Robin Schone (22 page)

“Many governesses do not have homes or family.”

There could be no mistaking Gabriel’s implications.

“And because many of us are homeless, you think that Mrs. Thornton is employing—and discharging—

governesses for some nefarious purpose?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly, watching her ...

“You think that those other governesses were subjected
to
the same treatment that I received?”

“It is possible,” Gabriel said.

But if that was the case .. .

“You think that the man who wrote the letters to me also wrote letters to the other governesses.”

Gabriel did not
respond.

He did not have to respond. The answer was in his silver eyes.

Victoria’s skin felt like it was trying to independently crawl away.

“You think those other governesses are dead,” she said in dawning horror.

While Victoria was still alive. Saved by stubborn independence.

He unwaveringly gauged her reactions; his body heat did not warm her.

“Surely Mr. Thornton would know if his wife were an accessory to”—Victoria fought down her panic

—“to murder.”

“It pleases him to believe his wife is a jealous woman.”

Victoria had never seen Mrs. Thornton display any signs of jealousy.

“Why would she . . . What pleasure would a woman gain in—I have seen Mrs. Thornton’s handwriting.

” Victoria’s floundering voice found reason. “It was not she who wrote those notes.”

Warm cinnamon breath licked her face. “Then we must discover who did write them.”

Victoria could trust Gabriel. Or she could distrust him.

Her choice . . .

“How do I know the writing on the cuff isn’t your handwriting?”

“That is easily proven.”

As was Mrs. Thornton’s involvement with the man who waited for Victoria to come to him for food.

Shelter. Pleasure.

“You will not hurt Mrs. Thornton,” Victoria said. But to convince whom?

“I will not kill her,” Gabriel agreed.

“How did you ... persuade Mr. Thornton to meet with you?”

“I met him in the park outside his home.”

Yes, the park shrouded in fog would be private.

“Mrs. Thornton shops in the mornings,” Victoria hurriedly suggested. “Perhaps you could catch her then

...”

“I saw the governess they replaced you with, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said with calm deliberation. “

Perhaps they will lose patience with you and concentrate on her.”

And another woman would fall victim to the pattern. Dismissal without a reference. Dying a little every

day with poverty and despair.

Receiving letters promising pleasure and safety.

“Very well,” Victoria said decisively. “I will help you.”

“Merci,
mademoiselle.”

Without warning, Gabriel stepped back.

“Trust, mademoiselle.” The warm cinnamon breath was replaced with the acrid odor of burnt wool. “We

must both trust.”

Victoria would not allow him to lie to her. “Yet you do not trust me, sir.”

A drop of London fog glittered on his shoulder. “Perhaps it is myself that I do not trust.”

“Don’t.”

The objection was out before Victoria could stop it.

An ember popped in the fireplace.

“Don’t what?” Gabriel asked softly.

“Don’t seduce me with an illusion of trust.”

Victoria wanted to believe that the beautiful man in front of her found her attractive. She wanted to

believe that she could trust an untouchable angel.

She wanted to believe that he would not seduce her with words merely to gain her trust.

Victoria knew better than to believe simply because she wanted to.

“You think the man who wrote the letters can lead you to the man you want.” She held his gaze with

resolve. “Perhaps he can. I have told you I will help you, so please don’t lie to me.”

“I do not lie.”

He did not like having his drawers pilfered; he did not like being called a liar. . .

“There are many different types of lies, sir.” Victoria tilted her chin in challenge. “Omission is as much a

lie as prevarication.”

“I always pay my debts, mademoiselle.”

It was not the response she had expected.

“Do you think that you owe me a debt?” Victoria swallowed. “And that you can repay it by telling me

what you believe I want to hear?”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe I owe you a debt, Victoria Childers.”

“Why?”

“I loved a man, mademoiselle. If I had not loved him, you would not be here.”

Michael.
The chosen angel.

“You loved him ... as a friend?”

“I loved him as a brother.”

