Three Nights of Sin (11 page)

The man in blue and his fellow patrollers bristled.

“You think that stopping one man, one murderer,
is enough to put you on top? To stop the might of Bow Street?”

The Runner had dignity, yes. But it was a
forced
dignity. Like that of a competent man who always felt the need to prove himself.

“Oh, la, la. The might of Bow Street. Hear that patrolman Joe? We are facing the might of Bow Street.” The watchman in green smirked at his counterpart in blue.

“I’m shaking in me boots.”

“You would be wise not to incur our wrath.” The Runner was either an idiot or dangerous. She wasn’t sure which yet.

“Always a
pleasure
to have such an educated gentleman in our midst, eh, boys?”

The tide had turned from the two groups fighting one another to showing a united front. She would bet a pound though that as soon as the Runner left, they would be back at each others’ throats.

“Look around Runner. These are pleasures you’ll never have. A fine ale, a fine woman.” She saw the man point to the couple in the corner and then straight to them.

The Runner locked eyes with her, and his narrowed. Noble hooked his fingers around her thigh, brushing against her again at the same time he pulled her ear-lobe in between his lips.

She arched back and gasped. The Runner’s lip curled and he turned away.

“You can have your weak drink and pox-ridden prostitutes.”

Marietta felt a slice of outrage pierce her haze. She was neither a prostitute nor pox-ridden. The green man
with his comment of “a fine woman” rose through the roof in her esteem, while the Runner buried himself six feet below.

The Runner sneered at the serving gal, and all hell broke loose.

“Don’t you sneer at Betsy!”

She felt Noble chuckle against her throat, warm puffs of air hitting her skin and then skittering away. He looked up and sat back to watch the fray. She grabbed her ale and took a few quick gulps.

“Betsy, is it?” The Runner looked their waitress up and down, his eyes communicating that he found her wanting.

Betsy narrowed her hard, lined eyes. “Rumor whispers you have the cock of a worm. Hard to catch the pox with such wee bait.”

Marietta spewed her beer forward. Noble patted her on the back as the pub roared with laughter at Betsy’s response.

“Just what I expect from a
lady
in this pub.” The Runner moved to the back and settled into a seat. His eyes scanned the room, assessing everyone and watching their movements. Marietta grew increasingly uncomfortable.

With the arrival of the patrolmen’s group and the Runner, pubgoers had been forced to spill outside.

“Come.” Noble pressed closely to her ear. He nudged her up and they made way through the crowded pub. Their table was swallowed up immediately behind them.

Marietta caught a last sight of the Runner’s eyes following them as they stepped through the door.

They spoke with people of all types as they exited the pub and milled around the street—pickpockets, patrollers, prostitutes. Most of them had seen nothing. Some had seen the arrest. It wasn’t until nearly one in the morning that they found treasure.

The gap-toothed prostitute, smelling of gin and sex, looked Noble up and down. “I seen another man, yea. He was standing over both of ’em—the girl that got herself killed and the boy they arrested.”

Marietta froze, her arm still wrapped in Noble’s as it had been the entire night.

“What did he look like?” Noble’s tone was curious, but she could feel the tension vibrating through him as well.

“Hard to tell, yea. But dark hair. His clothes was dark too.”

“Could you recognize him, were you to see him again?”

The prostitute smiled, the spaces between her teeth wafting a smell in Marietta’s direction that was anything but pleasant.

“Prolly not. Coulda been you for all I seen.”

“Why didn’t you tell the watch what you’d seen?” Marietta asked.

The prostitute looked at her for the first time, and her eyes narrowed. “Cor, you sound a right high, your highness.” She laughed at her own joke, slapping her thigh. “Best get those airs gone. Though I s’pose some men might toss for it.”

She eyed Noble again. “Maybe should get me an air.”

Noble squeezed Marietta’s arm. Her crisp speech had not helped, though the prostitute seemed too far
in her cups to care. Marietta tried again in a more moderated tone. “Why didn’t you tell the watch?”

“That ol’ Daise had seen something else?” She laughed riotously. “Got to get back to me corner, unless you want somethin’ besides talk?”

Noble gave her a coin—well more than he had given the others, who were more mentally fit—and Daise shuffled away.

“Why don’t we have her tell the watch? They’ll have to let Kenny go, or at least submit it at his trial.”

He looked back at her from where he had been watching Daise walk. “Don’t be silly. They would no more believe her than they would believe us were we to walk inside and declare him innocent.”

