Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
John held her, as he had that night in the conservatory, wishing with everything in him that he could gather her up right now and take her from this place, wishing he had told her, in no uncertain terms, that he would not allow her to place herself in this position. He had learned, though, that trying to tell Miss Violet Latimer what to do was as futile as trying to tell the sun not to rise in the morning, or the tides to cease their ebb and flow. She was clutching on to him, her long nails digging into his back, her face buried in his chest, her tears wetting his shirt, and he raised a hand to cup the back of her head, gently stroking her golden hair. He didn’t know what had been in Lady Bradford’s letter, but it had clearly affected her, and he held her as all that pent-up sadness and grief and anger poured out, wishing that he could take it from her and set her free from this place. But, since that was not yet possible, he was content to hold her, knowing they were safe, just for this brief moment, from Archie and his threat to any who dared to even look at her.
As before, she was quiet until all the emotion had finally drained from her, leaving her once more the Violet Latimer who did not care to wallow in grief, and she raised her tear-stained face to his, her eyes wide.
“I thought you were goin’ with Archie?”
He shook his head, knowing he should set her back from him, but unable to find the will to do so.
“He and Tommy have gone to gather the lads. Wants to put on a display of force, so to speak, for when Brill arrives.”
“And what about you?”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile.
“I’m to get you suitably attired. He wants you by his side, his pretty little moll, as he so eloquently put it, and so I’m to take you upstairs to borrow something to wear.”
Violet made a face as she wiped at her eyes. “And what then?”
John shrugged as he finally stepped away from her, feeling poignantly the loss of her warm, soft curves pressed into his body. “We follow the plan with Mr. Brill. Come on – at least you can get out of this room for a bit,” he said with a smile. She didn’t return the expression but did let out a sigh of relief as he pulled the door open and gestured for her to go ahead.
The club was not yet open, and so it would be quiet upstairs until Tommy and Archie returned with the men for what they assumed would be a showdown, perhaps with a brawl to follow. They would be whipping up the boys in anticipation. Wouldn’t they be surprised when Edward Brill came to them with an offer to give them everything they had ever wanted instead?
When they entered the gambling floor, she pulled away suddenly and marched over to the bar, stepping behind the long, scarred countertop. Bottles clinked as she rummaged about beneath it before emerging with a triumphant smile. She held a bottle of brandy – Archie’s best, by the looks of it – and made quick work of popping out the stopper, setting a glass down on the bar and filling it with the clear amber liquid. John watched, a grin playing about his lips, as she raised the glass and took a deep, grateful gulp. She was smiling softly as she closed her eyes, perhaps to better appreciate the flavour, before nodding slowly.
“Ahh… I needed that,” she said as she finally looked over to where he stood by a billiard table covered in faded green baize. He didn’t respond to her lighthearted tone, however, as he took a few steps closer to the bar. Her smile faded and just as he opened his mouth to speak, to ask if she was well, still concerned about whatever had been in that letter to cause her such sadness, she quickly asked, “What’ll it be, sir?” Her teasing grin had returned as she gestured to the wide array of bottles before her, cocking her hip and thrusting out her bosom, playing the saucy bar wench, and he couldn’t help but chuckle as he leaned an elbow upon the well-worn oak top.
“A whisky, if you please, miss.”
She winked boldly before reaching for a glass and the best bottle of whisky the Devil’s Den carried. As she filled the glass, he studied her, noting the delicate curve of her cheek, still stained from her tears, and the stray curls of golden hair which had slipped free from her simple chignon when he had held her. Even thinking of how tightly she had clung to him, how every curve of her had fit so easily against him, made an uncomfortable heat grow in his chest. The unbidden memory of her lips upon his made all the muscles in his stomach grow taut and his pulse quicken, and he snatched up the glass as soon as she slid it across the bar to him, draining it in a single gulp.
