Chapter 6
SIX
John arrived at the warehouse again the next morning for sparring practice, but no one was in the boxing ring waiting for him. He made his way through to the office, where he found Tommy making notes in a ledger. John was carefully casual as he leaned against the doorframe, pausing to pull out a pocket watch and check the time.
“The Devil here yet? If not, I was plannin’ on goin’ for a run,” he said as he slipped the watch back into his pocket. Tommy didn’t look up, but he did give his head a quick shake.
“He’s not comin’ today. I have somethin’ important I need done.”
John pushed himself up and strolled into the office, snatching up a newspaper from the desk and taking a quick glance at the front page. “Of course – what d’you need?”
Tommy looked up now, his brow furrowed as he set down the pen he held. He jerked his head towards the door and John reached back to close it as Tommy slowly stood and contemplated him for a moment before speaking.
“That whore – Violet. I need you to find her.”
Awareness hummed through John and the muscles in his body tightened, but the laugh he let out was easy. “That bit o’ tail who followed me after the fight? Cor, Tommy, you could walk down the street and find a dozen just like her.”
Tommy’s expression grew thunderous. “I don’t want another fuckin’ girl, I want her. Go find her for me.”
John held up his hands and gave the other man a placating smile. “All right, all right – I can go back to the Fox and Friar, see if she’s been hangin’ about.” He turned away and opened the door but stopped when Tommy spoke again.
“Archie’s comin’ back.”
John turned around. “Is he now? Found what he’s lookin’ for?”
“He will when you find that girl.”
John’s brows drew together briefly, and he tilted his head, as though in consideration of these words. “Then I’d best be off.”
Tommy did not reply, and John was careful to shut the door behind him.
He did, indeed, make his way back to Seven Dials and the Fox and Friar, entering a pub devoid of its usual crowds and noise. It was early, and one of the serving girls was at the back of the bar sweeping under the tables. The owner, a middle-aged man, burly and black-haired, looked up from where he was wiping out glasses and nodded towards John as he entered the pub.
“Hey there, Johnny, you fightin’ tonight?”
John shook his head as he took a seat at the bar. “Not tonight. I’m here for somethin’ else.”
He saw the sidelong look the man gave him. He knew John was in the Bruisers, and he knew that you stayed on their good side, or you found yourself in a world of trouble, which was why he let them use his cellar for their boxing matches. A moment passed before he cleared his throat and said, “And what’s that?”
“I’m lookin’ for someone. Bit o’ tail who might have been hangin’ about here. Blonde, said her name was Violet.”
The man finally turned and set down the glass he held. His brow furrowed for a moment before realization dawned on his face. “There was a pretty girl named Violet who used to come here – worked for Cora. Haven’t seen her in years.”
John nodded gravely and tented his fingers upon the scarred wooden bar top. “Tommy’s lookin’ for her.”
The other man frowned. “John, she’s not been around in years. I heard she’d gone off to France or somethin’. Why’s he lookin’ for her here?”
John drew in a slow breath. “Met her in Covent Garden, askin’ for a toss. She followed me from here. Wanted to know if you’d seen her.”
The man shook his head. “She weren’t in here, Johnny. I’d have recognized her – someone would have recognized her. You sure it was her?”
“I certainly hope so.” John sighed deeply, as though his plight was great. He slapped a hand down on the bar as he rose from his stool, leaving behind a handful of shillings. “Let me know if you hear anythin’. Tommy wants her found.” He gave the man a meaningful look at that last sentence, and he gave a quick bob of his head in response. He didn’t need to say anything else. As second-in-command of the Bruisers and younger brother of Archie, Tommy was judge, jury, and executioner here – if he was looking for someone, they’d be found. John turned to the owner as he reached the door.
“Archie’s comin’ back.”
The bar owner did a commendable job of hiding the flash of panic in his expression, giving John a shaky nod. “I’ll get the word around.”
“See that you do.”
