Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Unfortunately, Archie was gone by the time John made it upstairs, but his office was not empty. Tommy sat at the desk, leaning back in the big leather chair, with his booted feet propped up on the desktop. He nodded towards John as he paused in the doorway.

“The Devil’s taken Henry – let the Bethnal Boys deal with him. What was that fool thinkin’ of, layin’ a hand on that girl?”

John shrugged. “Too many blows to the head, I reckon. Where’s Archie gone?”

“Took off, was mutterin’ somethin’ about Arthur Potts.”

John took a moment to lean against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his brows.

“Apparently he’s the one what turned in Archie. Least that’s what his girl said.”

Tommy’s eyes widened in surprise before his expression darkened. “He always was a shifty little bastard. Archie’ll tear him apartwith his bare hands.”

“He would,” John agreed, uncrossing his arms, and standing upright. “’Cept he got himself stabbed to death in Whitechapel a few years back.”

“Bloody hell,” Tommy muttered as he swung his legs off the desk and rose from the chair. “Where’s he gone then?”

John lifted his shoulders in an insouciant shrug. “Probably gone to find whatever the next best thing is.”

Tommy shook his head as he came around the desk. “Arthur didn’t have nobody – no family, and no one who liked him enough to call him a friend. Archie’s gonna end up back here itchin’ for a fight.”

John’s blood ran cold at this. It was true – he would rage about Covent Garden hoping to find someone, anyone who could take the blame for Arthur, before finding himself a stranger who would bear the brunt of his anger instead. John’s expression remained resigned, however, and he jerked his head in the direction of the club floor.

“Should I go find him?”

Tommy sighed as he perched himself on the edge of the desk and it creaked under his weight.

“’Spose so. How’d she know it were Arthur, anyway?”

John shrugged again.“Happened in a brothel… she must’ve known one of the girls there.”

The corner of Tommy’s mouth turned up. “She would, gettin’ around the way she did. Could have avoided all that if she had just married him to begin with.”

John’s chest grew hot with anger, and it took an effort to give Tommy a snide grin. “Bloody women never learn, eh?”

Tommy chuckled and nodded towards the door. “You’d better go find him, then. I’ll head back to the warehouse, see if he’s gone there.”

“I’ll have a walk round Whitechapel.”

Tommy inclined his head in agreement as he tugged on his coat before following John out of the club and into the bright morning sun where they parted ways.

Another quick detour was required before John could set about finding Archie and trying to talk him out of another violent rampage, and it took him south to Whitehall.

He entered the building and passed through a lobby bustling with police and secretaries, all shouting at each other over the din of rustling papers and echoing footsteps and made his way upstairs to the office of the superintendent, Lloyd Culpepper, his superior and the man in charge of the eradication of London gangs. He was also the man who would be deciding who would be promoted to detective chief inspector, the position John was determinedto win to ensure no one would die, pointlessly, as Lucy had; that no one would have to rob innocent people like her in the first place for lack of food, of a home, of a job.

His office door was ajar, and so John raised a fist and tapped lightly upon the door frame, earning a gruff, “Make it quick.”

John pushed the door open, and Culpepper raised his head, nodding when he recognized his officer and setting down the pipe he held.

“Ah, detective inspector, come in, come in. Apologies for the mess,” he added as he rose to gather the papers scattered across his desktop, gesturing for John to take a seat in one of the faded oxblood leather chairs which sat by the window. “You’ll have to be quick; I’ve another meeting with the MWB in an hour. Any progress?”

John nodded as he settled himself into one of the chairs. Culpepper had been referring to the Metropolitan Works Board, the body in charge of housing and sewage for the city. They were also leading the efforts to clear the slums, a task made difficult in areas like Seven Dials and Covent Garden as Archie ruled with an iron fist once more, making police and engineers reluctant to make any plans for rebuilding the rottingtenements.

“Neville has accepted our cover story – the girl is at his club now. She’s told him Arthur Potts was responsible for his imprisonment and he seems convinced, though I can tell you, he was none too pleased.”

Culpepper gave a grim shake of his head as he nudged the papers into a neat stack and set them down before taking up his pipe once more. “I’m not going to have more murders on my hands after this, am I?” he asked, breathing out a puff of smoke.

John drew in a deep breath. “I’ll talk some sense into him.”

“See that you do. Bloody under-secretary is badgering me about it; he’s got journalists sniffing around, claiming the police are failing the East End.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Culpepper cut him a sharp look but said nothing as he settled back into his chair, running a hand over his greying chestnut beard and drawing upon his pipe once more.

