Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel Page 7

  “Wot?”

  The door swung open the merest crack, creating such a narrow opening Ben couldn’t make out the man who’d spoken from inside.

  “May I speak with you, sir?”

  After a moment, the door creaked open a bit more, and a giant of a man filled the space. A hoary eyebrow arched to a peak over his left eye, the only one visible.

  “Wot business ‘ave ye with me?”

  “I am looking for a young woman named Rose. Does she live here?”

  “Not ‘ere.” The man moved to close the door but Ben wedged his boot into the slim opening.

  “Where might I find her?”

  “Has she ever lived here?” Kate’s voice rang out over his own and Ben winced when the door opened wide. The old man’s gruff expression softened at the sight of her, and Ben stepped in front of her to block the man’s view.

  “She’s a proper bit o’ frock.”

  Ben lifted his shoulders and straightened his back but the man still towered over him. “She’s none of your concern.”

  “Please, sir. If you know where we can find Rose—”

  Ben swiveled around and shot Kate a withering stare, though it was difficult to look at her and think of anything other than how close he’d come to tumbling her in the carriage.

  She stopped speaking but nudged her chin high and returned a defiant glare.

  “Wot you want wif Rose? Wot she done?”

  Ben spoke first and loudly, hoping Kate would take his cue to remain silent. “Nothing at all. I simply require a word with her.”

  “Try ‘er sister. Lodges off the Whitechapel Road. Fieldgate Street.”

  Ben was astonished to be given an address so near the clinic and suspected Mrs. Guthrie was too, but it wasn’t the time to discuss the matter. It was time to remove Kate from the man’s unsavory gaze.

  “Thank you very much. Good day.”

  Ben turned and bustled Kate away from the doorstep as quickly as he could. She resisted only a moment before letting him lead her down the street. He reached for her hand and hoped she’d allow him the pleasure of holding hers. She refused to take his hand but laid hers on his arm, as a woman might do to allow a gentleman to escort her on a promenade around the park. He sensed a tremor in her touch before she clasped him tightly. It was Ben’s only indication that her steady, unflappable demeanor might mask a measure of fear.

  He was grateful for her fear. She should fear the unsavory aspects of Whitechapel, just as she should fear his intentions. A suspended detective estranged from his own family—he had nothing to offer Kate Guthrie. And if Miss Cole was correct about Kate’s circumstances, she would soon leave her Whitechapel days behind and marry. His jaw clenched at the thought. She’d marry some climber like his Langdon, no doubt. A man who could give her the kind of wealth and status a detective sergeant could never offer.

  He had to forget her. Or at the very least stifle his unreasonable attraction to her. Hadn’t he learned his lesson about women who’d given their hearts to another?

  ****

  The heat and comfort Kate drew from holding onto Detective Quinn didn’t distract her from the fact she was due back at Moreton Terrace within the hour. If she didn’t start her journey soon, she’d be late. And explaining her whereabouts to Will and Ada—who knew her, loved her, and trusted her—was worlds apart from facing Mr. Thrumble.

  He suspected her of something unseemly, and he would certainly consider her charity work in Whitechapel inappropriate. She’d always known he would. But he’d been a patient friend to her over the years, taking her initial rejection of his marriage proposal in stride and continuing to visit. He’d offered her friendship and insisted on nothing more—until two months ago. He’d indicated he wished for more and would offer a second proposal.

  He deserved an answer, and she owed him the courtesy of being on time.

  As they approached the London Hospital, Kate lifted her hand from Detective Quinn’s arm.

  “I must return home within the hour. I’m afraid I have an appointment.”

  Her tongue felt thick as she spoke the words and Kate feared the detective would detect the quaver in her voice. Returning home, even to settle matters with Solomon Thrumble, seemed a dull prospect compared to finding Rose.

  She looked up at him and felt a surge of desire—to continue on their hunt, to assist him. To win their wager.

  “I-I’m sorry I cannot stay. I would prefer—”

  “Of course I understand.” His full mouth curved in a wry grin. “This detecting business isn’t nearly as appealing on close inspection, is it?”

