Beauty and the Rake

by Erica Monroe

  Bess had come home for holiday break from Miss Huntingdon’s Finishing School. Clothed in a turquoise traveling dress and a jaunty hat, he would barely have recognized the stylish adolescent as the little girl who’d worked in the factories. Bess had blossomed at school, exhibiting quite a talent for drawing.

  “You know what your sister’s return means,” he whispered in Abigail’s ear, sliding his palm around to cup her arse while no one was looking.

  She shifted closer to him. “We’ll have someone to watch the children.”

  He gave her rear a firm squeeze. “And I intend to use that time to make sure you’re thoroughly pleasured.”

  She shushed him as Bess approached, but her grin told him she’d appreciated the flirtation. The years together hadn’t decreased their love—or their lust—for each other. Being with Abigail was still the best damn experience he’d ever had. As he looked around the room at their little family, he couldn’t imagine a better life than this one.

  He was the luckiest of men.

  Author’s note

  The story of Beauty and her Beast has appealed to me ever since childhood. As an awkward, bookish girl, I wondered when someone would truly appreciate the real me. I must have watched the Disney movie a hundred times. At the very core of Beauty and the Beast is the friendship that builds between the two protagonists. Though Beauty is initially hesitant to spend time at the castle—unsurprising, given the circumstances of her arrival—she starts to see the Beast in a different light the more time she spends with him. After a while, he is no longer this scary creature, but instead a man she’s come to love.

  While the central focus of most of the folk iterations of Beauty and the Beast focus on the Beast’s transformation, the stories tend not to characterize Beauty beyond her obvious aesthetic appeal. I think that’s why I’ve always loved the Disney version the best: it shows that both Belle and Beast are affected by their newfound relationship. Beast is no longer trapped in his past pain, and Belle has finally found someone who thinks she’s incredible just the way she is.

  I find this is a central theme in every romance I write. To me, true love is about acceptance. It’s about seeing the complete beauty of a person. That’s why Beauty and the Beast has always been my favorite: their love becomes something more. It is not based solely on visual appreciation, but instead a bond between two souls.

  There are several commonalities in the iterations that I chose to incorporate into writing this book. The basic premise that Beauty must enter this deal with Beast because of something her father has done. The presence of siblings: though in most texts only Beauty has two sisters, I chose instead to give both Strickland and Abigail sisters. Beauty returns home and then realizes she loves the Beast. And of course, there are a few scenes I snuck in as direct homages to the movie version.

  When Abigail Vautille popped onto the page in Secrets in Scarlet, I knew that she needed a happily ever after. Her scars made her believe she’s the Beast, and she must learn to love herself again. Michael Strickland, who also debuted in Secrets in Scarlet, captivated me from the beginning with his devil-may-care attitude. While Michael is physically attractive, he has a lot to learn about life and love. In this sense then Abigail and Michael are both the Beast, and at times they’re both Beauty. This dichotomy interested me. I think we all go through moments where we are either beastly or beautiful; we are never just one thing. It is our flaws that make us beautiful, as much as our strengths.

  This novel contains my first depiction of a real life person in the scene with Superintendent Thomas Bicknell, who really did lead the H-Division of the Metropolitan Police at this time. All characterizations of Bicknell as a bumbling egotist are mine and mine alone, bearing no historical relevance and added simply for story enrichment.

  Beauty and the Rake also draws on historical setting details from the East London areas of Cheapside, Whitechapel, and Spitalfields. While the Crispin Street Market is still active today, the clothing markets in Petticoat Lane are sadly no longer in existence. Spitalfields, with its long history of weaving, remains a vibrant community rich in culture. I have tried to stick as close to the actual street layout and locations of shops, etc. that was relevant in 1832—though of course, some errors may occur in my placement. The Chelsea Bun-House mentioned by Abigail was indeed a real shop that closed in 1839.

  I greatly enjoyed doing the research for this book, and I hope that it adds a feeling of authenticity to your reading.

