Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Violet’s heart raced as she stepped out into the fading light of the afternoon and drew the hood of her cloak over her head to shield herself from the chill drizzle. The door closed softly behind them, and she felt the warm, radiating presence of Mr. Barrow standing beside her. She sensed his hesitation and took a step away, breaking the tension herself, taking away the urge for him to touch her, or for her to reach out to him. With enough distance between them, she turned to face him. His expression was hard, but there was concern in his soft brown eyes. They said nothing for a momentbefore she forced out a laugh.

“Well… that went better than expected.”

He didn’t smile. “Miss Latimer… I must ask you again to reconsider. I cannot in good conscience bring you to Archie?—”

“Mr. Barrow, please.” She held up a hand, closing her eyes because she couldn’t bear the look upon his face any longer. “I don’t want to do this, but Archie’s not comin’ around to you. He’s not. And I want my life back.” She opened her eyes to find him looking back at her, his brow furrowed, his jaw tense. “You know this is the only way. He’s just gonna keep killin’ people and I can’t… I can’t let that happen. I can’t live with that on my conscience.”

He started to shake his head.

“It’s the only way,” she repeated. She drew herself up straighter and put on a brave face that was not matched by how she felt. “He’s not gonna hurt me. He wants to marry me. And I’m gonna let him think I might. And besides,” she added with a false smile, “you’ll be there to watch over me.”

His brows drew together. “I can’t help you if he tries to hurt you.” His voice was low, raw. “I’m undercover. And there I must stay if this is to succeed.”

Violet swallowed, doubt creeping back into her mind after the success of their meeting with Edward Brill. She drew in a sharp breath and squared her shoulders. Let Archie try to hurt her. She wasn’t running away anymore.

“I’ll be fine. We should get goin’, before the club gets busy.”

His jaw worked, as though he were going to say something, before he gave a sharp nod and jerked his head, indicating for her to follow him. They walked in silence until they reached Cable Street. Dozens of hansom cabs passed, but he never paused to hail one and Violet expected he meant to walk all the way to Archie’s club in Covent Garden. It would take over an hour on foot, but she didn’t dare protest. Every minute she could delay meeting with Archie was a relief, and she followed along beside him as the sun drew closer to the horizon and the breeze grew chill. After several blocks, he finally spoke.

“How do you find living in Paris?”

Startled by his abrupt question, she looked over at him with a raised brow, suspecting that he was trying to divert her attention away from their eventual destination, a scheme in which she was more than happy to participate.

“I… it’s everythin’ I ever wanted. I love livin’ there.” She returned her attention to the street before them, sidestepping a pile of horse dung as they crossed a side road before she spoke again in a low voice. “I have no past there.”

“I see.” He was quiet again for another block or so before glancing down at her. “It must have been liberating, starting fresh in a new city.”

She shrugged, pausing with him as a dray trundled past, loaded down with kegs. “It was. I’ve been looked down on from the moment we left that orphanage. I was the lowest of the low. But in Paris… in Paris I’m an artist. I’ve exhibited with Monet and Pissarro and Cassat. I even had a paintin’ up at the Salon . Do you know what it takes to get your work up there?”

He didn’t answer, just shook his head and she continued, feeling the rising anger in her chest. “And then Archie showed up. And he threatened to tell everyone what I was.” She sent Mr. Barrow a sidelong glance. “Listen, I’m not ashamed of what I was. Della and me never went hungry, and we always had a roof over our heads. We did better than a lot of folks livin’ in the rookery, and Cora always kept me safe.” She swallowed and looked away. “But I ain’t exactly proud, either. And I know what would happen if people found out I was a whore. Whores aren’t artists. They’re muses. Or models. Or worse. Every man in Montmartre would think he could just pay for it, and I’d be willin’ to give it. I’d likely never sell another paintin’.” She scowled, heat prickling at the nape of her neck. Mr. Barrow said nothing. “That’s why I’ve been on my own since me and Del got out of the rookery. I didn’t want to be anythin’ to anyone. It was so nice, just bein’ Violet Latimer. Not the orphan. Or the prostitute. Or the girl from Seven Dials.” She sighed and Mr. Barrow offered her a faint smile.

“You know, for all the places I got to travel to as Lord Bradford’s valet, I’ve never actually been to Paris.”

Violet glanced over at him as they strolled past a pair of women sitting together on a stoop, one dandling a baby upon her knee. She couldn’t help notice the admiring looks they gave Mr. Barrow as he passed and suppressed a smile before returning her attention to him.