With that, John left the pub and began to make his way west, to Charing Cross Road. He knew no one would follow him – Tommy had at least reached that level of trust with him – but he was careful to stop along the way, for an orange from one of the girls selling them on the street; for a newspaper from one of the boys on the corner. He then headed south and took The Mall across to Hyde Park, where he found a bench and sat to peruse the paper and eat his orange. When he was certain that no eyes were upon him, he rose from the bench and made his way through the park, enjoying the soft breeze that held the chill of the coming autumn in it. Already the leaves of the plane trees were becoming burnished in gold, but the sunlight streaming through their branches was still warm, and John whistled a tuneless ditty as he reached the edge of Belgravia.
As he drew closer to Bradford House, he found himself walking a bit faster, as though eager to see her again. He couldn’t imagine why; he was simply delivering news, relaying to her that Archie was returning to London, as had been his plan all along. His bosses at Whitehall were eager to get this operation wrapped up, keen to begin the task of clearing out the slums, but John was eager for something bigger. There had been whispers from his colleagues – from the superintendent himself, Lloyd Culpepper, the man assisting with the government’s mandate to clear the East End slums, that there was an opening for detective chief inspector. And John wanted it. The years he had spent in the gutter, scraping and clawing for survival in a Seven Dials flash house, working his way out, becoming valet to an earl, no less, had all been in service of making sure no one else would have to fight as he had, as Lucy had. Little Lucy, with her shining ringlets and sparkling blue eyes, had been his to protect after their mother died and their father left them at the flash house where they had been raised. Another twist of guilt tightened his stomach as he crossed the road. He had failed to do that duty; failed in the worst possible way. This operation and its success would be his redemption, his chance to prevent what happened to Lucy from ever happening again.
He stopped at the corner, across the street from the red brick wall which concealed the elegant stone manor behind it and frowned. If Miss Latimer agreed to help him – and he was certain she could help – then he felt far more confident in stopping Archie for good. If she agreed to help.
Heaving a sigh, he made his way around to the back door and entered the house. It was quiet, but he could hear voices down the hall, and so he followed them and found himself in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as Mrs. Beatty demonstrated to Miss Latimer the proper kneading of bread dough. She looked up as he entered the room, her pert little nose dusted with flour, and she smiled widely. God help him, he wanted to kiss her again.
“Mr. Barrow!” she exclaimed, stepping back to brush the flour from her hands.
“Good morning, Miss Latimer. Mrs. Beatty,” he added, nodding towards the cook who took up the lump of dough they had been kneading and dropped it into a ceramic bowl.
“A fine day, is it not, detective inspector?” Mrs. Beatty asked.
“It is indeed. May I borrow Miss Latimer for a moment?”
The cook glanced at the younger woman, whose smile quickly faded as she untied the apron she wore and draped it over the back of a chair. She stepped towards John, hesitant, her expression tight with anticipation, and followed him as he led her back down the hall and out to the parlour. He shut the door carefully behind them and turned to find her looking back at him with worried eyes, her fingers twisted in her skirts.
“Is he back?” was the first thing she said, her voice low. He shook his head.
“Not yet… but he will be soon.”
She swallowed, gave a short nod, and turned away to make her way to the window where she leaned over the deep sill to look out into the garden.
“Tommy has me looking for you.”
She gave a short, harsh laugh, but didn’t look at him. “He knows people will talk to you. Everyone’s scared of him.”
John said nothing as she stared out into the garden, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of the windowsill. After a moment, he spoke. “You could help me.”
She turned slowly to face him, a small furrow between her finely arched brows. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow… I worked so bloody hard to get out of that place. Della nearly got herself killed to get out of that place. I know you wanna stop Archie, and so do I, but I don’t know if I can help you. I just want to go back to France. I don’t want anythin’ more to do with Seven Dials.”
He took a step closer to her. “You don’t have to go back to Seven Dials, but if there was any information you could share… From what I understand, Archie’s not the trusting sort.”
Miss Latimer said nothing but did shake her head.
“Tommy knows me by now; he likes me winning fights for him, but Archie won’t know me. And they’re not going to share the information I need until they trust me.”
She still said nothing but did slowly dip her head in agreement.
