CHAPTER SIX
It goes without saying that People of Quality do not go further than Oxford Street. St. Giles is home to no one but the worst of criminals, and no one who is respectable would dare traverse with such ilk.
-Whispers from Lady X, May 1814
St. Giles Rookery, West End, London
Rivaled only by nearby Seven Dials, St. Giles was the worst of the West End, largely comprised of dram joints, flash panneys, and pawn shops. Chipped cobblestones marked fetid streets too narrow, too clogged with rubbish and feculence for even the most daring of hack drivers to steer through. Tumbledown tenements teemed with poor immigrants, Yiddish and Gaelic spliced together to form a discordant din, as voices drifted from the broken windows. Filth and pestilence clung to everything; the vile aroma only abated after several baths with lye, and denizens had neither access to large quantities of hot water nor money for soap.
Overall, the residents of St. Giles fit into three categories: those who had come to England with only the clothes on their backs and thus could not afford to live elsewhere; those who required the anonymity afforded by an overcrowded stew no one wanted to visit; and those who delighted in the many criminal opportunities presented by having so many thieves’ dens naught more than a stone’s throw away from each other.
It was the third group of people that interested Gabriel the most. As a Runner, he depended upon a network of thieves, receivers of stolen goods, tavern-keepers, and madams who were all willing to trade secrets for blunt. Though some Members of Parliament claimed associating with criminals bred corruption within the ranks of Westminster’s elite police force, the information gained through these sources outweighed the risks.
Usually.
Tonight, with Jemma on his arm, Gabriel reconsidered the value in these contacts he’d so carefully cultivated over the years. Every minute spent in the dank, winding alleys made his stomach twist and turn with concern for her safety. They’d visited several public houses already to no success.
He had to give Jemma credit, though.
Her hand rested gently on the sleeve of his coat, and every once in a while she’d squeeze his arm, as if she knew he needed the physical reassurance she was safe beside him.
She let him do all the talking, her face a blank slate. He knew she was watching for any sign of falsehood, in that frighteningly accurate way she had of reading people’s unconscious tells. After each stop, they conferred, and she confirmed his suspicions: either nobody knew about the buttons, or they weren’t willing to talk to him about them in front of her.
They had one last place to go. Mrs. Jennings’s dolly shop was deep in the heart of the stews. He hated taking her there—there was little redeeming about the shops on Church Lane. They ranged from objectionable to vaguely illegal to downright dangerous. Mrs. Jennings fit somewhere in the second category, but any points she won from cooperating with Bow Street were negated by her foul, drink-addled temper and her vehement dedication to swindling everyone she came into contact with.
“This next stop—” he began, breaking off as Jemma swung forward suddenly, almost doubling over.
He caught her before she smashed into the turbid street face-first. “Steady there,” he said, reluctantly releasing her.
“I tripped over something.” Her face scrunched up, half-displeasure, half-confusion as she looked back over her shoulder to see what it was.
He shook his head. “You don’t want to do that. My policy for St. Giles is to never, ever look back.”
Her brows furrowed. “Because you might be attacked?”
“Well, yes, moving targets are harder to hit.” With that in mind, he started walking again, his hand still over hers as it rested on the sleeve of his kerseymere coat. The cracked leather of her gloves was strange against his, for he was so used to the soft, supple silk she usually favored. She’d borrowed the gloves from her friends too.
Let no one say that Jemma Forster ever did anything halfway.
He led her to the intersection of Dean Street, going to the right where it met with Oxford Street. “But more so because I figure in this case ignorance is bliss, and I really don’t want to know what’s on these streets.”
She made a face at that. He couldn’t help but laugh—she appeared so irate that a pile of muck had dared to get in her way when she was on a fact-finding mission.
By God, she’s adorable.
“It’s so dark here. Why aren’t the lamps lit?” Jemma wrapped her fingers around his palm, readjusting their grip so that they walked hand-in-hand.
