Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel (3 page)

But the moment the pub doors swung closed behind them, he drew close, far too close, and grasped her by the arm when she tried to step away. Panic welled up as he leaned down and whispered near her ear.

"You've found Detective Quinn."

She saw his breath puff out in a cloud of white in the winter air, but for a moment Kate couldn't make sense of his words. Then shock replaced her fear.

"You? You're Sergeant Quinn? But why did you not—"

He lifted a finger between them and she thought he might actually press it to her lips to quiet her.

"This isn't the place for questions."

He darted his gaze around, and Kate noticed the men and women near them on the street—some lurked in the dark corners, others gathered around costermonger's carts, and a few moved past them into the warmth of The Ten Bells.

"Come. You're safe with me."

His words eased a bit of her tension, and Kate nodded to him, indicating he should lead the way.

They walked side by side along Commercial Street for a while, but Kate struggled to match his pace and fell behind when the street grew crowded as they approached Whitechapel Road. He looked behind him, making sure she still followed. Near a particularly rowdy group of men who stood shouting at each other around a chestnut seller’s cart, Detective Sergeant Quinn turned back for her and gathered her near, reaching an arm around to embrace her possessively. Her instinct was to protest, to push him back and make her own way. But she realized he only intended to keep her safe and allowed herself to take comfort in his height and strength, despite how his nearness unnerved her. He smelled of liquor, its sharpness undercut by a warmer spicy scent.

Turning right into White’s Row, he led her along a stretch of buildings that looked to be private lodgings. He ascended the stairs of one building and Kate followed him, stepping carefully on the wooden slats of the stairwell. The street was so dark she could see nothing around her, though the sounds of voices and music drifting from the pubs along Commercial Road, even the calls of costermongers hawking their wares at this late hour, were reassuring.

He unlocked a door and stepped inside. Kate followed, heart sinking and pulse galloping at the realization he’d led her into a dark, cold, and completely empty lodging room. The foolishness of her decision to come to his rooms alone—even if he was the sergeant she sought—made her queasy. Surely any uninformed constable could question Rose as well as this man, who smelled of drink and looked at her with haunted eyes.

As he lit a lamp, she turned to exit the way she’d come, but he was too fast. His hand slammed against the door above her head and Kate felt the heat of his body as he loomed behind her.

“Wait. Don’t run off. Not yet. Why did you come looking for me?”

His breath heated the back of her neck as he spoke.

Kate waited, sucking in air but afraid to exhale, and prayed the man would move away.

But he didn’t move, merely hovered behind her, breathing heavily as if he’d run a very long distance rather than walking less than a mile with her in tow. There’d been a glassy sheen to his gaze when she’d met him at the pub, and she wondered if he was too soused to do whatever he wished to do with her. Kate sent up a silent prayer he’d simply pass out. She’d escape, find a constable, and get him to come and take Rose’s description of her attacker. It was what she should have done all along.

Kate heard Detective Quinn inhale and turned her head as he leaned toward her. He breathed in the scent of her hair, sniffing her like a bloodhound memorizing the scent of its prey.

Trying not to touch her body to his as she moved, Kate turned and backed against the door. She noted how the winter chill had chafed a pinkness to his mouth and cheeks. His blue gaze roved over her face, down her neck, her chest, and swept the length of her gown. Kate imagined he would have examined the boots laced to her feet if given half a chance.

His far too-long hair lay in thick, dark waves, framing his face and dancing along the edges of his coat collar. A moment ago she’d have identified the color as black or brown, but now, in the lamplight, Kate saw shades of red threaded through rich, dark brown.

“You wished to speak with me. Here I am. How may I help?”

A slight slur hid among his words as he stepped back and began removing his coat. The loss of his heat, his presence, left her feeling both bereft and relieved. Kate released a sigh and slumped back against the door. She’d been so fearful he'd harm her, and the tension of the moment drained her.

"A young woman was attacked tonight, near Fieldgate Street. She insists…" Kate inhaled and released a shaky breath. "She says she'll only speak to you."