“You knew them, Miss Latimer… what does it take to get Archie Neville on your side?”
He held his breath as her jaw tensed and she looked away for a moment before meeting his gaze. “Doin’ whatever it is he asks. He doesn’t like to hear no.”
“That’s hardly surprising.”
Her lips turned up in a smirk. “Archie Neville is evil down to his bloody core, but he’s also a man of simple tastes. Give him what he wants. Don’t question him.”
John nodded, glancing around the room to note the delicate cream and gold striped wallpaper, the fire surround of pale marble, the fine mahogany sideboard upon which sat a pair of ormolu candlesticks. It had all become so familiar to him during his time working here; it had become a second home of sorts. He had enjoyed it and been proud to hold such a position as valet to the Earl of Bradford. But his work with the Metropolitan Police had brought him back to his roots in St. Giles and given him the opportunity to make the lives of those who also called it home better. Getting rid of Archie and Tommy Neville and their gang of brutes and thieves would bring him one step closer to that mission – to rid that place of the crime and vice which had taken Lucy from him. Miss Latimer had finally turned away from the window to face him once more and he decided he had extracted enough information from her for now.
“How are you finding it here so far?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I can hardly complain; I’m gettin’ to live like a toff. Mrs. Beatty’s been showin’ me around the kitchen. It’s keepin’ my mind off… well, it’s keepin’ me busy.”
John nodded but didn’t know what to say. She sounded defeated asshe strayed towards the mantel and traced her finger over the scrolls carved into the marble. No doubt she was used to being independent, coming and going as she pleased, using her art to express all her innermost thoughts and desires. He glanced up at the paintingof hers Lady Bradford had had framed and placed proudly on the wall between the windows. It depicted a narrow street in short, evocative brushstrokes – not Seven Dials, but something similar; the buildings close together, the sky grey, but two women walked side by side, facing away from the viewer, one in pale blue, one in deep green.
“I don’t suppose we could take a walk in the gardens?” she asked suddenly, facing him with a hopeful look. He hesitated, just for a moment, then smiled and held out an arm.
“Come on then – before Mrs. Beatty comes looking for you.”
Miss Latimer grinned as she came towards him. “I quite like Mrs. Beatty, actually. I made a loaf of bread this mornin’ – I’ve never made bread in my life.”
John chuckled as he led her away from the parlour and towards the conservatory. “Was it any good?”
“Terrible, actually. But Mrs. Beatty says there’s always room for improvement.”
John laughed again as they entered the conservatory, the air thick and perfumed with exotic blooms. She strayed away from him to approach a large potted palm, tracing her finger over the curve of one of the fronds, then pulling away with a small sigh. He observed the tightening of her lips as they came upon the fountain at the back of the glass enclosure, and she seemed to look with longing upon the little cherub and the water burbling out of the vase it held. He stopped where she stood beside one of the benches flanking the fountain and glanced sideways at her.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
She didn’t look at him, but the corner of her mouth did turn up. “Archie never thought I’d go anywhere with my art. Thought it was only for schoolgirls doin’ watercolours till they could find a husband.” She sniffed and turned to face John with a smirk. “More fool him. I make more doin’ paintin’s in Paris than I ever did divin’ for him or workin’ for Cora.” She sighed again and looked away. “I did, anyway… everyone there’s gonna wonder what happened to me. I don’t suppose…”
“Yes?”
She turned to face him again, her expression hopeful. Damn, he’d forgotten how beautiful she was.
“Could you send a letter for me? Ana?s Duchenois – she lives on Rue Cortot – she’s one of my friends in Paris and she’ll be worried for me. Tell her I had to come home to my sick grandmother or somethin’.”
“Of course. I can get that to her.” He paused. “Were you unable to tell anyone before you left?”
Her eyes narrowed, anger sparking in the emerald depths. “Course not. I ran. I ran the second I got a chance, all the way from the bar where he found me to my flat, took whatever I would need to get home, and got on the first train to Calais.” She shook her head and reached out to let the bubbling water wash over her fingers, staring at her hand as she spoke. “He must have been followin’ me the whole time. I’m sure everythin’ in my flat is gone.”