  He looked relieved. Kate was stumbling over her words, fighting her desire to stay with him, and the blasted man looked relieved. And he didn’t even attempt to hide it.

  “You seem quite pleased at the prospect of being rid of me.”

  Detective Quinn had lifted his hand to hail a carriage but stopped when Kate spoke. She couldn’t decode the meaning in his expression as he turned back to her, but the intensity of his gaze unsettled her. She suspected it was the look he used on criminals to spark a confession. Her own secrets were heavy, and his blue stare pressed her to reveal them all.

  He drew closer and Kate resisted the urge to step forward and meet him, close enough to be heard if she whispered. Close enough to touch him.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Guthrie.”

  It was odd to hear him speak her name so formally. He’d called her Kate in the carriage, and he’d spoken with a husky familiarity that made her ache. She preferred it when he called her Kate.

  “After all, this will no doubt be the last time we meet.” He spoke the words matter-of-factly. No emotion. Nothing like regret.

  The last time. Was it possible she would never see Detective Quinn again? The prospect seemed strange, unpalatable, and yet it was true. He would have no need of her, if he ever had.

  “But what about Rose?”

  “I’ll send word as soon as I find her.”

  He would send word. The matter was settled as easily as that. He would not come himself. There was no need.

  Kate turned away from him and swallowed the lump in her throat. She would not give in to sentiment and foolishness. Maudlin, Andrew had called her. It had never served her well.

  The streets were busy and pedestrians passed between them, many of them queuing to enter the London Hospital’s main admittance hall. Kate turned back toward the tall, dark detective and watched as he waved and caught the eye of a cabman down the road. As the horse trotted toward them, Detective Quinn lifted his arm, directing her near the curb.

  “You’ll send word about Rose? 42 Moreton Terrace.”

  Eyes wide, mouth agape, Detective Quinn stilled a moment before responding.

  “Moreton Terrace.”

  “Do you know it?”

  The image of Benjamin Quinn walking the lanes of Pimlico was far too appealing.

  “I know a family who lives quite near.”

  “Perhaps I know them.”

  Kate had become remiss about visiting neighbors and friends over the years. Caring for Will had not only occupied her time but relieved her of social duties she was glad to overlook. If Detective Quinn knew a family in Pimlico, it was silly to think she might be familiar with them too. Yet the notion of a connection between them was too intriguing to ignore. Mercy. How ridiculously eager she was to grasp at any thread to further their strange acquaintance.

  “Yes, perhaps you do.” He wasn’t giving anything away. And he didn’t reach for her this time, merely held out his hand. She placed her palm against his and he lifted, steadying her as she stepped into the hansom cab.

  He called her address up to the driver, never taking his eyes from her.

  “Fare well, Mrs. Guthrie.”

  A mad, reckless impulse made her grasp the hand he’d rested against the door of the cab.

  Her throat burned, all of her unspoken desires scorching her for keeping quiet.

  His gaze shifted to her mouth,
as if he knew what she left unsaid.

  “Please, don’t forget to let me know about Rose.”

  Detective Quinn surprised her, much as he had from the moment she’d met him. Bending his head, he placed a kiss on the top of her hand. He lingered a moment and the heat of his breath singed her skin through her gloves.

  Then he stepped back and rapped on the side of the cab, signaling to the driver to depart.

  As the driver turned the cab to join the line of carriages making their way down the Whitechapel Road, the detective continued to watch her.

  His gaze was full of hunger, craving—a look she wouldn’t soon forget.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Light filtered through the pale green curtains of 42 Moreton Terrace’s front window and Kate heard Solomon Thrumble’s voice before she reached the front step. She was late. Would there be time to change? She feared there would be no time to do anything but explain why she was tardy and where she’d been.

  With shaking hands she fumbled the key against the lock before feeling the metal slide into place and hearing it click as it threw the latch. Stepping into the foyer, she shrugged off her cloak, smoothed her dress, and swiped at the dust clinging to her skirts. There was no hope for it. Her gown was too dark and the lighter marks of dust and dried mud too well embedded. So much walking had left her hem damp, even darker than the rest of her skirt. There was no hiding the fact she’d been out in the muck and mire.

