Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

John could think of only two places where Violet could have possibly gone. The first didn’t bear thinking of – that she had gone directly to the train station to get out of England as fast as possible. More likely, he hoped, she had gone to Bradford House to collect her few belongings and change into something more practical for travel, and so, it was there he went, hailing the first hansom cab he found and asking the driver to make haste.

He was fairly vibrating with apprehension as he settled uneasily upon the faded leather squab, desperate to reach Violet before she left, to tell her what he should have told her from the moment he knew – that he loved her. If he had, Culpepper’s words would have meant nothing to her. But he knew how she would have interpreted them, instead – that he had used her and had never had any intention of being more to her than a lover; that he thought her a detriment to his career. John cursed as the cab rattled over cobblestones, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. He could only imagine Violet’s devastation, how his good intentions had only served to make her feel worthless, and he swore, in that moment, that he would make sure that she knew she was loved, whether she returned the feeling or not.

If only the blasted cab would go faster! It seemed as though an eternity passed before they were finally drawing up to the brick wall surrounding Bradford House, and John leapt from the cab and thrust a handful of coins at the driver before throwing open the gate and racing towards the house. He paused, though, as he reached the back door, for a light was on in the kitchen, though ordinarily the servants would have long since retired for the night. His heart began to race as he let himself into the hall and turned, hesitant, towards the kitchen, from which there came a murmur of anxious voices. Swallowing hard, he made his way towards them and found himself in the doorway. Harris, the butler, was standing before the large table with a robe hastily thrown over his nightclothes. He was holding Mrs. Cooper’s hand as she wept. Another woman, younger, stood beside the housekeeper, and she, too, was in tears as she looked up and spotted John. Her small gasp drew Mrs. Cooper’s attention, and the older woman glanced up. She looked baffled for a moment before relief filled her expression, and she drew away from Harris to come towards him.

“Mr. Barrow, what on earth are you doing here?”

John could only stare at the unusual scene before him, blinking in confusion as he finally met her tear-filled gaze.

“I… I thought Miss Latimer had returned for the evening. Mrs. Cooper, what’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth to reply when there came a knock at the door through which he had just arrived, and they both turned at the sound. When John looked back at her, her expression was stricken.

“It’s the police… someone took our little Clara.”

John watched in horror as she stepped aside for Harris to open the door, admitting a sergeant and a constable John recognized in passing. They looked surprised to see him as Harris directed them into the kitchen.

“Detective Inspector Barrow?” Sergeant Shelby said in a quizzical tone as they shook hands. John’s mind was racing as he gave a quick, absent nod towards the constable. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” he began, then turned swiftly back to Mrs. Cooper. “Someone took the baby?”

The housekeeper gave a shaky nod and waved towards the young woman who was with them in the kitchen. “Miss Yelland here is the nursemaid, and she went in to check on the babe before retiring for the evening, as she always does if the lord and lady of the house are out. And she saw…” Mrs. Cooper paused as her voice caught, and Harris took up her hand once more to give it a comforting pat. “The cradle was empty. We called for the police immediately and have sent one of the footmen to fetch home the earl and countess.”

The sergeant was replying, speaking in a comforting tone, but John barely heard the words. They didn’t matter, in any case, for he knew precisely who had come to this house and taken Clara, remembering with chilling clarity the words Archie had whispered to Violet when she had dared to refuse him: I hear our Della’s had herself a wee babe. He burned with rage at the thought of it and turned just as the constable was withdrawing a small notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“You must get word to Superintendent Culpepper at the Brooklyn Club. Tell him to keep the men on standby but do not enter Covent Garden until I get word to him. I know where the baby is and I can get her, but the police cannot be seen in the area. Tell him I shall find him in Whitehall when I get the girl.”

The sergeant was nodding as John turned to Mrs. Cooper, who looked on with wide, fearful eyes.

“I will get Clara back, Mrs. Cooper. Do not fear. The men who have her are only using her – they have no intention of hurting her.” And even though he said those words in a confident tone, he could not be sure of their truth. A flicker of fear raced through him, but he pushed it down as he stepped past the two policemen and made for the hall. There was no time now to consider where Violet had gone; he must get that child back unharmed. He only hoped that he wasn’t too late.

A change of clothes, borrowed from one of the footmen, was quickly procured so John might discard his eveningwear before he raced out into the street to hail the nearest hansom cab. He threw himself inside as he shouted for the driver to make for Covent Garden, clutching the seat the whole ride over and tapping his foot as though he could somehow urge the horse to go faster, then finally shouted for the driver to stop a few blocks over from the Devil’s Den. When he reached the club, he found the streets around it were empty and he frowned. The fight should be at full pitch right now, though perhaps with Archie and Tommy out looking for Violet, it had been delayed. He ran a hand through his hair to tousle it before drawing in a deep breath and making his way up the stairs and into the club.

