Chapter 4

FOUR

John Barrow stood for nearly a full minute in the hall outside the guest chambers as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Miss Latimer hadn’t been aware of it, but with the lamp sitting behind her in the dark room, he had seen every luscious curve of her body silhouetted through her light linen chemise and it was leading his thoughts down some very inappropriate paths.

The sound of water splashing behind the door made him breathe out a long sigh before he turned away and made his way back down the corridor to the narrow stairs leading up to the attic. Lord Bradford’s current valet ordinarily occupied the space, but he would be with them in Oxford, and John didn’t want to go to the trouble of waking anyone to prepare another guest room. He trudged up the stairs, his body now feeling every one of the blows which had landed during the fight before reaching the door at the top of the landing.

After a bout he would usually go home to his rented rooms in Covent Garden, get into a cold bath and polish off a glass of whisky, but he supposed tonight had been a better use of his time. Of all the people to have run into, the woman who had turned in Archie Neville was the last person he expected. And he certainly hadn’t expected it to be Violet Latimer.

Oh, he remembered Violet Latimer. Their first meeting had been brief – three years ago, outside the brothel in Seven Dials where she had lived, and where the Duke of Salisbury had held her friend, now wife of his former employer, captive after being exposed by the couple as a traitor. She had the same hard stare he remembered from all those years ago, the same firm set of her jaw. But there was something a bit different about her now – a softness she hadn’t had before. He recalled her seeming rigid; angular. But that wasn’t unusual for what she had been at the time – selling one’s body in a place like Seven Dials tended to make one hard. It seemed the past two years in Paris, eating French food, drinking French wine and making her art had done her good, and all that built-up tension had eased.

John dropped with a sigh onto the mattress, absently rubbing his battered ribcage as he stared up at the ceiling, recalling only now that the chaos of the last few hours had ended, that she had kissed him. And… he had kissed her back? He shook his head, worried that perhaps the blow landed by the other boxer – an up-and-coming young pugilist named Jemmy Sullivan, who ostensibly had saved himself the fate of being drafted into the Bruisers by losing tonight – had perhaps landed a bit too directly and he had imagined the whole thing.

No… no, she had most certainly kissed him in her attempt to keep the men who had been at the fight from recognizing her. And, God help him, he had kissed her right back. A wicked heat surged through him at the memory, but it was quickly tempered by the knowledge that Archie Neville, of all people, was looking for her. John could only imagine that after giving him the slip in Paris, if he found her, his revenge would be swift and violent. Archie would not take kindly to being snubbed in so blatant a way – no, Miss Latimer was very much in danger. John’s chest tensed as he rolled to stare into the empty hearth. And if he found out she had been the one to turn him in… John grew cold at the thought, but he was nothing if not a pragmatist. It could have taken months – years – to get close enough to Archie on his own to get any real information that would help the police in their quest to shut down the gangs who ran the rookeries. But with Miss Latimer… She would know all their dirty little secrets; she had once been close to Archie. She had already had enough information on him to put him in Newgate for the last eight years. If she could work with him and the police to bring a real case to the Home Office – why, they could put an end to the Bruisers permanently. They could put an end to all the gangs who prowled the streets, those men with nowhere else to go, who turned to violence for lack of anything else. Violence that was, far too often, directed at those with precious few options; the ones he should have been able to save and had failed to do so.

A sudden pain twisted John’s insides, and he blew out a sharp breath to banish the memory of a head of chestnut curls and a rosy smile – turning his thoughts, instead, to the operation at hand. Instead of considering the case, however, all he could think of was the soft surrender of Miss Latimer’s lips against his, of her hand slipping around his waist, pulling him closer, and he frowned at himself as he tried to dismiss that memory, as well. There were far more pressing matters at hand but, try as he might, his thoughts kept straying back to the pliability of her mouth and the intoxicating scent of her skin; somehow it had captured the warmth of a summer day, even in that cold, dark alley. Eventually, sleep came to him, his dreams suddenly full of Violet Latimer and her golden hair.