  “Kate, there you are.” Ada descended the stairs and spoke quietly. “Will and Mr. Thrumble are in the sitting room. I can hold them off a bit if you’d like to change your gown or wash before luncheon.”

  Kate hugged Ada, clung to her. Her sister-in-law squeezed tight, only releasing the embrace when Kate’s shivers had eased.

  “What is it?” Ada’s voice was a whisper, her green eyes glittering in the gaslight.

  “I’ve just come from Whitechapel.” Once the words began, Kate couldn’t stop them tumbling out. “I go there several times a week to volunteer at a charitable infirmary, nothing like the work you did at the Samaritan Hospital. It’s just a small clinic, but it’s useful to those who live nearby on the Whitechapel Road.”

  Ada didn’t speak, merely listened, and chafed the cold from Kate’s hands as her confession rushed out in hushed tones.

  “I tended to a young woman last night. Rose is her name. She claimed she’d been attacked by the Whitechapel Murderer. By Jack the Ripper. She was cut here.” Kate lifted her hand and slid her index finger across the side of her throat. “It wasn’t deep.”

  “There hasn’t been an attack in months. Do you think it’s the same man?”

  Ada had never expressed an interest in the mystery of the murders in Whitechapel. She didn’t collect The Illustrated Police News, nor ask to look at any of the other clippings Kate had collected. But she’d grown up in the district, knew the area, and tended to the sick and injured at the Samaritan Hospital. Her mother still lived there above the pub she and Ada’s father had purchased years before. It was no surprise she’d be as interested in the victims and crimes as anyone.

  “I don’t know. If it was, she is a very lucky young woman.”

  “Did she speak to the police?”

  Kate shook her head and Ada narrowed her eyes.

  “She must.”

  “Rose said she would only speak to a detective sergeant named Quinn. I sought him out, but he was… He was in no proper state to speak with her.”

  “Sought him out where?”

  Laughter, a warm baritone rumble, rang out from the sitting room. Kate recognized it as Will’s laughter. She and Ada both turned their heads toward the sitting room door before stepping closer and lowering their voices to the barest whisper.

  “The Ten Bells.”

  Ada clamped a hand to her mouth and her eyebrows shot up.

  Kate closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could hear the admonitions in her own head without Ada speaking a word of them.

  “I know. It’s not a fit place for a woman to go alone. But Rose insisted she would speak to no one else.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Quite.” Kate had never seen her sister-in-law roll her eyes, but she did it now quite impressively before lifting a hand to her hip to emphasize her disgust.

  “He did attempt to question Rose this morning at the clinic, but she’s gone missing.”

  “Missing? Why? Where?”

  Kate shrugged, but the thought of what might have become of Rose brought images to mind like those she’d seen in the penny gazettes. “She took herself off in the night. He’s still searching for her.”

  Ada reached for Kate’s hands again. “Take a moment and refresh yourself. I’ll go and hold off the gentlemen for a bit.”

  Kate nodded, lifted her skirts, and started up the stairs. An ache in her chest—a knot of worry and anxiety over Rose—still troubled her, but she felt lighter for having shared the truth of her work in Whitechapel with Ada.

  “Kate?”

  Ada spoke, her voice quiet, the volume doing nothing to diminish her tone of concern. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” Ada tilted her head toward the sitting room, indicating the place where Kate was to meet Mr. Thrumble and finally give him the answer he had been awaiting for so long.

  Kate shook her head—a slow, subtle movement of denial. She forced her body into stillness before answering. “Of course. It’s time to marry again. To move on.”

  “That doesn’t truly answer the question I asked.” A sad smile curved Ada’s mouth as she waited for Kate’s answer. When Kate made no reply, Ada took two steps and stood just below her on the stairs. “I never believed I would marry. And certainly not for love. But now… Now I cannot bear the thought of marrying for any other reason. For you. For Vicky. For any of the women I care for.”