“What do you mean?”
Her short laugh was full of disdain. “What do you think Archie would have done after I ran off? Wait around for me to come to my senses and go back to him? No, if he was able to find me in a bar in Montmartre, I know for sure he would have found my flat.” Her breath came out in a ragged sigh and her voice cracked when she spoke again. “I can almost guarantee you that he made sure to ruin my life there. To make sure if I ever went back, there would be nothin’ left.” Grief pinched her face, and she pulled her hand back, shaking the water from her fingers. “All my paint, my brushes, all my art… it’s all gone. I have nothin’ now, nothin’ but what I packed in that suitcase.”
The despair in her voice was unmistakeable, and he couldn’t help reaching out and laying a hand upon her arm to comfort her. She did something then he had not expected, turning into him with bowed head to press her face into his shoulder, laying one hand upon his chest as she did so. Slowly, her fingers curled into the material of his waistcoat, her knuckles growing white and her whole body tensing as though she were holding back some great tidal wave of emotion. A little startled – she had a knack for doing that to him – he raised a hesitant arm and loosely folded her in his embrace, gently stroking her back as she let out a great, shuddering sob. Her fist grew tighter on his waistcoat as she seemed to cling to him, her gasps muffled against his shoulder. He rested his chin upon the top of her head, letting the anguish empty from her as that warm, summery smell of hers filled his nostrils. After a few moments – one did not wallow in grief coming from the rookery – her tears subsided, and she raised a saddened face to his. Her long, dark eyelashes clung together where her tears had wet them and her cheeks were mottled with red, but her emerald eyes shone no less bright.
“You kissed me back.”
“What?”
“In Seven Dials, I pretended to kiss you and you kissed me back.”
“Yes… well, I suppose I did.”
She blinked up at him as her brows drew together.
“I haven’t kissed anyone since I left Seven Dials three years ago.” Her voice was the barest whisper and his breath caught as she gazed up at him with wide, fathomless eyes.
“Why not?” he couldn’t help asking, hearing what sounded like disbelief in her tone, as though she had been shocked by their kiss. She slowly shook her head.
“I didn’t want to. I just wanted to be me. I’d had enough of…” She trailed off and glanced away, as though searching for the right words. A small furrow marred her brow as she spoke again. “Enough of my body bein’ used, whether I wanted it or not. Enough of… feelin’ like I didn’t belong to myself. I just wanted to be Violet again, not a whore – I could be respectable. People look at you different when they respect you and I didn’t want anythin’ to get in the way of my art.”
John glanced down to where she still stood in the loose circle of his arms before offering her an apologetic smile as he took a step back.
“My apologies, then, Miss Latimer… I wouldn’t want to be the one to stand in your way.”
The air in the conservatory, dense and humid, seemed to close around them as she leaned into him, so close he could feel the soft curves of her breasts flattening against him.
“No, don’t apologize. I… I liked it. I’d forgotten what it was like, to enjoy—” She broke off her words, seeming startled again by her reaction before lifting her chin, meeting his gaze with fierce determination, and whispering, “Do it again.”
Jesus Christ. The words had barely left her lips when he bent to capture them with his own, turning her fully against him so that he could enfold her in his embrace as his mouth muffled her surprised gasp. Her fingers, which had been loose around the edge of his waistcoat, now dug into him, her long nails scraping his flesh. The sensation sent pleasure spiking through his body and a low growl reverberated in his chest as she seemed to melt into him. Some rational part of his brain told him it was unwise to be kissing the woman he was supposed to be hiding from Archie Neville, and one who seemed to have sworn off all men for the last three years, but goddamn did she taste good. She smelled even better – of grass warmed by the sun; of honeysuckle and sweet pea – and he pulled his mouth from hers to bury his face in her neck to inhale that intoxicating scent before pressing his lips to the smooth column of her throat. Her breath rasped out and her hands were suddenly upon the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him back to her mouth. Her soft, deft hands trailed down his back, his hips, until she finally broke away with a small gasp and stepped back. Her chest rose and fell with the quickened rhythm of her breathing and for a moment she said nothing as he looked back at her, not daring to make a move.
