Chapter 3

THREE

The Fox and Friar had once been Violet and Della’s favourite place to patronise when the day ended, and they wanted to share a drink and a meal. On this Thursday night, it was as busy as ever, filled with the swell of voices and the yeasty scent of ale, but it was not the libations, nor the hot meat pies Violet was in search of now. Truth be told, she could already feel the goosebumps prickling her flesh as the sounds and scents of the rookery assaulted her senses, bringing back memories she had spent three long years trying to suppress; trying to forget the life she had led here and the person she had been. Swallowing back the rising bile in her throat, she pulled her hood high up over her head as she ducked through the press of bodies, praying not to be recognized, for it would take but one word of her appearance to the right person and Archie would know exactly where to find her. She made it to the back of the room without anybody calling out her name and slipped down the narrow, dimly lit staircase leading to the cellar below.

As she reached the bottom steps, the shouts and dull thuds of the bare-knuckle boxing match being fought reached her ears. Keeping to the damp stone walls, she edged her way around the room, staying in the shadows where she hoped the crowd gathered around the makeshift boxing ring wouldn’t take notice of her. A bell rang, the people gathered to watch cheered, and the two men in the centre of the ring approached each other, fists raised. Violet stood near a stack of crates, careful to keep her golden hair tucked under her hood, and watched as money exchanged hands, men leaned over to shout their bets, and the two fighters in the middle of the room pummeled each other. One man, slightly taller than the other, grinned as he ducked a fierce left hook, his dark blond hair matted with sweat to his forehead. The other boxer, dark-haired and massively muscled, shook out his arms, raised them once more, and made another quick jab.

The taller man parried the strike and before the other fighter could regroup, delivered a swift back fist, catching his opponent in the jaw and sending him flying back onto the floor. A raucous cheer rose up from the crowd, mixed with some groans, and they shouted at the fallen man to get up.

But it was over. The tall blond man had won, and as money exchanged hands once more, the defeated boxer was unceremoniously dragged out of the ring and the crowd began to disperse. Violet waited in the shadows behind the crates, watching the victor as a handful of notes was stuffed into his bandaged fist. He accepted them with a wide grin and nodded to one of the barkeepers as he was offered a pint of ale for his troubles. He drank it quickly before turning away to tug on the shirt draped over a nearby chair. For a moment, Violet stood transfixed by taut muscles moving under sweat-dampened skin, of the steep slope of broad shoulders and the narrowness of a firm waist. Her heart was beating faster. Why was her heart beating faster?

She waited, watching, until the man shoved his winnings into the pocket of his overcoat and headed towards the stairs. She stepped out from behind the crates as he passed. “John Barrow?” she whispered, aware of the remaining men on the other side of the room.

He glanced up and frowned, as if surprised to find a woman in this dingy cellar. “Who’s askin’?”

She gestured to the stairs. “I must speak with you.”

The man didn’t move but regarded her suspiciouslyuntilshe sighed and drew her hood back a fraction. “It’s me – Violet Latimer.” She kept her voice low, despite the din of the pub upstairs.

He stared at her with narrowed eyes as recognition dawned on his expression before it quickly hardened, and he took her by the arm to steer her towards the stairs and back up to the pub.

He pulled her through the crowd, receivingthumps on the back and shouts of appreciation for his win as she struggled to keep her hood up before they stepped out into the street beyond. He said nothing, just tightened his grip and tugged her down a narrow alley across from the Fox and Friar, finally pulling her into the shelter of a dilapidated doorway. He glanced out into the alley before turning to her with blazing eyes.

“How did you find me?” was his sharp whisper. He had dropped the harsh Seven Dials voice of his youth, undoubtedly part of his cover, in favour of the more refined accent he had acquired in the Earl of Bradford’s service.

Violet paused for a moment to pull down her hood. “I’m sorry, detective inspector, it was Lord Bradford who told me?—”

Mr. Barrow immediately shook his head and put a finger to his lips as he glanced over his shoulder with a worried expression. “Don’t say those names here. Titles aren’t safe, especially mine. I’m simply Mr. Barrow here.”