Victoria had loved David as a brother. Her father had twisted her innocent love and defiled it.

“There is no sin in love,” she protested involuntarily.

“No, mademoiselle, there is no sin in love,” Gabriel said unflinchingly. “The sin is in loving.”

A man such as he should not feel so much pain.

A woman such as she should not care.

“I wish I had never read the letters,” Victoria said quietly. “I wish I had never learned that aspect of my

character.”

Gabriel did not move; he suddenly felt miles away. “You wish that you did not desire an angel?”

There was no hiding from the truth.

“No.” For better or for worse, Victoria did desire Gabriel. “No, I do not wish that.”

She did not have the courage to ask Gabriel if he regretted bidding on her.

“Madame René delivered some clothes to you,” Gabriel said abruptly, silver eyes guarded.

Clothes.

Madame René.

Victoria took a deep breath.

It had been a scant few hours since Victoria had stood naked before Gabriel while Madame René

measured her. It seemed like a few years had passed.

Gabriel was prepared for her to reject his clothes. His person. His past.

Choices . ..

“Did you bring these clothes up with you?” Victoria asked briskly.

“No.”

She stared. “Then how do you know they are here?”

“Gaston told me they had arrived when I returned. I told him to bring them up. I heard the door open and

close a few minutes ago.”

And had not told her.

Gabriel’s omission did not curtail a spark of anticipation. Grasping handfuls of silk in both hands, Victoria

preceded him out of the bedroom.

An assortment of white boxes were piled high on the pale blue leather couch—three long dress boxes,

shorter rectangular boxes, three hat boxes. Four shoe boxes. The boxes were all stamped with rose petals.

Victoria had not had a new dress in over a year. She had never owned a custom-made dress.

It was unseemly to take frivolous pleasure in expensive clothing when there were so many on the streets

who had so little.

“There are too many boxes,” she said repressively.

“Madame René has assured me that women never have too many clothes.”

Was that a smile in Gabriel’s voice?

Victoria quickly glanced up—she had seen cynicism twist his mouth, but she had never seen him smile.

And he did not now. But there was a smile in his eyes.

Beautiful silver eyes .. .

“I will pay you back,” she said hurriedly.

His voice was a light caress. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, seeing your pleasure is payment enough.”

Her stomach somersaulted. “Are you flirting with me, sir?”

“No, mademoiselle.” The smile left his eyes. “I do not flirt.”

“But you know how?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, I know how.”

To flirt. To kiss. To give pleasure.

But he did not know how to receive pleasure.

“What shall I open first?” she asked. And knew that she sounded like a child at Christmas.

Faint memories stirred. Of a loving voice and warm laughter . ..

Sounds familiar to an eleven-year-old girl, not to a thirty-four-year-old woman.

The memories were gone as quickly as they had come.

Gabriel gestured toward the couch. “Whichever box you prefer, mademoiselle.”

Victoria tentatively sat down; leather squeaked, silk swished. Carefully she picked up a rose

petal-imprinted box.

It was surprisingly heavy.

She curiously lifted the lid.

It was a box full of gloves—wool gloves, leather gloves, white silk gloves, long silk evening gloves. They

were stained with red.

Someone had spilled ink on them.

Victoria frowned.

Two of the black leather gloves had mannequin hands stuffed inside them, as if they had been plucked

out of a showcase.

Slowly it dawned on Victoria that the hands inside the black leather gloves were not carved out of wood:

they were made out of flesh and bones.

The hands were human hands. And the red ink that stained the gloves was human blood.

“Dear God,” echoed in Victoria’s ears.

It was a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like Victoria’s voice. It came from far, far away.

Too far away to have come from Victoria.

One second the box laid on her lap, the next second it was gone.

Numbly holding the lid between her fingers, Victoria glanced up.

Gabriel’s face was dizzily close.

He had fine pores, she thought. His skin was baby-smooth.

Silver eyes captured her gaze.