Violet was awake before the sun came up the next morning, lying in the sumptuous bed in the guest room at Bradford House, staring at the ceiling for what seemed an eternity before the first rays of therising sun began to edge the silk drapes. She glared at the thin strip of sunlight seeping between them; it seemed an affront to the dismal thoughts which had woken her at such an ungodly hour. The room she lay in was luxurious beyond anything she could comprehend yet it was not her cozy, colourful little flat in Paris, the one she had worked so hard for. She had finally got to meet her dearest friend’s new daughter, but the circumstances leading to that meeting were not what she had planned. Della was meant to come see her in Paris, bringing little Clara along with her, and Violet was going to show them all the sights; her little studio in Montmartre, the gardens at the Tuileries, the art of the Louvre, and the soaring heights of Notre Dame – Della had been particularly excited about that, having read about the cathedral in Victor Hugo’s book. But now… Violet sighed and rolled over to bury her face in pillows made of the finest down and covered with the softest linen… it all meant nothing knowing that Archie was out there, looking for her, ready to pull down everything she had spent the last three years building.

A soft knock upon the door sometime later finally roused her from the bed and she paused, feet dangling from the side of the mattress as she swallowed back the heavy lump in her throat, before she slipped to the ground and crossed to the door. She opened it a crack and peered out into the hall to see Mr. Barrow standing before her, already fully dressed, shaved and hair combed, though a blossoming bruise on his left cheek belied his natty appearance. He nodded, his expression somewhat guarded as he held out a breakfast tray.

“Good morning, Miss Latimer. I thought you might be hungry – may I come in?”

Something stirred inside Violet, deep in the pit of her stomach as she wordlessly staredat him before she regained her senses and offered a half-hearted nod, moving back to open the door. He paused before stepping into the room, his gaze dropping down to take her in and she realized, belatedly, that she wore only her chemise before also remembering him catching her in it the night before, far too exhausted and tipsy from her single glass of wine to care about propriety. And the look in his eyes when he finally raised his gaze to hers – oh, she saw him struggle to conceal it behind a mask of cool indifference – it made her insides turn to liquid.

A long moment passed during which they stared at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move, before Mr. Barrow finally cleared his throat and stepped past her to set the tray down upon an intricately carved side table, removing the domed lid to reveal a matching set of bone china decorated with tiny blue flowers. He then set about filling a cup with steaming hot tea and unfolding a napkin to reveal two slices of toast beside a small dish of raspberries.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder as she drew on the wrapper she had left draped over a chair, conscious of the gaze he was clearly fighting to keep from wandering.

“Just a bit of sugar, please,” she said, taking a step closer as he nodded and measured a shallow spoonful into the tea. He then took up the cup and saucer and turned to offer them to her with a half smile.

“Old habits… the valet inside me simply refuses to let a cup of tea go un-poured.”

She accepted the cup and saucer he handed to her, lifting the cup to take a sip before closing her eyes. “That’s wonderful,” she murmured before raising her gaze to him once more.

“I’m seeing Tommy today,” he said suddenly, just as the tea had settled, warm and comforting, in the pit of her stomach. She drew in a shallow breath and nodded.

“He’ll want your winnin’s, I suppose.”

The corner of his mouth hitched up. “Most of them.”

Her throat moved as she swallowedbefore finally broaching the topic they had both been avoiding. Her voice shook. “And what are you going to tell him about me?”

He sucked in a lungful of air, clearly uncomfortable, but he didn’t look away. “I’ll tell him I met a pretty little dollymop in Covent Garden after the fight… a little green-eyed blonde named Violet.”

Violet’s lip twitched and a tiny crease furrowed her brow. “That would be enough for him to get a hold of Archie. But I don’t do that anymore – he knows that.”

Mr. Barrow’s shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Maybe… but if you fled France with naught but the clothes on your back, you might be desperate enough.” He attempted a smile. “Desperate enough to take home some bloke who’d just been pummeled in a bare-knuckle boxing match.”

Violet gave a small laugh at that. “At least he won.”