“Never?” she asked, and he lifted his shoulders.

“No… is it nice?”

At this, she did smile. “It’s the most beautiful city on earth.” A chuckle. “Though I’ve never actually been anywhere else, so I can’t really say for sure,” she amended, and he grinned. “I live in Montmartre. It’s where all the artists live, and it’s up on a hill. You can see all of Paris from the top. I go to the Louvre during the week to practice drawin’ the sculptures. They used to train artists that way, you know – the best students at the école would be sent to Italy to copy the old masters and send the paintin’s back to Paris to hang in a museum of copies. That’s how they decided who was a proper artist.” She chuckled again. “Thank God they don’t do that anymore. I’d never have made a single paintin’ otherwise. Imagine, copyin’ a load of old men who’ve been dead for hundreds of years.”

Mr. Barrow gave her a small smile as they left behind the crowded tenements of Whitechapel and drew closer to the Tower.

“I’ve been writin’ to Della,” she said suddenly as they passed beneath the shadow of the building. Leaves, turned rust with the coming winter, swirled about her ankles as a chill breeze blew off the Thames. He looked down at her.

“I’m sure she would have preferred to be here in London with you.”

“You mustn’t tell the earl of our plan… Della would worry.” She gave him a pained smile. “She’d probably storm her way into Archie’s club to stop me. She’d kill him herself given the opportunity.”

Mr. Barrow frowned at the thread of anger in her voice, and she swallowed before adding, “And you must bring me any letters she writes so I can write back.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched and his brows drew together as though in disagreement, but he finally nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

They passed the Tower without a word to one another, Violet chafing with the one question which had been on her mind since Cole had told her where to find John Barrow. She finally couldn’t bear the silence any longer and the words burst from her.

“Why are you back in Seven Dials? You got out… how can you stand bein’ back in that place?”

He glanced over at her, as though startled, and she was shocked by the grief in his eyes – it looked raw, recent. She almost felt compelled to apologize and tell him it was no matter, but he blinked, looking away before he spoke.

“I suppose it was partly to prove myself. My mother was a fence, and I grew up pickpocketing for her, area diving, card sharping – whatever I could do to make a bit of money. I was a petty criminal, as were so many of us. I wanted to show the police that not every criminal is a bad person.”

Violet hesitated, thinking back on his remark to Edward Brill about having lost someone to the rookery, before she ventured to ask, “And the other part?”

There was a long moment of silence before he sighed. “A long story… and not one I’ve ever shared.”

Violet looked sidelong at him, noting the tension in his voice, the hint of an unhappy ending. What else was to be expected coming from the rookery?

“You told Mr. Brill you lost someone… but you don’t have to tell me. I know what it is to have stories too terrible to speak out loud.”

He was silent for a long time as they crossed another thoroughfare, dodging horses and carts along the way. She was sure that would be the answer to her question and that no more information about his return to the streets of his childhood would be forthcoming, but as they passed beneath the overarching boughs of a linden tree, he spoke suddenly.

“When I left to work in service for Lord Bradford, I think I was of the same mind as you – I had done it. I had escaped and no power on earth would make me return. Except… I couldn’t leave. Not really. There was too much keeping me there.” A muscle in his jaw twitched and he gave Violet a quick glance. Her throat tightened as she braced for the inevitable tragedy. Rarely were there any other endings when it came to the rookery.

“I had a sister. Lucy. She was four years younger than me, so I was responsible for her. Our mother had died, and our father had left, and for years it was just us, livin’ in that flash house on Queen Street. When I got that job with the earl, I thought it was our chance for a better life. I left ’cause I knew I was never gonna make a decent living in Seven Dials. I sent money to her every month, and the girls in the flash house looked after her for me.” Seven Dials was seeping back into his voice as he spoke, but he seemed not to notice, and he swallowed before continuing. “I didn’t go back nearly as often as I should have. I was always too busy, so I told myself, and I traveled often with the earl.” He rubbed a rueful hand over his jaw. “I last saw her when I escorted Lady Bradford to see you before she and the earl married. She was well.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips as they paused at an intersection to let a carriage roll past. “She even had herself a beau – nice fella who worked in a factory.”

The smile faded as they walked along side by side; the evening grew cooler and a biting breeze sprang up, whipping her skirts around her ankles.