The whisky burned its way down his throat, and he coughed before setting the glass back down. When he glanced up, she was watching him with a raised brow, her eyes dark in the shadowed interior of the club, where only a few sputtering lamps were lit against the grey afternoon. He took a deep breath before he pushed the glass towards her.
“I’ll have another, please.”
She frowned at him now as she refilled his glass, no longer the lusty barmaid, and passed it to him once more. He again swallowed back the drink before meeting her enigmatic gaze.
“Did Lady Bradford have bad news?” he asked, and her expression fell at his words before she looked away.
“No… no, she’s well. I just… I miss her. And I feel like I’m goin’ a bit mad down there.” She glanced around the empty room and a tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “It’s nice to be out – even if it is just in his dreadful little club.”
He returned the expression as he swirled around the last dregs in his glass before she propped her elbows upon the scarred and stained bar to capture his gaze.
“Would you tell me about Lucy?”
John, startled by her question, couldn’t answer for a moment as that familiar mix of grief and guilt twisted his insides, but Violet’s wide, entreating gaze compelled him, and he frowned as he swallowed back the last of his drink and set down the glass.
“Lucy… she would have told me that everything I’m doing is nonsense. That I can’t possibly save everyone in the rookery on my own.” A faint smile curved his lips as he trailed his finger around the rim of his glass. “She would have made a fine police officer if women were allowed – she had no fear.”
Violet smiled at this.
“I should have got her out of that place when I left. I could have got her a job in service somewhere.” John pursed his lips as he stared down at his glass. “She wanted to stay. The girls in the flash house were like family; she wouldn’t leave them. She was doing alright for herself, fencing just like our mum.” He let out a small exhalation. “I hardly slept after she died, blaming myself, knowing I could have stopped it.”
Violet started to shake her head in disagreement, and he held up a hand. “I know that’s not true, not really, but deep down… I’ll always feel responsible.” A chill, like a shard of ice, buried itself in John’s chest as he looked down at the bar, unable to meet her kindly gaze. “It shames me now to admit… I spent weeks trying to find those men that murdered her. I was going to kill them. I wanted them dead; it was all I could think about. I would wander the streets for hours, waiting for them to try and rob me.”
The chill began to spread, and John had to cough to bring himself back to the present, even as the memory of stumbling his way through Seven Dials, with that same chill inuring him to all other feelings, threatened to overwhelm him. He shook his head and lifted his gaze to Violet once more. “No one ever came near me. I suppose I looked like I was ready to do violence. And that was when I finally realized that there was another way to stop men like them, without having to hurt people. And so, I joined the police force.”
Violet’s expression was sympathetic as she reached across the bar to touch her fingers to his, a gesture which made his throat grow tight with emotion. He gave her a strained smile.
“I’ve never told anyone about her, you know. Lord Bradford doesn’t even know about her.”
Violet’s expression was soft as she looked back at him over the bar. “After all this, Mr. Barrow… I think you can tell me anythin’.”
He chuckled softly at that and gestured towards the stairs at the back of the room. “Come on, Bess’ll be waiting.”
She hesitated for just a moment, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth before she slipped out from behind the bar to follow him. He put his hand out, stopping her as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and when she turned to him with a questioning look, he said nothing, directing his gaze up to the next floor instead, to indicate that they had their pretence to maintain. She nodded, understanding, and put on the expression of hostile resentment which had been effective for her thus far, allowing John to push her up the stairs to where Bess and the other girls plied their trade. As it was downstairs, it was quiet up here, too, for the girls had been sent away for the day. Only Bess had been asked to stay to find a few spare dresses to lend out.
John led her down a dimly lit hall, its walls covered in faded wallpaper dotted with tiny pink flowers. The dark oak door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open without knocking to find the shapely, flame-haired Bess standing in a small bedroom. A rainbow of skirts and bodices were strewn over the striped coverlet on the brass bed, and she gave a hesitant smile as John entered the room, followed by a sullen Violet.
“Afternoon, Mr. Barrow. Tommy says I’m to find some clean clothes for the… um…” She paused and glanced over at the other woman, who was glaring at the wall, her lips pursed, before clearing her throat. “For the lady, here.”
