Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel (4 page)

December 5th, 1888

“Explain it to me again. And start at the beginning, if you please. Exactly how long have you been sneaking off to Whitechapel on your own?”

Kate reached up and tucked another pin into her hair. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before turning to face her brother.

“You make it sound so dramatic, as if I’m some suspicious character in a Conan Doyle story.” She infused her voice with a nonchalance she didn’t feel and smoothed a hand across the waist of her plain, gray gown. Normally she’d take time to brush or launder her blue Whitechapel dress after each visit, but she’d returned late last evening. After an uncomfortable conversation with Will, there’d been no time for anything but a few hours of restless sleep. And she wasn’t returning to volunteer this time. She fully intended to keep her promise to herself and stay away, as Mr. Thrumble would no doubt wish. But after fitful sleep interrupted by nightmares featuring the predator who hunted women in Whitechapel, Kate had to check on Rose. Even if Rose knew the man who’d attacked her, Kate felt a sense of responsibility to see about the young woman’s care. She'd failed her last night and had to make amends in whatever way she could.

Rose had been sleeping when the cabman returned Kate to the clinic the previous night after her—what could she call it?—odd encounter with Detective Benjamin Quinn. Alice insisted she would send word of Rose’s condition and make sure a constable came to take her statement in the morning, but Kate had been the one to clean the young woman’s wounds. She’d spied the bruises that told of Rose’s ill treatment. Rose had suffered someone’s uncontrolled violence, even before her encounter with an assailant she claimed to be the Ripper.

Yes, she had to see Rose again. Waking early, Kate had secured a few shillings in a little fabric pouch and would make sure Rose received those too, unless the young woman was offended at her offer of charity. Ducking into a clinic in desperation was far different than taking a handout, however freely given. But Kate would try, and she’d make sure ensure Rose knew of other charities, resourceful people and organizations eager to aid and capable of assisting young women when their circumstances grew dire.

But first she had to get past her irritated brother. Following in their late father’s footsteps as a physician and newly licensed by the Royal College of Physicians, Will had always made her proud. Intelligent, brave, and with the kindest heart of any man she’d ever known, Kate knew Will, a former soldier, took the role of brotherly protector seriously. But she’d never told him about Andrew’s rages, never disclosed a single detail about the injuries and torment suffered at her husband’s hands.

Before joining the army and serving in Afghanistan, Will had been prone to recklessness. She’d feared what he might do to Andrew if he found out about his cruelty. She couldn’t face losing her beloved brother to the gallows, no matter how she’d longed for someone to end her husband’s violence.

Turning to Will, she gazed into eyes as cloud gray as her own. He’d so often thanked her for the care she gave him when he’d returned from the war, but she felt an equal measure of gratitude in return. Her brother’s kindness, his quiet strength, had taught her fortitude, even in her darkest moments with Andrew. And Will had no idea what an example he’d set for his younger sister.

She reached out and offered him a quick embrace.

“I’ve already explained, and I would be happy to do so again. But not right now.”

Will seemed taken aback by her show of affection, but signs of irritation still lingered in the narrowness of his gaze and firm set of his mouth.

“Shall I make an appointment with you, then? When might you fit me in? I never imagined your schedule was so full.”

Though she sometimes enjoyed their sparring, she’d no time to banter now.

“Forgive me, but I have an appointment this morning. I will return for luncheon with you and Ada, and Mr. Thrumble.”

It was an important luncheon. Mr. Thrumble had indicated his desire to speak to Kate alone. He’d propose again today. Then they’d discuss details of their upcoming nuptials, finally set a date. Kate had the sense Solomon would treat the plans for their marriage as a kind of test for her, to judge whether her skills at organizing events and managing the fine points of the ceremony measured up to his expectations for a wife. The notion made her shudder when she pondered it too long.

“Where is this appointment? Who are you visiting? Is it not early for visiting?”

A giggle rose up and Kate made no attempt to stifle it. She smiled at Will but read no answering amusement in his expression.

“You can’t be serious. Do you truly wish me to provide you with every detail of my comings and goings?”

Andrew was gone. No man controlled her anymore. If she had any say in the matter, no man ever would. Not in the way Andrew had. The thought brought Mr. Thrumble to mind. He'd been clear about his expectations for a wife, and it was an exacting list, a part of why she’d refused his first proposal years before. Was she any more prepared for the bonds of marriage now?

She allowed her frustration and uncertainty to spill into her voice. “Perhaps you’d like to lock me in my room and throw away the key.” It was a threat their mother would teasingly make whenever she and Will had joined forces for some nefarious childhood mischief.

A smile, warm and charming and much more familiar on his face than any grimace, lit her brother’s countenance. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest, then released it on a long sigh.

“I am merely concerned about your welfare, Kate. Your safety. Whitechapel is a dangerous place for a woman to wander alone. I need not tell you that.” He gestured toward her pile of
The
Illustrated Police News
and other periodicals that chronicled the Ripper’s atrocities. She’d followed the news with what some might call “morbid curiosity.” Andrew certainly would have. But Will had never judged her, with regard to her preferred reading material or any other choice she’d made in life. He deserved the truth. Guilt at so many months of subterfuge made the back of her neck itch.

Kate opened her mouth to confess it—her trips to Whitechapel, her time spent with those whose need was deeper and uglier than anyone living on Moreton Terrace could imagine. Except perhaps for Ada, who'd grown up in the East End.

A soft rapping at the door cut through the tension between them. Ada’s face appeared around the doorframe, her forehead puckered in concern.

“Good morning, Kate. Were you expecting Mr. Thrumble this early?”

“Not at all. We’d agreed to a luncheon later in the afternoon.”

Ada glanced at her husband and stepped fully into the room, closing the door at her back. “He’s downstairs now. And he seems quite anxious.”

