Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel (11 page)

“It seems it would be of most use in Whitechapel where there’s the most need. Don’t you think?”

“I do. And I may know of the perfect place, not far from the pub.” The pub Ada’s family owned, The Golden Bell, had a much tamer reputation than public houses like The Ten Bells. “Oh Kate, it could be quite something.”

Kate tapped her index finger on her bottom lip. Ada sat nodding to herself as if warming to the notion more and more. Enthusiasm welled between them, expanding like a soap bubble. Then they glanced at each other.

“What will Will say?”

“Should we tell Will?”

They spoke the questions over each other and giggled.

“Yes, you should most definitely tell Will.”

The man in question stood in the sitting room doorway, arms folded across his chest, feigning a look of disapproval and failing miserably. “I came to inform you that our hot luncheon has now gone cold. Sally is none too happy with any of us.”

Ada grinned at her husband. “Shall we have a cold lunch then?”

Her sister-in-law’s practical solution sounded perfect to Kate. With newfound purpose blooming in her mind, her body seemed to focus on more immediate matters, and her stomach rumbled with hunger.

Ada stood first and straightened her skirts. Kate followed suit.

“Just a moment, ladies, if you please. Neither of you is leaving this room until you tell me precisely what you’re plotting.”

December 10th, 1888

“You know, Quinn, I’ve always considered you one of my most promising officers, more intelligent than most. But after seeing this, I have my doubts.”

Superintendent Ainsworth held up a thin sheaf of papers but seemed to have no intention of revealing their contents.

Ben waited, holding his body straight and stiff, attempting to appear calm. He needed a reinstatement.

“I have an interesting document here, sergeant. A statement of one Rose Hannity, written by you and dated two days ago. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear regarding your suspension. Or are you unfamiliar with the meaning of the word?”

Ben rejected the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind and tried for a measured tone. “Miss Hannity was known to me, sir, and refused to give a statement to a constable. Since she claimed to have been attacked by the Whitechapel murderer, I thought it worth submitting her statement for the files. When giving her statement, she revealed her assailant to be a Jonathan “Jack” Sharp. I think he’s worth considering as a suspect. He’s a dangerous man, if nothing else.”

Ainsworth steepled his fingers under his chin as he listened and then grunted a sound of agreement. “Sounds terribly logical. Except that you’re on suspension, detective sergeant. Did you not comprehend that I suspended you to free you from this case, if only for a few weeks?”

Ben’s violent tussle with a suspect had prompted his suspension, but he’d always suspected Ainsworth’s ulterior motive of distancing him from a growing obsession with the Ripper investigation. Solving the case had become personal for Ben, a means of proving to himself and his father that he had chosen the right course. That he could make a difference as a detective.

He didn’t offer his boss an answer and stood quietly in front of the superintendent’s desk.

“Have a seat, detective.”

As Ben sat, Ainsworth searched the piles on his desk and lifted two more pieces of paper toward Ben.

“Have a look at these.”

The letter on top was handwritten in an elegant script and signed by Mortimer Penhurst, the father of the Dorian Penhurst. Ainsworth was well aware that Penhurst was Ben’s choice as likeliest Ripper suspect. The document below the letter appeared to be a notice of admittance from an asylum in Blackheath.

“I consider this the end of the matter, at least where your suspect is concerned, Quinn. You can see the details there. His family had him committed. He won’t ever walk these streets again. And if you’re right about him, it will be the end of the ripping too.”

Ben’s hands shook as he laid the document back on his boss’s desk. Before he’d found an opportunity to seek an appointment, Superintendent Ainsworth had sent word that he wished to see him in his office at Leman Street station. Now he’d delivered the last bit of news Ben ever expected to hear.

“When was Penhurst committed?”

“Just shy of a month after the Mary Jane Kelly murder. And shortly after you attacked him.”

At one time Ben had been absolutely convinced of Dorian Penhurst’s guilt in the Ripper crimes. The news that he’d been committed to an asylum shortly after the most heinous of the Ripper attacks drained the air from Ben’s body. He slumped in the chair in front of Ainsworth’s desk.

After questioning and investigating Penhurst and finding no hard proof of his guilt, Ben and other detectives assigned to the case had kept an eye on him, as well as a short list of other prime suspects. But unlike most men who withered under police attention, Penhurst adored it, taunting the police with letters sent to the press and cryptic messages left for Ben at the station.

