Chapter 5

FIVE

John strolled up to the warehouse down the street from Covent Garden Market an hour after leaving Violet in the capable hands of the Bradford House staff. Not unexpectedly, he had spent the whole walk over thinking of her, alternating between working her and her inside knowledge of Archie’s gang into his plans, and of her kissing him so suddenly in that doorway. And every time he remembered her lips, full and pliant against his, desire spiked through him, and he had to pause outside the door to Archie’s warehouse to take a deep breath and recalibrate his train of thought, lest he walk in with an embarrassing bulge in his trousers and no ability to weave any sort of lie which would convince Tommy of Violet’s whereabouts. A one-time occurrence that kiss had been – necessary in the moment. It certainly wouldn’t happen again, and he would quickly put it from his memory. This was far too important an operation to let one kiss – delectable though it had been – derail him.

With this assurance, he felt suitably grounded again, and he swung open the door into the massive space.

The familiar thud of bone on flesh greeted John as he strolled inside, the air musty and cool, and scented with sweat and sawdust. Behind a row of empty crates was the boxing ring where all the Bruisers practised their sport, and it was to the side of this ring that John found Tommy Neville. He was a huge man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and he raised an inscrutable gaze to John as he came around the bend to lean casually against one of the iron pillars which supported the roof high above.

“Mornin’, Tommy,” he said as he nodded towards the two men, one of whom was a brute named Henry from the rookeries of Bethnal Green, the other an unfamiliar face to John. “New fella?”

Tommy glanced over at the two men as they circled one another, fists raised. “Aye, come all the way from Manchester. What d’you think?”

John turned his attention to the new fighter, who dodged to avoid a quick strike from Henry before tackling him around the waist.

“He could be quicker on his feet. Looks to be in decent condition, though.”

Tommy nodded in agreement. “Might put him in with the Devil, see how he gets on. How’d the fight go?”

John withdrew the stack of crumpled notes from his pocket and handed them over without a word. Tommy took them into his meaty fist, counted them out quickly and handed back a few without looking at John.

“Shame,” he said as he tucked his portion into a pocket. “We had hopes for Jemmy.”

“Ah, give him some time, he’s young – he’s got talent.”

Tommy shrugged noncommittally. “We have our eye on another bruiser – does prize-fightin’ in Shoreditch. Billy Cahill – heard of him?”

John shook his head as he pushed himself off the column when Tommy gestured for him to follow, taking them through the warehouse to the small office at the back of the space. “I haven’t – is he good?”

Tommy turned a crooked smile on John as he opened the door to the office. “We’ll find out in a week, won’t we?”

John held back a grimace as his body, bruised and beaten, protested the idea of another fight in only a week’s time. He instead plastered a cheeky grin on his face as Tommy crossed to the liquor cabinet on the other side of the room.

“We certainly will,” he said, dropping into one of the creaking leather chairs facing the desk in the centre of the room. Tommy filled two glasses with the whisky he always kept in the office and handed one to John who swallowed half the contents before leaning back in his chair and propping his feet upon the desk. Tommy, a man to whom good manners were as foreign as unicorns, barely noticed as he took the other seat, taking a swig of his own whisky as he did so.

“Make sure you give him a good run for his money – Archie’ll be wanting to recruit now he’s back. Wants to expand the territory down to the docks.”

John gave him a sly smile as he set his glass down and flexed his fingers, masking his pained grimace with a short laugh. “I always do. Where’s he gone, anyway? Thought he got out of Newgate last week?”

Tommy’s expression darkened; a nerve had been hit. Archie’s right-hand man clearly didn’t think it was worth his older brother chasing after some lightskirt when they had businesses to run and territories to expand now that he was out of prison. But of course, being a loyal little lapdog, as Violet had referred to him, meant Tommy would hardly speak out against Archie’s whims. John, of course, was not supposed to know about Violet.

“He has some business in France – he’ll be back when he finds what he’s lookin’ for.”

John simply nodded and gave a nonchalant shrug, as though he didn’t care either way. They went over the business for the day before Tommy finally stood, jerking a thumb towards the door.

“Comin’ to the club?”

That would be the Devil’s Den, a casino and men’s club owned by Archie where many of their business dealings took place, as well as some of their boxing matches. Tommy usually made it a point to stop by when he was done at practise to check in on their other business and John often tagged along if he wasn’t fighting. He shook his head and made a show of standing and arching his back, putting on a grimace.