“I’ve been at this nearly ten years now, trying to drive the gangs out of the rookeries – they’re like bloody weeds, they are. Take out one leader, a new one grows in his place.”

John leaned forward and braced his forearms on his thighs. “That’s why this will work. No more chasing after the Bruisers for petty crimes – we put them away for good this time. All of them. Make sure they can’t come back. Ever.”

The superintendent looked thoughtful as he gazed out the window to a bright, cloudless sky, though the chill of the coming winter could be felt in the office, even with a small fire burning below the cluttered mantel.

“And this Edward Brill? Is he to be trusted?”

John nodded. “Let us say we share the same goals. And I don’t think he’s keen to have us go poking about into his past. Much easier to cooperate.”

“And the girl?” Culpepper now turned his gaze back to John.

There was a brief pause before John answered, keeping his tone neutral.

“Reluctant – but willing to help.”

Culpepper frowned as he absently tapped the surface of the desk with the pipe.

“And is she… reliable?”

John’s brow rose a fraction. “I most assuredly would not have suggested this plan had I not thought her reliable.”

The other man shrugged. “Her past was a concern for some of us, detective inspector. She was Neville’s fiancée, and a Seven Dials prostitute… it doesn’t precisely inspire confidence, does it?”

A muscle twitched in John’s jaw, but he said nothing for a moment as he stared across the desk at his superior, with all manner of different scenarios playing out in his head in response to the other man’s words regarding Miss Latimer. He liked Culpepper – most of the time – but the man often seemed to forget that they came from two very differentworlds. Culpepper was the youngest son of a minor baronet. Not aristocratic, precisely, but gentry, and had lived a comfortable life, rising easily through the ranks of the Metropolitan Police to his current position. John, like Miss Latimer, had grown up in Seven Dials, living on top of a flash house. Women just like her had surrounded him his entire youth, raised him and his sister after their mother died and their father abandoned them. It irked him greatly that a Seven Dials prostitute inspired no confidence in Culpepper. How, then, would he ever compete against all the others clamouring for the position of detective chief inspector when they were all from respectable families – sons of lawyers and clergy and the military, men who had gone to good schools and been raised in good homes and had no criminal past? He had thought that being valet to an earl would shield him from the scrutiny of that past, but even that had not been enough to erase the stench of the rookery which clung to him.

He cleared his throat, erasing the flood of thoughts, and shifted in his seat to lean an elbow on the armrest.

“She was, that much is true,” he said slowly, adding careful emphasis to the word was. “But I can assure you, I have every confidence in Miss Latimer. She is a respected artist – she’s had her paintings shown at the Salon,” he added, recalling Violet’s pride in that particular part of her career. He paused to find the right tone that wouldn’t ruffle Culpepper’s feathers. “If the Countess of Bradford, common pickpocket, can become the darling of Society with her skills, then surely we can rely upon Miss Latimer. She did volunteer, after all.”

Culpepper’s mouth quirked up for a moment before he nodded. “I trust you, Barrow – we’ll see how this plays out. And just between you and me – I’ve already recommended you for the promotion. You’ve been doing excellent work here. Lord Bradford was quite right that you would be an asset for this department. I know the others were worried that you were nothing more than a pair of fists, but I know you’ll prove them wrong – we’ll show them that even someone with a past as dubious as yours can be reformed.” Culpepper’s tone was innocuous, but John had to swallow back a biting retort at this casual prejudice towards the disadvantaged as his superior leaned back and nodded. “But we must be patient, of course – must go throughthe whole rigamarole of bureaucracyand hand holding. If you can bring in Neville and his top men, it would be all but guaranteed. Don’t let me down.”

John did not allow that little spark of hope in his chest to grow at that moment – he had learned from a very early age never to hope for too much – but he did allow a flat smile, ignoring the remarks about his dubious past.

“I will do my very best, sir,” he said, taking the hand Culpepper offered.

“Good lad. I’ll expect another report from you by the end of next week.”

John nodded as the other man opened the door. “Of course.”

When Culpepper had left, John stood for a moment in the empty room with the low din of the office beyond fading into the background. He wanted to smile – after all, Culpepper had just confirmed that the role of detective chief inspector was all but his. And while that promotion was now almost within his grasp, it could not help but seem even farther away than before, contingent on whether he was successful or not, on whether he could prove that a former fence and petty criminal could become a trusted member of the police force. His and Miss Latimer’s plan had to work now.

John shook his head as he gathered up his hat and coat to leave the office. It was time to contact Edward Brill.

