Chapter 21

TWENTY-ONE

Edward Brill was standing in front of Whitehall when John arrived several days later for his scheduled meeting with Superintendent Culpepper. He nodded towards John as he pushed himself up from where he had been leaning against the stone wall and came towards him, hands in his pockets. John almost stopped in his tracks, haunted by the memory of Mr. Best’s face, swollen and bruised and bloodied by his own hands, but the hesitation lasted for only a moment as he came upon the leader of the Limehouse Gang. Brill’s expression was unreadable as he stopped under the broken shade of a tree, its branches nearly stripped bare with the coming winter.

“Good morning, Mr. Brill. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” John spoke carefully, knowing he had broken the one promise the other man had asked him to keep. Brill shrugged and looked away for a moment, squinting into the sun.

“I received word from one of the warehouses that you and the Neville brothers stopped in for a visit.” His gaze revealed nothing when he turned it back to John, who shook his head.

“Archie was right there, Edward. I couldn’t refuse; that would have revealed too much.” He swallowed. “How is Mr. Best?”

Edward sniffed and rolled his broad shoulders. “He’s fine… or he will be, anyway. I sent him the best doctors I know; they’ll patch him right up.” His eyes narrowed on John. “You did a bloody number on him, though.”

John pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “I know.” He gave a grim smile. “It’s why I’ve never lost.”

Edward let out a huff of laughter before shaking his head and reaching into his coat pocket.

“I came to talk to you about a letter I got,” he said, withdrawing a plain envelope and holding it up. John gestured for him to come inside the building where they might have a bit of privacy. He found a disused interrogation room and closed the door behind them before turning to Edward and motioning for him to take a seat at the small table in the middle of the room and sitting opposite him. Edward set the letter upon the tabletop and tapped it with his index finger.

“It’s from that friend of your girl – Della.” He grinned. “Lady Bradford, I suppose she’s called now. Imagine goin’ from bein’ a common pickpocket to a bloody countess. I still tell that story to the folks who’s new to London, and they never believe me.”

John allowed a small smile at that – it was, indeed, a feat for Miss Della Rose to have made the leap from Seven Dials to Belgravia, but he had personally never seen two people so perfectly matched and so very much in love as her and the Earl of Bradford, and could well understand how she and his former employer had come to be married. He had never given it much thought for himself – service to the earl and now detective work with the Metropolitan Police had left him little time for pursuing such a match, though he reckoned he would enjoy wedded bliss if ever he found the time. Unbidden, Violet’s image came to mind, and the starry wonder in her eyes when she had looked up at him as they had lain together in Bess’s room. He was quick to dismiss the memory as Edward leaned back in his chair and pinned him with a contemplative look.

John frowned as he glanced down at the letter. It’s from that friend of your girl. Not his girl. He didn’t know what Violet was to him – or if she even wanted to be anything to him. He only knew that her plan was to return to her life in Paris, and that he had no business standing in the way of that. And still… that hadn’t stopped him dreaming of her, of imagining waking beside her, bathed in bright morning sunlight, or of cold winter nights with her curled up in his arms. It was never very clear in his imaginings where any of these scenes of domestic paradise were to take place, however. Not here in England… she would never agree to that, and he wouldn’t expect her to. But… not in Paris, either. He had far too much to make up to Lucy here. And so, as before, he had come to the conclusion that they were simply not meant to be.

John cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Edward. “And what has Lady Bradford written to you?”

Edward settled his hands over his stomach before nodding towards the envelope.

“She and that toff husband of hers want to host a fundraiser for the Charity Organization Society of London. I’ve never been keen on their politics meself – bit too choosy about who gets their money, but she says they’ve got dukes and viscounts and the like on their board. They’re tryin’ to stop people havin’ to depend on charity all together, and I suppose I can get behind that. She’s hopin’ her husband can get some laws or somethin’ passed then.”

John frowned. “And why is she writing to you?”

The corner of Edward’s mouth went up. “The lady said it were Miss Latimer herself who suggested they hold this to-do at my club since I’m apparently the face of reform in the East End.” He shrugged and dusted an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s doin’ this to help you.”

John glanced up at this and saw Edward watching him with a gleam in his eyes.

“Help me? With what?”

He chuckled. “As I understand it, you’re up for a promotion at Scotland Yard – though why anyone would want to work for those bastards is beyond me.” He gave a knowing smile at that, and John raised a brow before he continued. “I know puttin’ the Nevilles and the lot of them away will set you apart, but there’s nowt those toffs respect more than a fancy title. And if I host a big to-do with all the cream of society, includin’ your boss, well…” He paused and gave a crooked grin. “It’s all but guaranteed then, innit? And they might actually have a chance to see what life is really like in the rookery. See what we’re trying to fix.”