“Sorry,” she whispered, unconsciously drawing farther back into the shadows of the doorway. “You remember me?”

“Yes, of course. You’re the countess’s friend.”

Violet wrinkled her nose at that. She still hadn’t got used to Della’s new title, so at odds with how Violet had known her – as a talented pickpocket and lifelong resident of the slums of St. Giles. Still, she had been thrilled for her friend to finally achieve the life she had always dreamed of.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

The dim light of the nearby streetlamp highlighted the sharp angle of his cheekbones when the furrow between his brows finally disappeared, and he smiled. “I hear you’ve become quite the artist.”

And despite the constant dull ache in her chest and the fear that at any moment, Archie would appear to claim her, she blushed. “You’re too kind.”

He glanced down the street to confirm there were no eavesdroppers before returning his attention to her. “What are you doing here?”

She drew in a shaking breath, fear beginning to churn in her belly once more.“Mr. Barrow, you know about Della and me, growin’ up in the orphanage?”

He inclined his head, and she continued in a low, urgent voice.

“And you know what happens to children there if they’re not claimed; if they don’t get work?” Another slow nod. “I’d have done anythin’ to keep me and Del out of the workhouse. Anythin’. But I was young, and desperate… you know about the Bruisers?”

His eyebrows lowered a fraction and his head tilted to the side. “Yes… of course.”

Violet might have noticed the subtle shift in his expression then, the hint of worry that tightened his jaw, the widening of his velvety brown eyes that seemed to suggest he feared what she would say next. But she saw none of this, so consumed by terror she was, and the words tumbled out of her, unchecked.

“It was their leader – Archie Neville – he promised me and Del he’d get us out of there, train us to be divers, take care of us, ’cause we knew what happened if you went into the workhouse – you’d probably not come out again. And I believed him; I believed every bloody lie that came out of his mouth, and I only had to promise him one thing, that I’d marry him when the time came. And I… I wanted to marry him. I thought I loved him.” Her breath caught for a moment, the shame at making that promise in the first place causing her cheeks to grow hot. “But then I started to see what he really was – should have seen it from the start. He killed one of the guards who tried to stop us leavin’ the orphanage, and I just told myself that it had to be done – he did it to save us. But then things started to change, and I became so scared of him. I knew I couldn’t marry him. But… but I also knew he wasn’t gonna let us go.” To her horror, tears began to well up in her eyes and she shook her head, furious at herself. Mr. Barrow merely watched her, listening, his head tilted to the side. Violet paused now as the tears fell and the next words she said came out in an agonized whisper from behind her fingers as she held her hands to her mouth, finally speaking aloud the terrible truth she had carried with her for so long, she was sure it had poisoned her. “I turned him in.” She closed her eyes for a moment as the words spilled out. “I knew the police were lookin’ for whoever was runnin’ the Bruisers, but they didn’t know who it was. There was a constable I knew, and I told him all about Archie – the robberies, the beatin’s, the pimpin’. I even told him about the guard he killed, but I don’t think they ever got him for that. He’s been in Newgate nearly eight years now and the first thing he did when they let him out was to come and find me. He found me in Paris, in a bar – he knew exactly where I was.” She gasped out the last word as Mr. Barrow snatched up her hand, his whisper urgent.

“Does he know? Does he know you turned him in?”

Violet raised her tear-filled eyes to his as a sob welled up in her throat. “I’d already be dead if he knew – Mr. Barrow, he can’t know it was me!”

“Hush, now, Miss Latimer. I can help you.” He glanced up the street again and, following his gaze, she spotted the group of men coming around the corner. She recognized them from the fight and looked up at Mr. Barrow in a panic as they drew closer, their laughter ringing off the damp brick walls of the buildings surrounding them. His grip tightened on her hand and, turning to look in the direction they were headed, he started to pull her out from the cover of the doorway as though to make a run for it, but they were too close. She shook her head, tugged him back and reached up to cup the back of his head. Withoutthinking, she pulled him down and pressed her lips to his.