He indicated a well-worn chair. “Please sit. Take it slow. Tell me the rest.”

Kate wished for any other chair in the spartanly furnished room, preferably something further away from the tall, intoxicated detective, but she longed to sit and made her way on unsteady legs to the one he’d indicated.

She watched him as he hung his coat on a hook and then peeled off a dark suit jacket, revealing a black vest and bright white shirt underneath. His movements were slow, measured, and the tightening around his mouth, nearly a grimace, added to her suspicion that he was wounded in some way. She looked away, trying not to gape at the way the vest hugged his chest and waist, the way the shirt strained at the broad width of his shoulders and bulged over the swell of his muscular arms. If such a man intended to harm another, he certainly had the strength to do it. She’d never met a man with a warrior’s physique and it fascinated her.

“I would offer to hang your cloak, but it’s too cold in here to take it off. Let me see to a fire.”

He knelt in front of her and gathered a few pieces of coal from a bucket, coaxing them into life in the grate of the small fireplace. For such a large man, he moved with remarkable grace, and she found it fascinating to study the flex of his thigh muscles as he kneeled, balancing on his haunches, stretching the fabric of his trousers so that nothing about the shape of his legs was left to her imagination.

She looked up and found he’d caught her studying him. Whether from the heat of the fire or a fierce blush, her face flamed under his gaze.

Voice low and deep, he questioned her again. “Tell me your name. And more about this attack.”

Kate took a deep breath, frustrated at how it quivered as she exhaled. This man, Sergeant Quinn, if that was his name, set her on edge and the sooner the whole business was done the better. If Rose had encountered the Ripper, surely time was of the essence.

She spoke quickly, trying to relate all the relevant information. “My name is Katherine Guthrie. I volunteer at the charity clinic on Fieldgate Street. We have a patient tonight who claims to have been attacked by Jack the Ripper.”

Her words electrified Sergeant Quinn. He turned on her, closing the space between them, and grasped each of her arms above the elbow.

“Are you certain she’s telling the truth? She believes it was the Ripper? Why haven’t you gone to police headquarters on Leman Street?”

His firm touch wasn’t bruising, but Kate squirmed at the restraint. No man had restrained her since Andrew.

Sergeant Quinn seemed to recognize her distress and released her, lifting his hands in the air.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I have no right to touch you.”

“Her name is Rose and she said she would only speak to you. She says you’re a good man.”

She looked dubious as she said the words and well she should be. Ben didn’t believe it either. If the Rose she referred to was the whore he’d known from her frequent visits to Leman Street, he found the news she’d called him a “good man” difficult to digest.

He had never been kind to Rose, leaning on her to give up the man or men who bullied her and several other prostitutes to share their meager earnings. Stopping the gang wouldn’t stop the women from making a living by selling themselves, but it might have provided them a measure of safety and prevented a few broken bones and bloodied faces.

“Miss Guthrie–”

“Mrs. Guthrie, if you please.”

Her snappish correction made him smile, and his face felt stiff and unnatural from the expression. She was lying. Or not telling the whole truth, he guessed. Her gaze darted away from his, studying the four plain walls, peeling wallpaper, fireplace, and few furnishings in his rented lodgings. When she did look his way, he noted the black centers of her eyes had grown large. Such a change was common among thieves who told him tall tales when questioned.

“Mrs. Guthrie, then. Shall we go to the clinic now?”

Pulling her cloak around her, the beauty stood and looked down at him as if he was more deserving of her pity than likely to give her help.

Ben moved to stand and a wave of dizziness made his head spin and his stomach heave. Damn that second pint. And the third.

“Are you sure you’re able? In your condition?”

“I am not drunk, Mrs. Guthrie.” Now he was the one who lied.

“How much did you drink?”

He looked up into her stormy eyes. A few strands of blond hair had come loose and hung down, curling just at the ends. He read irritation in the firm set of her mouth and the flash of ire in her gaze. She looked as apt to strike him down as help him to his feet.

