Chapter Six

As the Frenchwoman named Juliette exited Catamount's office, he wasted no time. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp linen shirt and called out, "Lieutenant Harcourt, bring me everything we have on the Revivalists. Specifically, I want all the files related to their attack on Seven Dials three years ago that I don't already have. Scrape the barrel and find me something!"

As Harcourt hurried to gather the requested files, Catamount's gaze drifted to the large window overlooking the bustling streets of London below. His jaw clenched with determination, and he could feel the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. The Revivalists had haunted his thoughts for years, and now, with Juliette's unexpected appearance, the past and present intertwined in a way he'd never anticipated.

The lieutenant returned promptly, a stack of files in hand, and placed them on Catamount's desk. Wasting no time, he delved into the documents, scanning through reports, witness statements, and any shred of information related to the attack. The flickering lamplight cast shadows on his face as he absorbed the details, his mind racing to connect the dots.

The memories of that tragic night, the loss of Julie, fueled his determination to unravel the mysteries surrounding the Revivalists. As Catamount delved into the past, he couldn't shake the feeling that Juliette's presence held the key to unlocking the truth of that night—one that had eluded him for far too long. But he had to be careful. He didn't want to scare her away. Not now. Not when he'd only just found her.

With each page he turned, the echoes of that night reverberated through his mind. The clock on the wall ticked away, marking the passage of time as he embarked on a relentless pursuit of justice and closure. He just knew the truth lay buried within the pages before him, waiting to be unveiled. As he scrutinized the details, Harcourt stood at attention, ready to assist, his brown eyes direct and confident.

Catamount traced the lines of the documents. "Harcourt, what do you remember about that night? The night the Revivalists attacked Seven Dials," he asked, his voice steady, betraying little emotion.

The lieutenant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It was terrible, captain. A bloody mess. The Revivalists hit the tavern where your woman, Julie Burness, worked—the Black Griffin—before taking to the streets. Bodies everywhere. The whole damn Seven Dials nearly burned to the ground."

Catamount's jaw clenched at the mention of the tavern where Julie had worked and where everything had unraveled. But he'd asked. He should have been prepared. "Body counts? Damage to the building?"

Harcourt consulted his own notes. "Twenty-four casualties, sir. Most civilians. The Black Griffin was left in ruins, and the surrounding structures suffered damage from the fire. We rounded up a few clues about the direction they'd gone, but the Revivalists had vanished by the time we arrived."

Catamount sighed. "Julie…" he whispered. They'd found her ring—the one he'd given to her when he proposed the week before, his family's protests be damned—next to an unidentifiable female body, and he'd known. That night he'd lost his heart.

"Captain, we did our best that night, but the Revivalists were elusive. No one expected them to strike with such brutality," Harcourt said. "Or so quickly."

Catamount nodded, his gaze fixed on the reports. "We underestimated them, and it cost us. We thought they were done, but they've resurfaced. And now, with this woman—Juliette—claiming a connection to that night, I need to know more."

Harcourt leaned against the desk. "You think she might have answers, sir?"

Catamount met his lieutenant's gaze. "I don't know what to think, but I can't ignore the possibility. We owe it to the victims of that night to uncover the truth, even if it means confronting the ghosts we thought were laid to rest."

As he continued to scrutinize the reports, a nagging suspicion burrowed into the recesses of his mind. Juliette seemed more than she appeared. The resemblance to Julie was uncanny, save for the French lilt that danced in her words. Yet her hazel eyes regarded him without a flicker of recognition. None. Nothing.

It was hell.

Agony and hope churned in Catamount's chest, and his heart—a vessel that had seemingly died with Julie—thumped with renewed intensity. The past, with its scars and unanswered questions, had resurfaced with Juliette's presence.

He sighed, the weight of it all pressing down on him. "Harcourt, gather any remaining reports, witness accounts, and sketches from that night. I need to know if there's anything I missed, anything at all that might connect this woman to the Revivalists or to Julie."

The lieutenant nodded. "Other than the fact that she looks exactly like her, you mean."

Catamount paused, his gaze fixed on the parchment before him. "Down to the freckle pattern on her nose. Still, I don't know what to think. There's something about her, that's for damn certain. Something familiar, yet elusive. I promise you this, Harcourt: if Julie somehow survived that night, if she's living today as the lovely Madame Juliette Toussaint with no memory of our past together, I need to find out."

"Anyone would, captain. Getting a second chance with a lost loved one doesn't come along every day."

No, it certainly did not.

Harcourt left to gather the requested materials, leaving Catamount alone with his thoughts. The dim light cast shadows on his furrowed brow as he grappled with the inexplicable connection between Julie, Juliette, and the Revivalists.