Mr. Barrow smiled before heaving a dramatic sigh. “It’s a shame I had to turn her down, seeing as I was in a poorly way.” His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Wouldn’t do to tup Archie Neville’s lost lady-love.”

Violet’s stomach churned at the words, and she had to look away. “No… he’d have your head for that.” She closed her eyes against the sting of tears – damn but she was tired of them. “I don’t like this,” she whispered, her voice strained. “I don’t like knowin’ he’s out there, knowin’ he’s managed to trap me in this house from thousands of miles away, knowin’ my life isn’t my own anymore.”

A hand came to rest upon hers and she looked up, blinking back the gathering tears. Mr. Barrow’s expression was solemn. “He’ll receive a far longer sentence this time, for more than just petty crimes. He won’t see the outside of a jail cell for the rest of his life if I have anything to do with it. Your life will be your own again soon enough.”

Violet said nothing but looked down to where he touched her so gently. He coughed and withdrewhis hand before nodding to the breakfast tray. “I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Cooper. Lord Bradford has left instructions with her regarding your stay here and I’ll try to come back to update you when I can. She said she left some of Lady Bradford’s clothes for you in the wardrobe – when you’re dressed, I can show you around, introduce you to the staff.”

Violet slowly inclined her head. “That would be very kind of you.” She took another long sip of her tea, clenching the cup tighter to stop her hands from shaking. From exhaustion – her sleep had been riddled with dreams of Archie’s broad, grinning face – or fear, or both, she could not tell, but she was grateful for Mr. Barrow’s encouraging smile as he stepped away.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” he said before crossing to the door and closing it carefully behind him. Violet stared at the door for a moment before glancing down at the tea in her hands and setting it, very carefully, upon the chest. She heaved a deep, shuddering breath and turned to the wardrobe. The doors opened to reveal a handful of tea gowns, relatively plain and unadorned, but of the finest quality. She observed the selection dispassionately before pulling out a gown of pale pink decorated with intricate inset lace. Della was a hair taller than Violet, and so the short train on the dress dragged as she belted it about her waist, but it felt wonderful to be wearing clothes that hadn’t been stuffed into a suitcase to cross the Channel with her or been dragged through the filth of the rookery. She found a brush and combs on the vanity and managed to pin her hair into some semblance of order before a very deliberate knock sounded on her door once more. Mr. Barrow stood in the hall, his smile encouraging.

“Ready?” he asked as he held out an arm. She hesitated. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to be here, and she hated Archie Neville as she had never hated anyone, and that hatred sat like a leaden weight upon her chest, so heavy it felt at times that she couldn’t breathe for it. But just for that one moment, when Mr. Barrow gave her an expectant smile and offered his arm to her, the weight lifted, and she placed her hand into his as he led her downstairs.

He was an excellent tour guide, starting her in one wing of the house, showing her where to find the library, the parlour, the music room, the conservatory, all the way down to the kitchens. They were far different from the night before, when they had shared that simple meal by the light of a single lantern. Now daylight streamed in through the high windows, a scullery maid was on her hands and knees scrubbing the stone floors, and a footman walked by carrying the day’s newspapers. A middle-aged woman, of fair hair and plump cheeks, stood at the massive trestle table, rolling out pie dough and Mr. Barrow nodded towards her as they stood in the doorway.

“That’s Mrs. Beatty, the cook – you get on her good side, and she’ll always make sure there’s a little treat hidden away for you,” he said, leaning close to speak over the din of a delivery driver down the hall shouting for someone to come get the sacks of flour he had brought. His grin was mischievous as he raised his gaze to the cook, whose cheeks grew red as she laboured over her dough. “Good morning, Mrs. Beatty!” he called out and was rewarded with a scowl.

“You go fetch that flour, now, Detective Inspector Barrow! Just because you don’t work here any longer doesn’t mean you can stand about in my kitchens being useless!”

He laughed and gestured for Violet to follow him down the hall to the service door where he had a quick chat with the deliveryman before he hefted up two sacks from the back of the cart and carried them through to the larder. Violet watched, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, as the cords in his neck stood out under the weight of the flour before he deposited it safely on a shelf. He winked at her – God help her, something sparked to life inside her just at that one wink – before he sidled up to Mrs. Beatty, grinning widely.