“Well why not? Her story matches Kenny’s and—”

He released her arm from his and turned to lift her chin. He tilted her head gently as he searched her eyes. “It does you credit to say that she is a valid source of information, even if it is only to get your brother released. But most people would not trust a drunken prostitute like Daise. Would you have two weeks ago?”

She blinked at him. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t even thought about prostitutes, drunken or not, two weeks ago. “That could be me on the corner were things different.” She swallowed. “Or if they go differently, it still could. I would want someone to believe me.”

His eyes were shaded with the fall of the gaslight and she couldn’t read them. “Marietta, you—”

“Isn’t this touching. A broker and his
lady
together on the street.”

They both turned to see the Runner standing at the corner. Daise must have beaten a hasty retreat. She felt Noble stiffen.

The Runner’s eyes ran over them, back and forth. “I’ve been watching the both of you all night. Stirring up trouble about the murderer? Should I arrest you for harassment or try and discover your larger scheme?”

“You have nothing with which to arrest us.” Noble tipped his head so his eyes were in shadow.

The Runner strode forward. “I don’t need much.”

“Even a Bow Street Runner needs evidence, and it seems that you might need more than most. Little trouble with your last case, I’m taken to understand.”

The Runner stopped a few feet away and his eyes narrowed. “I thoroughly document every case. There is never anything wrong with my evidence.”

“More than five hundred captures to your name even though you are fresh to the hire, isn’t that so?”

The Runner’s eyes sharpened and Marietta felt a twinge of real fear. What was Noble doing? He might be as wealthy as Croesus, but Bow Street Runners could cause real trouble.

“You seem to have an advantage over me,” the Runner said. “What is your name?”

“Terrence Jones, not at your service.” Noble made a mock bow.

“A smart one, I see,” the Runner said distastefully. “Why are you interested in the Middlesex murders?”

“My lady has an interest. I make sure to sate all of her curiosities.”

Marietta dredged up a smile. The Runner gave her a disgusted look and turned away, but his head whipped back and he studied her.

“And what is her name?”

Obnoxious toad. Not even asking her the question, as if as a woman she didn’t have two solid thoughts between her ears.

“Cornelia Jones. No relation.” Noble smiled in the character of an obnoxious rake with his lazy posture and sly look.

The Runner continued to assess her, eyes narrowed and piercing. “I don’t think that is her name. But I don’t plan on seeing either of you again, do you understand?”

“Of course not, dear honorable sir.”

The Runner stiffened, but turned and left.

Marietta let out a breath. “I think he might have recognized me. I don’t know how. But there was something in his eyes.”

Noble had dropped his pretense and straightened to his full height, eyes narrowed. “Yes. It is just our luck to have Arthur Dresden still interested in the case. I thought he had moved on, but it must be true that he can’t let things go when he doesn’t solve it himself. This makes our task more difficult.”

Marietta had heard of Dresden even before Anthony had mentioned him. He was known for his tenacity. Like a terrier that wouldn’t let go. Always trying to bring peace and justice—at any cost. Although he was reported to be a by-the-book investigator, he had been reprimanded more than once for his tactics in extracting information. As long as the bad men were pun
ished and the good people saved, he was reputed not to care if the means justified the ends.

He was not the kind of man one wanted to be noticed by.

But then neither was Noble. For all that Dresden looked like he wanted to toss them in the nearest cell for just existing below his moral code, Noble was far more dangerous in other ways.

He abruptly cocked his head.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I thought I heard something.” He shook his head. “As to what are
we
doing, I do remember saying something about what position you might find yourself in at the end of the night.”

Tingles on top of her skin overlapped the increased pace of her heart beneath.

One long finger touched her cheek. “Over a pub table? Up against an alley wall? In a carriage, the windows open, the wind blowing through as we race down the streets and you ride me to the end?”

She swallowed, then swallowed again.

“Yes, I think I like all of those images. I can see your head thrown back and that long, smooth neck exposed to me in all of them.” His finger trailed down the side of her throat. “Your eyes are becoming even more smoky and sensual, Marietta. From the inside out now, rather than the outside in. Shall we see what happens when the knowledge blooming there becomes a large petaled rose?”

A muffled cry shook the night and he pulled her behind him. The sound seemed to be emanating from a darkened street. With her still behind him, flat to his
back, he walked forward. It wasn’t until they came to a connecting alley that they saw who had made the sound.