“I hope you know how much I regret that incident, sir.” Ben breathed deep and a bit of the tension eased from his shoulders. Could the hunt truly be over?

“Now, let’s not discuss it again. I think we’ve done that one to dust. Bring it up again and my blood’s apt to boil. The missus insists I keep my temper in check. She was a nurse, you know. I must take her advice in such matters.”

Ainsworth’s love for his family mellowed him. Ben considered the superintendent a stoic man, usually taciturn, and only occasionally given to spurts of ire when his officers did something outrageous—like attacking a suspect during the Ripper investigation. But talk of his wife and daughters turned Ainsworth into a man who was almost affable—almost.

“I suspect it’s always best to listen to one’s wife.” Ben thought his mother would agree with the sentiment wholeheartedly, and he wondered if the late Mr. Guthrie had listened to his wife.

Kate.
The woman seemed a fixture there in the back of his mind. And he liked it far too much—liked remembering the taste of her and repeating her name in his head.
Kate.

“Thinking of acquiring one, are you?”

Ben wasn’t keen on the notion of any woman as a possession. He’d seen too many bruised and battered women suffering at the hands of men who considered them a piece of property to be bought and sold, even offered for rent to other men willing to pay a price.

“No, sir.”

He’d rejected the notion of marriage years ago. After Anne’s rejection, the prospect had lost all appeal. The possibility of risking his heart for any woman was unfathomable.

Until Kate Guthrie walked into The Ten Bells.

“You should reconsider. Marriage changes a man, and from my experience, usually for his betterment. I’ve known men in the Met who believe they should remain unmarried. Because of what we see, the evildoers we hunt. Yet…”

Ainsworth had never spoken to him so openly, advising him in an almost paternal manner. The moment seemed significant, as if his superior intended to impart great wisdom. Ben leaned forward.

“Yet?”

The superintendent’s gaze was cloudy, his thoughts far away.

“Sir?”

“Find yourself a wife, Sergeant. That’s my advice.” He handed Ben a slip of paper from his desk. “You are reinstated as of today. Several of my best sergeants will be considered for promotion to inspector in the coming months. You’re clever, Quinn. Tenacious. You will be among those I consider if you keep your wits about you. And your fists in your pockets.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Ben surged to his feet, unable to remain still. His body shook as if stoked, ignited by a need to move, to get back on the streets and do the job he had chosen. Despite his father’s renunciation and his mother’s pleas, this was the work he’d been driven to choose. He was good at it, needed it.

“Thank you, sir.” Had he already thanked Ainsworth? What if he had? It was worth repeating.

Ainsworth managed what might have been a grin if it hadn’t looked so much like a grimace.

“Any candidates, then?”

“Candidates?”

The rotund man rolled his eyes. “Listening more carefully to one’s superiors might be worth considering, Quinn. A wife, man. Have you any worthy women under consideration?”

Kate.
Marriage to her was impossible. She was lovely and spirited. She deserved so much more than he could offer. And she was betrothed. Yet with only a moment’s consideration Ben knew—with sudden and shocking clarity—that Kate Guthrie was the only woman he could imagine as his wife.

“The only candidate is engaged to another man.”

Ainsworth truly did smile now, the expression lifting the edges of his mustache and revealing a span of white teeth above his neatly trimmed beard. Why Kate’s engagement should inspire mirth, Ben had no idea. He certainly felt nothing like pleasure at the thought of her shackled to the angry, pompous fellow he’d met in her sitting room.

“So you are as tenacious with matters of the heart as you are on the job, eh, Quinn?”

Tenacity had nothing to do with his feelings for Kate Guthrie. He would not hinder her happiness, nor her chance for a future. He’d never met a woman who seemed more capable of making up her own mind. She wished to marry Mr. Thimble. Tumble? Thrumble—whatever his bloody name was.

“I’m afraid it’s a lost cause.” Even as he spoke the words, doubt gnawed at the corners of Ben’s mind. Why had she kissed him? And then wagered another kiss? Perhaps she was not set on the Thumble fellow after all. He’d never asked her, never had the chance.

More than anything, he wanted that chance.

“Is it? Then I wonder why you have that look in your eye.”

“What look is that, sir?”

