“That’s the reason you can paint such a vivid picture of it.”
He nodded. “I saw the doxies, the drunkards, the sly ones who meant harm, and those who did good. I saw a part of life that some people never see. And about a year later, one night, shortly after I’d begun waking my customers, I stumbled across a woman slumped in an alleyway. I thought perhaps she was foxed and had fallen asleep. I went to wake her.”
He took a long swallow of his scotch as though he needed the fortification, and she had a horrible feeling regarding where this story was going. “She was dead.”
His gaze was focused on the tumbler, the way the flames from the fire reflected off the cut crystal, and she wondered if he was envisioning the woman there.
“Her blue frock was drenched in blood. The coppery stench of it hit me as I crouched before her. Based on the slashes in her clothing and on her hands and neck, I assumed someone had taken a knife to her. Her eyes were open but no life was in them, and I wondered if the last thing on this earth she’d looked at had been her killer.”
The fire crackled and hissed. The mantel clock ticked. Her own blood rushed through her ears with the pounding of her heart. How impressionable he would have been at that tender age. How horrific what he had seen.
After another swallow of the amber liquid, he met her gaze. “I went to find a constable. I was clutching the willowy bamboo stick of my trade. He patted me on the shoulder, told me to get on about my business of waking people because they needed to get to work. I did as he ordered, but it seemed wrong somehow to carry on, ignoring that something horrible had transpired. After I knocked on my last window, I went back to where she’d been, but she was no longer there.I imagined that I’d been wrong, and she’d stirred herself to her feet and walked home. But deep down, I knew the truth of it. She was never going to walk home again.”
He downed the last of his scotch. Without even thinking, as though in a trance, she took his glass, went to the sideboard, and refilled it. When she returned to his side, she handed him the glass. “I’m sorry I asked. The memories can’t be easy to live through again.”
“But they helped to shape me, I think.”
She sank down onto the plush cushion of her chair. “How so?”
Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his sturdy thighs, clasping both hands around his glass. “Before that, I saw my bulk as an inconvenient thing. It made me stand out when I didn’t want to.” He seemed to be struggling to find the correct words. She didn’t push. She merely waited. “It made children call me a beast. But I was convinced had I been about when the woman was attacked, I’d have been able to save her. My logical self, my grown self, knows that’s not true. But I began to pay more attention when I was on my routes, and a few times I was able to chase off someone who meant harm. I began to gain a reputation: the Beast of Whitechapel. But I also became fascinated with murder.”
“You’re not the only one obsessed. I can’t believe the amount of ink the newspapers devote to describing the crimes and the trials of murderers in such lurid details.”
He gave her a self-deprecating grin. “Which provided me with fodder for my stories. In addition, I spoke to the constables, detectives, and inspectors. I went to the courts, observed the trials. I even paid a shilling to go on tours of some of the murder sites.”
A cold shiver ran down her spine. “That’s a bit macabre.”
“I can’t argue with you there. Murder tourism was popular for a while. I wasn’t looking for the blood. I was strivingto understand the provocation. Often, everything about the place seemed so normal. Crockery on the shelves. Quilt on the bed. A chair before the fire. I came to realize that was one of the horrors of murder. It can happen anywhere with no hint that it’s lurking about. In a quiet village. On a noisy street. In a verdant park. I devoured detective novels. I began writing my own. They were rubbish.” He tipped his head toward her lap where his book rested. “Until finally one wasn’t. Or at least I was led to believe it wasn’t.”
She gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s not. I could hardly put it down once I started reading it.”
He settled back, took a sip of the scotch, and turned his attention to the fire. “Apologies. I don’t usually go on like that.”
“I’m glad you did. Your passion for your endeavors is evident.”
His gaze slid unerringly back to her. “What is your passion?”
She ran her finger over the spine of the book, over the gold-embossed title. Over his name. Learning about him had become a sort of passion. She wanted to know everything, all the large and small moments of his life, the exciting ones and the mundane. She wanted him to kiss her again, wanted to kiss him back. She’d thought by becoming some lord’s mistress, she could free her brothers from worrying about her care, thought she could free herself. But she was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t in truth simply exchanging one sort of prison for another.
She wasn’t quite certain what she might have answered, what she would have confessed, because Jewel suddenly swept into the room, and he immediately came to his feet.
“A missive was just delivered for you.”
He took the letter she extended toward him, unfolded it, and read whatever had been written. When he was done, herefolded it and tucked it inside his jacket before turning to her. “I’m sorry but I have a matter to which I need to attend.”
She thought she detected a measure of disappointment in his expression, in his voice, although it might have been only wishful thinking on her part. “I’ll bid you good-night, then.”
He began striding toward the doorway. Halfway there he came to an abrupt halt. She was fairly certain she heard him growl, darkly and roughly, a crass reference to testicles.
He swung around. “I’m going to my brother’s gaming hell. Women are welcomed there. Would you care to join me?”
Chapter 15
Her excitement was palpable. Beast could feel her fairly bouncing on the squab opposite him, the aftermath of each movement creating tiny tremors along the floor of Aiden’s carriage. His brother had ensured that not only a missive was delivered but a comfortable conveyance as well. A footwarmer and fur blanket had been waiting inside, which confounded him a bit. Surely, Aiden didn’t think he was delicate and needed to be pampered, although he was grateful they were available for Thea’s use.
He was still having a hell of a time believing how he’d rambled on in response to such a simple question. One sentence would have sufficed. “I came across a murdered woman once and it fired my imagination.”
Only it hadn’t—not at the time. The sight of her bleached of color, her limbs cold and stiff, had numbed him, made it difficult to think. As he ran off to find help, it had felt as though ice were slushing through his veins, causing his frantic strides to be ungainly and cumbersome. When he’d finally located a copper, he’d stammered almost incoherently until he’d managed to slow his racing heart with deep breaths and regain a sense of calm.