  Acknowledgments

  This book could not have been published without the assistance of the following individuals, for whom I am exorbitantly grateful.

  Many thanks go to Emma Locke and Kristine Wyllys for their intensive edits on multiple drafts of this book. Also to Erica Ridley, Emma Barry, and Tracey Devlyn for reading early drafts of this book and offering up their critiques. Eileen Richards, Gaylin Walli, and Lori Macc also assisted with plot elements. I am so thankful for your wisdom.

  To my editor, Meghan Hogue, who always squeezes me in on a tight deadline and never seems to mind when my books end up being way over my estimated word count.

  To my husband, Kevin, for tirelessly supporting me through all my “author moments,” like when I rapid-fire alternate between declaring that this book will devour my soul, and I’m the most brilliant woman alive. Your belief in my ability to move mountains sustains me.

  To my mother, for demanding Abigail’s story, and to Amy Jo Cousins and Rebecca Paula for insisting Strickland’s needed to be written as well. Your wish is my command.

  To the family and friends I cancelled upon because I was up against the wire with this deadline, I’m sorry and thanks for still loving me.

  And lastly, to my readers—I am so very, very blessed to have you. I appreciate your kind messages, e-mails, and tweets. It still astounds me that you actually want to read my words. Thanks to you, I have the job I’ve dreamed of since my childhood.

  Thank You for Reading

  Out of all the books you could choose, thank you for picking up Beauty and the Rake. I hope you’ll take a few minutes out of your day to review this book – your honest opinion is much appreciated. Reviews help introduce readers to new authors they wouldn’t otherwise meet.

  Leave a review

  The Rookery Rogues

  Beauty and the Rake is the third book in The Rookery Rogues. While each book reads as a stand-alone, the series is best enjoyed in chronological order. Joined by the poorest neighborhoods in London, called rookeries, the heroes and heroines in this series defy social expectations and find love in the darkest of circumstances.

  * * *

  A Dangerous Invitation (Kate and Daniel)

  Secrets in Scarlet (Poppy and Thaddeus)

  Beauty and the Rake (Abigail and Michael)

  Stealing the Rogue’s Heart (Mina and Charlie)

  An Excerpt from Erica Monroe’s Secrets in Scarlet

  rookery rogues, book 2

  where Michael Strickland and Abigail Vautille are first introduced

  * * *

  Spitalfields, London

  April 1832

  “You’re meant for great things, my boy.” Leaning back in his claw-footed chair, Inspector Jonah Whiting smoked a cheroot and regarded Thaddeus with barely veiled impatience. “That business with the resurrectionist’s ring was the luckiest break you’re liable to get in this business.”

  Three months prior, Thaddeus Knight had apprehended Jasper Finn in a workhouse cemetery in East Smithfield. While the arrest had led to the captures of most of Finn’s grave robbing ring, the real bounty had been in tying Finn to several other unsolved murders in London.

  Whiting wouldn’t let Thaddeus forget this grand success for the rest of his whole damn life.

  The inspector smiled one of those simpering smirks meant to ingratiate Thaddeus to him. “Superintendent Bicknell has taken notice. If you play your cards right, you too could have one of these offices. Inspector Doughty is set to retire in a month.”


  “Aye, it’d be an honor to be considered, sir.” Nervousness quivered in his stomach at thought of taking Doughty’s place. To be an Inspector at twenty-four years of age was unheard of in the Met, but Thaddeus had worked harder than anyone else on their route. Certainly harder than the other contender for the job, Michael Strickland.

  As an inspector, Thaddeus would be able to make a real difference in the Spitalfields rookery. But he wasn’t sure he was willing to give up investigating cases like Anna Moseley’s for a chance at a loftier position. The trail of Miss Stewart’s murder was long cold, but he could find out who had killed Miss Moseley. Her family deserved answers.

  “If you’d stop insisting upon investigating cases like this one...” Whiting scooped up the folder, dropping it unceremoniously back down. The papers scattered every which way, lost in the sea of Whiting’s untidy desk.