“Not today, I don’t think. Missed out on a cold bath last night and me bones are achin’ – wanna be in top form for next week, don’t I?”

Tommy nodded as he gathered up his coat and hat from the hook near the door. “Aye – have a feelin’ about this fella but I need him to show his mettle. Thought you’d have gone straight home after the fight?”

“Tried to, didn’t I? Some cock chafer followed me all the way from the pub to Covent Garden, beggin’ for a go. I wasn’t in any bloody shape, was I?”

Tommy gave a bark of laughter as he tugged on his coat. “A hag, was she?”

John managed to look astonished as he followed the other man out of the office and back into the warehouse. “Nah, a real looker, she was. If I hadn’t just had me ribs done to dust, I’d have taken her up. Little blonde thing.”

Tommy gave a leering grin as they made their way back through the rows of crates. “I like blondes. She got a name? Maybe I’ll go find her for meself.”

John made a show of putting his finger to his chin as they reached the warehouse door and held it for Tommy to pass through. If there was one thing Lord Bradford hadn’t had to teach John in his training to join the detective department at Scotland Yard, it was lying. Surviving a childhood in Seven Dials meant it came as naturally to him as breathing. “Her name? Can’t remember if she gave it to me – no! She did, said her name was Violet. You’d probably find her back at the Fox and Friar.”

And, predictably, Tommy now turned to face John, the sly smile wiped from his face. His dark little eyes narrowed beneath his heavy brow. “Violet, didja say?”

John, looking blissfully unaware of the change in Tommy’s demeanor, nodded as he turned the key in the lock. “Think so.”

There was a moment of quiet; John could practically hear the wheels turning about in Tommy’s head as he dropped the key back into his pocket. “I’m off then, Tommy. I’ll see you in the mornin’, eh?”

Tommy only nodded as John walked off, smiling to himself as he left his boss with just that little nugget of information. Hopefully it would be enough for him to summon his brother back to London.

Violet spent the remainder of her first day in Bradford House wandering about the rooms like some sort of silent specter, aimless and without purpose. Mrs. Cooper had been hospitable – certainly not the Mrs. Cooper Della had described early in her stay here when she had found the housekeeper to be rigid and unwelcoming. They must have become friendly along the way, for the older woman treated her as any welcome guest, something to which Violet was wildly unaccustomed. Seven Dials prostitutes were rarely accepted anywhere beyond the street corners they plied, even the ones who had gone on to become well-respected artists. Della must be well-loved in this household to afford her friend such hospitality.

Since Violet had woken so late that morning, she had only the afternoon to occupy, but she was finding it difficult – the library kept her busy for an hour or so, but Violet wasn’t as enamoured of books as Della, and so eventually drifted away and found herself in the conservatory, strolling among lush palms and fragrant blooms. She discovered a small stone fountain at the end of the path surrounded by benches and longed for just a few scraps of paper and a stick of charcoal to capture the water burbling out of the amphora held aloft by a small marble cherub. She sighed, feeling once more the sting at the loss of all her art, and left the conservatory, her delight at the space now faded. Eventually, she made her way to the kitchens, hoping Mrs. Beatty might at least have another sweet secreted away for her.

With the household away in the country, the kitchens were quiet, but Mrs. Beatty was in the larder, counting out the inventory of goods and she turnedwhen Violet drifted into the room, at a loss for what else to do and having no one to speak to. The cook smiled as she pulled down a large ceramic jar to inspect its contents.

“Bored already?” she asked as she set the jar back on the shelf. Violet gave her a lame grin and scuffed her shoe against the stone floor.

“I don’t eventhink I can go outside to walk in the gardens… I’m not used to bein’ stuck inside.”

“Well,” the older woman huffed out as she pulled down another jar. “We’re taking inventory while the lord and lady are out in Oxford – do you want to help?”

Violet sighed with relief. Even inventory-taking sounded appealing after an afternoon of aimless wandering. “I’d love to,” she said before Mrs. Beatty set down the jar and gestured for Violet to follow her.

“Come on, then – I’m almost done in here, but I have silver that needs polishing,” she said, leading Violet out of the larder and back to the kitchen. She gestured for her to take a seat at the massive trestle table in the middle of the room and left to fetch one of the solid mahogany boxes which contained the silver cutlery. She set it down in front of Violet along with a jar of polish and a heap of rags.

“You ever polish silver before?”

Violet glanced up with a raised brow and the cook laughed. “Just make sure you get all the tarnished bits and dry them before you put them back.”