“I didn’t go back again until after you left for France.” His jaw grew tight now, and his eyes narrowed, but he wasn’t looking at anything as he stared ahead. “Could have been anyone, really. I’m told the men who did it had been goin’ around, robbin’ anyone walkin’ alone. She fought back, I suppose. They weren’t ever caught. What copper was gonna go after a gang of thugs, robbin’ and beatin’ the people livin’ in the rookery? Even if they cared enough about stoppin’ them, they were too afraid to end up on the wrong patch. So…” His voice caught now, and he cleared his throat, but he never looked over at Violet, who watched as his mouth twisted up, as though to hold back some great emotion. “So, I went straight to Lord Bradford, and I asked him to give me a letter of reference so I could join the Metropolitan Police. I would care about those people when no one else would. And I wouldn’t be afraid. Lucy won’t have died for nothin’.”

Violet said nothing – what could she say? – but she did reach out and give his fingers a quick, meaningful squeeze. He said nothing in reply, but did return the gesture, though his jaw was taut, and his throat moved as she withdrew. They were entering Covent Garden now, and as they came to a large puddle at the end of the walkway, he swiftly angled himself and held out a hand for her as leverage so she could step over it. Upon reaching the other side, he finally met her gaze, and though she had somehow expected grim determination or hopeless grief, she saw only misgiving. He was still unwilling to hand her over to Archie Neville, though this plan would almost certainly bring him the redemption he no doubt sought. And though Violet had some very serious misgivings of her own, she saw that in sacrificing her freedom for now to bring Archie to justice, she would not only be helping herself, but helping Mr. Barrow as well.

Ever the worthy protector, though, his fingers tightened on hers, and his jaw worked as though he would say something, but she knew what his words would be – that he couldn’t turn her in to Archie, that she was risking her life, that he would find another way – but she was more determined now that they must go through with this. She, too, would not let Lucy, or any of those poor souls who fought and scraped to climb their way out of the rookery only to be taken by it before their time, die in vain. She held a finger to his lips and shook her head.

“Come on, it’ll be dark soon.”

The Devil’s Den lay at the end of a row of once-stately Georgian terraces, occupying the largest of the homes which had long since been converted into pubs and pie shops and brothels. John’s chest ached with the confession he had just made to Miss Latimer. What had compelled him to tell her about Lucy, he couldn’t say – perhaps that she, too, would have seen friends and family lost to the violence and decay of the rookery, or that he had held in his guilt over Lucy’s death for so long that it had taken just one person willing to listen and the words had burst from him like water from a broken dam. And still, he could not bear that they now stood across the street from Archie’s rundown little club, ready to give him Miss Latimer in exchange for the opportunity to become part of his inner circle. If something happened to her… He shook his head and steeled his jaw. She had already insisted this was the only way, that she could not bear if one more life was to be lost to violence on her account, and he could hardly oppose her on that.

He turned to look across the street instead. Two men stood sentry at the door, and the windows had been blacked out, but John was more than familiar with the revelry that would be taking place inside shortly. Archie Neville held court here, a king returned from exile to rule with an iron fist once more. The main floor held the gaming tables and the bar. Upstairs the men of Covent Garden might find female companionship for a price. Below stairs was John’s domain. Boxing matches were held once a week in one of the cellars, and he was a popular attraction.

The women from upstairs would come to watch his fights – ‘Bonny Barrow’ they called him, giggling and tittering at the edge of the crowd and shouting out lewd comments before his fights. He would always favour them with a wink and a nod, knowing that while everyone else dismissed these women and treated them at best as invisible and at worst as objects, they were the eyes and ears of the club. One of the girls, a buxom redhead named Bess who possessed the voice of an angel, had already whispered to him about the illegal bookmakers which operated out of the back of the casino. John had not yet been made privy to it as Tommy always made sure he was working the front door if he wasn’t fighting, but now he had information he could take back to his superiors at Scotland Yard. It might not be enough, though. That was why this operation must proceed. Archie would look fondly upon the man who returned his errant fiancée and would certainly be more willing to include such a person in his much longed-for protection scheme.

He glanced down at Miss Latimer and saw the firm set of her jaw and the furrow between her brows where they stood in the shadows of a portico, watching the front door of the club from across the street.

Every muscle in John’s chest tightened as his breath grew short, terrified that the moment he brought her into Archie’s office, she would be met with swift and violent revenge for her fleeing him in Paris. He wanted desperately to pull her back into the doorway and tell her there had to be another way, that he would find another way, that she was going to end up dead. But he knew what her response would be. That no one else would die on account of her actions, and that she wanted to go back to Paris and her life there. How else would they get Archie on his side? And so, he stretched a handtowards hers, paused for a moment, and touched her gloved fingers. She glanced up at him, her eyes giving nothing away of what she felt, and he nodded.