Oh no.

It was the first thought that went through Violet’s head as he froze for a moment, no doubt shocked, before he seemed to understand her intentions and leaned into her. He pressed her back against the peeling door, raising an arm as he did so to rest a palm upon the wall behind her, shielding her from the view of those passing by. His mouth, whichhad remained firm against hers to simply give the impression of them being lovers in a secret embrace, softened as he pushed closer, just a fraction, his lips now moving slowly over hers, gently seeking. Violet’s hands were still on the back of his head, and as the kiss deepened, she became lost, barely hearing the shouted jeers and catcalls of the men as they passed by, laughing loudly as they disappeared into the night. Yet even after the echoes of their voices had long since died, Violet was still kissing Mr. Barrow. She couldn’t help it; she sighed against his mouth as his free hand traveled up her back, pressing her closer, and she was reeling, Archie forgotten, Paris forgotten, when all she had meant to do was create a diversion.

A shout in the distance startled Violet and she broke away with a gasp. Mr. Barrow’s body blocked the light behind him and in the shadows, she could not see his expression, but he was breathing heavily, and his hand hadn’tmoved from the wall behind her. Neither said anything for a moment until he rasped out, “We should be going.”

Violet swallowed and nodded as she reached with trembling fingers into her pocket. “Lord Bradford gave me this letter for you – says we’re to go to Bradford House.”

Mr. Barrow didn’t break eye contact as she pressed the sheet of paper into his hand, holding her gaze for a fraction longer before slowly stepping away and raising the letter to the light of the streetlamp and breaking the seal. He scanned the words upon the paper and glanced up at her. “Come on, then,” he said in a low voice. She drew the hood back over her head and followed him out of the doorway and, blessedly, away from Seven Dials.

He hailed the first hansom that passed and as she climbed up inside the cab, Violet’s hands began to shake, the shock of her action in the alley finally hitting her. Mr. Barrow followed and banged on the roof with his fist as he took the seat beside her. The carriage lurched into motion and Violet sat, stunned and uncomfortably aware of the heat of him, her mind a whirl of confusion. She could do nothing but stare ahead, trying to find reason in what had just happened. It had been three years – three long, peaceful years during which she had not so much as held a man’s hand. A deliberate choice on her part, after the heartbreak of discovering that the only man she had ever loved turned out to be a monster, followed by years of selling her body to keep her and Della out of the workhouse. After that, she had turned to the one and only thing she needed in her life – her art. Art would be her new love, her only passion. She would need for nothing else; she wanted nothing else.

But that kiss. It had come from nowhere, unbalanced her, shifted the axis of her world. It had been… good. Very good.

She blinked as Mr. Barrow let out a low hiss and turned to see him flexing his fingers; the bruised, bloodied fingers of a fighter. She gave her head a shake to dismiss the unsettled sensation in the pit of her stomach as she finally spoke.

“So, what’s the former valet to an earl doin’ bareknuckle boxing in a cellar in Seven Dials?”

He glanced towards her and smiled, then winced as he cracked a knuckle. She offered him a sympathetic look and would have taken his hands to examine them but feared what touching him would do to her already fragile equilibrium.

“I gather Lord Bradford has informed you of my business here?”

“A bit,” she said as he massaged the palm of one hand. “You’ve gone and become a detective yourself, and that you’re investigatin’ the gangs. I’m still not sure what bareknuckle boxin’ has to do with it?—”

“I’m in the Bruisers.”

Violet froze. The air grew still between them, as if it had been sucked out of the carriage. She was suddenly aware of her heartbeat, the blood rushing at her temples, and, without hesitating for even a second, whirled in her seat to reach for the latch on the door. Just as quickly, Mr. Barrow’s hand closed around her wrist, and he growled in pain as she jerked away from him.

“Miss Latimer!” he called out as her fingers grabbed for the latch once more, but the hint of laughter in his voice gave her pause and she slowly turned to face him. He leaned back in the corner of the cab, grinning at her as her breathingreturnedto normal and she withdrew her hand.

