In Your Arms Again (3 page)

The man grunted, but didn’t drop his weapon. Capitalizing on his opponent’s disorientation, North shoved, propelling him backward until he had the bounder against a wall. There, in the watery light from a candle in the window above and the increasing pale gray of dawn, the man who attacked him got his first good look at North’s face. He paled.

“Sheffield,” he whispered, eyes wide.

North smiled again, but there was no humor in the expression. Still holding the man’s wrist, he wrapped his free hand around his throat. “That’s right. And from that unfortunate growth on your face I’m going to guess that you’re Mole Face Charley, am I right?”

The man nodded.

A certain amount of pleasure filled North at the thief’s admission. “You work for Harker.”

Charley didn’t speak, but the subtle widening of his eyes was enough. North’s smile widened, twisted. “Will your boss be impressed that you tried to roll me tonight, or will he mess your pretty face up some more when he hears you did not finish me off?”

A blink was his only answer. Obviously Charley was wondering that very same thing.

“I want you to take Harker a message for me,” North said, flexing his fingers around the dirty column of the thief’s throat. “Tell him to enjoy his freedom while he can. It will come to an abrupt end very soon. You know what ‘abrupt’ means, do you not, Charley?”

The thief might have looked fearsome if not for the blood running from his nose. North released him, relieving him of his weapon with one deft motion. “Get.”

And Charley did just that, slinking off into the shadows as rats were wont to do. North pocketed the blade and continued in the direction of home.

Once in the comfort of his own study, he washed Charley’s blood from his knuckles and fell into the chair behind his desk with a weary sigh. Unlocking the bottom drawer, he retrieved a silver flask and a miniature. The flask contained old Scotch whisky, which he saved for nights when he needed an excuse for the numbness he sometimes felt. Tonight it was to numb his reaction to the face in the miniature.

She had been so young when this was painted. He knew because he hadn’t been much older at the time and had sat for one himself. Did Octavia still have it? Did she take it out on occasion and stare at it as he did, wondering what might have been? Did she ever miss him as he missed her?

He took a deep swallow from the flask and stared at the painting, stroking the ivory oval frame with the pad of his thumb. The smooth, round cheeks were gone, replaced by high, elegant cheekbones. The little chin was more stub
born, the nose more pert. But the eyes were the same—bright and guileless, innocent yet seductive. If the rest of her face was obscured from view, he would still know her just from those eyes.

He didn’t owe her anything, yet he felt the sting of rejecting her as acutely as if the situation had been reversed. Did she owe him? He wasn’t certain. Probably not, but it would be nice if she would just let him go—release him from this strange hold she had over him. His reaction to seeing her earlier was a painful reminder of just how much she had once meant to him. Now—if the gossips were to be believed—she was going to marry someone else. An earl. North probably wouldn’t be invited to the wedding.

Yes, she owed him. Hell yes. She owed him a good-bye.

But did he have the courage to collect?

“I
will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

Black Sally looked at him with wary disbelief in her dark, dull eyes. It was an expression North had seen countless times here in the Whitechapel district, but it never failed to tug at his heart. It was the look of someone who had already resigned herself to a particular fate. In lack Sally’s case it was death, and she didn’t believe he or anyone else could prevent it.

Well, North did believe it. He would have men stationed outside this dismal building, watching Sally’s tiny dark apartment and all those who entered. He would have her followed wherever she went. His men were used to the hard facts of life; watching Black Sally and her customers would hold no shock for them.

“You can’t protect me,” Sally informed him in a voice rough and nasal. “You ain’t low enough to have arms that reach as far as ’is, and you ain’t got the blunt to buy the loyalty of the people ’oo are afraid of ’im.”

Maybe not, but North’s reach was long enough, his pock
ets deep enough, his connections just strong enough that he might be able to keep Sally alive.

Black Sally wasn’t even twenty years old, and she looked well over forty. She was approximately the same age as Octavia had been when she’d come to him, scared that she might end up some rich man’s mistress. But there would be no fairy-tale ending for Sally. Even if North managed to keep her alive for the present, she would still die young, one more “unfortunate” the good charity ladies would pay to bury and then forget.

“I will protect you,” he vowed with all the conviction he could muster.

Sally shrugged her narrow shoulders. The gown that bared them was a bright and garish red, a shocking contrast to her faded looks and the dingy, peeling wallpaper that covered the walls of her room. The carpet was as threadbare and worn as the woman herself.

