A Wayward Man: A Prequel to A Dangerous Invitation (The Rookery Rogues) (10 page)

Then she smiled, and
he was lost. Instantly, he was struck by the vision of what it would
be like to make her laugh. To take her into his arms and kiss those
sweet lips.

Man is only as
strong as the woman he chooses. He had no idea where the thought came
from. Man was only as strong as his leaders, or something equally
socially conscious.

She turned down the
next alley. Damnation. Where were his police instincts? A woman like
that needed to be protected from the ruffians that roamed Shadwell.

Thaddeus set off
down the road. He skidded to a stop in front of her, careful to keep
his truncheon at his side.

“Miss,”
he said, stepping closer so that he'd fall within the light of her
lamp. He doffed his regulation top hat and inclined his head in
greeting.

She arched a
perfectly sculpted auburn brow at him. “Mrs.”

Devil take it. She
was a married woman. He had standards and rules, none of which
contained coveting another man's wife. But damned if she wasn't
stunning.

“Mrs. Please
accept my apologies.” He sounded stuffy even to his ears, like
he'd shoved a handful of cotton in his mouth. “May I escort you
home? These parts can be particularly nasty at night. I'm a Sergeant
with the H-Division.”

Thaddeus stretched
out his hand to her, expecting her to take it so he could escort her
to safety. She slipped underneath his outstretched arm and moved past
him. Devilish minx, didn't she know how dangerous Shadwell could be
at night? He wouldn't let her get away.

Another woman would
not die on his watch.

He jogged after her.
She spun around, the lantern shaking to and fro as she frowned at
him. She wore a brown dress that tailored to her slender figure at
her bodice, yet bore the wide skirts so in fashion. On top of the
dress was tied an apron of coarse cotton, with scissors and a
cylindrical case sticking out of the pocket. A case for a needle, he
surmised from the shape of it. He'd bet an entire month's salary she
worked at Larker's factory.

“What do you
want?” Her voice held a slow draw to it, mixed with something
distinctly Irish. It was the most melodious sound he'd ever heard.

He swallowed. “It
isn't safe for you to be wandering about at night by yourself. I only
want to make sure you get home without harm.”

Her eyes narrowed.
“I assure you, I can take care of myself. I don't need help
from the likes of you, Peeler.” She spat the last word like it
was the worst curse she could imagine.

She pierced him with
her vivid green eyes and in that stare he was quite certain she saw
everything about him and didn't care to know more. His palms grew
sweaty, despite the blistering cold.

Somehow, standing
within arm's length of her with fury radiating from her tiny frame,
he was quite certain he'd met a woman who could pierce his soul with
a single glare.

Poppy O'Reilly had
three core beliefs: one should protect family, one should be loyal,
and one should avoid officers of the law at all costs. The last dogma
was born out of both experience and necessity. Her brother, Daniel,
had been charged with murder by an incompetent constable. He had
faced certain death until he and his now-wife investigated the case
themselves, and the evidence they found exonerated him.

As for herself,
Poppy would be damned if she let the Peelers poke about in her past.

Yet the man across
her proved a formidable opponent. Not because she had any doubt she
could slip past him—she may not have grown up in these parts,
but her brother's wife, Kate, had taught her the tricks to police
evasion—but because he looked so wretchedly concerned.

It had been a long
time since anyone had looked concerned for her wellbeing.

Lean and athletic,
the Metropolitan Police officer moved closer to her. He had a
straight, long face with a hawkish nose. He was, she thought, not
perhaps classically handsome. There was an earnestness to him that
made his features look almost boyish. His dark wavy hair fell across
his eyes in the most casual of ways, making her heart flip-flop
precariously in her chest. That was irrational, and she was not an
irrational woman.

She forced herself
to meet his gaze. Kind, soft, intelligent. She hated that she had to
look up to see him. But Mama had been short, so there was little
Poppy could do about her diminutive height.

“I've got to
get home, guv,” she said. “Don't have time to be gadding
with you.”

That at least wasn't
a lie, unlike her fabricated husband. Daniel and Kate were minding
her one-year-old daughter, and soon they'd start to worry about Poppy
if she didn't return to their flat in Ratcliffe.

The officer frowned
at her. “Madam, I'm sure your husband would agree my escorting
you is the proper precaution.”

“He's dead,”
Poppy snapped.

The longer they
stood on this corner conversing, the more chance she had that the
officer would sense something was off with her story. Better to play
the offended widow. “I doubt he'd agree with anything you say,
except that the ground is particularly frozen this time of year in
Dorking.”

“Oh.”
The Sergeant blinked. “I'm devilishly sorry for your loss,
madam.”

He sounded so
apologetic, as if he truly grieved the demise of her nonexistent
husband. Poppy steeled herself. Moira deserved a second chance in
London, one where she wouldn't be ostracized by society for her
mother's mistake. The lies were for a good purpose, no matter how
heavy they made her heart.

Poppy sighed. She
looked up and down the empty alleyway, considering her options. The
hour was growing late. The sun had set. The Peeler was right: soon
Upper Shadwell would be brimming with ruffians. Daniel was friends
with Atlas Greer, the greatest thief in all of London, and he had
issued a warning that she was not to be harmed. Combined with her
friend Jane Putnam's associations with the Chapman Street Gang, Poppy
went about the streets without fear.

But she couldn't
explain all that to the Met officer in front of her. An officer in
the H-Division already knew about Kate's fencing activities and had
promised to keep quiet only if Kate didn't come to his attention
again. Poppy's avoidance of the Police wasn't just for herself, but
for her loved ones too. The best thing to do then was to allow him to
accompany her home, and drop him off about a block before her house.
He'd think he had fulfilled his civic duty and forget she existed.

“Fine,”
Poppy said. “You can escort me.”

“Very good.”
The officer doffed his top hat to her. “I'm Sergeant Thaddeus
Knight.”

Drat, drat, drat.
Did God hate her? Was she being punished for all the wrongs she'd
ever committed? The very officer Kate had found to help her rescue
Daniel stood before her. Poppy took Knight's arm as he offered it to
her, her touch so light her fingers barely brushed the blue fabric.

“Poppy
Corrigan.” A new name for a new life in London.

Knight smiled, a
slow smile that reached from his eyes down to his lips. “Pleasure
to meet you, Mrs. Corrigan.”

“The pleasure
is mine,” she said, and that wasn't as much of a lie as it
should have been.

Out of all the books
you could choose, thank you for picking up
A Wayward Man.
I
hope you’ll take a few minutes out of your day to review this
book – your honest opinion is much appreciated. Reviews help
introduce readers to new authors they wouldn’t otherwise meet.

The Rookery Rogues

A Wayward Man
is
a novelette in The Rookery Rogues. It serves as a prequel to
A
Dangerous Invitation,
the first book in the series. While each
book reads as a stand-alone, the series is best enjoyed in
chronological order. Joined by the poorest neighborhoods in London,
called rookeries, the heroes and heroines in this series defy social
expectations and find love in the darkest of circumstances.

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Erica Monroe writes dark, emotional, and suspenseful romance. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Heart of Carolina, and the Beau Monde Regency Romance chapter. When not writing, she is a chronic TV watcher, sci-fi junkie, lover of pit bulls, and shoe fashionista. She lives in the suburbs of North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and a cat.

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