John stared at him for a moment. He had, indeed, posted a letter from Violet to Lady Bradford out at Headingly Hall earlier in the week. He hadn’t realized it had been to suggest hosting a high society event on his behalf, especially considering Violet’s dislike of this city and reluctance to reveal anything of her past to the people who would judge her for it. And a room full of aristocrats and police were certain to do just that.

After a moment, he lifted his shoulders. “Maybe she’s doing it for you. Just like she promised she would.”

Edward’s lips curled up. “Maybe both.” He heaved a deep breath and straightened in his chair as he put a finger on the envelope and drew it back towards himself. “In any case, she wants us to decide when to hold this little party so she can do all her plannin’ and send out invitations and the like.”

John nodded slowly, thinking, before he spoke. “The night of the raid on the Bruisers. Miss Latimer and I both need to be out of there when it happens and there’ll be nowhere safer in the city than a private club full of police and toffs.”

Edward inclined his head, smiling. “No, indeed. And when is this blessed event finally happenin’?”

John allowed a small chuckle at that. “In a month’s time. The twenty-seventh of November.”

The other man rose with a nod and John followed suit. “That’s sorted – leave it to me.” He paused. “Before I go… who was it you lost?”

John frowned. “Lost?”

He watched as Edward tucked the envelope back into his pocket before meeting his gaze once more. “You told me the reason you was doin’ all this was ’cause you lost someone. Who was it?”

There it was. The familiar ache, the twist in his gut. He swallowed before he replied, his voice rough, “My sister, Lucy. Mugging gone wrong.”

Edward’s expression changed then as he pressed his lips together, the grief in his eyes as familiar to John as his own. “Want to know why I’m helpin’?”

John frowned again – he already knew of Edward’s charitable work and his fight for reform but shook his head. “No, why?”

Edward cleared his throat now and glanced away, as though he couldn’t bear to look at him as he said the words.

“Lost someone meself. Me wife, Lizzie. Typhoid. Told her I’d make life better for our people, and that’s what I’m doin’. So don’t fuck it up.” These words were said with a pointed look, and John felt the weight of that look down to his bones as Edward made to leave.

“Oh, and Mr. Barrow,” he added, turning back for a moment, his expression grim as he slowly buttoned his coat. “I hope you’re plannin’ to retire those when this is over.” He directed a meaningful glance towards John’s hands, still wrapped in bandages. John followed his gaze, then looked back up again, his mouth flattening into a hard line as he gave his head a little shake.

“Never want to see another boxing ring again.”

Edward held his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before turning and leaving the small room without another word. John raised one of his bandaged fists to examine it before sighing and leaving for his meeting with Culpepper.

There was no time to waste; if the raid by the police was to take place in a month’s time, then there was still much evidence to collect for John’s case to be indisputable. If Archie found even a single way to wriggle out of his inevitable imprisonment, then the past few months would have been for naught. And Violet would never be free.

Unfortunately, the pretense had to be maintained a little longer, and John sighed as he stood to the side of the boxing ring in Archie’s warehouse, wrapping his hands in preparation for sparring with the Devil, who was already in the ring trading jabs with Alexander. Tommy looked on, notepad in hand, watching them carefully and calling out the occasional critique.

John allowed himself, during that quiet moment, to indulge in the memory of Violet, who even now was locked away in her little prison. It was something he rarely permitted himself now that their operation was nearing its conclusion. His thoughts of late had focused on making note of everything said and agreed to during his outings with Archie and Tommy to the East End, copying ledgers, creating floorplans of the Devil’s Den – in general, attacking the mounds of paperwork that were the bane of every police officer’s life, in order to make that final raid in a month’s time go as smoothly as possible. It had to, for when he did allow his thoughts to wander, however briefly, they always went to Violet and his promise to her. His promise… and of Violet herself. Of the delectable slide of her skin over his and how it had been burnished gold in the flickering candlelight of Bess’s room during that stormy afternoon; of the sweetness of her sex and how he fancied he could still taste her, even after all the time that had passed. Of her harsh gasps of pleasure, and of her scent… all the loveliness of a summer’s day. He could not recall a single woman who had so thoroughly come to haunt his senses, his dreams, his very existence, as Violet Latimer had.

The temptation to invite her to stay grew stronger every day, but he did not dare ask her to make that sacrifice, knowing why she had left and how much she had made of herself in Paris. She belonged there, and he fully intended to make sure she returned. Even if it meant giving her up and whatever fanciful future he had imagined for them.

A shout from the warehouse door startled John from his thoughts and he turned, absently, to find Tommy waving to him.

“You’re up, Barrow.”

John drew in a small breath to refocus himself and started towards the ring when, much to his surprise, Tommy began to shuck his coat and waistcoat, nodding towards the Devil as he did so.

“I’ll spar with Barrow today,” he said, casting a sidelong look towards John as he approached the ropes, causing John to hesitate for just the briefest of moments before he met the Devil’s bemused gaze. The other man shrugged and, together with Alexander, they ducked out of the ring and took up their things to leave as John stepped inside, debating if he should ask Tommy why he had volunteered for this duty. Tommy rarely did any boxing himself anymore as he had found far more success in coaching, but his gaze was unreadable as he stepped into the ring with John, rolling his broad shoulders and flexing his neck.