He entered a room devoid of people save for Tommy Neville, who sat at the bar with a glass of whisky in one hand. Cautious, John made his way towards the other man, who turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. Settling his face into as furious an expression as he could manage, he came to stand beside Tommy, who tilted his head.

“Where’s the girl, Barrow?”

John shook his head and slammed a hand down on the bar. “She fuckin’ took off.” He kept his answer deliberately ambiguous, for there was a strange look in Tommy’s eyes; something suggesting he was testing John. Tommy paused before he spoke again.

“Found out a little somethin’ about Miss Latimer while you two was out.”

“Oh?” John answered vaguely, reaching for the bottle of whisky Tommy had left out and filling an empty glass. Another pause.

“It weren’t Arthur Potts who turned in Archie. It was her.”

At that moment, John was convinced that in another life he could have been an actor. His gaze hardened and his shoulders stiffened as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his whisky. He was shaking his head as he set down the glass and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“That deceitful little—” John couldn’t bring himself to attach any unsavoury titles to Violet, and so he shook his head again, as though in disbelief. Tommy was watching him carefully as John glanced up with a dark look, one he drew from the simmering fear and rage that came from that babe being stolen away in the night by this man. “I’ll find her, Tommy. I’ll find her for your brother, and she’ll wish she’d never been born.”

The suspicion in Tommy’s eyes finally dissipated and he gave a sniff of laughter. “No need for that, Barrow,” he said, draining his glass and slipping from his stool. John raised a brow as Tommy took up the coat he had draped over a nearby chair. “She came right to us, she did. Got her down in the box, and we even got Della’s brat. Archie’s goin’ down soon, and I assure you, when he does, she will most certainly be wishin’ she was never born.”

John’s breath stilled in his throat. Violet was here. He wanted to be thankful that he knew where she was, but Archie had made very clear what he intended for the one who had got him sent to Newgate, and knowing she was in his grasp once more made his belly clench with dread. She must have come right upon them as they were stealing away the baby, and a shiver of fear raced up his back, knowing what Archie would have planned for her. He hid it well enough, though, giving a dark little grin and nodding in approval. “The Bradford baby, too? She’ll fetch a decent ransom,” John said in a carefully casual tone, and Tommy shrugged.

“Maybe, but I told Archie he was better off tossin’ the brat in the Thames – too much bother otherwise. Ain’t no one knows we’re the ones what took her, and it’s best if it stays that way.”

John paused to empty his glass. “I dunno, I heard the earl paid Della ten thousand pounds for her little bit of thievery. Imagine what he’d pay to have his daughter back, eh?”

Tommy seemed to ponder the question for a moment before he shrugged again. “Might be worth keepin’ her alive a little longer, then. I’ll see what Archie thinks. Meantime, I do know that he wants us out of here – cleared the crowd out after the fight and everythin’ so he can confront Violet proper, like.”

John hid a sigh of relief. This was good… Clara was alive and would remain unharmed for the time being, and Violet was down in the box. She, too, was unharmed, but her time was very quickly running out. He had to get Tommy out of here so the police gathered on the outer edges of Covent Garden could reassemble. They could take Archie tonight; John would bring them Tommy, and the rest would fall with their leaders gone.

“Well, then,” John said with a sigh as he set down his empty glass, “I say we head on over to the Fox and Friar, get ourselves a drink and a meat pie, and leave Miss Latimer to what’s comin’.” He was grinning as he took up his own coat and followed Tommy to the doors.

“I knew not to fuckin’ trust that girl,” Tommy was saying as he dragged on his coat. “Never appreciated what Archie did for her, gettin’ her and Della outta that bloody orphanage, givin’ them a roof over their heads and food to eat. Thought they was too good for us once they saw how we ran things.” He scoffed as they stepped out onto the street, where a light flurry of snow had begun to fall, dusting the cobbles white. “A bloody Seven Dials whore and a common pickpocket thinkin’ they was above a few beatin’s – how do they think we got to where we’re at?”

John let out a disdainful sniff as they crossed the street to make their way towards Seven Dials. A man, dressed in patched trousers and coarse wool, stood outside one of the brothels with a flask in hand, muttering inanely to himself. Tommy walked by him without so much as a glance, but John met the man’s gaze, just for the briefest of moments, and gave an almost imperceptible nod before they rounded a bend, and the stranger was gone.