“I am, of course, not properly with them – I’m here as part of an operation to put an end to the gangs who run the rookeries. I’m undercover.”

Violet breathed out a long sigh and slowly returned to the seat besidehim as his expression grew grim.

“Were you really going to jump out of a moving carriage if I were in the Bruisers?”

She stared at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. “Have you met Archie Neville?”

At this, he raised his brows and gave a small shake of his head. “Not yet. I was meant to infiltrate his inner circle – he’s the key to the whole operation. I was waiting for him to get out, but then he left. To go looking for you, apparently.”

“Then you haven’t a clue what he’s capable of. I’m tellin’ you, if he knew what I’d done, I’d be dead. And it wouldn’t have been a kind death. He’s gonna come lookin’ for me – the Bruisers can’t know I’m here. And they certainly can’t know who you are and that I came to you tonight or we’ll both end up in the Thames with the mudlarks scavengin’ our pockets at low tide.”

Mr. Barrow’s expression softened a little and he reached across the dimly lit space to take her hand in his, a gesture that seemed fiercely intimate rather than comforting as she was sure he meant it.

“I promise you that won’t happen, Miss Latimer. Lord Bradford was an excellent mentor, and I am hardly anything but myself – John Barrow of Seven Dials. That’s all they know me as. And you’ll be safe at Bradford House. We just need to keep you hidden away until this operation is over.”

Hidden away. At these words, a crushing ache filled Violet’s chest and tears welled in her eyes as she squeezed her hands into fists. “Goddamn him,” she choked out, shaking her head as a wave of hopelessness rolled through her. “I can’t believe I’m havin’ to hide away from that man just when… just when…” The sob burst out of her, and she buried her face in her hands.

“There now, Miss Latimer – this operation has been in the works for some time now. If everything goes according to plan, Archie and the whole lot of the Bruisers will be put out of business and locked away, and you’ll be back in Paris, drinking wine and painting portraits, before you know it.”

Violet raised her tearful gaze to him and managed a trembling smile. “I don’t paint portraits.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “What do you paint?”

“The railyards… the factories. The docks. I’m paintin’ the future.”

“Then I promise I’ll have you back painting railyards before you know it.”

She nodded gratefully at this, but worry still gnawed at her, and she was quiet for the remainder of the short journey until they reached the high brick wall which surrounded Bradford Hall. Mr. Barrow followed her out of the carriage and took them through a small iron gate nestled in the wall before leading them to the door at the back of the house.

“No sense waking anyone up at this hour,” he said as he let them into the house, stopping to turn up the gas lamp on the wall to illuminate the narrow hallway. He gestured for her to follow him down another corridor and finally into the kitchens, where he moved ahead of her to light the space and lay his coat over the back of a chair before turning to where she stood in the doorway.

“Are you hungry?”

Violet dipped her wearied head. “A little.”

Mr. Barrow gave a single nod and disappeared into another room off the main space. He was clearly familiar with the house, having lived here for several years as Lord Bradford’s valet, and returned shortly with a loaf of bread tucked under one arm and a small ceramic jar in each hand. He deposited them on the large trestle table in the centre of the room along with a knife before tugging out one of the chairs and gesturing to her.

“Come and have a seat. You must be tired.”

Tired was an understatement. Violet hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in the last few days, always waking to nightmares of Archie tracking her down, his broad face looming over her in the dark. She was drained down to her very bones, and her body ached as she lowered herself into the chair before propping her cheek upon her palm, her elbow resting on the tabletop. Mr. Barrow offered her a sympathetic smile as he crossed the room to the larder and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Setting them down upon the table, he pulled the cork out in one swift motion and filled the two glasses.