And with that, she left Violet to it. For the next two hours, Violetdutifully scrubbed all manner of knives and forks and spoons, stopping only when Mrs. Beatty popped her head in to say the staff were sitting down to dinner and asked whether she cared to join them. Only a skeleton staff remained with the household away, but Mrs. Beatty and half a dozen maids, in addition to the two remaining footmen, sat down in the servants’ hall to share a lovely dinner of roast beef with potatoes and peas.

“Do you really live in Paris?” one of the scullery maids, a little wisp of a thing named Penny, asked, her eyes wide with awe as Mrs. Beatty set out bottles of wine. Violet smiled, even though her heart broke a little at the reminder.

“I do… I hope to be goin’ back as soon as Mr. Barrow gets everythin’ sorted.”

Penny’s gaze grew wistful. “Oh, it was so nice to see him again – it was such a shame when he left.”

One of the footmen, a young man with a mischievous smile, shook his head at Penny as he casually crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “He never looked twice at you, Pen – what do you miss him for?”

Penny scowled at the footman while Mrs. Beatty tutted and waved her knife at him. “You mind yourself, Richard – he was a nice fellow.”

Richard rolled his eyes, but smiled as he resumed his meal and Penny raised her chin in triumph. “He is a nice fellow – he’s helping Lady Bradford’s friend, isn’t he?”

All eyes turned to Violet, who shrugged. “He’s very kind to help me – and Lord Bradford was very kind to let me stay here. Insisted, was more like it.”

Mrs. Beatty sent a sidelong glance her way as she helped herself to another dinner roll. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s he helping you with, anyway? He was cagey about it this morning. Would only say you’d gotten yourself in a bit of a jam, so he brought you here to keep you safe.”

Once again, the fear made Violet’s chest growtight as she remembered turning away from the bar in le Chat Noir to find Archie standing behind her, that leering smile raking over her. She swallowed it back and gave a quick smile. “Not sure I’m allowed to say – just that I once knew someone he’s investigatin’.” She couldn’t even say his name, and when she took a bite of her roast beef, it stuck in her mouth, dry as dust, and she had to work to swallow it. She tried not to think about what Archie’s retribution would be like; tried not to think of thethousand ways he would surely delight in torturing her; the thousand methods he would use to hurt her; to remind her that she belonged to him and that he was not going to let her go. But occasionally, just for a moment when her mind was not otherwise occupied, those thoughts would invade her mind, and her stomach would churn and her breath would grow short, and she would have to close her eyes against the sting of tears.

It was with an effort that she swallowed back the remainder of her dinner and a third glass of wine – she welcomed the hazy fog it brought to the edges of her mind and after muchdiscussion of the staff’s plans for their upcoming day off, the kitchen soon emptied, leaving Violet alone with Mrs. Beatty. The older woman nodded towards her as she swallowed back the last dregs of wine in her glass and leaned her elbows upon the cleared-off table with a sigh.

“You’re going to feel right terrible in the morning after all that wine.”

Violet heaved a shuddering breath as she scrubbed her hands over her face and glanced up at the cook as she set the last plate back in the china cabinet.

“Maybe I want to feel awful from the wine… it’ll distract me from all the other awful things I feel.”

Mrs. Beatty tutted as she returned to the table and plucked up the empty wine glass. “If it’s a distraction you need, you can come down and help me tomorrow. We’ve bread to bake and vegetables to pickle. Keep your mind off things.”

Violet slowly inclined her head, for it was already spinning and her eyelids had grown heavy. “Yeah… I could do that. I’ve never baked bread before. Or pickled anythin’, for that matter.”

The cook gave a sharp nod of agreement as she shooed Violet out of her chair. “Then off you go, get a good night’s sleep. I’ll expect you in here bright and early.”

Bright and early sounded positively barbaric to Violet, but she nodded nonetheless and pushed herself away from the table before making her way to the library to find a book that wouldn’t be too taxing to her wine-addled brain. Back in her rooms she washed and changed into her nightgown before tucking herself into the big, upholstered armchair which sat beside the fireplace, where a small fire had been banked up for the night. She tried to read for a time, but her thoughts kept straying back to Archie and the terrible sensation in her gut that he was just determined enough to find her no matter how well hidden she was here. Eventually, she set the book down with a defeated sigh and leaned her head back against the chair to stare at the ceiling. It was time to set her mind to other matters.