“No,” she finally said, softly, touching an experimental finger to her lips. “I suppose I’m not ready yet.” She met his gaze and offered a small smile. “Though I reckon you could make a girl change her mind.”
John couldn’t help laughing at that. “High praise, indeed.” His smile faded quickly when her gaze dropped to the floor and her lips tightened. He reached out then and touched her chin, drawing her attention back up. “Fear not, Miss Latimer,” he said softly. “I won’t let Archie get away with his crimes… I will find a way into his circle, this I promise you.”
“It won’t be easy,” she remarked, almost to herself.
“No, it won’t.” He smiled as she turned to him. “But you forget that I am incredibly charming.” He put a mocking hand to his chest and saw the corner of her mouth turn up, just a little, so reached out a hand to her. “The garden awaits.”
She glanced down at his outstretched arm, hesitated for only a moment, and placed her hand in his. “Lead the way.”
Violet had strolled through some of the finest gardens in France during her two years living there – the Tuileries, Versailles, the Jardin du Luxembourg, and though the gardens surrounding Bradford House were not nearly so vast as those, they were no less lovely. She and Della had often sat out under the shade of the ancient oak after Della had married the earl, and it had become one of her favourite parts of the estate. The early autumn chill still hung in the air, but the sun was bright in a cloudless sky as they followed the flagstone path which led around the circumference of the house.
Yet, despite the loveliness of the day and the beauty of the gardens, Violet could not shake the uneasiness in her belly. The kiss had been a test to see if her dreams of his actually meant anything. Was she ready to let herself experience pleasure again; to let someone close? She sighed… no. A very good kiss it had been – that she could not deny. But she had felt herself recoiling during it; had felt overwhelmed by his embrace. He had kissed her with such… passion. With such willingness. And men rarely, in her experience, kissed her in that way unless they wanted more. She would give it, wouldn’t she? Slip a few coins her way, and she’ll lift her skirts ’cause it’s all she’s good for. Certainly, they would sometimes try to woo her, to take a bit of time to get to know her, in the shallowest of senses, but when it came time… all they had ever wanted was her body. He’s not like them , she tried to tell herself, and shook off the feeling before Mr. Barrow spoke.
“Are you finding your rooms suitable?” he asked, somewhat stilted, as they skirted a bed overflowing with nodding mallows and azaleas, their blooms still vivid despite the lateness of the season. Violet glanced at him with a half-smile.
“Mr. Barrow, any room that isn’t crawlin’ with fleas or damp from a leaky roof is suitable by my standards. It’s positively luxurious.”
His short, deep laugh made something spark to life deep inside her belly and her stomach clenched. “When the earl first brought me on as a footman, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. And I only had a little chamber in the servants’ quarters.”
“Do you miss livin’ here, workin’ for him?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. I was so proud to hold that post – valet to the Earl of Bradford. Never thought some grubby little nobody like me would end up working for a peer, of all things. But I’m doing alright. I’m back where I started, trying to make the rookery better for the folks living there now.” He glanced over at her, his expression serious. “I am being considered for a promotion at Whitehall. Detective Chief Inspector for the Central Investigation Department. I think, if I were to get it, I could do some real good, make real changes. No one else will care about those people if they don’t know what it’s like to live in the rookery.” He paused and turned his attention back to the path. “And if this operation goes well, I would be that much closer to getting it.”
Violet glanced over at him as they strolled by the little pond in which water lilies floated and goldfish swam, unable to imagine any world in which she would willingly return to the slums she had escaped the first second she had a chance. Still, she supposed it was admirable… the residents of the rookery were certainly the most in need, but the most often ignored.