John laughed harshly at this as he wandered to the bed to cast a disdainful look upon the brightly coloured silks and wools. “She ain’t no lady, Bess, I can assure you of that.”
Bess ignored this quip as she took Violet’s hand with a smile and guided her over to the selection, rifling through the gowns before plucking up a simple sprigged cotton day dress in pale green.
“Lettie’s about your size – though we’ve not got anythin’ near so grand as what you’re wearin’,” she said, eyeing the stylish crimson wool gown before handing over the dress. She selected two more outfits, one in peach silk and one in gold and black stripes and smiled as she laid them over Violet’s outstretched arms.
“Thank you, Bess,” she murmured, and the other woman nodded before casting a wary look over at John, who stared back at her with his most forbidding expression.
“That’ll be all, Bess. You can go now.”
His gaze never wavered as uncertainty crossed her face before she finally inclined her head towards Violet and left, closing the door slowly behind her. John waited as her footsteps retreated down the hall before he finally spoke.
“The meeting’s not until later this evening…” He glanced at the pile of dresses she held, then met her gaze. “I could fetch you something to eat? You’ll want to try those on before?—”
“No… don’t go,” she said quickly, stepping towards him and setting the gowns back upon the bed. “I couldn’t eat a bite, anyhow. Please… just stay with me?”
Her wide green eyes were full of pleading, and he finally nodded, safe in the knowledge that Archie and Tommy would be occupied for the remainder of the afternoon gathering their men, preparing for a battle that would never come.
“Of course.” He waved towards the gilt-framed room divider in the corner. “I’ll wait here.”
Her grateful smile made his chest tighten as he took a seat in the small, bent-wood chair tucked under the window. She plucked up the peach-coloured dress and slipped behind the screen. Fabric swished and after a few moments, John heard a sigh of relief before she draped her bright crimson bodice on top of the frame, followed shortly thereafter by the matching skirt. After another few moments of faint rustling followed by a muttered curse, John finally ventured to speak.
“I suppose… I never thanked you properly, for volunteering to help with this operation. I know this was the very last thing you wanted.” He paused, searching for the right words. “And… thank you for letting me go on the way I did. It felt good to speak of her again.”
There was a moment of silence from behind the screen before Violet spoke.
“I was happy to listen.”
John allowed the smallest of smiles as he gazed at the screen with its faded cream and blue toile panels, and that shard of ice which had lodged itself so firmly in his chest felt as though it were beginning to thaw. He could get used to Violet listening – and he could be quite happy doing the same in return. Another moment passed before she stepped out from behind the screen, swathed in peach silk and cream lace. Goddammit. Forget listening to her, he was going to end up dead just looking at her the wrong way, and he sat up a little straighter in his chair as she ran hesitant hands down her stomach. The gown had clearly been cut to attract a certain type of clientele, and the boned bodice pushed her small breasts up until they were all but spilling over the top of her lace-edged chemise. The hem had also been shortened to show off shapely ankles and calves, and she frowned at herself.
“Archie’ll lose his bloody mind if I come down in this.”
John cleared his throat, doing his very damnedest to dispel the memory of warm curves beneath his fingers, of the summery scent of her, and of the touch of her lips, as he rose from his seat.
“Very likely… perhaps this would be more appropriate?” he said as he lifted the pale green cotton dress from where she had left it on the bed and held it out. She reached out, her hand lingering over his for just a moment before she slid the gown from his grasp and stepped back. He could have sworn he saw the skin over her luscious breasts pinken as she warmed with a flush, but she turned before he could see her expression and slid behind the screen once more. Heart racing, he resumed his seat as the peach gown was carefully laid over the top of the screen before she began fiddling with the new frock. After a moment, he ventured to speak again.
