Chapter Twenty

H arry rested on his side. He couldn't sleep even though they'd been in bed for hours. The club vibrated through the floors below him, still operating merrily through the night—not that it ever stopped. Ordinarily, the noise didn't bother him. Harry was used to the ambiance.

The occasional yelp and song still came from the Irish family next door, but they'd settled into a listless quiet. Harry had no doubt they'd become immune to the Lucky Fish's nighttime harmonies as well. People were amazing creatures. They could acclimate to just about anything, given enough time and patience…and understanding.

Harry fixed on his wife, who had a tendency to start sleeping on her back but roll onto her stomach soon after. Her face was smashed against the pillow's edge, and a tiny line of drool trailed from her gaping mouth.

Harry smiled at the sight. And, oddly enough, he slid closer to her. He had the sneaking suspicion that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to get close enough. It was a strange feeling, both unnerving and tantalizing, especially since, when he'd made love to her that night, he still hadn't been able to take off his gloves.

Ruthie didn't ask him to. She never did. And later, languid and content on the bed, she'd been so proud when she pointed out that he hadn't worn the necktie over his eyes. Harry was changing, she said.

But would it be enough to keep her? Harry tried to believe Ruthie when she said that she would never want to leave him; however, something stopped him from taking her words to heart.

Everyone always left him. Just as the world could be too much for Harry, he had been too much for all the people in his life who were supposed to love him. From the father who'd never held his hand to the mother who'd released it too eagerly, Harry had always been the person left behind.

The years with his gang and running the Lucky Fish had been no different. People dealt with Harry because he made them money, or tricked them into thinking he could. That Harry Holmes was an illusion of his own design. He was the tiger who disguised himself in the environment in order to fool his prey. But he couldn't do that with Ruthie. She peered through the layers of stripes and muted colors and saw the real him.

And the real Harry Holmes had always been found lacking. Earlier he'd asked Ruthie to try something for him. To try to see herself the way that he saw her. Could he be as brave? Could he ever look at himself and see anything other than an aberration?

Ruthie snored, interrupting his thoughts. Yet another thing she did when she reached the deepest part of her sleep. Harry chuckled at the ungodly, adorable sound and tugged the cover higher to her chin. His hands were bare. For a moment, he paused near her face. He tried to count the freckles dotting her nose, but the shadows of the room made it too difficult. His fingers hovered there, just over her bridge, as if he were waiting to slide down to the tip.

One day he would do it, he told himself, dropping his hand back to the bed. One day he would surprise his wife with that little touch. He just needed her to keep wanting him in the meantime. Because he would never stop trying.

*

The sound of rustling pages nagged at his consciousness. He opened his eyes to find his wife across the room seated on the couch, a small lantern lit beside her.

Harry rubbed at his eyelids. "What are you doing?"

Her head jerked up. Slowly, she lifted a book out of her lap. "I couldn't sleep," she replied stiffly.

Her strange tone made him regard the book more closely.

It wasn't a book. It was his ledger.

"You shouldn't be reading that," he snapped, jumping out of the bed. In two steps he was on her, and he swiped the item from her hands.

Ruthie folded them in her lap, her expression opaque, which only fueled Harry's annoyance.

"This is mine. You had no right to read it."

She lowered her gaze, nodding her head. "I'm sorry," she said, her tone as expressionless as her face.

Harry released a breath, his irritation lifting at her immediate apology. He sighed, tossing the journal on the couch next to her. Ruthie didn't look at it. "No…I overreacted. I didn't need to yell like that. It's just…" He found his robe on the chair next to his bed and put it on before returning to her. "It's personal."

Ruthie's laugh was short and acerbic. "Oh, I'm aware." Her gaze lifted to him slowly. "Don't you want to know why I'm sorry?"

Harry shrugged, unable to hide the frustration. "Because you invaded my privacy without asking me?"

"Yes, there's that. But I'm also sorry that I didn't read it sooner."

Harry yanked the belt around his waist, not recognizing the woman in front of him. "Explain yourself, Ruthie. How could you say something like that?" He paused, fear gripping like a vise. What did you read?

Finally, Ruthie's calm veneer cracked, and Harry watched the sadness pour into her.

"You wrote about me. In your do-good journal. I was an entry."

Fuck. Harry had forgotten all about that. He tried to recall what he wrote, but nothing came to him. It had been so long ago, and done on a whim. It had meant nothing to him.

But he could tell it meant something to her. Ruthie's stare was too damning and heartbroken. Harry panicked under the strain.

"It's not what you think," he said, hoping to stanch the wound quickly.

But it ran too deep and was flowing too fast. "Was I just another good deed, Harry?" she asked, her voice catching when she said his name. "Just another way to buy yourself into heaven? Convince your creator by telling him how you married a poor, helpless, plain wallflower with no hopes or prospects?"