A man, reedy with menace, hit a woman. It was obviously not the first strike—the right side of her face was swollen and cracked in the faint gaslight.

She felt Noble move. A sickening crunch echoed in the alley, and the reedy man howled.

Noble stood to the side, wiping his hands on his trousers as if the mere touch to the other man’s arm had left him with the plague. “Shame about that arm.”

The man charged him.

Marietta winced as another crack sounded, unnatural and loud.

“Do try that again. It would be a pleasure to watch you eat without the use of your hands for the next three months.” He leaned down to the man, not close enough to be struck, but enough so the man shrunk toward the wall. “I will find your address and happily
feed
you every bite.”

The man gripped his arm and stumbled from the alley. His beating footsteps retreated, leaving the lane in silence.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the woman said. “Eugene will be real mad once he stops being piss scared.” Her chin trembled.

Noble flicked out two fingers holding a card. “Go here. Ask for Peg. She will help you.”

The woman grabbed the card, eyes weighing, no trust in sight, then turned and disappeared the same way the man had gone.

“Will she go?” Marietta asked, shock still holding her immobile but something in the woman’s eyes prompting the question.

“Perhaps. Some do, some don’t. One has to want to be helped. Come.”

Gabriel Noble stretched out a hand to her. She took it.

H
e stared challengingly at her across the table a week later.

“I don’t trust you with it,” she said.

“I’m hurt. Really, you don’t think I can do this simple task after all we’ve done together. After all of the places I’ve opened that you thought could never be unlocked?”

They had spent another week visiting Clerkenwell and the surrounding areas. Questioning people. Calling in favors. Making another visit to Cold Bath and Kenny.

Her brother had looked even worse than before, despair turning down his eyes and sagging his jaw.

Casenton, Alcroft’s contact and favor, had come through and the trial had been delayed two weeks. They had one week remaining. Time was dwindling.

“Gaining us access to Cold Bath is one thing,” she said. “This is something entirely different.”

She was pleased to see the amusement in his eyes. He hadn’t been nearly so jovial earlier when they’d run
into Arthur Dresden, the Runner, again. “How do you think I get by without servants, Marietta?”

“Well,
Gabriel.”
It seemed silly to keep calling him Noble after having her lips locked to his for most of the previous nights this week when they were out and in costume. “I think you get by because your dear Clarisse and Mrs. Rosaire organize things so that you can.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

He leaned back in his chair and smiled lazily. “Would you like to make a bet, then?”

The challenge was too good. And she desperately needed to continue the lighthearted banter after their trying day. After seeing Kenny looking so poorly. “Yes, I suddenly find myself curious to see what you can burn over the fire.”

“Burn? I see.”

“Come now,” she scoffed. “You eat terribly. I’ve seen you ingest pints of tea and that awful coffee you enjoy instead of having a full, hearty meal. If it weren’t for Mrs. Rosaire’s soups and stews, delicious as they are, I think you might have withered away to a coffee bean by now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “Perhaps I should start cooking regular meals.”

“My manly heart is enraptured.”

“You need to keep up your strength if you are to serve me.”

Gabriel’s chair legs smacked the kitchen floor. He leaned forward, nearly touching her. “If you needed
me to serve you, Marietta, you should have just said so.”

Her cheeks flamed under his intense stare, his one-sided grin. “Serve Kenny.”

“Well, that I am most unwilling to do. It’s you or no one.” He tipped the chair back again.

She snorted. “I highly doubt that.”

“I am in demand, it is true.”

His tone was nonchalant. She wondered about him once more. He used the female attention whenever he needed, but intuition told her that he didn’t
like
the attention. Strange. She’d met popinjays in the ton, more than one cock of the walk, a score of libertines, Corinthians and dandies, and all of them seemed to revel in female attention. Or at the outside be arrogant concerning it. Gabriel Noble was arrogant about it, yes, but it covered something else. Something deeper.

“Then it is decided,” she said. “You will try your hand at this meal, and when that doesn’t work, I will start cooking regular meals and we can stop relying on Mrs. Rosaire for everything, though her delicious soups and stews would be nice to continue.” They were just too good. From the amount of food he partook in her presence, though, Gabriel didn’t eat enough. “And perhaps I will need to clean up after you as well.”

She really should watch her tongue. Her cooking was average at best. But Noble was just too good at most things. This was going to be amusing.