“Perhaps… when you’re back in Paris, I’ll come and visit. You could take me around to all the sites.” John immediately grimaced and dropped his face into his hands to stifle his groan. Idiot! Had Archie not told her that he had done just as she had said he would and destroyed everything she had built up there? He mouthed a curse and quickly added, “That is… once you’re settled, of course.”
There was a long moment of silence from behind the screen and John squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his fingers over his temple. He really had put his foot in it this time, hadn’t he? After what seemed an eternity, she finally spoke.
“Cor, Mr. Barrow… you really have taken one too many knocks to the head, haven’t you?”
John stared at the screen, mouth agape as he heard the laughter in her voice before she stepped out, prim and proper in sprigged cotton. He couldn’t help but chuckle as she sketched a little curtsy. This gown was leagues away from the peach frock: buttoned up to just below her chin, the sleeves long and fitted, the skirts leaving everything to the imagination. She sniggered a bit as she looked down at herself.
“I’d make a convincin’ schoolmarm, but perhaps not the intended to a Seven Dials’ gangster.”
John smiled as he shook his head.
“Archie’ll want something a bit showier, make no mistake.”
She sighed and plucked up the gown of black and gold stripes and disappeared once more. As she changed, he thought on the words he had spoken, said in the moment without much consideration, but he found himself warming to the idea. Visit her in Paris. Yes, that would actually be… wonderful. There was undeniably something between them… wouldn’t it behove him to explore more between them than the frantic kisses they had shared up until now? She had asked for more, after all… John frowned at himself. He wanted to give it – he wanted to give her more, though he wasn’t entirely convinced that she was ready to receive it, despite her offer. And, more frighteningly, he knew what danger there was if he took it.
Outside, the grey of the day deepened, and rain began to patter upon the windowpane. John stood and reached for the box of matches which had been left upon a dresser scattered with hairpins and powder pots, striking one to light another lamp. The shadows in the room wobbled as the flame righted itself, and John glanced out the small window to watch as the people in the streets below scattered for cover when the patter became a downpour. Rain streaked down the window and the little room, papered in pink and burgundy stripes, grew dark save for the few spots of warm, quivering light provided by the lamps.
“I hope Bess hasn’t been caught in that,” John remarked, off-hand, as he edged back the gauze curtains to watch water begin to pool in the cobbled roads. There was a pause.
“Isn’t she comin’ back?”
John absently shook his head as he turned to face the divider.
“The club’s closed tonight for the meeting with Brill. Archie’s planning for battle.” He let out a dark chuckle as he ran a finger along the edge of the brass bed frame. “Won’t he be disappointed?”
Violet said nothing, and John cleared his throat as he glanced back up. That look on her face after he had told her he could not take what she offered still nagged at his conscience. Afterwards, surely – when Archie and the rest were safely put away. Perhaps then, they could explore this attraction, and he forced the words out.
“About yesterday…”
A harsh burst of laughter sounded from behind the screen.
“Yeah, I know… you shouldn’t have done that.”
John’s brows drew together, and he took a step towards the divider.
“No… I never thought that at all.” He drew in a deep breath. “I very much wanted more, Miss Latimer…” He paused and swallowed. “Violet. And I’m so sorry if I gave you cause to doubt that.”
There was another long silence before he elaborated, dropping his voice as he took another step closer to the screen. “It just… with everything happening, I’m afraid the timing wasn’t quite right.”
Quiet fell, interrupted only by the hiss of the rain and the thrum of his heartbeat. When he was sure he couldn’t bear the anticipation any longer, she stepped out from behind the screen. There was no gown this time, not peach or green or striped, just Violet, as he had come to think of her of late, in chemise and stockings, her eyes wide. Everything in him came alive in that moment as she whispered, “Is now the right time?”
And he should have said no. Archie was still very much a threat – to her life, and to his. He could have told her, let’s wait. We’ll have all the time in the world once this is over – but they wouldn’t. She was leaving, going back to Paris to pick up the pieces of her life there. There would be no time. And so, instead of saying no, he found himself whispering her name, reaching for her, and she was in his arms, right where she belonged.