But he was already down, and for some reason he could barely fathom he hated that the beautiful Mrs. Guthrie should see him at his worst.

He stood, ignoring the protest in his muscles and the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. His failure to find the Ripper, the fight with Penhurst, his suspension—all of it chose this moment to drag him down like a millstone. He fought it, but his body rebelled against his will and he listed forward, far too close to Mrs. Guthrie.

Rather than let him fall, she reached up, gloved hands shooting out from beneath her cloak and pressed her hands to his chest. The press of her palms, even through her knitted gloves, was a blissful balm, steadying him. He held still, allowing her to touch him, praying she wouldn’t move away until he gathered strength. He was determined not to make a complete fool of himself in front of the only woman who had ever visited his Whitechapel lodgings.

But he couldn’t resist letting her take a bit of his weight. The contact, the warmth of her hands against his body, was tantalizing. She might have reached for him out of the same charitable compulsion that caused her to tend to whores in the East End, but Ben relished the only human touch he’d experienced in years.

“Perhaps you should lie down.”

“No.”

"Just for a moment. It will do you good."

Though he couldn’t recall reaching for her, Ben studied the contrast of his hands against the dark black wool of her cloak. He held her by the shoulders a moment longer and then forced himself to release her. He could bloody well rally the strength to walk to his own bed.

As he moved away from her, she clasped him round the waist, perhaps thinking he was about to tumble over.

“I can manage.”

“Let me help you, sergeant.”

He cringed at her use of his rank. He was a suspended detective sergeant, foolish enough to consume too much liquor and too far gone now to take the statement of a witness who may have encountered the creature he’d hunted for so long.

They crossed the few steps to his bed, a rickety cot with nothing to recommend it. Sitting on the edge, he reached for his necktie. He could hardly undress in front of Mrs. Guthrie, but he’d be damned if he let his neck cloth strangle him if he fell asleep. He fumbled with the knot before smooth skin and nimble fingers brushed his hands aside. The lady had removed her gloves and her touch was blessedly cool. After tugging at the knot and slipping the tie free, she pulled the fabric and it hissed sinuously, sliding against the cotton collar of his shirt.

The scent of lavender lured him, igniting his senses, and he inhaled deeply. But he stayed his hands, resisting the urge to reach for her again. Yet she stood so near. One tug and she’d be in his arms. There had to be curves under that shapeless cloak. Instead he complied when she pushed at his shoulders, leaned back, and allowed his body to sink into the cot. He struggled to keep his eyes open and not drift off as she lifted the blanket up to his chin.

Her ministrations were an unexpected gift, and he wasn’t worthy of any of it. Yet he would take it all, absorb as much of her goodness and calming fragrance as he could. He’d carry it with him when she was gone and solitude returned. How many lonely nights had he endured in these dim, dingy lodgings? How many evenings would the aroma of lavender linger to perfume the air after she’d gone?

Kate lifted the fob watch on her skirt and shook it gently. An old gift from her father, it usually kept time faithfully. Could it be correct now? Surely she hadn’t been sitting in this dusty room in Whitechapel for nearly half an hour watching over a man she’d only just met.

She’d intended to leave the moment the detective’s eyes slipped shut, to find a constable and go back to the clinic and see to Rose. The young woman might have vowed to speak to no one but Detective Sergeant Quinn, but the man was in no condition to do anything other than sleep off the effects of too much drink.

Yet the sight of Detective Quinn as he drifted off to sleep held Kate captive. The giant of a man whose gaze was so pained and bleak looked gentle in slumber, his full lips softened and the pinch of a frown between his brows replaced with a plane of pale, smooth skin. She’d glimpsed so much weariness in his expression when she encountered him at the pub. It seemed a rare privilege to look on him now, when his handsome features were serene, peaceful.

