Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

Before long, they were but two days away from the party and the planned police raid. It started as any other; John arrived early with breakfast and a change of clothes. Violet felt as though she were bursting out of her skin as he entered the room with a quick, if subdued smile, before moving past her to set down the tray he held. He then turned to face her and reached into his coat to withdraw a sealed envelope.

“From Della,” he said as he handed it to her. She took it with a nod and tore it open to unfold the letter inside, scanning the words quickly as John watched her, expectant.

Dearest Violet,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that your time in Bradford House has not been entirely dull.

Violet looked up at John as she read the first line. “You still haven’t told her I left Bradford House?”

He frowned and shook his head. “No, of course not… I promised you I wouldn’t. I even swore the staff to secrecy. That being said…” He paused and gave her a meaningful look. “She’s going to find out once she and the earl arrive at Bradford House tomorrow. You should send her a letter.”

She sighed. “I will,” she said and looked back down at the letter.

I am so excited to see you again and let me assure you, the fundraiser is going to be a smashing success. I have become quite the hostess in my time as Countess of Bradford and everyone was clamouring for an invitation. All of Society will be there and Mr. Brill is very eager at the prospect of raising so much money. More importantly, this is our chance to show people what life is really like in the rookeries, and that the people there are worthy of better lives. Mr. Brill has been so very helpful in offering the use of the Brooklyn Club, and we already have plans for future charities so that no one will have to grow up as we did. And of course, if this helps in Detective Inspector Barrow receiving that promotion, then all the better.

Soon, you shall walk out of Bradford House a free woman, and then Clara and I can finally meet you in Paris. Until then, I remain,

Your dearest friend,

Della

Violet finally looked up as a heavy weight settled upon her chest.

“She’s gonna be furious,” she remarked as she turned and withdrew the sketchbook from beneath her mattress, tearing out another page to pen a response to Della. John gave her a sympathetic smile as she quickly scrawled an explanation for how she came to be in Archie’s cellars rather than in the safety of Bradford House as Della would expect. She hesitated for only a moment before she folded up the page and handed it over to John for him to deliver.

“As long as you are safe and unharmed, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

“As long as she doesn’t wring my neck first.” Violet gave a wry smile. “Is everythin’ ready?”

John nodded as he once again turned to face the door so she might change.

“All set. We will be leaving here at four o’clock in the afternoon as I will require your assistance in clearing out one of the storerooms at the warehouse to make way for a new office. Archie and Tommy will be arriving here at the club at five o’clock for the fight between the Devil and some new fella from Shoreditch, as will most of the Bruisers. The police will take position around Covent Garden at five thirty and move in once the fight starts at six. Meanwhile,” he added with a hint of humour in his voice, “we shall be drinking and dancing at the Brooklyn Club with all them toffs.”

Violet smiled, but her fingers were trembling as she did up the last of the buttons on her bodice. It was so close she could taste it now – she could see the ship which would take her home to Paris – but there was little gladness in her heart when she raised her gaze to John’s broad back, clad in sombre grey wool, and knew she would not see him again once she got on that ship. She shook her head. There was no time to think on that now; she must focus on the operation at hand.

John turned when she gave a little cough, and his excited grin made her positively ache with want.

“Then I’ll see you again in two days’ time.”

He nodded and held up the letter she had written. “I’ll be sure Lady Bradford gets this today.” He gave an encouraging smile. “We’re almost there. Just hang on a little longer.”

Violet’s belly clenched at those words, but she managed a faint smile as he opened the door, gave her one final, encouraging nod, and left. The bolt slid into place, and now all Violet could do was wait.

John tried to keep his mind focused the morning of the raid. He washed and dressed as usual, walked the short distance to Archie’s warehouse and had sparring practice with the Devil, losing himself in the back-and-forth of boxing, pushing himself until his skin was slick with sweat and his lungs were heaving with the effort to breathe. Then he washed again, dressed again, and met Archie at a pub in Holborn, where the owner was quietly informed that the Bruisers would be collecting from them going forward in exchange for their protection. There was no protest this time, and John carefully noted the particulars of the visit in his notebook after they left, heading with Archie back to the Devil’s Den.

“Come on, Johnny,” Archie said as they swept through the doors to a quiet room devoid of its nightly crowds. “I’ve got a new proposal for my Violet – think she’s gonna agree this time.”

John answered with a benign smile as they headed down into the shadows of the cellar where Violet waited. Archie burst into the room without so much as a knock to announce his presence, but she had clearly been expecting them and was standing beside her little bed, clad in her gown of crimson wool, her chin raised, her expression cool. John waited in the doorway, stone-faced, as Archie ambled forward, his grin as sly as ever.