He told himself she held onto him only for support. It did not mean anything. The dark gray of her gown did not change the fact that she was in mourning for the husband she’d lost—the best friend he’d abandoned.
Focus. Solve the case.
“There aren’t any lamps here. It wasn’t deemed a priority.”
“That’s absurd.” Jemma frowned. “These people need light just as much as Mayfair does. Surely, someone will install lamps soon.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. Too many years spent patrolling the streets of London, witnessing first-hand the vast discrepancy in wealth and the traumatic effect it had upon the lower classes.
“Are there no laws being proposed for this?” When he shrugged, she turned her face up to him, fury alight in her dark eyes. “Unconscionable. Do they not care?”
“No. It does not affect them.” His words sounded harsher than he wanted them to—it was not Jemma’s fault the poor were kept in the dark, nor was it unexpected that she’d still have the idealism of her youth. She’d grown up in a well-to-do family and married into an even richer one.
“That isn’t right,” Jemma insisted.
He squeezed her hand, gentling his tone. “I thought the same when I first started patrolling. I’m sorry you have to see this.”
She stopped in the street, turning to face him, one hand on her hip. “Don’t apologize to me. I am the one in the wrong here. How could I never have realized this? There must be some way to make things better. When David is arrested, I will try and find a way to help.”
It hit him then, with her hand snug in his, her head tilted up toward him and clad in that ludicrously large mob cap, why he’d fallen in love with her three years ago. Not because of the innocent debutante she’d been, but because of that fierce spirit she kept hidden from most people.
“I think that would be very good.” He was so used to hearing empty promises from people who claimed they’d help, but then forgot about the plight of the indigent once they went back to their comfortable homes.
But he didn’t think Jemma would be like that. When she set her mind to something, she was unstoppable. He remembered when her mother’s maid died from a sudden illness, and all Jemma could think about was the maid’s young daughter. She’d arranged for the girl to go to a decent finishing school, and provided stellar references for her when she graduated and sought employment.
As they crossed over onto High Street, Jemma fell silent beside him, a frustrated frown etched upon her face. For her, this was the first time she’d ever ventured past the socially approved parts of London.
He, on the other hand, had lived his life as an outsider, looking in on worlds he could never truly inhabit. As Philip’s closest friend, he’d accompanied him to many social functions, but very few people in the ton cared to associate with a fourth son who would inherit neither estate nor funds.
In his first years with Bow Street, his family’s viscountcy had again separated him, this time from his thoroughly middle or working class compatriots. He’d had to work harder, longer, than the rest of his station. Eventually, the other officers accepted him, but there were times when he still felt as if he’d never be in the right place, with the right people.
Spending time with Jemma was the closest he’d ever come to feeling perfectly at home.
But that hadn’t fit, either, for she’d never been his to claim.
They rounded the corner of Buckbridge Street, stepping gingerly over the huddled form of a sleeping vagrant to get to Carrier Street. It was naught more than a small, narrow alley, stretching the length of one storefront.
Reaching the end quickly, they continued on to Church Lane. Mrs. Jennings’s pawn shop spanned a quarter of the block, the establishment boasting four show rooms crammed with various sundries and one extraordinarily bleak office that he strongly suspected was where the elderly woman received stolen goods. As Mrs. Jennings was always forthcoming—for the right price—Gabriel overlooked that. She’d helped him close numerous cases, all which had a much higher impact upon the city than a few illegally obtained trinkets.
“Are you sure the shop is going to be open?” Jemma asked. “It is late.”
“She may not have the lights on, but she’ll be in the back, if nothing else.” Gabriel steered her around a broken wine bottle, not wanting her to cut herself. “I should warn you though—Mrs. Jennings is not a pleasant person.”
They arrived at the shop. A candle burned bright in the window, and the door was unlocked. He pushed it open, and then closed it after Jemma entered. While there was no sign of Mrs. Jennings, her assistant, Paul Osborne, sat on a rickety three-legged stool that creaked in protest under his weight. Mrs. Jennings was built like a small, spindly pigeon, while Osborne was tall and strapping. He was part of the freed black community that called St. Giles home. He’d worked for Mrs. Jennings for two years, but Gabriel wagered he’d probably open his own shop soon. With a mind as sharp as a steel trap and a knack for negotiating, he was too smart to be wasted on Mrs. Jennings.