A silky masculine voice bolted through her memory . ..
If she’s not yet dead, she soon will be.

“It’s the prostitute’s”—Victoria could not bring herself to vocalize the body parts that had been

amputated—”it’s her.”

“Possibly.”

Gabriel straightened, face shooting back. He held the box between long white fingers.

Victoria dropped the lid. “It’s not Madame—”

“No, it’s not Madame René.” There was no emotion inside Gabriel’s eyes—no pleasure, no horror. “Her

hands are smaller.”

Victoria had never before fainted. She had never before
wanted
to faint.

She did now.

Victoria abruptly realized there had been one other person who would have known about her personal

artifacts.

“Doily knew that I wore silk drawers,” she whispered.

And now Dolly was dead. As Gabriel had predicted.

Victoria convulsively swallowed.

The room tilted.

“Put your head between your legs,” a sharp voice rang out.

Victoria looked at the other boxes—the three dress boxes were long enough to hold a torso. The three

round hatboxes were deep enough to hold a head—

The eggs and ham and croissant she had eaten earlier rushed up into her throat.

She lurched up, feet tangling. The silk tucked between her breasts slipped free, slithered down her body.

Victoria ran for the bathroom.

Gabriel had spoken of death, but it had not been real; it was all too real now.

Victoria wondered if Madame René would be disappointed in her weak stomach. And then she didn’t

wonder anything.

She dropped down on her knees before the porcelain toilet. And remembered more words—hers,

Gabriel’s.

Do you plan on k illing me, then, to spare me this.
. .
death?

You would thank me in the end.

Perhaps she would.

Gabriel opened up a hatbox. A crimson-stained hat cradled a woman’s head.

Death had erased Dolly’s pain and horror.

Gabriel opened the second hatbox. A smart Windsor hat with a short black veil resided within.

No death there.

Gabriel opened the third hatbox. The frivolous feathered confection inside held a man’s head, gray hair

smeared with dark crimson. Gerald Fitzjohn’s face was lax.

He saw Victoria’s pleasure. He saw Victoria’s horror.

For a brief moment he had shared her pleasure. He did not share her horror: Gabriel had lived on the

streets too long to be repulsed by faces of death.

Dolly and Fitzjohn had been slated to die; they had died.

The price of sin: blackmail. Death.

Have you sinned, mademoiselle?

Not yet.

Gabriel replaced the three lids. Straightening, he rounded his desk and pressed the buzzer underneath the

black marble top. Striding across the carpet, he flung open the satinwood door.

A man with rich mahogany-colored hair jumped to attention. “Mr. Gabriel, sir!”

“Remove the boxes on the couch, Evan,” Gabriel calmly ordered while rage rose within him.

He would have spared Victoria the reality of death. The second man obviously did not want her to be

spared.

Green eyes stoically met silver ones.

“Yes, sir,” Evan said.

Gabriel wondered if Evan sympathized with Victoria’s plight.

He wondered if he would try to set her free.

Gabriel stepped aside for Evan to enter.

Evan stooped to pick up a box.

“Evan.”

Evan paused.

“There are human remains in some of the other boxes.”

Perhaps there were remains in all of the other boxes, although Gabriel doubted it. The weight of the

boxes combined would have raised questions when they were brought up.

Evan stiffened in horror, proof that not all men who had lived on the streets had lost the ability to be

repulsed by death.

“Take the body parts and dump them into the Thames,” Gabriel ordered flatly. “Burn the clothes and the

boxes.”

Many people disappeared into the Thames. Gabriel did not want slivers of human bone inside his

furnace.

Evan did not question Gabriel. He picked up a weighted hatbox.

“Evan.”

“Yes, sir?” Evan’s voice was subdued.

He
had
been a sympathizer.

“Gaston did warn you to guard Mademoiselle Childers well, did he not?”

Evan did not turn around. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell Julien and Allen what is in the hatbox you hold,” Gabriel ordered blandly. “Tell Julien and Allen that