Violet furrowed her brow as she dragged her pencil over the page, composing an entire story with a few simplelines. The world fell away when she was creating; she no longer felt the crushing weight of the four walls around her, nor the interminable boredom, nor the constant, simmering fear, just saw the picture taking shape before her eyes. It was, perhaps, all that was keeping her from going mad in this little room. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she gently smudged one of the lines to create a shadow, the hollow of a cheek. Another stroke of the lead rendered a nose, straight and sharp. She was just touching the tip of her index finger to the page to create the dip of a cupid’s bow when the deafening squeal of the bolt on the door being drawn back startled her out of her reverie.

She gasped as her heart seemed to leap out of her chest before she frantically shoved the pencil between the pages and tossed the sketchbook under the bed. In the moment it took her to compose herself and settle her expression into one of stony resentment, the door swung open and her heart, beating painfully against her ribs, suddenly slowed, and gave a warm pulse of… relief? Excitement? She wasn’t sure, but when John Barrow stepped through the doorway, accompanied by neither Archie nor Tommy, all the tension in her chest eased and a little frisson of pleasure spread through her. And again, she was confronted with the conflict between her heart – wanting desperately to let Mr. Barrow in, to explore more than just the kisses which haunted her very dreams – and her mind, which seemed to refuse to let go of the fear that she could never really escape her past, no matter how far away from Seven Dials she got.

But despite that warring of heart and mind, she was standing, smiling, eager as any lovesick schoolgirl. Violet, who had long ago learned love was for fools, who had used men for pleasure when it suited her but had never allowed herself to feel anything for them, now found herself stepping forward, with that silly grin on her face, to greet him. Despite all that had happened since she had fled Paris, despite this room that she was not allowed to leave, despite the man somewhere upstairs who held the power to destroy her life, she smiled for John Barrow.

And when he turned those warm brown eyes upon her, carrying with him, much to her relief, a water basin and fresh linens along with her breakfast, it made something deep inside her spark to life.

“Good morning, Miss Latimer,” he began, stepping forward to set down his burden. “How are you?”

She cleared her throat, tempering her smile as she heard the note of concern in his voice.“I’m… well. As well as I can be.” She swallowed. “He didn’t… he didn’t hurt anyone else, did he?”

He straightened and met her gaze, seeming to hesitate before he spoke. “No. Tommy found him at the warehouse sparring with the Devil. Poor fella didn’t know what hit him.” A ghost of a smile played about his lips. “I’ve sent a message to Mr. Brill. It’s time.”

Violet drew in a slow breath and nodded. “Good… that’s good. I’m not sure how much longer I can be in this room,” she said with a shaky laugh as John stepped back, resuming his position in the doorway. He didn’t smile, though, as he reached into his pocket and withdrew an apple. He held it out and she took it with an inquisitive glance.

“It’s dry bread and tea,” he explained, inclining his head towards the tray he had set down. “Thought that might get a bit boring.”

Violet scoffed. “Does Archie think to bore me into marryin’ him?” she said as she bit into the fruit. It was perfectly sweet, perfectly crisp.

John finally smiled, though it was faint. “He won’t be worried about marrying you once he hears from Edward Brill.”

She shook her head, took another bite and swallowed before answering. “Oh, he’ll still want to marry me. He’s like a dog with a bone, is Archie. But at least he won’t be so angry.”

The corner of John’s mouth turned up. “I’ll get you out of here before that, I promise. Go on, wash up – I’ll wait,” he added as he turned his back to her and shielded the door. She took the opportunity to strip from her gown before filling the basin and squeezing out the sponge. It was a hugely welcome relief to lift her chemise over her head and run clean, warm water over her skin.

“The second that prison door closes, I’m goin’ straight back to Paris. I can’t wait to be out of this bloody place. At least I can wash it off me now,” she added as she splashed a handful of water over her face and neck.

Mr. Barrow shifted his weight from one leg to the other as his head turned, just a little to the side, and his tone was guarded when he spoke.

“It may yet be a few more days – perhaps another week or so, until Edward can sit down with Archie to go over the plan.”

“He’d better be bloody convincin’,” Violet said with a sniff before she finished washing and pulled on the clean chemise and drawers Mr. Barrow had brought, then tugged on her bright crimson skirts and bodice once more. “I’m decent,” she said, and Mr. Barrow finally turned to face her. Her joking tone had produced no smile from him, not even a gleam in those fathomless eyes, and she frowned.

“Are you alright?”

He tilted his head to the side. “Perfectly. Just hoping all goes well with Mr. Brill.”

