Chapter 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

The street outside the Devil’s Den was full of dozens of police and wagons. Violet blinked in surprise, then turned when she heard someone screaming her name.

“Get outta my way!” a familiar voice shouted, and she squinted in the dim light of the streetlamps to see Della pushing her way through the crowd, followed by her husband and a handful of officers. She raced across the street, still wearing her fine silver evening gown with the earl’s topcoat thrown hastily over her bare shoulders. Violet slowly made her way down the stairs to the street, still in a haze as the fear began to subside, leaving her shaking.

“Clara!” Della cried as she reached Violet, who immediately held out the baby for her mother to sweep into her arms. Her husband reached them a moment later as the group of policemen filed up the stairs behind Violet and into the club.

“He’s in the cellar,” she murmured as they stormed past her, truncheons in hand. One of the men nodded at her in acknowledgement before shouting an order as the earl closed his arms around his wife and daughter. Della was sobbing in relief, and after a long moment, she finally turned and gave Violet a tearful smile.

“What would I do without you, Vi?” she whispered, and Violet finally managed a grin.

“Anythin’ for you, Del.”

It was only now as she came to her senses that Violet realized her hand was aching from hitting Archie and she winced as she flexed her fingers. How on earth did John manage to do that night after night? Realizing where her thoughts had wandered, she instinctively glanced up to try to find him in the crowd of officers who milled about on the street, but there was no head of dark golden hair to be seen. A shout came from inside the club, and moments later a group of men led Archie Neville out into the street. He had been shackled and his face was smeared with blood, and he swore viciously as he was led to a waiting wagon. A sergeant stopped beside Violet, his thumbs thrust into his belt loops.

“You Violet Latimer?”

“Yes.”

“That broken nose your doin’?” he asked, motioning towards the wagon into which Archie was being unceremoniously shoved and the door slammed behind him. She looked down at her swollen hand.

“It is,” she replied, and the sergeant gave an approving nod.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll have a few questions for you when you’re ready.”

She inclined her head. “I’ll be here.”

He nodded and left to join the other officers, leaving Violet standing alone on the street, still wearing her lush emerald gown. Della caught her eye after a moment and, carefully handing her daughter over to her husband, came to stand beside her friend.

“Are you alright?” she asked, and Violet let out a shuddering breath as she looked out over the street where officers still milled about. The wagon with Archie had already left.

“Yes, I think so. I will be.”

Della gave her a small smile. “Did you give Archie that bloody nose?”

The corner of Violet’s mouth lifted as she met Della’s gaze. “I broke it, apparently.”

Her friend let out a little laugh. “Well done. That was a lucky hit.”

Violet shook her head. “Not lucky. John taught me.” She swallowed and looked away. “Where is he, anyhow?”

There was a moment of silence. “As I understand, he’s at the Fox and Friar, placing Tommy under arrest. The Devil was there, as well, and they’ve taken him in, too.” She paused. “I suppose it’s all over now. You can go back to Paris.”

Violet let out a long sigh. “Yes,” was all she said, and Della’s expression softened.

“Were you able to speak with him at the party?”

Violet looked away from her friend again, out over the police who were slowly dispersing, as tears pricked at her eyes.

“No… no, I didn’t talk to him. But I did have a chat with Superintendent Culpepper.”

“Oh?”

Violet’s throat was burning now as she desperately held back the wave of tears threatening to burst from her. She swallowed but couldn’t raise her voice above the barest whisper when she spoke.

“I really thought he liked me, Del. I thought he could look past what I was… I almost asked him to come with me to Paris.” She let out a choked laugh as tears began to blur her vision. “I was wrong about Archie… and I was wrong about John Barrow.”

Della touched a hand to her shoulder, and Violet turned to face her.

“What do you mean?”

A quaking breath escaped Violet. “Superintendent Culpepper made it very clear that John couldn’t hope to win that promotion if he were involved with me. What was I to him, then, Della? Why did I fool myself into thinkin’ he… he liked me?”