After a quick glance around to make sure no one else was present, he tapped the brim of his hat at the youth. “Evening, Osborne.”
Osborne moved the last pocket watch a few centimeters to the right, then turned around to face him. He tipped his beaver hat in greeting, grinning cheekily. “Evenin’, gov. I’d say pleasure to see ye, but we both know better, don’t we?”
“Careful lad, or I’ll start thinking you don’t like me.” Gabriel chuckled. “Where’s Mrs. Jennings?”
“Reckon she’s still asleep on the floor.” Osborne shrugged. “If ye gotta wake her, gimme a head start, would ye? She’s been deep in her cups all day, and it ain’t helpin’ her mood any.”
Gabriel winced. He’d saved Mrs. Jennings for last because he’d hoped they wouldn’t have to go to her. If she was already that foxed, she’d be no use.
But Osborne, however, would be. The lad loved blunt even more than Mrs. Jennings did, and unlike his employer, he had neither rheumy eyes nor difficulty hearing, making him a far more reliable witness.
From behind him, Jemma stepped forward, placing her hand on his arm.
Osborne’s eyes widened. “‘Ay now, who is this dimber chit?” He jumped off the stool by the counter, sidling over to them.
Gabriel hadn’t intended on introducing Jemma to Mrs. Jennings. As long as she got paid, and no harm came to her shop, she didn’t care who he brought with him. But Osborne was a different story.
Swinging his arm around Jemma, Gabriel leaned in, as if he was placing a kiss on the side of her face. But really, he whispered, “Play along with it.”
“This is Jenny, my girl.” Gabriel grinned, wishing what he was saying was the truth. “Congratulate us, for Jenny just agreed to marry me.”
“Well, damn my eyes, I never expected ye to catch someone so fine.” Osborne swiped his hat off his head, tipping it to Jemma. “Jenny, when ye get tired of Sinclair, ye come find me.”
The lad was fifteen at best, with all the cocksure swagger of a man who hadn’t yet realized women would tear his heart asunder.
Jemma laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She snuggled closer to Gabriel, making his heart hammer, even though he knew it was just for show.
“My Jenny’s got a problem, though,” Gabriel said, pulling the leather folio from beneath his armpit and setting it on the glass counter.
“Not the drink, I hope,” Osborne said, his voice sympathetic though his gaze never left the folio.
“No, no, nothing like that.” Jemma shook her head. “It’s just that—”
She paused for effect, raising her hand to her mouth as if it pained her too much to speak of this fabricated trouble.
“Jenny was supposed to take care of these special gold buttons for the Earl of Wolverston, but they disappeared when he was murdered.” Gabriel flipped open the folio to the first page, a drawing of the Regent’s seal and the olive branches. “What do you know about Wolverston’s death?”
“That toff killed in the whippin’ joint?” Osborne’s brows shot up when Gabriel nodded. “Eh, not much. Dead gov’s only interestin’ to yer lot. Unless he had somethin’ good to steal. Then we all be wantin’ to know, so we get a cut.”
Jemma cast her eyes downward, as if she was pained by the details. Gabriel inwardly cringed at Osborne’s words. It wasn’t the worst thing that had been said about Wolverston that night by far, but he still hated for Jemma to have to hear Philip’s death discussed casually.
But her next words surprised him.
“They say I stole ‘em.” She sniffled, then furiously rubbed at her nose as she warmed to her story. “I know the earl was wearin’ ‘em when he went out, but they’re sayin’ I stole ‘em. They dismissed me without references.”
“That’s just cruel.” Osborne shot Jemma a sad smile. “What can I do for ye?”