She thought of Paris, and the exhibition she had participated in only months before, and how proud of herself she had been to show off her art along with other great artists she admired. Pissarro himself had even commented that she had great talent and had bought one of her smaller still lifes.

And then she remembered fleeing Paris, and that there was no more art for her, and no more studio with the big windows and the little balcony in Montmartre, and all because of Archie, so she banished the memory from her head. Violet’s fingers clenched around the armrests as she tried to put her mind to something else, and right there, hovering at the edges of her consciousness, was Mr. Barrow. She closed her eyes as she propped her feet up on the small footrest, and she thought of him in that cellar in Seven Dials, dodging and feinting, his muscles bunching under sweat-dampened skin, his dark blond hair matted to his forehead, his grin bloody but confident as he had ducked blows, only to return them in greater force. And then… when she had pulled him back into that cramped, dingy doorway and pressed her mouth to his, she had marveled at the strength of those muscles as she had moved her hand over his waist, over his chest, and felt the raw power of him.

Violet’s breath hitched as she recalled, with devastating clarity, the sensuous slide of his fingers over her hips, and the nerves which had sparked to attention at that touch. She hadn’t so much as looked twice at a man since she and Della had moved out of Seven Dials three years ago and she had finally been able to start making a living off her art. For so long, it had felt like her body hadn’t belonged to her, just to those who paid for it, and she had been more than happy to fill her life with her friends and her career instead. It had taken a long time for her to feel comfortable in her own skin again, and in the space of a few hours, and with just one kiss, John Barrow had managed to waken something in her which had been long dormant; to consider the possibility of… wanting someone again. He won’t want you back , an insidious voice whispered in her head, the one which had followed her from Seven Dials all the way to Paris and back, the one which always sought to remind her of her history and the men who had passed through it.

But Violet had always been a practical person and she shook her head to dismiss the voice, rolling her eyes at herself. Men were, in her vast experience, simply a means to an end – to money, to pleasure, to a hot meal, sometimes – not uncommon growing up in Seven Dials. And John Barrow, wickedly handsome as he was, would also be a means to an end. He would keep her safe while the Metropolitan Police did whatever they needed to do to get Archie back to prison and out of her life permanently. She had spent three perfectly happy years eschewing men, after all, trying to find herself once more in her art, and to leave behind Seven Dials and that voice. Her only goal, whatever came of things with Archie, was to get back to Paris, to her art, to her friends, and resume her life. Nothing else mattered.

Since the book no longer held any appeal, she rose from the chair and found herself wandering to the window where she pushed back the drapes to look outside. Night had long since fallen, and the gardens beneath her window lay in shadow. Beyond the wall which surrounded Bradford Hall were the lights of London. Archie wasn’t out there – not yet – and that thought gave her a small measure of comfort as she let the drapes fall back into place. When she sat at the small vanity to plait her hair, she glanced at her reflection and sighed. Dark circles still lingered beneath her eyes, for sleep had eluded her since her escape from France and she glanced at the small silver clock on the wall nearby. Nearly eleven o’clock. If she was to be up bright and early to help Mrs. Beatty, she supposed she ought to get some rest. She stood and crossed to the bed, pulling back the linens to settle down on a mattress that was undoubtedly luxurious, but it was not hers. She snuffed out the candle at her bedside and stared up at the shadows as they danced across the ceiling.

Would Mr. Barrow return tomorrow? And had he convinced Tommy that she was back in London? Her stomach churned with worry – what if Tommy grew suspicious of him? What if he hadn’t taken the hint? He wasn’t exactly the sharpest wit, after all, more of a blunt instrument. What if Archie tracked her down? What if he found her here, dragged her out, took out his knife…

Violet let out a gasp and squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers clenched in the counterpane, and she counted to ten, counted to ten again, and opened her eyes once more. No. She was safe here, in this upscale little street in Belgravia. Archie wouldn’t be comfortable here, wouldn’t know all the back alleys and dark little corners; he wouldn’t be protected by the fear that kept the police out of Seven Dials and all his dirty business.

Slowly, slowly, she released a long breath and thought, instead, of Mr. Barrow. Thought of the long, lean muscles in his arms as he had jabbed, diligently and precisely, at his opponent, thought of the taste of his mouth, of his charming little wink at her that morning… and her whole body began to thrum with anticipation of seeing him again. It couldn’t hurt to imagine… And so it was, in thinking of only Mr. Barrow, and his devilish smile, that Violet finally slept, a deep, restful slumber, until morning came to wake her bright and early, just as she had promised Mrs. Beatty.