"You know that's not it," Harry said. He took a step toward her, but Ruthie flinched.

She stared at his bare, outstretched hands. "Don't touch me," she said quietly. "I don't want that right."

Harry dropped his hands to his sides as an inner alarm banged between his ears. This was it. He was losing her. He could feel her slipping through his fingers.

So he squeezed harder. "Goddammit, Ruthie," he said. "Stop behaving this way. You know that journal means nothing. It's just a place for my thoughts. It's…it's meaningless."

"No," she replied evenly. She'd recaptured her coolness, and it threatened to destroy him more than her animosity. "It's your soul. It's what you believe. It's your hope. I know you, Harry. It means everything. And it means I was a fool."

Harry fell to his knees in front of his wife, once more causing her to jerk back into the cushions. "You are not a fool. You are my everything. Why can't you believe me? Don't listen to that stupid book. I married you because I wanted you."

"You married me because you were afraid of being alone."

"So what?" he shouted. "That was then. It's not now. You've seen me change. You know what I'm capable of. I need you to trust me. I care for you. You have no idea how much. You've saved me."

Ruthie let out a sardonic laugh, her blue eyes boring into him. She reached for the book, lifting it, only to let it drop again. "That was my job, wasn't it? That was my purpose for you. And it looks like I'm doing it."

"Stop it, Ruthie," Harry growled. The desperation made it impossible to control the anger in his voice. "You're more than that. You always were."

"Was I?" she asked softly. "I wanted to believe that. A few days ago"—she blushed—"a few hours ago, I might have—"

Harry clutched the ends of the couch on both sides of her, caging her in. Ruthie, who was undeniably compassionate and perceptive, always so generous and sympathetic to his deficiencies, was not understanding what he was trying to tell her.

Or not willing to this time.

Harry was jumping out of his skin. He needed to touch something. This disastrous situation was dragging him out to sea, leaving him alone and untethered. He needed something. He needed to hold Ruthie. "My love, you have to believe that. Let me explain. Just listen."

She shook her head. "I'm tired of words, Harry. Just let it be." She cast another doleful glance at the ledger. "I don't want to talk any more tonight."

"But—"

Footsteps pounded through the corridor, cutting off his plea. As one, Ruthie and Harry twisted toward the sound. They had no time to question it. Mason Waitrose's crazed voice shook through the door.

Harry fell back to his ankles. "I'm going to fucking kill your brother."

"You won't have a chance," Ruthie retorted, scrambling to her feet, "because I'm going to do it first."

Mason's voice intensified. "If you don't get out of my way, old man, you're going to regret it!" he barked.

Ernest.

Harry launched himself at the door. Just as he was about to reach for the handle, it flew open and Mason exploded in, leaving Ernest behind, shaking in the corridor.

Ruthie screamed, "Mason! What on earth are you doing?"

Her brother instantly commanded the atmosphere, waving a pistol in front of him as if it were a sword. He was drunk again, which, to Harry's estimation, made the man more dangerous than he'd ever been.

"Be quiet, Ruthie. This is none of your concern!" her brother barked.

"Are you mad?" she replied, flopping her hands at her sides. "Of course this is my concern! Put that down at once. You'll hurt yourself."

Harry cast his wife an incredulous look. "Hurt himself ?" His laughter tasted sour in his mouth. "He's pointing the damn thing at me! And since he's wobbling around so much, also at you!"

Ruthie lowered her head irritably. "He doesn't even know how to use it."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here!" Mason fumed. "I've been taking lessons, and I'm a pretty good shot, if I do say so myself." He took two steps toward Harry. "And you don't have to be an expert marksman at this range, sister."

Harry stared at the pistol, thinking it familiar. Where had he seen it before?

"Do as your sister says," he advised darkly. "This will not end well for you."

"Oh, shut your mouth, Holmes," Mason said. "From my end, I'd say otherwise."

Harry scowled. "You can shoot me, but there's a whole house of men that won't let you leave here in one piece. Think this through, Lord Mason."

Mason scoffed, continuing to wave his pistol all about the room. "Do you really think your men care about you? Do you really think they'd kill a baron for you? You are delusional. And you are so, so wrong."

Sweat dripped off the baron's forehead. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot. Harry would bet that the fool hadn't slept in days.

"You thought you could embarrass me," Mason went on. "You thought you could make me a laughingstock in front of my friends. My friends—not yours!"

"Mason, they're not your friends," Ruthie cried.

"Shut up! Shut up, Ruthie. You've done quite enough, ruining your reputation, whoring yourself to this"—he sneered at Harry—" bogtrotter ."

Harry lunged forward. "I'm going to smash your face in!"

