Robin Schone (20 page)

Gabriel thought of Victoria.

She thought to save an angel.

Gabriel was not an angel.

How does a woman love a man?
...

Michael loved Gabriel. His love had destroyed Gabriel’s life.

Gaston claimed Gabriel’s employees loved him. Their love allowed Gabriel to destroy their lives.

No woman had ever loved Gabriel.

He prayed no woman ever did.

The shoeblack sat back on his haunches so Gabriel could inspect his work. Blue glinted in his young-old

eyes.

The man who used your desire against you was at fault, sir, not you.

Gabriel jerked his foot off the box and tossed the shoeblack a florin.

The door to the town house opened.

A woman with two young girls—ages eight and ten—stepped out. The woman was dressed in a drab

cloak and bonnet; the two girls wore matching fur hats and muffs.

The governess looped a hand through an arm of each of her charges.

Victoria had said not all children were lovable. Had she been fond of the two girls? he fleetingly

wondered.

Would she be fond of a bastard’s children?

Gabriel waited to
see if the two girls and their governess went inside the park.

They did.

The governess shielded the two girls from Gabriel as she herded them through the gate. Fog quickly

shrouded them.

A muffin boy hawked his wares.

Victoria had not eaten her breakfast while he was there. Had she eaten after he left?

Gabriel bought a cinnamon muffin. No sooner had he finished it than the town house door opened again.

It was the man Gabriel sought.

He carried a standard mahogany cane in his right hand.

The silver-knobbed cane in Gabriel’s left hand was a reminder that nothing was what it seemed.

Gabriel pushed away from the park gate. Idly he crossed the street, deftly stepping over a steaming pile

of manure as he wove around a lumbering omnibus and a mule-drawn wagon. He gained the sidewalk.

The man leisurely walked down the steps and turned north, in the opposite direction of the park.

One pair of footsteps rang out in the coiling fog. It was joined by Gabriel’s footsteps.

Transferring his cane to his right hand, Gabriel reached inside his coat and pulled out the Adams revolver

from the shoulder holster; he kept it hidden underneath his derby jacket.

The man walked a little faster.

A bobby stood on the corner of the street ahead. Fast approaching the man and Gabriel was a hansom

cab.

The man raised his arm to hail it.

Gabriel had no choice but to act quickly.

“Sir. Sir!” Gabriel matched his footsteps to those of the man. Keeping his voice soft and unthreatening,

he asked, “Are you Mr. Thornton?”

The man paused and peered at Gabriel cautiously, arm still raised. He was dressed conservatively, a

middle-aged man with a pale, narrow, freckled face.

He did not look like a man who would terrorize a woman. Whereas Gabriel knew he looked exactly the

type of man he was: a man who had killed and would kill again.

“I am,” the man said nervously.

His first mistake.

Neither a lone man—nor a lone woman—should ever admit their name to a stranger on a street.

Gabriel ruthlessly took advantage of the man’s innocence.

“Your daughter Penelope has met with an accident, sir. The governess, a Miss Abercarthy”—the

woman at the employment agency whom David had questioned had been most eager to tell the handsome

man whatever he wanted to know—”asked that I fetch you.”

The man dropped his arm. The cabby’s nag clip-clopped on by.

“Penelope!” Surprise lit the man’s face. “Why, whatever has happened to her? Where is she?”

Gabriel did not have to lie.

“She’s in the park,” he said. Waiting to see if he would have to use force.

The man willingly turned toward the park.

There was a lull in traffic. Gabriel crossed the road easily, quickly, as if in a hurry to return to an

accident.

The man hurriedly followed him. Together they stepped through the open gate to the park.

“Where is she?” the man asked anxiously.

Children’s voices continued their play.
“London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down

...” overflowed the foggy park.

“Over here,” Gabriel said, stepping toward a thicker patch of fog toward the outline of a tree, away

from the playing children.

Thornton heedlessly walked into Gabriel’s trap.

Gabriel slammed the knob of his cane into the man’s chest.