“I want to find the gold buttons,” Gabriel said. “I know they were cut off Wolverston’s jacket. Presumably by the same men who murdered him and attacked his brother. The Forster family has put up a large reward for the return of them.”
Osborne leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Gold, ye say? That’d be a nice damn day.”
“So you haven’t seen them.” Gabriel scrubbed a hand through his hair, sighing. “Unfortunate. The money the new earl has pledged would set you up nicely.”
“How nicely?”
Gabriel looked toward the back of the shop, making sure Mrs. Jennings couldn’t hear them. “Enough to get your own shop.”
The glint in Osborne’s dark eyes told him he’d made the right assessment. Osborne followed Gabriel’s gaze, lowering his voice as he replied, “I haven’t seen the buttons. But I know someone who might have. What will that get me?”
“If it helps me find Wolverston’s killers, I’ll make sure you get paid.”
A wide smile spread across Osborne’s lips. Hope played across his dark skin, like the sparkle in Jemma’s eyes when he’d said he’d help her. Gabriel ignored the voice in the back of his mind that said too many people were counting on him with this case.
For a second, Osborne hesitated, as if debating with himself the wisdom of sharing his information. After a final glance at the door, he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mauly Jives on Jacob’s Island.”
The name sounded familiar, though Jacob’s Island was the last place he would have thought to check. Located on the south bank of the Thames River, the rookery was part of Bermondsey, on the outskirts of London. Once home to the affluent, Jacob’s Island had become a squalid stain on the Southwark borough. The jobs that had made the town prosperous no longer existed, as the timber and boat building companies had moved their processes down the River Neckinger to Rotherhithe, in conjunction with the plans to expand the Commercial Docks.
On a good day, he returned from a trip to Jacob’s Island with only his purse filched, and all his limbs intact.
On a bad day…well, bad days in the stews tended to result in loss of life.
He pushed that thought away before it had time to spin into a thick web of worry and dread. There’d be no bloodshed this time, not with Jemma accompanying him. He’d keep her safe, by any means necessary.
“She’s got a gang,” Osborne said. “The worst of the worst, all tied up around Madame Stuart’s brothel. If ye wanted to fence gold, ye’d go to her.”
Gabriel remembered why the woman sounded so familiar—her gang of child thieves had showed up in several of Bow Street’s cases, though none he’d personally worked. “I’ll check her out. Did you hear anything else?”
“‘Fraid that’s it,” Osborne said. “Best of luck to ye both, gettin’ leg-shackled.”
“Thank you,” Jemma said, with a smile.
Gabriel turned to leave, Jemma’s hand in his. It ought not feel so right to stand here with her, yet…he could not explain the effect she had on him, the way his body was drawn to her, as if she were what he’d been missing his whole life.
“Sinclair?” Osborne’s tentative tone, so different from the cocksure way he usually spoke, gave Gabriel pause. “Just…be discreet, eh?”
Gabriel nodded. “Always. Discretion is the better part of valor and such.”
Osborne shrugged. “Whatever ye say.”
A crash from the back made them all jump. Arching his brow, Gabriel silently exchanged a glance with Osborne, who mouthed the words “Mrs. Jennings.” He waited a second to see if Osborne needed help, but the other man made a quick shooing motion and then placed his finger over his lips.
He held open the door for Jemma, then followed her out into the street. Slowly, carefully, he shut the door behind him, making sure that the movement did not jostle the bell above the door. Osborne went to the front of the shop and locked it, then headed to the back.
Gabriel turned, his back to the shop. He had been so reticent to enter St. Giles, but now he lingered, wishing to prolong the moment of fantasy in which Jemma really was his.
Jemma pulled her hand from his. “Shall we go?”
And just like that, the moment was over. He remembered precisely who he was, and who Jemma was: he, the outsider, and she, the one who had always belonged.
Perhaps their worlds did not collide for a reason. She felt like the balm to his tired, broken soul, but that did not give him a right to demand more from her. He would not take what she could not give.
This time, as long as it was what she wanted, he would be strong enough to be her friend—and only her friend.