“Flour delivered. Have you anything for me, love?”

She gave him a nudge in the ribs with her rolling pin and Violet saw his wince of pain as the cook reached into the pocket of her apron. The smile returned as she thrust a handful of peppermints at him and resumed her rolling before glancing up at Violet where she stood in the doorway, waiting nervously with her hands twisted in her skirts.

“And you must be Miss Latimer,” the cook said as she set down the rolling pin and brushed her hands down the front of her apron. She came around the table with a warm smile and extended her hand. “We’ve heard so much about you from Lady Bradford. She even has one of your paintings hanging in the parlour.”

The tightness in Violet’s chest immediately eased as the cook reached back into her pocket to withdraw another handful of peppermints. She accepted them with a pleased smile.

“That one’s my favourite. And thank you,” she added, nodding to the treats as she stuffed them into her pocket. “I won’t be a bother here, I promise.”

Mrs. Beatty chuckled and waved her hand. “No bother at all. Any friend of Lady Bradford is welcome in this home. Have you met the wee ’un? Isn’t she a darling little thing?”

Violet’s gaze met Mr. Barrow’s for a moment, and he gave her a crooked grin as he popped a peppermint into his mouth. She smiled as the cook returned to her baking. “Yes… she’s named after Della’s mum, you know.”

“Oh, aye? Such a pretty name. Well, lots to do here today. You just poke your head in here if ever you need anything, miss.”

“I will, thanks,” Violet said as Mr. Barrow gestured for her to follow him. She gave the cook a quick wave as they left the hive of activity that was the kitchens to make their way to the back door. Mr. Barrow stoppedand nodded down the hall.

“Mrs. Cooper is ready for you. I have to get going – Tommy’ll be waiting for me.” Violet said nothing but shivered as a flash of fear skated up her back knowing Archie would be coming back to London. He’d tear the city apart lookingfor her. The corner of Mr. Barrow’s mouth turned up as though he could sense her unease. “He won’t find you here, Miss Latimer, that I can promise you. Lord Bradford didn’t work for the Home Office for ten years without putting some security measures in place.”

The words gave Violet small comfort, but she did manage a weak smile and gestured to the door. “Then you’d best be goin’. Tommy doesn’t like to be kept waitin’, not when there’s money involved.”

Mr. Barrow’s expression hardened at that, but he nodded in agreement before his gaze locked with hers. Her skin suddenly tingled with awareness at his proximity as she rememberedthe sensation of his mouth upon hers, the heat of his body as he had pressed against her in that doorway, the quickening of his breath. She stared back at him before blinking and stepping away.

“Yes, yes, I should be on my way. I might not be able to come back tonight…” He paused as though he would say more, but she forced a smile and shook her head.

“Not to worry. You’ve done more than enough for me, Mr. Barrow. I’ll be just fine.”

“I’ll do my best to come check on you – perhaps in a day or two. Tommy’ll have me busy if he’s getting ready for—” He broke off, a frown furrowing his brow before Violet finished for him.

“Gettin’ ready for Archie to come back.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Yes. I have to be there – Whitehall will be wanting reports on him and his activities, and he needs to see that I’ve been helping out in his absence.”

Violet responded, a little too quickly. “Of course… I understand. I’ll be fine. I’m sure there’ll be plenty to keep me busy here.”

He paused again as though reluctantto leave before smiling quickly and inclining his head in the direction of Mrs. Cooper’s office.

“Just check in with Mrs. Cooper, I’m sure she can keep you busy.” Another quick smile, though it lacked conviction. “Must be off. Goodbye, Miss Latimer. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Violet said nothing, her throat growinginexplicably tight as he backed away with a small wave and slipped out through the door at the end of the hall. She watched him through the window as he strolled away through the gate, hands in his pockets. When he had disappeared behind the boxwood hedges, she turned with a sigh to make her way to Mrs. Cooper’s office, perplexed that the sensation of his hand touching hers still lingered.