Violet waited in the silent darkness for a long time. Or perhaps it had only been a few minutes. She could not tell as she felt her way to the narrow bed that had been the source of many sleepless nights for her and gingerly sat upon it. Despair and fear battled inside her, threatening to overwhelm, but she stubbornly refused, focusing instead on her anger, letting it wash over her in waves. She would not die here tonight, she decided; no – she was getting out and she was getting Clara back. It seemed an insurmountable task, she thought, as she looked around the tiny room, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The barest glimmer of light streamed in through the tiny window, but it was just enough to create shadows in the corner of the room, to highlight the edge of the bedframe. Archie had been seeking the one who had turned him in for eight long years, determined that that person would die for their transgression. She was trapped in this tiny room with no way out save for one door, and there was no way that Archie was letting her out of here alive.

Violet shivered and bit back another rising sob. She mustn’t despair; there was no gain to be had from it and it wouldn’t get her out of this room. Seeking to distract herself until Archie arrived to deliver his punishment, she turned her thoughts to the one person who had occupied them since she had first seen him fighting in a cellar in Seven Dials. John Barrow. And though thinking of him distracted her from reflecting on her imminent demise, she now felt the full force of the heartbreak in knowing that he, too, thought her undeserving of love. That the reason he had never asked her to stay was because it would have made him a laughingstock at Scotland Yard.

Violet seethed as she dashed away unbidden tears. She was right, then, to leave this place and never come back. She was right to be alone, to care for herself and no one else. With that resolution, a cold, hollow sensation settled itself in the pit of her stomach, but she welcomed it because… at least it didn’t hurt.

The squeal of the bolt sliding open made Violet’s heart lurch and she jumped up from the bed with a gasp to watch as the sliver of light between the door and the frame grew wider, the door opening to reveal Archie, with little baby Clara cradled in one, massive arm. Her heart thundered as he stood in the opening, watching her with an unreadable expression. They stared at one another in silence. Violet was sure he would be able to hear the deafening thud of her heart as it beat against her ribs, and she drew in a long, shaking breath to slow it down as he took one step into the room, then another. She felt faint now; she had expected shouting and swearing and violence, not this cold, calculated calm. It unnerved her. Her breath was growing short as he took another step closer, and she swallowed as he finally spoke.

“Eight years, Violet,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Eight years I spent in that place.” He was shaking his head, but Violet’s gaze was fixed on the baby held in the crook of his arm. Clara was beginning to stir, thrusting her little arms out and murmuring as she woke. She looked up only when Archie spoke again. “You were the only one what ever showed me a bit o’ kindness, and I risked everythin’ to get you out of that orphanage. I did it for you. I killed a man to do it. And what did I get in return?” He grew quiet, never answering his own question before he spoke again in a low voice. “Did you really hate me so much?”

His gaze narrowed on her, and though his words seemed to indicate he had been hurt by her betrayal, the rage glittering in his eyes suggested otherwise, and she chose her words carefully.

“I didn’t hate you, Archie,” she whispered, fighting to keep the tremble of fear from her voice. “I didn’t hate you,” she repeated, softer. It was a lie – she loathed him down to her very marrow, but if this was how she got out of this room, she would spin the tallest tales ever told. “But I didn’t want to marry you. I was… I was scared of you. You’d changed. And I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

He didn’t move, but his mouth did flatten into a hard line. Clara was awake now, her tiny fists curling as she let out a plaintive cry, but Archie barely blinked.

“And what did you do, instead?” he hissed. “Became a whore – you’d have rather sold yourself than be married to me.”

Violet swallowed again, pressing her hands to her sides to stop them shaking. “I’m not a whore. I’m an artist?—”

“You’re a fuckin’ snitch,” he snarled, lunging forward suddenly to reach for her. Startled, she tried to move back but he caught her wrist in his free hand and tugged her against him to push his face into hers. “I promised I’d kill whoever it was put me away, and don’t think for one fuckin’ moment you’re the exception.” He paused and tilted his head to observe her as she struggled against his iron grip. Clara was wailing now at the commotion, flailing her little arms, and kicking against Archie’s chest as a flicker of annoyance crossed his broad face. He blinked, the emotion passed, and he was glaring at her again, his face growing redder as his grip tightened, making her gasp.

“Archie, please… you’re hurtin’ me—” She gasped again as he twisted her arm, forcing her to bend over lest he break it. His voice was growing louder now, and the unnerving calm was abandoning him as his anger grew.

“You loved me, though, didn’cha Violet? I was gonna give you the world and you got me sent to that fuckin’ hellhole for eight years.”