Della’s laugh was soft as she folded Violet into her arms. “But he does like you, Vi! Have you gone blind during your time away? Have you forgotten what a man in love looks like?”

Violet frowned as she withdrew from her friend’s embrace. “I know what a man in lust looks like. And maybe that’s all I ever saw. Maybe I’m right… love isn’t for me.”

Della’s expression darkened suddenly, and she leaned in close to speak, her voice a low hiss.

“You listen to me, Violet Latimer, and you listen good.” It seemed that three years being Countess of Bradford had not diluted the Seven Dials pickpocket Della had always been, and she let the full force of that background come out now as she pointed an accusing finger at Violet. “I will not hear you talk about yourself as though you’re worthless. I would surely be dead now if not for you, and I would surely not be Countess of Bradford if you hadn’t told me that I was worthy of it. And so, I’m tellin’ you now, you are the best and most talented person I know. And if you say once more that whatever you were means you can’t be loved, then I shall do worse to you than a broken nose! Because I love you – you are my very best friend in this world, Violet, and you deserve love as much as anyone.”

Violet dashed away the tears which had fallen down her cheeks as Della straightened and gave her a stern look, though there was a humorous glint in her pale blue eyes.

“I don’t know what Detective Inspector Barrow thinks of you,” she continued as she pulled off her husband’s topcoat to drape over Violet’s shoulders. “Though he doesn’t strike me as the sort who would hold your past against you. But it doesn’t matter. If it’s Paris you really want, don’t let me or Detective Inspector Barrow or anyone stop you.”

Della looked over at her husband now, who was gently cradling their daughter against his chest and sighed. “We should be going home – I’m sure the police will be wanting to speak with you. And thank you, Vi… as always, I would be lost without you.”

Violet gave a small smile. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Della touched her arm before she crossed the street to her family and Violet turned to the waiting sergeant. Perhaps Della was right. Perhaps John had done her a kindness in never sharing what he might or might not feel for her. It didn’t matter, in the end. Violet had already made her decision.

The small hours of the morning approached as John finally filled out the last piece of paperwork which would complete the stack that sat upon the desk beside him. He sighed as he straightened in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He was weary down to his very bones, and he knew he could have waited until the morning to finish up the seemingly endless number of forms needing to be filled out, but he had wanted to be done with it. He should have been elated – it was over. Two years to become a detective, months of undercover work with dozens of scars and bruises to show for it, and now Archie and Tommy Neville were safely behind bars. The rest of the gang were being rounded up even as he rose from his chair to stretch his back. The streets would be safer for it, and the hard work of clearing out the slums to make way for sanitation, for schools, and for better homes could begin.

He should have been elated. But as he tucked the completed stack of paperwork into a folder, he only felt… hollow. He might not find out if he would become detective chief inspector for several more weeks, once all the higher-ups and Culpepper had met and discussed the merits of each candidate. And now… he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He had wanted that position more than anything; he thought it would be his redemption, his way to make up for the loss of Lucy, to ensure that the senseless crime which had taken her would not happen again. But now… he was not so sure.

John knew he should go to Violet, to tell her that whatever Culpepper had said to her, he was wrong. John would marry her a thousand times over, promotion or no, and never regret a moment of it. But it was too late… or too early perhaps, and he had no wish to disturb her sleep, for she was surely exhausted from the events of the night.

He couldn’t help a little smile as he pulled his borrowed overcoat from a hook on the wall and opened the door to his office only to be greeted by silent corridors. The sergeant who had brought in a bloody-nosed Archie Neville to be locked away in a holding cell had told him the remarkable story of one Violet Latimer, who had emerged from the Devil’s Den just as the police were assembling outside, kidnapped baby in hand. They had found their quarry in one of the cellars, cursing mightily and nursing a broken nose, one for which the lady had claimed responsibility. She had departed the scene with Lord and Lady Bradford to return to their home in Belgravia.