He catapulted into the tree, breath escaping his chest in an audible
whoosh.
His hat toppled forward,

blinding one eye; at the same time, his cane flew out of nerveless fingers.

Gabriel pressed the silver knob into the man’s windpipe, effectively pinning him against the tree;

simultaneously, he shoved the blue-plated pistol into the man’s face.

Thornton gasped, visible eye wide with fear.

“I wouldn’t shout out if I were you, Thornton.” Gabriel’s breath shone silver in the yellow fog. He did

not
relieve the pressure on the man’s windpipe. “You wouldn’t want your two daughters to see you with

your face blown off.”

“Oh, I say ...” The man’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch, breath commingling with Gabriel’s.

“Quietly,” Gabriel softly warned him.

“My money—it’s in my coat.” The white of his right eye showed round like a miniature moon. “I can

pay you—I’m a rich man—”

Victoria had thought Gabriel wanted to blackmail her father.

For one second he wished the man in front of him were her father.

He would show him how little money mattered.

“I don’t want your money, Thornton.”

Thornton’s eye bulged. “Please don’t kill me.”

Victoria had not begged for her life. Had Thornton hoped to
make her do so?

Had he hoped to make her beg for pleasure?

Had he stolen into her bedchamber and seen her silk drawers when they were soft and white?

Gabriel held on to his anger.

“I won’t shoot you if you tell me what I want to know,” he said caressingly.

Gabriel didn’t lie.

A gunshot would attract attention; a crushed windpipe wouldn’t.

“Anything, sir,” the man babbled. He had no pride, no dignity, just the title gentleman that was a product

of breeding and wealth. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Gabriel didn’t doubt it.

“Anything, Thornton?” Gabriel asked softly, seductively.

“Yes . .. Yes!” Thornton said eagerly, hope blazing in the one eye that was visible.

It was his second mistake.

Hope killed.

It was time to end the game.

“Tell me why you’re terrorizing Victoria Childers.”

The man blinked. “Victoria Child—why, she is no longer employed in my household.”

“Why not?” Gabriel asked silkily.

The man’s eyes rolled nervously. “She—she—my wife dismissed her.”

“Now, why would she do that?”

“She—she—Victoria Childers—she flirted with me—”

It was Thornton’s third mistake.

A man did not lie when confronted by death.

“Victoria Childers is not a flirtatious woman.” Gabriel delicately pushed the bore of the pistol into

Thornton’s right cheek. Bone and metal impacted. “Why did you lie to your wife?”

“Oh, please—”

“The truth, Thornton,” Gabriel crooned. “All I ask is the truth.”

“I”—the man tried to swallow, could not— “I did not lie to my wife.”

“Are you saying Victoria Childers flirted with you, Thornton?” he asked dangerously.

The man did not make a fourth mistake.

His eye rolled upward, as if looking for a savior from above. “No, no, I did not say that.”

“Then what did you say?”

“My wi-wi-wife”—he stuttered—”my wife is a jealous woman.”

“The employment agency supplies you with a fresh governess every few months, Thornton. Surely you

did not think that your scheme would go unnoticed.”

“I do not—I do not know what you are talking about.” The bore pushed the inner flesh of his cheek

between his teeth so he could not completely close his mouth. His vowels broadened. “It is my wife ‘oo

employs and discharges the governesses.”

His wife ...

“You must have quite a harem by now.”

Thornton was beginning to realize how dangerous Gabriel was. “Plese don’t ‘urt me,” he begged.

“You don’t think you deserve to be hurt?” Gabriel asked gently.

Wondering what Thornton had planned to do with Victoria if she had come to him.

Wondering what he would have done to Victoria after he had finished with her.

Would he have given her to the second man before or after he had used her?

“I have done nuthing, I tell you,” the man said painfully.

“Yet Victoria Childers was discharged. Without a reference. Governesses who do not have references

cannot gain reputable employment. You really leave your women no choice, do you, Thornton, but to come

to you?”

For food. For shelter. For sex . ..

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t have women. I have my wife. My wife would know

where the gov’r’nesses go.