Violet cried out as he finally released her and she fell to the ground at his feet, panting as she looked back up at him. Clara was screaming now, and this only seemed to further incense Archie, who scowled down at the baby. A dark, dangerous rage clouded his gaze, and Violet knew if he got angry enough, that she would not be the only one to suffer his wrath this evening. She had to get Clara out of here, and she knew of only one way to break through Archie’s red haze of fury, so she pushed herself up off the ground and faced him on quivering legs.

“I’m sorry, Archie… I’m so sorry. Let me hold her – I can get her quiet for you.”

Archie sneered, ignoring her offer. “Sorry? You’re not fuckin’ sorry. You were happy to see me go, thought I’d forget about you. Thought I’d let whoever snitched get away with it.”

Violet shook her head to focus her thoughts, trying to keep her voice calm even as her mind raced, envisioning all the worst possible outcomes of this evening.

“Archie, come on now, give me the baby. You do harm to the daughter of an earl, and you won’t just go away again – they’ll hang you,” she said without acknowledging his words.

He was pacing now across the width of the small room, his furious gaze fixed on Violet as Clara gasped and cried.

“I shoulda known it was you – the second I go to Newgate you take off with that bitch Della. I shoulda known,” he said again in a low growl, shaking his head at himself. Violet was frantic now as the baby writhed in his arms. He swore under his breath before he looked up, fixing her with his darkening gaze. “Tommy said I oughta take you down to the docks and tie a fuckin’ stone to your ankles – and send the whelp in after you.”

Violet took a step forward, shaking now, her hands clasped in front of her. “Archie, just give me the baby, I can quiet her for you.”

“Who would even know? Who even knows you’re here?” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. Violet winced as Clara’s cries rose to a frantic scream.

“Archie, the baby… let me have her.”

“But that’s too quick an end for you, isn’t it? Of all the people who could’ve ratted on me, you doin’ it makes it worse… so much worse.”

Violet swallowed back the scream rising in her chest, knowing she must stay calm. He wasn’t thinking now, just raging, and so she said the only thing she could think of to break through the haze.

“I’ll marry you, Archie. Just give me the baby. I’ll marry you. I’ll do whatever you want, just let me get her home.”

Archie finally looked up at this, his gaze clearing as he finally seemed to realize the state Clara was in and glanced down at her with a disgusted sneer.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the screaming child at her. “Shut her up, will ya?”

Violet accepted the baby with a sob of relief, immediately hugging her to her chest and caressing the silken hair on the back of her head. Clara finally began to quiet, and Violet closed her eyes.

“I’ll marry you, Archie. I’ll do it. If you’ll still have me,” she said in a strained whisper as she gently rocked the baby. Archie only laughed.

“Marry you? Marry you? ” His voice rose to an alarming volume as he took a step towards her, his massive chest heaving. The door was open behind him. “So you can run off again? So you can break another promise?” His grin was wild now, his eyes glittering with fury. “Tossin’ you and that brat in the Thames would be too good for you.”

Violet swallowed hard as she shifted Clara, now murmuring quietly against her chest, to one arm.

“I’ll marry you, Archie,” she repeated stubbornly. “I’ll give you everythin’ you ever wanted. I did love you… I can love you again.” She clenched her free hand into a fist at her side, aligning her wrist just as John had taught her. Her shoulder tensed as Archie let out a snarl of disgust, stepping closer and forcing her back towards the wall.

“You’re not gonna get the chance, Violet. I’m not fallin’ for it again, but I am gonna make sure you suffer as I did.” His mouth twisted into a cruel grin as he finally backed her up against the wall. “Maybe eight years’ll do it. Eight years in this room like I done it in Newgate. And at the end…” He let the sentence trail off, giving her a knowing look. Violet gave him a half-hearted push with her free arm, and he laughed as he stepped away, nodding as though he were very pleased with this decision. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Eight years for you, Violet, and a swim in the Thames at the end. But the brat has to go,” he added in a dark tone. As he reached for Clara once more, Violet drew in a deep breath. She would only get one chance. Her fist tightened, she drew her arm back, and struck as hard as she could.

Violet took only a moment to recognize the sound of crunching bone as she connected with Archie’s nose. His roar of rage echoed in that tiny room, but as she had in Paris, she did not stop to contemplate the results of her attack. She clutched Clara to her chest and darted around Archie who snatched blindly for her, before racing for the door. Up the stairs, into the hall, her heart beating mercilessly in her chest as she reached the door to the club and thrust it open.

What greeted Violet in the street made her come to a skidding halt, and her eyes widen in shock.