“Oh… I hope you get it.” And though his commitment to the place that had brought her only misery and hunger and longing for more perplexed her, she was sincere in her words. He gave a little smile as mottled sunlight danced over his features – sharp, they were, as though carved from stone. He reminded her of those statues she had seen while strolling through the Louvre with her little sketchbook and pencils. She had drawn many of them; the slash of brows, the sharp indents of cupid’s bows, the straight lines of noses. And here, before her, was one of those statues come to life. Every line on him was an angle, as though he had been created entirely with the straight edge of a ruler, and he was hard; hard as one of those marble gods. He was not big with muscle, as Della’s husband was, but she had touched him, had seen his naked chest that night in the cellar at the Fox and Friar. Every muscle on him was dense and sinewy – he would be deadly to those who dismissed his lack of bulk as weakness.
And for someone who had no doubt fought every day for survival growing up in St. Giles, as she had, it seemed he had not lost his humanity. It was easy to do that growing up in a place like Seven Dials.
He stepped ahead as they approached the weeping willow which bowed gracefully over the path to sweep the long tendrils out of their way. She nodded and ducked beneath the boughs to continue, but soon they had reached the far end of the wall that surrounded the property and Violet turned to look back the way they’d come. Mr. Barrow reached into his waistcoat pocket to withdraw his watch, glancing at it with a frown.
“I’ll have to be going soon. Tommy’ll want me at the club when it opens for lunch to take shipment of the produce. And I’ll have sparring practice after that.” He paused and looked up at her. “I could try to come back tomorrow? If I’m not needed?”
A sudden ache coiled through Violet’s chest at the idea of him going away again, back to Tommy and the rest of the Bruisers, and all the danger that entailed, but she plastered a bright smile on her face. “Only if you’re able – I’m sure Mrs. Beatty will keep me busy. I think I might have another go at the bread, see if I can’t make somethin’ halfway edible.”
When he gave her a skeptical look, she forced out a laugh and took his hand to lead him back to the house. “Come on – you know Tommy won’t stand for people bein’ late.”
Mr. Barrow didn’t argue but he didn’t look convinced as she walked with him to the gatehouse and laid a hand upon his arm as he stopped.
“If you start disappearin’ too often, Tommy’s gonna get suspicious, especially if Archie’s comin’ back. He’s gonna have to report to him when he gets home, and it would be helpful if he lets Archie know that you’ve been around, makin’ yourself useful.”
The very idea of helping in any way with Mr. Barrow’s investigation, of being forced to relive all those terrible years in Seven Dials with Archie, made her skin crawl but she could at least keep him safe. He gave a short nod and finally smiled. “You’re right. Now wouldn’t be the time to be disappearing. I have another fight later this week – Archie should be back by then.”
Violet’s chest grew cold, and she tightened her grip on Mr. Barrow’s arm. “Then you had better go out there and win that fight. If Archie’s there and your first meetin’ with him is after you lose a bout, he’s gonna think you’re not game and it’s gonna be that much harder to get in his good graces.”
He grinned and laid his hand over hers. It was warm and heavy, and she resisted the strange urge to trace her thumb over his.
“Never lost yet, Miss Latimer. I’ll come back when I’m able and let you know what’s happening.”
Violet almost told him to be careful, but bit back the words and watched as he slipped through the gate and out into the street. She waved as he turned to cross the street, heading towards Belgrave Square. Even after he had disappeared around the corner, she stayed at the gate, her fingers resting lightly upon the metal bars, feeling as though she had lost her anchor in this world and was now adrift in an unfamiliar sea. Della had once been that anchor for her; they had kept each other moored to reality when the harshness of the orphanage had threatened to break them. In France, it had been her art; her means of expressing the parts of herself women were ordinarily meant to keep quiet about. It was her passion, her voice, her freedom. But here, trapped in a house that was not hers, though Della’s mark was all over it, she had nothing holding her down any longer. Mr. Barrow was a relative stranger to her, but he knew the hardships of her past and he knew the danger she now faced. And with her departure from Bradford House as yet undetermined, he was her only link to the outside world.
Violet sighed and turned away from the gate to make her way back to the kitchen and that stubborn loaf of bread. If she was going to be trapped in this strange limbo, she might as well make the best of it.