John hated that she had been put in such a position to begin with, but could not help admire how she had managed to escape with herself and little Clara unharmed. Unfortunately, in wishing he could have been witness to her landing what must have been one hell of a facer on Archie, he started to remember the day he had taught her those very skills, alone in the warehouse together, and how desperate they had become for one another, so much so that he had taken her up against one of the posts surrounding the boxing ring. How eager she had been; her legs wrapped about his waist, her fingers digging into his back, her cries of pleasure driving him mad with desire. He should have told her then and there. I love you, Violet Latimer. She deserved to know that, even if it did mean nothing in the end. Even if he never saw her again.

Yes. He would tell her. As soon as was reasonable, he would go to Bradford House and tell her that he loved her but that she must return to Paris, to her life, to her art. She would go knowing she was loved. Warmed by this decision, John breathed a sigh as he stepped out into the early dawn, the rising sun still hours away. He would rest for a bit back in his rooms before making his way to Belgravia, and he tugged his collar up higher to block the biting chill of the wind as he crossed the courtyard.

“Detective Inspector Barrow,” a familiar voice spoke nearby, and John turned as a hulking shape separated itself from the shadows and came towards him.

“Mr. Brill,” John replied, nodding in recognition. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

Edward motioned for them to continue walking as he fell into step beside John. “Wanted to see how it all went – only got a few bits and pieces, but I couldn’t very well leave my own party.”

John glanced over at the other man. “Did it only just end?”

Edward grinned. “I throw very good parties.”

John chuckled as they crossed the empty street. His smile faded as they turned to head towards Covent Garden. “It did not go as planned, but the end result was the same. The Neville brothers are in custody, and the rest of the Bruisers are being brought in as we speak.”

Edward said nothing for a moment as they drew upon Trafalgar Square, but he did give a slow nod before he finally spoke. “Well, good bloody riddance to the lot of them.”

They fell quiet again as they passed by Nelson’s great monument when Edward gave a sudden laugh and nudged John with his elbow. “I hear your woman gave Archie Neville a facer he won’t soon forget. Bloody brilliant.”

John responded with the barest hint of a smile, his thoughts consumed with the memory of Violet throwing a strike at him, only to tumble into his arms, letting her warm, sunny scent fill his nostrils. He coughed to dispel the thoughts and shook his head.

“Not my woman.”

Edward gave a hearty laugh at this. “You two was up there, shaggin’ in my office and starin’ at each other all moony-eyed the whole night, and you’re gonna tell me she ain’t your woman?”

John immediately stopped and turned to Edward with a threatening scowl. “Were you spying on us?”

Edward only chuckled in response and turned away to continue walking, forcing John to follow along. “I’ve no need to spy on the two of you, but I do know what goes on in my club. I’m not blind, man,” he said with another little laugh. John frowned over at him as they passed beneath the wavering yellow light of a streetlamp. There was no use prevaricating.

“How long have you known?”

The other man laughed again. “From the day you two walked into my office at Limehouse.” He paused, his smile vanishing as they crossed a deserted road. “My Lizzie used to look at me like that.”

They finally came to a stop in front of the little brick building where John rented his rooms, and he nodded up at the row of windows above them.

“Fancy a drink? I’ve got some very fine whisky.”

Edward lifted his massive shoulders. “Nah. Got a busy day ahead of me, undoin’ all the damage those Neville bastards did. I’m sure you’ll be busy, too, bein’ detective chief inspector and everythin’,” he added with a wink. John gave a noncommittal shrug, looking away as he was once again torn between that desire to do good and how much that position would help him achieve, and Culpepper carelessly reminding him that women like Violet, despite all she had done for their operation, were of no value to men like him. Edward narrowed his eyes.

“You know,” he began, his tone carefully indifferent, “I think I’ve a mind to expand. Your little party tonight has inspired me. All these charities is run by people who’ve never needed it. Think I’ll start me own. Men like us,” he said, inclining his head towards John, “we know what it’s like to need help. We know these streets better than any of them.”

John nodded, though in truth, he was not really listening, contemplating instead how he planned to tell Violet how much he loved her, and that Culpepper was a snobbish prick.

“You know what?” Edward said suddenly, and John glanced over at him. “I think I will have that drink, after all.”