A fastidious man, Solomon made a point of being prompt. His appearance at Moreton Terrace so early, so many hours before their intended luncheon, didn’t bode well.

“He seems distressed. Angry, if I’m honest.”

Curiosity and concern for Mr. Thrumble vied with Kate’s desire to return to Whitechapel.

“Perhaps I should speak to him.” Will’s voice held a tinge of worry, and Kate offered him a small, gentle smile for his willingness to storm into the fray for her. He’d always wished to be her protector.

“He asked for Kate, but perhaps it would be best if you speak to him. Find out what has riled him so. He would tell me nothing.” Ada, usually hard to ruffle, appeared distressed.

“No, Will. Let me see to him.”

Kate was out of the door before either Ada or Will could stop her. Facing Mr. Thrumble didn’t worry her. He’d proved himself the steadiest and most sensible of men. She imagined whatever had excited him would be easily resolved and he’d agree to return later.

Heavy footfalls sounded against the carpet of the sitting room floor—soft then loud—and Kate thought their unexpected guest must be pacing.

“Kate!”

Kate had never seen Solomon Thrumble so animated. Disheveled black hair and a fiery blush that mottled his pale skin were so unlike the image he usually presented that Kate imagined she was meeting his less meticulous twin. She shivered at the sense of unease that sounded like a warning bell in her mind. Men who changed their nature so easily could not to be trusted.

“Mr. Thrumble.”

He came to her, reaching to take her hands. Kate allowed him the familiarity, though he was usually scrupulous about adhering propriety’s rules.

After a moment he looked down at their joined hands and released her, stepping back as if she’d burned him.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Guthrie. I heard some distressing news and wanted to speak with you immediately.”

“Of course, shall we sit?” Kate indicated a chair, but Mr. Thrumble shook his head.

“You know Mrs. Norton, of course? She lives just across the way.”

Mrs. Margaret Norton, an aged widow and one of their long-standing neighbors, had always been a bit of a gossip and ineffectual matchmaker. She was the last person Kate expected Solomon to mention.

“Yes, of course. She and my mother were quite close, but we’ve seen little of her of late. Is she unwell?”

“No, not at all. Fit as a fiddle. And quite a keen observer of all that goes on beyond her front window.”

Mr. Thrumble fell silent and looked at Kate with an expectant arch of his eyebrows.

“I see.” But she didn’t. Not at all.

He huffed a sigh and closed his eyes a moment before he spoke again.

“She saw you return to Moreton Terrace at an ungodly hour last night. Well past dark, Mrs. Guthrie.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Norton was far more observant than Kate had ever given her credit for, and apparently the woman stayed up late.

“Have I no right to beg an explanation? To some it might appear…unseemly.”

“Unseemly.” Kate’s jaw ached as she spoke through clenched teeth. He had yet to present her with a second proposal of marriage, and yet she could already sense his judgment and displeasure.

But how could she expect anything else? No man would be pleased to learn his potential wife-to-be had returned home unaccompanied in the wee hours of the night.

“I am merely concerned, my dear. For your reputation.”

It was the first time he’d ever used a term of endearment and it rang hollow, thoroughly at odds with his grim expression and stiff posture.

“I assure you it was nothing untoward, Mr. Thruble. I was… I was attending to a young woman in need.” It was not a lie. The whole truth could come later.

“What young woman?”

Kate forced herself to meet his gaze. “I cannot say more. I’m sorry. I can only assure you I did nothing to tarnish my reputation.”

Hadn’t she? Her lips tingled and burned, reminding her of the first kiss she’d experienced in ten years. But the kiss itself meant nothing. Benjamin Quinn had been tipsy. He’d called out for another woman.

No one ever needed to know she’d kissed a drunken detective, though she doubted she'd ever forget. Shame at her actions weighed on her mind, as tenaciously as her ridiculous curiosity about the desolation she’d seen Detective Quinn's gaze. What haunted the man?

Another man’s gaze bore into her now. Mr. Thrumble stared at Kate as if the truth of her actions might be written somewhere on her face. He approached, taking two steps across the sitting room floor, almost as if he wished to intimidate her with his proximity and stern expression.

He tapped his walking stick on the carpet as he stood before her.

“I really must insist that you explain yourself, Mrs. Guthrie. It won’t do for a lady to be deposited at her doorstep in the dark of night by a hired cab. Did your brother know of your attendance on this woman? Why did he not send you in his carriage?”

Kate took a step away from him. She had no fear of his harsh tone or disdainful gaze. It was the judgment in his voice that repelled her. Guilt had assailed her from the moment she woke—guilt over not returning to tend to Rose, for wasting precious moments of her last night at the clinic by dallying with a drunken detective. Mr. Thrumble’s accusative stare fueled her self-reproach.

“My brother and I have discussed the matter just this morning.” The answer did nothing to satisfy him if the arch of his black brow was any indication.

Kate had tired of his questions, tired of prevaricating. She’d never been one for fibs, but the notion of laying the whole matter of her work in Whitechapel out for him to dissect and judge was out of the question if she meant to visit Rose and return in time for their afternoon luncheon.

“Mr. Thrumble, I do appreciate your concern, but you’ve called unexpectedly, and I do have an appointment this morning. Would you excuse me?”

“Well.” He huffed the word, arching his eyebrows and rearing back as if she’d shocked him. He tapped his walking stick again and seemed to gather his wits. “Very well, Mrs. Guthrie. I shall see you for our luncheon
appointment.
”

Kate walked him to the door, handing him his hat and gloves from the side table.

“I do hope you’ll take his carriage this time.”

“Pardon?”

“Your brother’s carriage. It’s only proper, Mrs. Guthrie. And I do hope you have a care for propriety.”