“I reckon you could use a drink,” he said, taking up one of the glasses to take a swig as Violet managed a grateful nod. He set down his glass and moved to the large cast iron sink on the far side of the room, turned the spigot and cupped his hands under the flow of water. She took up the knife he had left and began slicing up the loaf but paused with her hand in mid-air as he suddenly bent over the sink and brought two handfuls of water up to douse his head, sighing as he scrubbed his fingers through his hair. She could do nothing but sit there, mute with shock as water dripped from his dark blond hair onto the collar of his shirt. Something stirred in her as he pushed his fingers through his hair, slicking it back and offering her a crooked smile.

“Apologies, Miss Latimer – those fights are a sweaty business.” He snatched up a nearby linen towel and rubbed it over his head, snatching two plates from the massive china cabinet as he returned to the table and dropped onto the seat beside her. She blinked, shook her head, and set about slicing the bread with far more determination than required.

“Is that how they found you?” she asked as she set a few slices upon his plate. He nodded as he pushed one of the glasses towards her. She gave him a quick, uneasy smile and took a long sip, letting the wine sit for a moment, breathing deep to slow the ever-increasing tempo of her heartbeat.

“I let them find me. We knew they recruited from the underground fights – I’ve been in the gang now for the last few months. They send me in to test the other boxers when I’m not prizefighting.”

Violet sniffed as she spread a generous spoonful of marmalade from one of the jars over her bread. “Only the very best for the Bruisers, eh?”

Mr. Barrow’s expression grew solemn now and he leaned forward in his chair. “I need Archie to come back to London, Miss Latimer. Do you think he’s still in France?”

The cold grip of fear took hold of Violet once more and she shivered. “He’ll be there until he finds me or gets word that I came back home. He won’t stop lookin’ for me.”

He nodded slowly. “Who can get word to him that you’re here?”

She let out a shuddering breath and snatched up the wine, taking another sip before she replied, “His brother. You know him?”

“Tommy, yes. He’s the one who organizes the fights.”

“Tommy’s a loyal little lapdog; he’ll be lookin’ for me same as Archie and he’ll have been runnin’ things while his brother was away. If he gets word that I’m back, Archie’ll be on the next steamer across the Channel before you can snap your fingers. But, Mr. Barrow,” she added in a low, pleading tone, reaching out to lay an earnest hand upon the table, “he can’t know I’m here. And if he hears even a whisper about what you are, I can promise that your body will end up in the bottom of a gutter somewhere and no one will remember that John Barrow ever existed. You understand?”

Mr. Barrow’s expression softened, and he laid his free hand over hers where it rested so imploringly near his arm. She fought the sudden urge to pull away, disconcerted now with his touch. “I understand. Remember, I’ve been running alongside these gangs since I was a lad, myself. I’ll be careful.”

Violet managed a quick smile then and slowly withdrew before taking a bite of her bread. They ate in companionable silence for a while until a clock chimed from somewhere deep within the house. It was then, as her glass of wine emptied and the hour grew late, that the long days with little sleep and simmering fear began to catch up with Violet and her eyelids grew heavy. When she tried to smother a yawn, Mr. Barrow took out his watch to check the time before he began to gather the dishes.

“I’m certain that Lord Bradford has sent word ahead of your arrival. Shall I show you to the guest chambers?”

“Oh… yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

He set the dishes in the sink and led her back into the quiet, dark corridors beyond the kitchen, then up the stairs at the back of the house. A gas lamp burned low on the landing, and Violet found herself reaching for the banister as the exhaustion and the effects of the wine began to make her head spin. It was an effort now to lift each of her legs to go up another step and Mr. Barrow turned back as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Just down the hall,” he encouraged her, reaching down to offer his hand. She took it, not without some reluctance, but was grateful for the sturdy support as she pulled herself up the rest of the stairs and followed him down a dimly lit hallway lined with dark wood and paintings in gilt frames. He stopped at a door near the end of the hall and quietly swung it open as Violet peered past him into a room shrouded in darkness. Mr. Barrow cleared his throat as he followed her gaze.

“Perhaps I can show you where things are?”

Violet’s mind was a tired whirl, and she could only nod in response. He moved past her into the darkness, and a sudden, warm halo of light appeared when he found a lamp and lit it, revealing a room papered in cream damask with gold silk drapes. A large four-poster bed dominated the far wall, and Violet looked with fierce longing upon the crisp white linens which had been turned back in anticipation of her arrival.