Unless he was a run of the mill cook as well. Then she would just have to outdo him at being average.

“You are allowing me to cook tonight, then? You aren’t going to bemoan my sending Mrs. Rosaire away?” There was something in his eyes as he made the last remark. Something that cautioned her to be wary. She ignored it, too high on their banter after a trying day.

“Go ahead, Noble. Give it a go.”

He unfolded himself from his chair. “What would you like to eat?”

She clasped her hands together on top of the table. “I’ll leave it to you.”

“Salmon with wine sauce?”

She blinked as he turned and walked to the sideboard. He pulled two slabs of fish from underneath and deftly tossed an onion from one hand to the other.

“Pardon?”

“Is salmon with wine sauce to your taste?”

She met his eyes and saw the glimmer there. The high was still upon her, but suddenly she wasn’t sure she was going to be celebrating his defeat after all. “Are you sure you should try something like that? I will settle for something much less.” Let it not be said that she lacked stubbornness.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, Marietta. I can’t have you settling.” He smirked and grabbed a large butcher knife, tossed it into the air, then cut and boned the fillets. He gathered vegetables and dry ingredients, laying them out across the high cooking table.

Her feet moved of their own volition when he started chopping things as if born to the knife. She stood next to him, one hand along the high table edge.

“There is a reason you don’t eat as much at the table, isn’t there?” A cook was always sampling as he went.

“There is.”

“Mrs. Rosaire doesn’t make the soup, does she?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She does not.”

She closed her eyes at the confirmation. Of course. That was why Jeremy had almost corrected her.

“You must have taken a nice laugh at my expense.”

He looked at her out of the side of his eye, through the hanging locks. “No. It’s just something I don’t share with people.”

“But Jeremy assumed I knew.”

“Jeremy is usually away at school where he should be.”

She tilted her head to study him as he crushed the garlic clove, minced the shallots, and washed, trimmed, and quartered the mushrooms, forgoing for the moment the interesting bit of information that he didn’t share his cooking abilities with others and yet was fully doing so with her.

“You never attended school, did you? You speak as if you did. You carry yourself as a graduate of the finest when you want to. But Alcroft said something about wanting you to go to Eton.”

“I had the best teacher possible. But no, I didn’t attend Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse. Nor Oxford or Cambridge.”

“But Jeremy has.”

“Yes. And that is why he will finish.”

“Because you never had a chance to go?”

“Because he will have opportunities I never had.”

She looked around the kitchen and at his fine clothes, sleeves rolled up and baring his forearms. “You haven’t done so poorly.”

He owned a house in one of the finest addresses in the city, and if her assumption was correct, an entire street here. She hadn’t seen a single person enter or leave any of the other properties surrounding them. She had a feeling Noble owned them all. In a city where land was considered king, he had a kingdom.

He didn’t respond.

She picked up a knife and quartered the carrots, trying to make herself useful. The challenge was completely moot. If he was the one making the soups and stews—and bread—that she had been devouring every day, there was no competition. The Rockwoods’ celebrated chef wasn’t half as good.

“What do you do with the ten thousand pounds you collect from the paid cases?” she asked as she sliced another carrot.

“Slightly personal, don’t you think?” He dropped his ingredients into the pot and then picked up her carrots and dropped them in as well.

“I could go back to asking you about schooling.”

“I could ask you why you’ve never married.”

“You could,” she said as lightly as she could manage.

“Good. Why have you never married?”

“The mart was dry during my years. Not much to choose from.” She kept her voice light. “And neither was I much of a prize.”

“Mmmm.”

“My tongue does have a rather funny way of saying things that are not particularly docile and genteel. My parents weren’t as concerned with the graces while we were growing up. When they died, we went into mourning. Things were…different when it was time to come back out.”

“Your parents spent too much time at the races.”

Her hand tightened around the knife. “And at the tables and in the gentlemanly sports wagers. How did you know?”

“I know much about you, Marietta. And your recalcitrant brothers.” He was nonchalant as he stirred the pot.

“I must make sure to delve into your past as well.”

“You can try. You might even succeed. If I’ve ever met someone as industrious as you, I’m not sure I know of it.”

She stopped fiddling with the garlic nub. “That sounds quite close to a compliment.”

“My old aunt Tilly wasn’t half as industrious, though she never found herself in dire straits.” He stirred the pot and looked at her slyly from the corner of his eye. “We called her the old battle-axe.”