“Are you ready?”

She paused – just barely – and said, “Yes”, before pulling her hand away and drawing in a deep breath. John did the same, though it did nothing to slow the dreadful thud of his heartbeat.

“You’re not gonna like me after this.”

She shrugged and returned her gaze to the club. “Has to be done.”

John said nothing as he clamped his hand down on her shoulder and pushed her out into the street. Her face settled into an expression of sullen resentment as they drew up to the front door. The two guards observed them with suspicion as John nodded towards them.

“Evenin’, Danny, George. Is Archie in?”

The two men looked at one another, then towards his captive, who glared back at them and said nothing.

“’E’s in his office,” Danny said, returning his attention to John.

“Is Tommy with him?”

“Tommy’s out tonight,” George answered before jerking his head towards Miss Latimer. “Who’s she?”

John tightened his grip on her, but she didn’t react as he pushed her past the men and up the steps.

“She’s for Archie,” he called over his shoulder as he thrust open the door. The guards made no objection as he entered the main floor of the club. It was already bustling and noisy, and Bess herself stood on the small stage at the front of the room, singing a ditty about sailors arriving at the London docks after months at sea, the subject matter much at odds with her sweet soprano. She caught his eye from across the space and her expression brightened, a smile creasing her face as she lifted a hand to wave to him. She paused, though, as she caught sight of the woman he held before him, and her smile faded as she dropped her arm. She knew who he was pushing down the hall to Archie’s office at the back of the club floor, and she knew what was in store for her.

John tensed his grip on Miss Latimer’s shoulder as they turned down a deserted corridor at the back of the gaming floor. She swallowed as they neared the door at the end of the hall and he tried to think of something to say that would comfort her, but he couldn’t promise she’d be alright in the end, and he couldn’t promise that he’d keep her safe. Though, truthfully, if Archie did try to hurt her, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from interfering.

They both stopped at the door, John with his hand upon her shoulder. She was silent, still, as though waiting for him to make the move neither of them wanted to make – to open the door. He drew in a breath, instead, and reached down to take her hand in his and squeeze her fingers.

There was nothing he could say, of course, but he wanted her to know that he cared, and he peered over at her when she let out a short, wavering breath. She was looking up at him, her eyes shining with tears, and gave him a smile full of sadness before she sniffed and wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her gown. She shook her head and, just as quickly as the smile had appeared, her expression fell back into the look of simmering dislike she had worn on her way in. John drew in another breath, gave a sharp nod, and reached up to knock on the oak portal.

She shivered beneath his touch when a sharp voice called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Barrow.”

A pause. “What d’you want?” Archie’s tone was acidic.

“I have somethin’ for you.”

Another pause. “Come in.”

Miss Latimer closed her eyes as John turned the knob and shoved the door open. It rebounded against the wall with a crash as he took her by the shoulders and thrust her inside. There was a long, terrible moment of silence as she stumbled to a stop before the massive oak desk which dominated the centre of the room. John kept his hand clamped down on her shoulder as Archie looked first to him, as though in disbelief, and then to Miss Latimer, who glared at him with a very real, virulent hatred.

John’s stomach clenched in anticipation, but he kept his expression carefully blank as a slow smile spread across Archie’s face and he rose from where he sat at his desk. He watched, wary, as the Bruisers’ leader came around the piece of furniture, his grin wide, hands in his pockets, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Well, well, look what we have here.” He stopped in front of Miss Latimer, inches from her, but she never looked up at him, just kept her glare trained on his chest. John tightened his grip once more as Archie lifted a hand to grasp a loose tendril of her hair. She had carefully plucked out most of her hairpins on the way over, hoping to convey the effect that she had struggled against John and tried to make an escape, and she winced as Archie held up the strand of golden hair. “Johnny finally tracked you down, eh?” He glanced over at John now, his eyes narrowed. “She give you a hard time?”

John glanced down at the top of the golden head with an impassive shrug. “She weren’texactly willin’.”

Archie chuckled and looked back to Miss Latimer, who said nothing, but whose jaw clenched as he took her chin into his fingers and forced her gaze up to his. Her lips flattened into a hard line as she tried to move her head away, but he held her fast. John’s muscles quivered and he fought to maintain his blank expression as Archie leaned into her, until his face was mere inches away from hers, a cruel smile curling his mouth.

“Thought you could run from me, didn’t you, Violet, my pet?”