“Is there somewhere to wash?” she asked, still feeling the stench of the rookery upon her and desperate to wash it off before she could even dream of throwing herself onto that plush mattress. Mr. Barrow turned from where he had been drawing the curtains and pointed to the washstand in the corner. Violet heaved a sigh of relief and took up the lamp to bring it over, only to find, disappointingly, that the basin and ewer were empty.

“There’s no water,” she said, looking over to where he was lighting another lamp beside the bed. He frowned.

“Perhaps the staff weren’t expecting you until the morning. If you’d like, I can fetch some for you?”

Heaven help her, she could barely keep her eyes open at this point. She should say no, leave the washing for the morning, and just get some sleep. But she could already feel herself crawling out of her skin, the smell and the dirt of the rookery wrapped around her, bringing back a host of memories she did not care to recall. She sighed.

“Would you? That would be lovely.”

He smiled faintly, the light of the lamp flickering across his sharp features.

“Not at all.” He crossed to the door and opened it. “Won’t be long.”

When he had gone, Violet finally began ripping at the hooks of her bodice, hating the cloying sensation, hating the memories of the rookery the dress now brought back. She had already spotted a wrapper of soft cotton flannel hanging from the hook on the wall near the washstand, and happily flung her bodice to the ground, followed by her overskirts and petticoats, in anticipation of pulling on a garment which didn’t carry with it the essence of Seven Dials. A shiver of relief raced up her back as she finally stripped down to her chemise and stockings, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her. She was just reaching for the dressing gown when the door opened and Mr. Barrow stepped back into the room, ewer in hand.

Violet froze with her hand upon the hook as his eyes widened in surprise and he immediately spun around to face the door, clearing his throat as he did so.

“My apologies, Miss Latimer – I should have knocked. I didn’t think you’d?—”

“Think nothin’ of it,” she said quickly as she tugged on the robe. She supposed she ought to have been scandalized, but given her past occupation, she felt only a mild amusement at his embarrassment, and she smiled as she tied the sash and gave a little cough.

“Thank you for the water,” she said, and he finally turned, grinning lamely as he crossed the room to where she stood beside the washstand and, meeting her gaze briefly, lifted the ewer to fill the basin. There was a moment of quiet as the water splashed into the ceramic bowl, and Violet found herself holding her breath as the light from the lamp on the table behind her softened the sharp line of his jaw and burnished his dark blond hair into a rich gold. His arm brushed the voluminous, lace-trimmed sleeve of her gown as he emptied the ewer and he stepped back, looking up at her once more. His embarrassed smile was gone now, and Violet slowly released a long breath as he held her gaze, his eyes black and burning in the flickering light.

“Would you like me to stay the night?” he asked suddenly. Something between offense and lust rocketed through her at these words, and she stared at him, unsure if he thought that one kiss was enough for her to contemplate bedding him, or that he was willing to pay for it. But a small part of her did briefly consider what it might be like to feel those muscles, which had only a few hours ago been delivering punishing blows to his opponent, moving beneath her fingers. It had been so, so long since someone had touched her, and even longer since it had brought her pleasure.

He must have seen the confusion in her expression, for he added, “My old chambers will be empty while the household is in the country. I can introduce you to the staff in the morning and show you around. It’s very easy to get lost in this place if you don’t know your way.”

Relief and, strangely, disappointment filled her, and she gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Yes, of course – that would be very helpful. If you haven’t somewhere else to be.”

One corner of his mouth hitched up at this. “Nowhere else, Miss Latimer.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came to her and so she gave him a lame smile, which he returned before slowly inclining his head.

“Then I’ll say goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

His voice, low and rich, sent a frisson of electricity through her and she could only nod, her mind too weary and muddled with wine to form a response. The door closed with a quiet click behind him, and Violet found, once more, that her heart was beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, and it was not out of fear this time.