I might as well put it to good use by stopping crime.”
“He was right.” Jemma’s sad smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You are good at what you do, Gabriel. I had no doubts about your capability before, but in the last two days, I’ve seen you in action and you have not disappointed.”
Her praise washed over him like the calming waters of a hot bath. The tense knot in his shoulders, beginning upon finding Philip’s body, relaxed more and more with each minute spent around her.
She was a ray of sunshine in the cold, dismal world he’d created for himself. An honest, forthright relief from the obfuscation of criminals and the complex legal system.
“You ought to give yourself the same credit,” he told her. “Mauly Jives wasn’t going to tell me anything. It’s your quick thinking that got those buttons back, Jemma. You read the situation correctly, and you reaped the benefits. And with Osborne, it was your story that convinced him to help.”
/> “So again, it’s my lies that make me successful.” The anguish crossing her features wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. “The only time my father ever approved of me was when I married Philip. My sham of a marriage meant more to him than anything else—more than helping Rosie, more than my happiness.”
“He was wrong.” Gabriel had only met the Marquess of Sayer once before he’d died from a heart failure. Like Lord Marlburg, Sayer represented all the things Gabriel disliked about the aristocracy, with his selfish focus on “bettering” his family through marrying off his two daughters to men with fortune and titles. “Don’t think me an arse for speaking ill of the dead, but your father didn’t strike me as a particularly perceptive man. He didn’t see the real you, Jemma.”
“And you do?” She turned her face to him, those beautiful brown eyes beseeching him.
He could not resist her siren call. Closing the distance between them, he reached out for that tantalizing loose lock of dark umber, intending to push it back from her face. Yet once it was in his hand, he could not resist weaving it around his finger, watching the light from the moon contrast the pure satin of her hair with the tanned leather of his glove.
“I have always seen you.” His voice came out husky, roughened by the damned ache of touching her but never being able to truly have her. “And I like what I see.”
Her cheeks pinked, that pretty blush making him feel like the strongest, the most skillful of men. Then, when he told himself he’d step back from her, end this madness and walk away, she whimpered—a quiet, delicious sound of pleasure that slammed into him, leaving him hot and hard.
He released her hair to cup her face in his hand, tracing his thumb against her trembling lips. So perfect, those lips, plump and rosy pink, made to fit precisely over the top of his own. For three years he had remembered the shape and taste of her, yet he had never—never—dared to hope he’d be with her again.