Her jaw dropped. “You—You—”

He chuckled and winked at her. Her ire evaporated like the steam from the pot—coiling and disappearing into the air. When he used his wiles on her, he was tantalizing. With that purely happy look on his face he was devastating.

“You do realize that I will have my revenge?” she said calmly, though her heart was racing.

“I could hope for no less.” He flashed her a grin, and she gripped the side of the table to keep from moving closer.

“I dislike you.”

“Always a comfort to know.” He looked at the kitchen clock, a small mantel piece positioned precariously on a shelf. “Right on time for the night.”

She blinked. She supposed it was something of a nightly ritual. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, your highness.”

“Your majesty, if you will.”

“But of course, your majesty. Can I bring you anything?”

“A bottle and glass of red wine would be lovely.” He pointed to a cabinet.

Marietta retrieved a bottle and two glasses.

They were on to their second glass of Burgundy wine by the time Gabriel was placing the fillets in a shallow serving dish and sprinkling them with fresh parsley.

The meal was excellent. Moan inducing. The fish melted in her mouth, the sauce just the perfect balance for letting the flavor come through and hinting at something further, something deeper—teasing her to take one bite and then another.

She paused in between bites and took a sip of wine. Gabriel lifted a brow, though she read the pleasure in his eyes and it pleased her in return. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“I learned from one of the best French chefs that upper class money can buy.”

That hadn’t been what she expected him to say. “You hired a chef to teach you how to cook?”

“I thought you knew better, Marietta. I am purely merchant class, no matter my wealth.” He lifted his glass and watched her over the rim.

“Some noblewoman purchased a chef for you to learn?”

She immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say, even with a teasing tone of voice, as she watched his fingers tighten around the stem.

His smile was slow and sensual, and though it did funny things to her stomach like always, his eyes were emerald hard. “Of course. Isn’t that what would make sense, after all? Very perceptive of you, Marietta.”

And unlike his earlier teasing compliment, this one held contempt.

“I meant only to tease you.” She looked at her plate, not wanting to see the hard look and mocking, sensual smile. “I suppose it is getting more and more apparent why I am headed firmly for the shelf.” She tried to laugh, but it came out forced.

Her thought had been an easy assumption to make, what with his obvious ease in gaining favor from women and his tricks to manipulate them. But the language in his eyes—it always said differently, and she had chosen to discount it in lieu of being witty.

The silence stayed unbroken in the kitchen for twenty ticks of the mantel clock.

“I’ve always liked the kitchens.” His voice was more reserved, and she already missed the extra note of af
fection that he had begun to use with her. “They are warm and hidden. Owners and guests rarely enter them. A chef took me under his wing when I used to run about under foot. Put me to work.”

She bit her lip as he continued.

“It was a good place for me. I thought about becoming a chef, but events led to other things.”

“What types of other things?”

“This and that. Favors exchanged. New favors to use.” His gaze washed over her. His voice warmer. “I do believe I won our bet. Unfortunately for you, you did not specify the terms.” The look in his eyes made her butterflies move in an abstracted pattern.

“The loser cleans the dishes, of course,” she said lightly, pushing the butterflies down.

He raised a brow, heat still sparking from his eyes beneath. “I will make sure to set the terms myself next time, but this once I’ll let you off easily.”

He moved to clear the dishes and cutlery and she moved to the basin. She washed each item and stuck them into a rack to drain. He pulled a cloth out to dry and they worked in a charged but comfortable silence until she placed the last dish in the rack.

“Where are we headed tonight?” She found herself on edge in anticipation of his answer. Of what they might find. Or what they might need to do in the interim.

“One would think you enjoy the forays into the underbelly of the city.”

“Hardly the underbelly. We’ve barely stepped foot in the East End.”

“For someone like you, the East End would be far
ther than your worst nightmare. The areas outside of Mayfair are the underbelly for someone of your station.”

“Says the man with the enormous house in Mayfair.”

“Says the man who didn’t always have that house. You, on the other hand, are used to the genteel aspects of life.”

“I worked and went to various unsavory parts of the city to pay our bills.” She lifted her chin.

“Perhaps.” His eyes were keen. “But they were probably positions at the same level as the barristers’, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Not in the same level as the true East End.” He nudged her aside and washed a cup that he had found somewhere in the kitchen—one of his many coffee cups, to be sure—and placed it in the rack to dry. “Where did you work?”