  No. Kate had married for love once, for a desire so all-encompassing and complete she could see nothing else, nor listen to the warnings of those who cared for her and urged caution. She had heard only the sweet words spoken in Andrew Guthrie’s Scottish brogue, and she’d been his.

  His to torment. His to blame and chastise and rage at until he was sapped of energy. That’s when he would come scratching at her door like a needy pup, begging forgiveness, vowing he’d changed, promising he would never speak a cross word to her again as long as he lived.

  No. Marrying for love was a foolish notion and only ended well for a lucky few. Kate rejoiced with all her heart for Will and Ada’s good fortune, but she couldn’t believe in such felicity for herself.

  If she married Solomon Thrumble, there would be no grand passion, but nor would there be any great heartache. He would treat her well, and she would take care of his home and their children, if they were so blessed. Kate had always been good at doing her duty, and she would do her duty with Mr. Thrumble. Leave passion to the young and foolish.

  Passion. Her mind snagged on the notion and conjured memories that made her warm. The December wind still whipped against the window pane in the entryway, but she could no longer feel its chill. Instead her cheeks flamed, just as they had when Detective Quinn kissed her. Or had she kissed him?

  “Kate?”

  “I kissed him.” There it was. The truth—the most thrilling event in her life in ten long years.

  Ada smiled before staring at Kate quizzically. “Who did you kiss?”

  “Mrs. Guthrie, thank goodness!”

  Solomon Thrumble’s diminutive frame filled the sitting room doorway, and his confused expression matched Ada’s.

  “I am sorry to be late. I’m just going upstairs to change. I’ll be back down directly.”

  Without waiting for a response, Kate started up the stairs again.

  “Mrs. Guthrie.” Mr. Thrumble’s imploring tone stalled her. “We will have a moment to speak, just the two of us. Won’t we? I am quite anxious to know your feelings on a topic of great interest to us both.”

  Kate couldn’t look at him. Guilt and desire warred with
her sense of duty, and she feared he’d read all of it on her face. “Of course, Mr. Thrumble. I’ll just be a moment. Would you wait for me in the sitting room?”

  She paused at the top step, waiting on his reply. It was long in coming.

  “Yes, of course.” His voice was lighter, thinner, as if she had deflated him and all his hopes. Again.

  ****

  “Next one over. Up the stairs. Number four, I fink.”

  The man at the Flower and Dean Street address proved more helpful than Ben expected after an hour of knocking on doors. He hadn’t found Rose at Fieldgrate Street, but a woman there directed him to a Hessian Court. No luck there either. One rumor about Rose’s whereabouts led to another, and he was following a rabbit trail more than conducting an investigation. Despite his suspension and the fact he had no business conducting an official investigation at all, finding Rose was still urgent. If she’d truly encountered the Ripper, Ben needed to know every detail. And even if she hadn’t, he needed the satisfaction of knowing the girl’s fate. Mrs. Guthrie had come asking for his help, and he’d been unable to give it. The notion of disappointing her made his gut turn much more effectively than the tepid gruel he’d consumed just after the noon hour at The Ten Bells.

  Making his way up the rickety stairs, he tripped on what he initially took to be a bundle of rags or discarded clothing.

  “Oy!”

  The child’s angry cry set Ben’s pulse galloping, and the bundle unraveled to reveal a boy who looked to be about ten years of age, though the grime on his face obscured his features.

  “Sorry about that. Do you know where I might find Rose?”

  “Wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”

  With that the boy pulled what was left of his ragged collar up around his neck, skulked down the stairs, and dashed out onto Flower and Dean Street.

  “Right.” That was the kind of response Ben had come to expect from the folks he’d met over the course of the morning. It was best Mrs. Guthrie hadn’t accompanied him. No reason for her to join him on the rabbit trail. Never mind that he missed the rich timbre of her voice. Never mind that he found himself craving her soothing scent. Never mind that since she’d gone his patience had fled too. He was more likely to bark at the next person he questioned than they were to send him on a useful lead.