Whenever he’d glimpsed himself in a window’s reflection or the broken square of looking glass he used to keep from cutting himself while shaving, Ben saw nothing but the haunted aspect he’d taken on during the long autumn months of tracking Ripper suspects.

“You look like a man who knows exactly what he desires, or
who
he desires. A man with a purpose.” Ainsworth grinned and reached his hand out to Ben. “Good luck, Quinn.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ben took his superintendent’s hand as firmly as he grasped the truth of his own feelings.

He wanted her. There was no use denying it. And perhaps he could offer her something now, with his position secure and the Ripper investigation waning. He might be fit for promotion soon and able to afford accommodations in a finer part of town. But could he provide anything like the life she was used to?

No matter how he yearned for her—craved her nearness and the opportunity to know her, love her, cherish her—Ben suspected he’d need Ainsworth’s luck and much more to win Kate Guthrie’s heart.

****

“You didn’t tell me there would be so many.” Sally twisted her apron in her hands and uttered little moans of distress as she peeked around the doorway of the Selby’s sitting room.

“I can’t believe the number myself. I only invited five ladies, yet each of them seems to have brought a guest. Or two.” Kate offered the maid a crooked smile and felt her mouth quiver. She bit her lip to stifle the tremors. Sally worried over serving so many, but Kate’s knees shook at the thought of speaking before the large gathering, convincing them to offer their support for her settlement house idea. Though she had sufficient funds to purchase a property and begin the venture, maintaining it over time would require charitable donations.

“Everything will be fine. We have teacakes and biscuits enough for twenty. The bigger question is where we’ll seat them all.” Ada stood behind Kate and Sally, craning her neck to see past the two women. “You’ll be sure to receive ample support now, Kate.”

Her sister-in-law’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Kate forced herself to take a deep calming breath. All would be well. She could do this. She’d faced down a raging Scotsman more days than she cared to remember. Surely she could face ten ladies, tell them about her idea, and convince them to support the cause.

“Who’s the lady in yellow?” Ada’s curiosity caused them all to turn their attention to the lovely woman sitting near the fireplace.

She had the largest hat of any of the finely dressed ladies in the room, a grand, elaborate feathered confection with pearls dangling in delicate strands on each side. Though Kate imagined herself looking ridiculous in such a creation, the dark-haired woman looked unbearably elegant. And strangely familiar. As the woman turned to speak to her companion, Kate’s longtime friend, Jane Tennant, a flash of recognition struck. It was her—the mystery woman in her sitting room was the same young lady she’d seen speaking to Detective Quinn on the pavement that day she’d foolishly chased after him. The day she’d ended her engagement to Solomon and started on this exhilarating, nerve-wracking course of starting her own charity house in the East End.

It had been nearly a week since she’d dashed after him, though he’d lingered in her dreams nearly every night since, dreams far more pleasant than her night terrors of Andrew. The detective was elusive in her dreams. She sought him out, just as she had that last day. Sometimes she found him arm in arm with the woman. Was she the Anne he’d call out for that night in his lodgings? And in one dream, Kate found him alone on the pavement and rushed into his arms.

Kate caught Jane’s gaze and waved her over to the doorway. Her friend spoke a moment to the regal woman in yellow and then approached the sitting room door.

“My goodness, what a crush! This bodes well for your cause, my dear.” Jane kissed Kate on each cheek.

“My thoughts exactly, Mrs. Tennant.” Ada’s voice rang with a confidence Kate wished to borrow for herself. “May I ask the name of the lady who accompanied you today?”

Jane leaned in and whispered, as if the woman’s identity was a secret.

“That is Annabel Drummond, the Countess of Davenport. My Alec and her husband are members of some club or other, and we’re often thrown together while they speak of nothing but cigars and horses. When I mentioned your settlement, the countess insisted on coming today. She is a great benefactor to several worthy charities, and I’ve long considered asking her to join our ladies’ society meetings too.”

Annabel.
It was too much of a coincidence to doubt she was the woman Benjamin Quinn called for upon waking from his nightmare. Had he loved this young woman? Did he still?

Jane turned back and smiled at Lady Davenport, who seemed to take the gesture as an invitation and rose from the settee.

As she approached, Jane leaned in to whisper again. “She was so taken with your idea of the settlement house that she insisted on inviting several friends to attend your tea and donate funds to the project.”