“Oh. Of course.” She didn’t look away from him, narrowing her eyes at him as though to read his mind, sensing that something was wrong. When a moment had passed and his expression still hadn’t changed, she reluctantly turned to lift the lid from the tray of food. As he had said – bread and weak tea. She sighed and set about pouring herself a cup when he spoke, his words not registering until she swivelled back to face him and saw he was holding the sketchbook he had plucked up from where she had slipped it under the bed.

“Is this… me?”

She could only stare, wordlessly, as he slowly turned the page, and she knew precisely what he was seeing – his face, lovingly etched onto the paper in smooth lines and little smudges, drawn over and over again, from all angles. For a moment she couldn’t think, but when he looked up at her with a raised brow and an alarmingly inscrutable expression, her heart began to race, and she blurted out the first thing which came to her mind.

“I was just practisin’, is all – I’m not much good at drawin’ people and I wasn’t about to start sketchin’ Archie.” There. That almost sounded convincing, and disdainful enough of Archie at the end. She could feel the warmth of a flush rising up her chest but couldn’t fathom why she would be uncomfortable for him to see her art. She hadn’t even thought about what she had been drawing at the time, just put pencil to paper and let whatever was in her mind come to life.

“These are remarkable, Violet.” He was perusing her drawings as he spoke, turning the pages once more. His brows furrowed as he reached one particularly intimate portrait, wherein she had drawn him from the back, but he was looking over his shoulder, staring out at the viewer, daring them to look away. She swallowed, and forced an expectant smile onto her face as he looked up. Those dark eyes, so curious in her sketch, were now unreadable, and his smile seemed forced.

“You have quite a talent. And it certainly doesn’t look like you need practise.” He glanced over at the tray of food he had left. “You should eat. Archie and Tommy are rather preoccupied now with Arthur Potts and finding someone else to blame, but Archie’ll be back tonight when the club opens.” He handed the sketchbook back to her and she took it, her fingers brushing over his briefly. His gaze flew up to hers and she saw it… he had been concealing it from her the moment he had stepped into this room with that flat voice and shuttered expression, but when her hand lingered over his, that cool fa?ade dropped, and she saw the John Barrow she had come to know in the last month. The one with the easy smile and the devastating wink; the one whose eyes had burned as he had pulled her into him and kissed her, stirring something inside her she had been trying so hard to repress. The one who had entrusted her with his deepest of secrets.

And as soon as he withdrew his hand, his expression became blank once more and she frowned at him as he took a step back.

“Is somethin’ wrong?” she asked, and he seemed to hesitate before shaking his head.

“It’s nothing. I spoke with my superior at Scotland Yard this morning.” He paused and drew in a small breath. “He informed me that he shall be recommending me for the promotion to detective chief inspector.”

Violet frowned at him. “You don’t sound particularly pleased… isn’t that what you wanted?”

He took a slow, wary step back into the room after hovering in the doorway.

“It is, indeed. It’s not guaranteed, of course – I came rather late to the game, after all. And I know my past is a concern… some of the men think I was only chosen for this assignment because I can fight, and who better to infiltrate a gang of bareknuckle boxers?” He stopped but an arm’s length before her and that spark of awareness lit up between them. Did he feel it, too? His voice dropped when he spoke as though he were worried someone upstairs might overhear. “But if I can gather enough evidence to ensure that Archie and the rest of the Bruisers never see the outside of a jail cell again – then those chances are significantly higher.”

She tried for an encouraging smile. “Are you worried our plan won’t work? I told you – if you dangle the possibility of all that protection money in front of Archie, he won’t be able to resist. It’s all he’s ever wanted.”

His lips tightened. “I don’t doubt our plan.”

She stared at him, a furrow between her brows, still sensing something not being said. Violet possessed that innate ability, after so many years and so many men, to be able to know when something was amiss, and when she finally spoke, her words came out sharper than she intended.

“What do you doubt?”

His eyes widened a little at the intensity in her voice before he shook his head.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She took a step closer to him, drawing herself up to her full height but only reaching his chin.

“I think you do. What’s Archie done?”

He shook his head again and seemed to be trying to avoid her gaze. This man who had smiled at her, and winked at her, and held her when she needed it most, would not look her in the eye, and she took him by the chin and forced his gaze down to hers.

“What’s he done?”

He frowned as she released him.

“Nothing. He hasn’t done anything. He knocked around the Devil and then Tommy took him out and got him good and scammered. He’s probably still recovering.”

Her frown deepened and she resisted the urge to shake him.