With his head turned toward her, a thick lock of dark auburn hair fell across his brow. Kate itched to stroke it back. No, she mustn’t. She had to go. Each moment wasted studying Detective Quinn’s features was time she should be working her last night at the clinic, tending to those in need. She was on the verge of accepting Mr. Thrumble's proposal—that was the proper course, practical. He needed a wife. As appealing as he might be to scrutinize, Detective Quinn didn’t need her. He needed nothing more than a good night’s sleep. So why did she feel a foolish sense of responsibility for him? The giant of man could surely manage on his own.

She stood to leave. Reaching back to the pull the hood of her cloak over her hair, Kate turned a final gaze toward Detective Quinn. A frown marred his brow again and creased his mouth in a firm line. He let out a low, pitiful moan and his body tensed before going still. Whatever his dreams, they brought him no pleasure.

Kate knew the terror of being haunted in one’s dreams.

His lips moved and Kate thought he might speak. She leaned closer and could no longer resist touching the lock of hair on his forehead. Caressing the glossy strand, she pushed it back into his hairline before trailing her fingertips along his dark eyebrow. She skimmed her fingers down the ridge of his cheekbone and then traced the firm edge of his jaw. His skin felt cool under her fingertips, but warmth kindled inside her from the contact.

Beyond tending to her brother’s wounds, Kate hadn’t touched a man in nearly ten years. Mr. Thrumble had kissed her hand and once, and in a moment of uncharacteristic exuberance, laid a chaste kiss on her cheek, but she‘d never reached for him. And when he touched her, it set nothing inside her aflame.

Kate jerked her hand away. Detective Quinn said he had no right to touch her, and she certainly had no right to trace the contours of his face, no matter the rush of pleasure it provoked.

Kate stood. She couldn’t help Detective Quinn, and remaining near him only stoked odd sensations—urges and notions she’d stifled for years.

As Kate crossed toward the door, Detective Quinn began to moan again. She glanced back to see him flailing, wrestling the blanket from his body as if he were fighting off an assailant.

His distress called to her, tugging at memories of nights spent wrestling her own dreamtime foe. She turned back and he seemed to settle again, arms falling limp at his sides. Drawing close enough to arrange his blanket, she whispered to him. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

As nonsensical as it seemed to reassure such a strong man, Kate couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. They were the words she’d craved on many a lonely night.

Kate squeaked in surprise when Detective Quinn reached for her, his hand striking out to clasp her wrist. Eyes just open in sleepy slits, he watched her a moment before speaking a single word.

“Anne.”

Tight. His grip was so tight, she feared he might crush her wrist. She plucked at his fingers, trying to release herself, but he held fast.

“Detective Quinn, I am not Anne. Kate. My name is Kate. Please let me go.”

He loosened his hold but didn’t release her. Then his eyes widened, recognition flashing in his expression.

“Kate.”

The rasp in his voice as he spoke her name made Kate shiver. She pulled away. He was far too close and she was suddenly far too warm.

With his free hand, he pushed back the hood of her cloak and stroked her hair.

“My God, you’re beautiful.”

“I’m…” Instinct urged her to deny it, but the words dried on her tongue as he slid his hand around the nape of her neck and drew her near. He tugged her closer and something sparked in his blue eyes—desire and a need so stark and raw it made her tremble.

“I am going to kiss you, Kate.” He whispered the words, throaty and low.

Her mind shouted
no
, but her body pulsed
yes
in response. Improper desire warred with the panic welling at the edges of her mind.

Oh, his mouth. Warm and firm, his lips coaxed her to take the pleasure he offered. He moved his hand, still cupping the back of her neck, and threaded his fingers in her hair. Wicked delight skittered across every inch of her skin, turning it to gooseflesh.

Just for a moment, she let herself go, opening to him, allowing him to plunder as he pleased. But he seduced her gently, tilting her head just so and angling his mouth so that he could explore more thoroughly. The detective kissed her with shocking tenderness.