They don’t come to me. No one comes to me. I don’t know what you are asking me. I have done

nuthing, I tell you.”

A discordant peal of truth rang inside the man’s voice.

Gabriel ground the bore of the gun harder into his face. The man would have a bruised cheek come the

morrow. It would match his bruised throat.

“Oh, please, sir, please put the pistol away.”

The man’s breath smelled of coffee; the acrid aroma of ammonia wafted upward.

In his fear, Thornton had urinated in his trousers.

A child’s giggle drifted through the air. A distant reminder of innocence.

Victoria had said her employer had lied. To get her discharged.

She had said her former employer had written the letters. To seduce her.

Do you think your uncle arranged a woman to be sent to me in order to lure me to my death?

Gabriel had taunted Michael.

“Where were you going when you left your house?” Gabriel asked sharply.

“To my”—the man’s distorted voice wavered—”club.”

Doubt crawled up Gabriel’s spine.

The man had admitted Victoria had been employed.
By his wife.

If he was not the man ...

“If you don’t have a fountain pen, Thornton, I’m going to kill you,” Gabriel said deliberately.

“Oh, I have a foun’n pen, sir!” the man said eagerly. “Inside my ‘rock here! See!”

It could be a ruse.

The man could have a gun inside his frock instead of a fountain pen.

There was only one way Gabriel would ever know the truth. “Get the pen out of your frock,”

Gabriel ordered. “I ca-ca-can’t. My co-co-coat is buttoned.” “Unbutton it.”

“I ca-ca-can’t with th’ pistol in my cheek, sir.”

Cynicism twisted Gabriel’s mouth.

“You would be surprised at what a man can do, Thornton.” A man could kill. Or a man could grant life.

“Unbutton your coat.”

The man fumbled with the buttons. Some seconds later his coat fell open.

“Now reach inside your frock. Slowly.”

Thornton reached inside his frock. Slowly.

Gabriel’s thumb cocked the hammer of his revolver, a deadly click that echoed in the fog.

If Thornton produced a pistol, he was a dead man, the click said.

Sweat dripped down Thornton’s cheek, glistened on the blue-plated muzzle. He carefully pulled out a

thick bronze fountain pen.

It uncontrollably waved back and forth.

Had Victoria trembled in her fear? he wondered.

“I want you to write something,” Gabriel said brusquely.

It was time to find out who the real letter writer was.

“I do not—I do not ‘ave any paper.”

“Remove your left cuff.”

Gabriel stepped back far enough to allow Thornton to bring his hands in front of him.

He read Thornton’s intentions before the man had time to carry them out: he was going to run.

“Do you know what a bullet does to a man’s face at this range?” Gabriel asked softly.

Thornton ripped off his left cuff.

Carefully, Gabriel eased back the pistol. A round white pressure spot indented the man’s right cheek.

“If you yell, I will kill you,” he said clearly. “If you run, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Thornton breathed in short quips of air. “Yes, I understand you, sir.”

“Bon.
I want you to write on the cuff.”

“What? What do you want me to write? I’ll write anything you want. Anything. Just tell me what to

write ...”

Gabriel quickly thought. “Write, ‘The eternal hunger of a woman.’ ”

There was no recognition on Thornton’s face, only the fear of dying and the willingness to do anything at

all to escape death.

Using his mouth to uncap the fountain pen and his left palm as a desktop, Thornton hurriedly scribbled

the words down on the stiff white cuff, breath steaming the air.

Finished, he looked up eagerly, a child waiting for approval.

“Hold up the
cuff so I can read it,” Gabriel ordered.

Thornton held up the cuff, bronze cap plugging his mouth, hand visibly shaking, cuff weaving back and

forth, black script dancing.

Gabriel snatched the cuff out of Thornton’s hand.

The black script did not match that in Victoria’s letters.

His guts knotted with realization.

Thornton was not the man who had written Victoria Childers’s letters.

A stiff white cloth floated down onto the linen sheet that Victoria tucked underneath the mattress.