“What’s up with you, Tommy?” John finally asked as Tommy raised his fists and narrowed his eyes.

“Want to keep meself on me toes, don’t I?”

John said nothing, easily parrying a slow strike, one meant to assess rather than do damage. They traded soft blows for a few minutes as Tommy tested John’s defenses before finally speaking.

“Is that little trollop of Archie’s gonna ever bloody marry him? I’m sick to death of hearin’ about her,” he said with a scowl, stepping back to avoid a half-hearted strike. John managed a negligent shrug as he pressed forward with another in quick succession.

“She’s been given till the end of the year.”

Tommy’s expression darkened as he drew back his arm and slammed it forward to deliver a vicious hook, catching John on the shoulder. A real hit, this time. He was no longer being tested.

“So, what’d we bring you in for if not to use those bloody fists? Go knock her about and get it over with.”

John fought to keep his expression impassive as he parried another blow before landing a solid strike in Tommy’s gut and stepping quickly away from the retaliating fist.

“I’m not doin’ damage to Archie’s girl when she’s ready to agree on her own. I’m not a fool.”

Tommy was glowering. “Archie’s not gonna say a bloody word to you and you know it. You’re his favourite now, or hadn’t you noticed? He can’t stop bloody talkin’ about you and how you’ve impressed him, bringin’ that slut back from whatever back alley you found her in.”

John’s chest was heaving as he parried another quick succession of strikes before landing a hook. This was going badly – he had to have both Neville brothers on his side for any of this operation to succeed, and so he shook his head and let Tommy’s strike catch him in the jaw, sending him stumbling back as pain exploded through his head.

“He don’t know me like you, Tommy – I’ll never be family, will I? I only got lucky findin’ his girl, that’s all,” he said, conciliatory, as he rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“And how’d she know it were Arthur Potts what turned in Archie? He weren’t exactly one for keepin’ a secret, was he?”

John shrugged and parried again. “He’d be stupid not to keep that secret. And you know how them girls gossip – can’t keep their bloody mouths closed, can they?”

Tommy would not be mollified, however, and he swung again.

“Don’t you fuckin’ hold back – if you’re gonna hit me, go on and do it,” he said, goading John with a menacing glare. John gritted his teeth, parried a strike, and retaliated with a crushing backfist that caught Tommy in the jaw, sending him staggering backward with a hoarse laugh.

“That’s more like it,” he rasped, pushing himself up again to strike back. Sweat slicked down John’s back now as they sparred, Tommy seeming determined to send him to the floor, but unwilling to have the match thrown in his favour. He wanted John to fight, and fight he did, until his muscles screamed and sweat dripped into his eyes, burning them until he could barely see. Tommy was no better off, for he was no seasoned fighter, and his punches were growing laboured, though he fought like a man possessed, one determined to put an end to his opponent. It was only when he swung and missed that John finally drew in a deep breath and landed a hook that sent Tommy to the ground. He didn’t rise for a moment, but when he did, he was panting and shaking his head.

“He’s my brother, Barrow,” he said, as he pushed himself up off the ground, reaching for a nearby towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I know him better than anyone, for good or bad, and I don’t trust that Brill bastard. Get that girl to marry him, sooner rather than later, so he gets his mind off this protection racket or he’s gonna get himself right back in Newgate. And find out how she knew about Arthur. She won’t tell me nothin’; she’s hated me from the start. You hear me?”

The air rasped in and out of John’s lungs as he slowly nodded.

“I don’t wanna get Archie in trouble, Tommy. I just wanna fight.” He paused to drag in another deep breath. “I’ll talk to her; get her to say yes – one way or another.”

Tommy inclined his head and tossed the towel at John. “See that you do. It’s the only thing that might get him to give up all that nonsense in the East End.”

He didn’t wait for a reply but turned and stepped between the ropes before gathering up his clothes and leaving the warehouse. Once alone in the cool, dim quiet, John slowly wiped the sweat from his face, wincing as he touched a hand to his jaw and drawing it back to find blood smeared on his fingers. Sighing, he pressed the towel to his skin and stepped out of the ring. He had just managed to save that interaction, but there were still three weeks to go until the planned raid of Archie’s club. The timing had to be just right now – any slip-up and the operation would fall apart. They were so close he could taste it. And yet, as he had felt in his meeting with Culpepper, it all still seemed so far away. Perhaps Violet’s plan to throw a fundraiser in his name was not so far-fetched as he had first believed it. That she had even considered putting herself so publicly on display to further his career made his chest grow warm, and he found his worries slipping away as he dressed and left the warehouse to make his way back to the club, eager for brilliant, emerald eyes and that summery scent.