Kate had never been kissed with such care. She'd never been kissed like this at all—in a manner that set her body on fire and turned her mind to mush. Surely she would melt, right here in this tiny room in Whitechapel, in the arms of a stranger with haunted eyes and a sinfully delicious kiss.

But that wouldn’t do at all. It was wrong, all wrong. She'd shirked her duty to Rose, abandoned her post at the clinic, and what of Mr. Thrumble, the man who would soon ask her to be his wife?

She pulled away from Detective Quinn, pressing back against his hold on her neck. “Let me go. I should… I must go.”

He released her, lifting his hand from her neck and holding it aloft, signaling he wouldn’t restrain her. Lying back, he turned his face away and stared at the ceiling above him as if something there required his intense scrutiny.

Kate looked up and found cracked, peeling paint stained with smoke and a collection of cuttings from newspapers. The words
Ripper
and
murder
featured in the headlines on nearly every scrap.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Guthrie.” He spoke the words quietly, but the sound echoed off the ceiling above him.

Unclear whether he apologized for kissing her or for being too soused to do his job, Kate stared at his muscular frame a moment longer and then started for the door.

“Wait.”

The single shouted word made Kate jump. For a moment she heard Andrew’s Scottish burr curling around the word. Her husband had a beautiful voice, or at least she’d thought so upon meeting him. Afterward she heard it too many times in anger, remembered too many foul condemnations, to find any beauty in his accent. No brogue could ease the cruelty of his words.

“You cannot walk these streets alone. Let me find you a cab.” He spoke the words as he rose from his bed, wincing as he moved. He reached for the neck cloth she’d helped rid him of earlier and stopped short. Pressing a hand to his ribs, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“You’re wounded.”

Kate’s impulse to help made her want to reach for him, to do what she could to ease his pain.

He lifted a hand to stop her and his mouth twisted in a grimace.

“Don’t worry yourself over me, Mrs. Guthrie.” His voice, so warm and throaty deep before, was clipped and chilly now.

“I might say the same to you, Detective Quinn. I can make my own way.”

Kate didn’t wait for his reply, and she imagined whatever wound stalled his movements would make it difficult for him to follow. She moved quickly, plunging into the black night and praying her eyesight would adjust to the darkness.

Fog choked the streets now, muffling sound, and wrapping everything in a gray luminescence. It seemed to stifle the pungent stench of Whitechapel but carried a bitter, metallic flavor of its own.

She had used a shorter route to reach The Ten Bells from the clinic, cutting up from the Whitechapel Road across Osborn Street, but alone in the dark, it seemed more prudent to follow Commercial Street all the way down. Carriages still moved along the busy thoroughfare, though Kate could barely see them through the murky shroud of mist that hung in the air. She concentrated on remaining on the pavement and not bumping into any of the men and women who milled along the street.

When a carriage seemed to veer toward the pavement, hooves skidding on the cobblestone and the squealing grind of wheels sounding far too near, Kate stumbled away and into the arms of a man reeking of spirits and grime.

“You’re a sweet thing.”

“Mrs. Guthrie! Cab for you, missus.”

From above, the cabman’s call cut through the night, and Kate extracted herself from the man on the pavement long enough to call back to him.

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Guthrie.”

She saw the dark silhouette of the hansom cab driver as he leaned over the roof and spoke to her.

“Sergeant Quinn sent me for you. Take ‘er to Fieldgate Street Clinic, ‘e said.”

Kate tripped as she took the single step up into the cab, gripping the enormous muck-covered wheel to steady herself.

She closed the double doors over, securing herself in the cab. Safer and warmer in the close confines than she had been moments before, she thought of Detective Quinn with gratitude sending the carriage. Gratitude and a dangerous jumble of emotions that still hummed in her veins.

Shaking thoughts of Detective Sergeant Quinn from her mind, Kate focused on what needed to be done. If her fob watch was still accurate, she would be late returning home to Moreton Terrace. She’d have to offer some explanation regarding her whereabouts this evening. What would Will say if he learned she’d spent an hour in a drunken detective’s Whitechapel lodgings?