“Mornin’, Violet, my love. You’re lookin’ well,” he said, circling her as though she were a prize racehorse for sale. Her gaze tracked him as he came to stand before her, but she gave no response apart from a tightening of her lips. Archie carried on, undeterred. “As I understand it, you was talkin’ about a Christmas weddin’.”

Violet again said nothing but did glance up at him. His expression darkened suddenly, all his casual cheer dissipating as he looked down at her, and John’s muscles tensed as the air grew chill between them.

“Now listen good, ’cause I ain’t sayin’ this again. I’ll give you your Christmas weddin’. We’ll get married at Westminster bloody Abbey if you want. I’ll even let you keep doin’ your little paintings. But we are gonna be married. At Christmas. I’ve given you more than enough time and I ain’t waitin’ no more. You say yes now, or I will be payin’ Della and her little brat a visit.”

John swallowed back the cold rage filling his chest as Violet glared up at Archie, her eyes filled with loathing as he leaned down to whisper into her ear.

“You did love me once, Violet. You’ll learn to love me again.”

John’s heart was now slamming against his ribs as Violet lowered her gaze, her lips pursing as though she were holding back a vicious retort, but in the end, she closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

“Yes, Archie. At Christmas. You have my word.”

She winced as he raised a hand and took her chin into his grip, compelling her to look up at him before forcing his mouth onto hers, prompting an outraged gasp from her. It took everything – every fibre of his being – for John to stand there and keep the impassive expression on his face as a terrible, sickening rage filled him. Violet’s hands were on his massive chest, pushing at him, but he held her fast as John’s fingers curled into tight fists and he imagined all the ways he would smash those fists into Archie’s face. He had to force himself to look away as Violet finally worked a hand up to dig her nails into his cheek and thrust him away from her, gasping as he laughed and turned to John, who was fairly shaking as fury coursed through him, but could see the finish line. He knew what was at stake and so grinned as Archie faced him.

“There you go, Johnny – you give a little, you get a little.”

John gave a huff of laughter as the other man swept by him and out of the room and turned to leave himself but not before catching Violet’s tiny, knowing smile as the door closed on her for the final time.

Later that day, at precisely four o’clock, John opened the door to the box and found Violet ready and waiting, practically giddy with excitement as she ran up to him to fling her arms around his neck and press those soft, lush lips to his. The gesture caught him by surprise, but it did not take him long to return her enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up against him to deepen the kiss. His hands slid up, fingers curling into her shoulders as she sighed against him, withdrawing after a moment to meet his gaze.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said with a smile, tucking her sketchbook and tin into her pocket before sweeping out of her prison without so much as a backward glance. Her wide smile faded the moment they opened the door at the top of the stairs, replaced by the look of simmering discontent she wore every time she left the club with him. He pushed her down the hall, nodding towards Bess, who stood chatting with one of the other girls at the bar, before they exited onto the street. Already the light of day was fading as they turned to head in the direction of the warehouse before he pulled her into one of the many narrow alleys which ran between the buildings. They followed the length of it in silence until they reached Floral Street, where a plain hansom cab waited. Its driver never looked at them as they stepped up inside, closing the door behind them and plunging the interior into darkness.

The carriage immediately jerked into motion as John fumbled to light the lantern swinging from a hook inside the cab, turning to take in Violet’s wide smile and glittering green eyes once it flared to life.

“I feel as though I’m about to burst,” she whispered as she snatched up one of his hands and held it to her chest, squeezing it in her excitement. He couldn’t help it; his free hand cupped the back of her head, fingers sliding through silky golden curls, and he pulled her forward to seize her mouth in a kiss. The heat of her skin, the sensation of her tongue sweeping across his, was making him hard, but they were only a short ride to their destination at the Brooklyn Club and reason had to prevail, so he pulled away with a gasp to meet that wide, emerald gaze.

“Just think, Violet – by the end of the week, you’ll be on a ship back to France, back to your railyards and factories.”

She breathed out a sigh at that, but the sparkle in her eyes faded a little at the words, and she gave her head a little shake.

“I think… I think I’ll give people a try this time. See what I can find in them. In people like us.”

John gave a small smile and dipped his head. “I think that’s a fine idea. Just know I’ll be the first to claim an acquaintanceship when you become a world-famous artist.”