  Thaddeus grimaced, and then promptly tried to hide that grimace with a not-so-well-placed cough. Whiting’s brassy glance fixed upon him.

  “Sir, if you’d take a moment and look through the papers...” Thaddeus resisted the urge to grab the file and start rearranging it. It had taken him three hours to put together that file for Whiting, and now it would take him three more hours to put it back into proper order.

  Whiting snorted, resembling more of a pig than a commanding officer. He had an up-turned long nose, short ears, and copper eyes the color of clock gears. At fifty years of age, he’d been a member of the old Watch until the Met was formed. Whiting never hesitated to inform his officers—mostly, Thaddeus—of what working with the Met meant.

  “It’s a simple case of rookery violence, Knight,” Whiting said. “We’re Peel’s men and Peel’s men don’t spend their time on this rigmarole. We prevent crimes from happening in the first place.”

  Their work was noble. Triumphant, even. They were a solution before there was ever a problem. Of course, a certain leniency could be granted. Arrests had to be made, and thus, cases had to be looked into when the culprit wasn’t found on the scene. The Bow Street Runners wanted little to do with the East End.

  “Investigating the deaths of every lowdown bunter who crosses your path will get you nowhere,” Whiting lectured. “You’ve got a quick mind, Knight, and the boys in Westminster like you.”

  Thaddeus shifted in his chair. “Sir, the logic is sound here. If you’d just give me some time, I think I’ll find out that the Larkers are involved in far more.”

  If Whiting didn’t assign Thaddeus leave to investigate the Moseley death, he’d have no other recourse. Whiting was his superior by assignment. If Thaddeus went over Whiting’s head, he could say goodbye to the inspector job. And Whiting would make damn sure he didn’t have a job to come back to, prior brilliant arrest of Jasper Finn or not.

  Whiting’s cheroot dangled from his fingers, above the file. “Apparently, you helped out some countess?”

  “Sir, if you’d be a bit more careful with that file…” Thaddeus began, biting back a groan as Whiting blinked at him.

  Whiting set down the loosely rolled cheroot. It spilled upon impact, the uncut ends leaving foul traces all over the parchment. There’d be no hope of reading the paperwork again.

  Why, oh, why did people treat his efforts at organization with such blatant disregard? Thaddeus would never understand this. Order brought the needed clarity to discover solutions in the most disjointed of fragments. What was so wrong with a little clarity?

  “Tell me about this countess,” Whiting demanded, ignoring Thaddeus’s pained stare at the cheroot.

  “I found the countess’ jewels for her,” Thaddeus explicated. “My brother brought the case to my attention. The countess was one of his client’s at Barclay’s.”

  That had been a slow week. Any more cases like that one, and his brains might dribble out of his ears from boredom.

  “That is the type of outside work you take, my boy,” Whiting praised. “You ought to be doing your route, not sitting across from your superior whining about why you can’t investigate a random whore’s murder.”

  Thaddeus was most assuredly not whining. “If you had seen her—”

  “I would be saying the exact same thing.”

  “She died in my arms.” Thaddeus couldn’t shake the memory of her once-warm flesh against his blue coat. “She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. A young girl.”

  “Terrible incident,” Whiting hedged. “But it’s Spitalfields and it’s to be expected. Those weavers are a sordid sort, turning to brew and promiscuity to while away the hours between shifts at the factory. She was probably beaten by some bullyback.”

  “This was more than some brothel scuttle,” Thaddeus insisted.

  Murder was foul in all forms, no matter who had been murdered. Wasn’t it their job to stop it? They were supposed to protect these people.

  Whiting wouldn’t understand. He was not a sentimental man. But Whiting might grasp hard facts, so Thaddeus led with that.

  “Miss Moseley said we couldn’t protect her. That ‘they’ have people working for them we don’t know about. I think it’s the Larkers, sir. They own the factory where she was found. When she died, her fingers were sketching the letter ‘L.’”