“Then what’s got you so bothered? Why won’t you look at me?”

He did, indeed, finally meet her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat as he looked down at her, struggling with his composure even though she could see the desire in his eyes, plain as day.

“It’s the other night… I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was low, but she held his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“Done what?”

His cheeks warmed and she almost laughed at him as she leaned into him, challenging him.

“Done what , Mr. Barrow?”

“I…” he started, but trailed off, unable to say the words. Bloody hell, had he grown up in a Seven Dials flash house or not? Had all those years in the Earl of Bradford’s service turned him into some priggish old moralist? She inched even closer and tilted her face up to look him in the eyes, dropping her voice to speak next in a bare whisper.

“It was a kiss, Mr. Barrow. Just a kiss.”

Violet saw the muscle twitching in his jaw, the movement of his throat as he swallowed. She felt the heat of his body, only inches from her, and her insides turned to liquid, even as a small thread of anger coursed through her veins. She didn’t wait for him to answer.

“What if I wanted it? Needed it?” The ache in her chest became too much to bear, until she said the words she thought she might never say again: “What if I want more?”

He froze on an indrawn breath as he stared down at her, his chest now rising and falling. He shook his head, causing her breath to catch in her throat. He doesn’t want you.

“We can’t, Violet, not here?—”

“Why not?”

“Jesus, we’re in his bloody club?—”

“He’s not here – no one’s here.”

“Violet…” was his low murmur, followed by a sharply whispered oath as he suddenly bent and pressed his mouth to hers. And though the kiss began fiercely, with John opening his mouth over hers, pulling her tight to him, it soon softened. He pulled back after a moment, and his touch grew gentle, his hands coming up and cupping her face, and he was feathering soft kisses over her lips, dipping his tongue back into her mouth to taste her. The anger dissolved, and her heart was slamming against her ribs in torturous expectation as his fingers slowly traveled up, threading into her hair, undoing the loose chignon she wore. Her face was aflame, and she wanted to grab him, pull him to her and crush her lips to his, but he held her so tenderly, and his kisses were so gentle and caressing, that she could only sigh and lean into him. She felt no fear, this time, no doubt, and his touch made her feel alive, not overwhelmed.

When he finally began to draw away, slowly, she laid her hands upon his chest, as if in supplication, and closed her eyes against the sudden, inexplicable sting of tears. She begged that voice in her head to stay quiet, to not remind her of her spotted past, and what he might really think of it; to let her have this moment. She would break if he said no, and she raised a beseeching gaze to him to offer the one thing she had thought she no longer had to give. “You could have more… if you wanted. John, you can have all of me.”

Just saying the words, saying his name, sent a thrill of desire through her. And though she was partly trying to test him, to bring down whatever wall he had built between now and their last time together, she also had to know herself. Was she ready to be close to someone again, or would she forever be uncomfortable with intimacy? She certainly didn’t want to be, and if she was going to test herself, she could not imagine a better candidate for that test than John Barrow, with his kind eyes and wicked tongue. But when his expression fell and he stepped back, her heart sank. She had no notions of anything more between them than the physical; she was not a fool. But somehow, she had hoped, deep down in her hard, cynical little heart, that John Barrow liked her.

“We can’t…” He squeezed his eyes shut and growled in frustration before meeting her pleading gaze, shaking his head. “What happened with Henry… if he suspects anything… if we are caught…” His throat moved as he swallowed, but he never looked away, though his brow furrowed in consternation. “He’s already told me that I must do whatever it takes to get you to agree. He wants me to beat it into you. I can’t risk your safety no matter how much…” He didn’t finish, but at those words, Violet slowly pulled her hand from his, and he didn’t try to stop her as he gave her a remorseful look. “I’m sorry.”

She swallowed back the growing ache in her throat as he moved away and nodded towards the sketchbook held loosely in her hand.

“Best make sure Archie doesn’t find that.”

“Yes, of course,” was her whispered reply.

He paused again as he looked down at her, seeming uncertain before he spoke again.

“I’ll be back tonight with him. He’s not going to wait much longer for you.”

She lifted one shoulder. “I can hold out a little longer, until Mr. Brill is ready.”

John nodded slowly. “Then I’d best be going. The boys will be at the warehouse soon for sparring practice.”

Violet forced the corners of her lips up but found she couldn’t speak, so tight was her throat. He stared back at her for a moment.

“Goodbye, Miss Latimer.”

He had to go. He had to go now, or she would burst into tears. She attempted another smile – perhaps more of a grimace – and he left, sliding the bolt home before there was silence once more.