Violet’s cheeks blushed the prettiest of pinks and John was sure his heart broke at that moment, aching with the knowledge of her impending departure, the one that would take her back to where she belonged. And why the ache? John’s breath caught as he looked down into those glowing green eyes, the ones which could be as fierce as they were warm with happiness now, and knew he loved her. He loved Violet Latimer. And he was going to do the right thing and let her go.

The ache grew more painful as he observed her in the swinging light of the lantern, his gaze moving over the proud tilt of her chin and the lush curves of her lips, over the sooty fringe of lashes arching over those magnificent emerald eyes, and the crown of her flaxen hair. And she thought she was damaged? Unlovable? No – she was perfection. And he would have told her this – should have told her this – except the carriage was coming to a halt and the door was opening. She turned to him one last time with an eager grin.

“Ready?”

He nodded. “Ready.”

The driver handed her down to the pavement below with John following, and she looked up on an indrawn breath. They had come to a stop directly in front of the Brooklyn Club, and it seemed that Edward Brill had spared no expense for this evening’s event. Every window on the white stucco face of the Palladian building glowed with gaslight, and enormous wrought iron urns sat on either side of the glossy red entrance door, each filled with a meticulously sculpted topiary. Massive swags of greenery had been tucked into each window box, and a series of brightly coloured paper lanterns lined the flagstone path leading up to the two-story tall portico. A footman in crisp black livery stood at the entrance, and he nodded at them as John led her inside.

As befitting a club designed exclusively for men of the highest orders of society, the foyer was rich with marble columns and floors. Dozens of paintings in gilt frames covered the crimson damask papered walls, and Violet was wide-eyed as she strode up to a small painting of a woman in wide skirts and a bonnet, peering into a busy street as a young crossing sweeper offered his services; the collision of rich and poor, hanging here in hallways owned by a man who had come from nothing, and paid for by those who had everything.

“Do you know who this is?” she asked, glancing back at John, who shook his head as he came to stand behind her, ostensibly to inspect the painting, but longing for a hint of her sunny scent. “This is a Frith – and look here,” she added, stepping towards another painting nearby, her voice filled with awe. “A Van Dyke… oh, is that Titian up there?”

“You’ve a good eye, Miss Latimer,” came a voice from the far end of the foyer. John and Violet turned as Edward Brill came down one of two symmetrical curved staircases which swept up to the second floor. He was already dressed for the evening in a fine black tailcoat and trousers, with shirt and waistcoat of impeccably starched white linen. For such a large man, and one who had grown up hauling crates off ships, he cut quite an elegant figure as he came towards them, nodding towards the painting she was admiring.

“ Woman with a Mirror ,” he explained before turning to Violet, who was looking up at the dozens of other paintings which filled the space.

“You’ve quite a collection, Mr. Brill – I didn’t know you were an art lover.”

He shrugged and gestured for them to follow him, taking them through the foyer to the stairs he had just descended. Through the doorways on either side of the great space were the card rooms and dining room, each bustling with servants who were busy setting the many dining tables, nudging silverware perfectly into place, setting out vases filled with fresh flowers – no doubt brought here at great expense – and aligning all the dozens of chairs surrounding the tables. Edward spoke as they crossed beneath a massive chandelier fairly dripping in crystals.

“I’m told it’s a good investment,” he said, stopping with them at the bottom of the stairs and turning to face Violet with an arched brow. “I understand you’re an artist yourself.”

One might have expected self-deprecation at this point, or modesty, as befitting a woman working in a highly male profession, but Violet simply inclined her head and met Edward’s steady gaze.

“I am – had a few sketches and watercolours exhibited with the Impressionists back in the spring, and a paintin’ at the Salon last year.”

“Impressive,” he said, nodding. “I’m sure you’re eager to get back to Paris, then, eh?”

John saw her eyes flicker towards him, just for a moment, before she offered Edward a smile.

“That I am, and to forget that this whole bloody business ever happened. Detective Inspector Barrow here was kind enough, though, to make sure I was still able to do some sketches.” She turned that brilliant smile to him, and John had to swallow back the lump forming in his throat as he glanced at Edward.

“They’re remarkable. Though I’m no expert.”

Edward raised a brow at this and turned his gaze towards Violet.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me see some of your work?”

That smile again. Dear god, she was so beautiful.

“Yes, of course, I have them right here,” she said, digging into the pocket of her skirts and withdrawing her sketchbook to hand to him with an expectant look. Edward flipped though the pages, nodding at the sketches of young William and his newspapers, of the people on the streets of Seven Dials, of the women who sold their bodies just as she had. There was a small smile on his face as he finally closed the book and returned it to Violet.