Mason threw his arm out toward Harry once more, the tip of the gun mere inches from his nose. "Oh, I completely forgot! I'm sorry, sister. You're not a whore because your husband doesn't touch you." He laughed wildly. "Isn't that what you told Mother? He's one of those men. Ha! That's my only regret in all of this, Holmes. You'll be dead and won't be able to hear me telling all of London about your little… quirks . Isn't that what you called them, sister? How adorable." Mason's eyes darted to Harry's pants. "Is that one of them now? Tap, tap, tapping?"

Harry's jaw clenched. He hadn't even known he was doing it. He stretched out his fingers, but that weakness made Mason laugh louder.

"How did you do it, Holmes?" he asked. "I really want to know. How did you convince this whole city that you're normal, that you're not a freak?"

"Mason! That's enough," Ruthie said, sobbing.

Harry could feel Ruthie look at him, feel the way she implored him to turn his face to her. But he couldn't. His control was slipping. He had no idea which Harry she would see—the crime boss who didn't care what anyone thought of him, or the husband who was demonstrably hurt by what she'd done. Her betrayal.

"You've had your fun, brother. Now go home. Mother will be upset when she hears about this. You know it."

Mason made a nasty noise in the back of his throat. "Mother? Who do you think I'm doing this for? She'll be so fucking proud of me. Besides"—he shrugged, for the first time showing a semblance of doubt—"we need the money. This will ensure our future."

"Money?" Ruthie stepped lightly in his direction. "What money? What are you talking about?"

Mason lolled his head dramatically to the side, using the gun like a conductor uses his baton. "You didn't honestly believe I was going to give up and move to Uncle's home in Berkshire once you ruined your chances with Lord Dawkins? Christ! How could Mother ever think that I would rent out the townhome? That's my home! That's my birthright. That's my destiny! I couldn't just give it up without a fight, so when an opportunity presented itself to me, I took it."

"Mason," Ruthie said, lengthening the word in a terrifying warning. "What presented itself? Who?"

The baron's jaw wobbled. He blinked at his sister as if trying to break through the prison of alcohol that he'd built around himself. She took another step toward him, and his elbow bent slightly.

It was what Harry had been waiting for. Lowering his head, he charged, hitting Mason straight in the gut. The men flopped to the floor, sending the gun flying across the room. It went off with a terrible bang! but Harry wouldn't be distracted. Once he unleashed his first punch, the others followed of their own accord. His skin stretched and tore as it connected with Mason's jaw; his knuckles bled and cracked as he continued to rain down blows.

Blood and tears, spit and snot mixed and whirled between the men as Harry released his vengeance on this enemy. His stomach roiled and lurched the more he swung; his vision blurred; his head pounded as blood caked his fist.

Someone touched him. A hand clung to his arm. A voice begged him to stop. Ultimately, it was his own, ever-failing body that did it. Acid burned at the base of his throat, and Harry leapt off the inert man and ran to the distant corner. He was sick at once. He heaved and gagged until he thought he heard a rib break. And then he did it again.

Through the hell, he heard his wife's voice. "Harry? Harry, look at me. It's over. Are you all right?"

She reached for his shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" he screamed. He rounded on her. Ruthie's eyes widened, her fear palpable. "Stay away from me!"

Harry's heart beat erratically. The room spread out before him, and everything was coming at him at once.

Except his wife. Ruthie backed away from him slowly, until she was at her brother's side.

She knelt down and shrieked. "Mason," she sobbed, clutching her brother's bloody face in her hands. "Mason, wake up. Wake up, brother."

Wiping his mouth with his robe, Harry heard a commotion at the doorway. He saw Ernest squeeze through a crowd of people. Softly, the butler walked to Ruthie and placed his arms around her quivering shoulders. "He's alive, miss," he said over her cries. "But just barely. We have to get him some help." He lifted his head to Harry. "What should we do?"

Harry went to rub a hand over his face but froze when he saw all the blood. He couldn't drag his eyes away when it began to shake uncontrollably.

"Harry?" Ruthie called out. "Please help him. Please. He didn't mean it. He doesn't know what he does. Please."

Harry shook himself awake. He marched to the door, throwing all the curious onlookers out of his way. "Vine! Vine!" he screamed down the corridor, looking for his man to clean up this mess.

Helplessly, Harry watched Ruthie collapse further into Ernest's arms. "Vine!" he shouted again, but no one came. Harry was alone.

"It's all right, Miss Ruthie," Ernest said, patting her shoulder. "Everything will be fine. I'll make sure of it. Don't you worry. This will right itself. I promise. We promise."

The butler stared up at his employer, but Harry was gone. His face was white; his expression dazed. He was lost in the moment; lost in the violence of what he'd done.

And he stood there much later, still immobile and speechless, as he lost his wife.