  “It’s not enough to go on,” Whiting said. “Besides, the Larkers have never caused trouble before. Boz Larker is a respected man of business. If you falsely accuse him, you’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “I can get more information,” Thaddeus insisted. “I’ve compiled a list of everyone the Larkers have associations with.”

  In the file that Whiting’s cheroot had destroyed. Damnation.

  “Considering most textile factories are moving to Manchester or Lancashire, dismissals should have happened in spades. It’s not a union factory. There’s nothing stopping them from dismissing,” Thaddeus said. “Still, they retain a full staff of thirty weavers, most working at Jacquard looms.”

  “The French looms, as if it wasn’t enough the Frog tried to invade our country.” Whiting sniffed. “How quickly people forget these things when money is to be involved.”

  How quickly we forget the idea of justice when money is to be involved, Thaddeus should have said. Instead, Thaddeus stared blankly at Whiting, who held in his stupid, bloated hands the fate of far too many poor men and women in this district.

  Whiting was a cancer, eating away at a system that had been meant to instill faith. Every day, Thaddeus saw people shivering in the doorways of their rundown tenement houses, barefoot and desperate in the streets, drunk off the penny drams sold in the gin palaces.

  Those people had no one else to fight for them, and Thaddeus would rather be damned than give up on them. If that made him foolish and egotistical, so be it.

  “That money’s coming from somewhere,” Thaddeus insisted.

  Whiting let out a much-harassed sigh. “The Larkers have money, Knight. Maybe he’s funding the factory from his pocket.”

  “You know as well as I do that people don’t run factories because they care for the workers. If there’s no profit, why is the factory still in business?” Thaddeus asked. “I want this case. I’ll work it in addition to my regular shifts. I’ll take those meetings you wanted me to with Superintendent Thomas. I’ll tell him it was your planning that set me up to get Trigger Jem.”

  A calculating gleam shined in Whiting’s eyes. “If you’re willing to speak to Thomas, then I think we can get the younger Strickland to look into your route.”

  Thaddeus winced. Michael Strickland was not only his competition for the inspector spot, but he was a rash imbecile. Strickland’s lone good trait was that he was less of an ass than his father—Claudius Strickland had arrested Daniel O’Reilly three years ago for a murder Jasper Finn had committed.

  Finn couldn’t hurt anyone again. He’d hung in a widely attended execution that hearkened back to the days of Tyburn.

  Yet there were still villains out there. If Strickland was what he had to endure to find Miss Moseley’s murderers, then Th
addeus would deal with Strickland.

  He nodded.

  “Very good,” Whiting agreed. “Two weeks.”

  “That’s not enough time.” Thaddeus pointed to the beleaguered file on Whiting’s desk. “I believe there’s more at stake here than the girl’s death. I outlined some of my conclusions—”

  “Fourteen days,” Whiting stated firmly. “Fourteen days and then you’re done. No more of this nonsense. You’ll do as I tell you, Knight, or so help me God, I’ll have you removed, genius or not.”

  Fourteen days. A day for every year of the girl’s too-short life.

  The Larker Textile Factory was not anything special. It was like everything else in Spitalfields, once beautiful but now moldering. The majority of the factory workers had seen their fortunes dwindle, as new machinery and the repeal of the weaving acts outlawing foreign imports made the hand loom weavers irrelevant.

  Poppaea “Poppy” O’Reilly was neither Protestant nor French; nevertheless she felt a kinship with the Huguenot weavers. Like them, she had come to London expecting to find sanctuary. An escape from her wicked past.

  This April evening, a bell tolled portentously throughout the factory. Poppy glanced over toward the clock hanging on the wall. It was a quarter past five—there was no way the closing bell should have been ringing. The Larkers cared little for the diatribes of reformers. If they could force their workers to stay after the designated twelve-hour shift, they would.

  “Come along, before they change their minds!” Abigail Vautille cried, skidding by. Her light blue dress was creased from where she’d been sitting at a loom all day, dust lining the hem, but no amount of dirt and grime could take away from Abigail’s beauty.