“These are rather good, Miss Latimer.” He paused then to withdraw a pocket watch and glance at the time before waving a hand towards Violet’s outfit. “Your countess friend sent along somethin’ for you. And I’ve a suit for you to use, detective inspector. This is a high society event, after all – have to look the part,” he added with a wink as he started up the stairs, motioning for them to follow. John fought the urge to set his hand to the small of Violet’s back as they made their way up into the darkness above, whereupon Edward turned up a gas lamp sitting upon a small Chippendale table at the top of the stairs and led them down a corridor paneled in carved oak, stopping between two doors.

“There’s a box in there for you, Miss Latimer. And detective inspector,” he said, turning to John and gesturing to the second door. “I’ve had one of my men leave a suit in there for you. Once you’re all dressed up, we’ll be ready to get this little party goin’. You two take all the time you need,” he added with a smile that seemed a little too knowing for John’s comfort, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow before chuckling and handing over the lamp to Violet before he turned and made his way back to the stairs. She turned to John with a bemused expression before shrugging.

“Suppose we’d best get ready,” she said, opening the door to the room Edward had indicated for her. As they stepped inside, the single lamp she carried revealed an office, no doubt used by Edward when he wasn’t at his warehouse at the docks. A row of single casement windows, draped with rich blue velvet, dotted the far side of the room, and the walls were paneled in deep red mahogany. A heavy oak desk sat before a row of bookshelves, stacked with leather-bound volumes and a collection of ships in bottles, no doubt a nod to Edward’s nautical beginnings. John spotted a gas sconce on the wall behind them and turned it up, filling the room with wavering golden light before noticing the pale pink box which had been left upon the desk.

“I believe that’s for you,” he said, nodding towards it. Violet took the lamp and set it down beside the box before carefully lifting the lid and pushing aside the layer of tissue paper inside to reveal a black velvet jewelry box resting upon a gown of rich green silk. John smiled as she pulled the bodice from the box and held it up with a raised brow.

“What d’ you think? Fancy enough for all them toffs?’

John chuckled. “I daresay you’ll outshine the countess herself.”

Violet’s cheeks warmed again, and the dull ache returned to John’s chest as he watched her carefully lay the bodice across the top of the desk before reaching for the matching skirt and shaking it out. It was a veritable confection of emerald silk edged with black satin, marked by a cascade of ruffles which fell from the waist to the end of the train. She again turned to lay out the garment, but paused, her fingers smoothing over the material, her expression unreadable in the dim light. When she faced him, however, a little smile curved her lips.

“I’ve never been to a party with this many toffs before. In Paris, we always had artists and singers and actors… no one stood on ceremony. I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.”

John let out a soft chuckle as he finally allowed himself to step towards her.

“I’ve observed my fair share of society events – you just stay by me and Lady Bradford tonight and we’ll make it through this together.”

She nodded slowly, but her hand fluttered to the base of her throat as he dared another step closer, close enough that he could now see the light of the lamp reflected in her eyes. There was uncertainty in them now, and he frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head as she gazed down at the spread of exquisite silk laying upon the desk.

“All these fine clothes won’t change what I was, not to these people. I know what they’ll whisper… she’s a common trollop. A whore. She don’t belong here; she’s a pretender. And the only reason they won’t say it to my face is because the Earl of Bradford is a patron, and they dare not offend him.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn’t tell her that wasn’t true; that no one would think that, because it would be a lie. People would certainly think that if they knew what she had been, and few would be willing to see past that to the beautiful, talented, brave, and clever woman she really was. He could certainly see it and he cared naught what her past was – he had his own checkered past that was, at this very moment, potentially holding him back from everything he wanted to achieve. A successful raid and the support of the Earl of Bradford’s friends would go a long way to getting him into the office of detective chief inspector, but there were no guarantees when men of better social standing and no criminal past also sought that role.

And so, not wanting to lie to spare her feelings – he was quite certain she would hate that – he tried another tack.

“You don’t have to go down there. Mr. Brill and I are quite prepared to host the evening ourselves.”

Her shoulders stiffened at this remark, and she whirled to face him, her eyes narrowed.

“I said I know what they’ll think of me, not that I cared. I’m doin’ this for you and all those souls like your Lucy livin’ in the rookery who deserve better, and I want them to know it.”

John could only stare at her, at the wild defiance in her eyes and the proud tilt of her chin, his heart pounding with the need for her, as he thought about how much he loved this woman. And then he kissed her.