Her lips twisted in a snarl, but she still said nothing as Archie nodded towards John. “Where’d you find her?”

John was careful to keep his voice flat, to give nothing away.

“She were with a fella down an alley off Drury Lane.”

Archie’s expression darkened and he turned a sneer to the woman he still had by the chin.

“Silly little Violet – runnin’ away from me only to have to give it up in an alley for a few pennies.”

Her glare was scornful. “Better a three penny upright than a single moment spent with you.”

Awareness sparked along John’s nerve endings as Archie scowled, his fingertips growing white where he still held her by the chin before he finally pushed her away, causing her to stumble back into John. And though he wanted nothing more than to gather her close and keep her safe from the monster standing before them, he scoffed instead and pushed her back, forcing her to right herself against Archie’s massive chest before finally stepping back to stand between them, her head bowed, her fists clenched at her sides.

A terrible silence fell upon the room, the tension palpable as Archie glowered down at her, his breath coming quick now, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He spoke without taking his eyes off her, though she refused to meet his gaze.

“Told you she was a mouthy little bitch, didn’t I?”

John let out a small exhalation of laughter but said nothing in reply as Archie grinned at Miss Latimer, slipping his hands into his pockets once more, and rocking back on his heels to contemplate her with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“What should we do with her, Johnny?”

The corner of John’s mouth turned up and he made a calculated suggestion. “I reckon there’s a room upstairs that’s not bein’ used.”

Archie slowly shook his head, his grin turning cruel. “Nah, she don’t need to be around all them doxies. Take her down to the box. I need somewhere more secure – keep her safe till the weddin’.”

“I’m not marryin’ y—” she started to protest before Archie cut her off by grabbing a fistful of her hair, knocking off that stylish little cap, and wrenching her head towards him. An agonized gasp burst from her and every muscle in John’s body seized, rage crackling through him, burning, and it took every fibre of him not to smash in Archie’s broad face, and beat him until he was a bloody mess on the floor. No, instead, with a herculean effort, he stood there in emotionless silence as Archie pushed his snarling face into Miss Latimer’s.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky I don’t have you taken apart like those bastards from Limehouse and left in a ditch for what you done. You made a promise, Violet Latimer, and you’re gonna keep it.” There was a moment of silence, thick with tension, before he spoke again, bending to whisper in her ear. “You said you loved me.”

Anyone else would have missed it if they didn’t know Archie. But John heard it – the hurt in his tone. Below the rage and the resentment, he was wounded, and he hated it, and hated her for being the one to make him feel that way. Violet’s lips flattened into a hard line, and she shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze.

“I did… until I saw who Archie Neville really is.”

She winced as his grip tightened, drawing another gasp from her, before he pushed her down with a disgusted snort, sending her sprawling on the faded Turkish rug. John could only watch, furious in his helplessness, as Archie jerked his head towards him.

“Take her down to the box, Johnny. Few days down there should persuade her – keep her from liftin’ her skirts for whoever’ll pay for it, too. You just remember you’re mine, Violet.”

John met that spiteful, cruel gaze and gave a short, benign nod, as though he were simply agreeing to share a pint, and reached for Violet, pausing when Archie spoke again.

“And that fella she were with off Drury Lane?”

Archie’s eyes were narrow, assessing, as John looked up, forcing his expression into one of cool calculation.

“He was dealt with.”

Archie grinned at that as John bent down and took Violet by the back of her crimson gown to haul her up off the floor. She twisted, snarling, as though to get him to release her, but he merely locked an arm around her and held her tight as she spat and thrashed, cursing impressively at them. He dragged her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them, before pulling her, still fighting against the cage of his arms, and shouting at him to release her, down the hall, away from the gaming floor. There was another door at the end of the corridor, and he pushed it open and pulled her through, not releasing her until he had closed it behind them.

She staggered out of his arms, gasping, before turning to face him. They were in a narrow hall, lit by a few sputtering lamps on the wall, with a staircase leading down into a cavernous darkness. She glanced down into the shadows.

“Is the box down there?”

John leaned against the portal and nodded. “It’s where Archie keeps anyone he wants to… question. This is the only way in or out.”

“So, I don’t come out until he decides?”

He slowly shook his head. “No.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed before she glanced down the stairs again.

“Will you be able to come down?”

John’s brows drew together. “If he trusts me enough now, he’ll probably have me bring you food. He’s still suspicious of most people except Tommy. I’ll do my very best to come as often as I can.”

She squared her shoulders and gave him a nod. “Then lead the way.”