Catamount couldn't contain the frustration building within him, and a low curse escaped his lips. "Damn it," he muttered to himself. His tumultuous emotions refused to be silenced. Agitated, he grabbed his coat and bellowed for his lieutenant once again, signaling his abrupt departure from the confines of headquarters. "Take over, Harcourt!"

His destination was Flatt's boxing gym. In the hope of finding some reprieve from the pressure gripping his chest like an unrelenting vise, he thought of Aaron Longfellow, the bare-knuckle champion and gym owner, and his brother-in-law, Damon Crowe. Christ, he couldn't wait to punch them in the face.

***

Catamount stepped into the gym, the scent of sweat and leather hitting him like a familiar slap. The large, open building with its brick walls echoed with the sounds of exertion and the rhythmic thud of fists meeting punching bags. Grunts and expletives and flesh on flesh. The physical energy of the place enveloped him. He scanned the diverse crowd, a mix of fighters honing their skills and spectators absorbing the raw intensity of the gym. Amid the sea of bodies, he spotted the imposing figure of Longfellow, the giant auburn-haired boxer.

With a determined stride, Catamount approached him. "Longfellow, mind if I join you for a spar? I could use the exertion."

Longfellow, always up for a challenge, flashed a knowing grin. "Catamount, me bloke, you're always welcome in my ring. I'll clean the mat wit' ye."

Catamount laughed, ready and eager for the match. "Try it, Longfellow. You might just succeed, but not for my lack of effort." Grabbing his jacket, he shed his clothes until he was bare-chested. Riding low, his trousers settled loosely about his lean hips as he climbed into the ring.

The two men circled each other between the ropes, the air charged with the promise of an intense match. Catamount, despite his own physical prowess, recognized Longfellow's reputation as a formidable champion. The rhythmic dance of their footwork echoed through the gym as they sized each other up.

"Anytime now, detective."

"I'm assessing," Catamount retorted, searching for an opening.

Suddenly Longfellow's powerful frame moved with a deceptive agility, his muscles rippling beneath the sheen of sweat. In a burst of speed, he closed the distance, launching a lightning-fast combination. Catamount, no stranger to combat, deftly dodged and blocked the initial strikes. But Longfellow's precision was undeniable. A quick feint drew Catamount off balance, and with a thunderous hook, the bare-knuckled champion clipped him hard on the jaw. The impact sent shock waves through his skull, and he stumbled backward, the taste of copper filling his mouth.

The gym fell silent for a moment as Catamount found himself flat on his arse on the canvas, his senses momentarily scattered. Longfellow, displaying a wide, satisfied grin of victory, offered a hand to help him up. "Not too bad, cap'n."

As Catamount took it and dragged himself up from the canvas, he grinned and flinched at the split in his lip. "Damn, Longfellow, you've still got those lightning fists. Should've known better than to let my guard down."

The boxer chuckled. "You're not as rusty as ye pretend, Catamount. Just needed a reminder, tha's all."

Catamount wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, the physical exertion providing a temporary escape from the tangled thoughts that swirled in his mind. "Well, you certainly delivered that reminder with panache. Let's go another round. I want another chance to best you."

They resumed their sparring, the sounds of bare fists meeting flesh and the occasional grunt filling the gym. Catamount, fueled by the need to vent his frustration and the lingering ache of memories, threw himself into this match with renewed determination. He landed a solid jab, feeling the satisfying thud as his hand connected with Longfellow's midsection.

Longfellow grimaced before his sweat-slicked face broke into a good-natured smile. "Tha's the idea, cap'n. Keep me on my toes."

As they circled each other, Catamount's gaze sharpened with a sudden realization. He stopped and stared at Longfellow, pieces clicking into place. "You know, that blow you sent me almost made me forget my own damn name."

Longfellow arched an eyebrow. "Is tha' so?"

"Yes, and it got me thinking. What if… what if something like that happened to her? What if she forgot that night, and is really my Julie?"

Longfellow paused mid-step, his jovial demeanor giving way to a more serious look. "Julie? You mean the one you lost in the Seven Dials attack?"

Catamount's mind raced, connecting the dots with the force of a revelation. "She doesn't remember," he muttered, more to himself than to Longfellow. "But the way she looks at me, the way she feels so familiar… What if she's really, truly my Julie, and something awful happened that night, something she can't recall but survived? Shite, it's got to be her and she just doesn't remember ."

"I'm bloody uncertain wot nonsense you're spoutin' about Julie. It's a strange notion, eh? Her still being alive but without her memory. And bloomin' unlikely."

Catamount clenched his jaw. "I'll get to the bottom of it, Longfellow. Watch me."

The possibility of reclaiming something he'd thought forever gone?

Yes. Absolutely bloody fucking yes .