“Keep me alive long enuv to testify, mister. After that, it don’t matter. Death’s a right bit of peace for a woman the likes o’me.”

A right bit of peace. How sad. And yet, how he envied her for not fearing death. He feared it, feared the unknown, the darkness. It wasn’t the dying itself that made him uneasy—he’d seen enough death to know that the pain and horror eventually stopped. The body had ways of dealing with suffering, as did the mind. It was the afterward, facing eternity that gave him pause.

“You are not going to die, Sally. Not yet.”

The prostitute smiled, revealing teeth that were as brown and broken as the rest of her. It made her look younger, more like the girl she should be than the old woman she was. “Yer a good man, guv. You should be married to a nice lady rather than worryin’ about cunnies like me.”

Not a person—not even to herself. Just a body part, and
one she gave a vulgar name to at that, as though fornication were her only use.

He forced a smile. “Why would I want a woman at home to nag me when I have you ladies to do it for me?”

Sally’s smile faded. “A man like you deserves better. Stop fussing wiv our lives and live your own. Now get out. I ’ave work to do.”

No, Sally’s life couldn’t mean much to her if she was going out onto the streets again, knowing that Harker had put a price on her head. It wasn’t that she was trying to test North’s ability to protect her or even that she was trying to make his job more difficult; it was the fact that she had to support herself. She had to eat, she had to pay rent, and she wouldn’t accept money from him to do so.

“Be careful,” he told her. But how careful could she be when most of her time was spent frigging with complete strangers?

Sally rose off the narrow cot where she’d been sitting. “Tell those boys o’yours that I’ll be keeping tally of how much they owes me for watchin’.”

North had to smile at that. “I will.”

He left her then, alone in the tiny, stained room with the uncertainty of her life. Society considered women like Black Sally beneath their notice, no better than dirt under their shoes, yet who of the
ton
would sacrifice themselves to catch a murderer?

His shoulders brushed the walls of the narrow stairs, the boards creaking beneath his boots. His childhood had been golden compared to those of London’s lower classes. His mother might have been an actress—one step up from a courtesan—but she was popular and they were able to live comfortably thanks to that and his father’s assistance. His life would have been very different without his father in it.

And yet there was still some bitterness that he hadn’t been
fortunate enough to be legitimate. It colored his entire life, his perception of the world around him. He hadn’t belonged in his mother’s world, or his father’s. After his mother’s death, he’d desperately wanted to be part of something, but no matter how hard he tried, the aristocratic world would not accept him as one of its own.

The only place he’d ever felt accepted for himself was with Octavia, and then even she’d left him, finding a place for herself in that socially glittering world that wouldn’t open its doors to him. What a joke—what a blow—that had been.

So he’d made his own world, found his own path. And the irony was not lost on him that now that he wanted no part of the
ton,
they clamored to him. He was fashionable because he’d turned his back on them. He was content in his own world—happy even. All those years of longing, and now that he no longer cared, he was being welcomed with open arms. Now
that
was a joke in itself. North appreciated the humor in the situation. What he didn’t appreciate was that tiny, tiny part of him that he thought long dead, getting hopeful every time he was invited to a party or a ball.

He stepped outside into the gray, damp day. The rain had stopped, but the scent of it clung still to the breeze, along with the scents of refuse, horse, and all the other smells of Whitechapel. He walked down the street a few blocks, to where the hired hack sat waiting, and told the driver to take him home. He had more work to do, fees to claim, and problems to solve.

Perhaps throwing himself into a new case would stop these nagging thoughts of Octavia Marsh—Vaux-Daventry, she was now. What an awful, pretentious name. She would always be just Vie to him. Constant, loyal Vie.

There was only a few years age difference between them. When he was very young, her constant following of him had been annoying and unwanted, but then something had
changed. She changed. Or maybe he had. He couldn’t remember exactly when, but gradually she’d gone from a nuisance to a friend. They would play in the theater together when no one else was around, using the stage to put on their own productions. They painted each other’s faces, selected each other’s wardrobe.

Then one day they’d been playing at Romeo and Juliet and Octavia kissed him. She changed everything that day. Friends they remained, yes. Inseparable, always. But something new blossomed between them that day, an awareness that North hadn’t been able to shake. A possessiveness that most people—perhaps even Octavia herself—mistook for brotherly affection took hold of him. But it was far from brotherly, as he realized that night she came to him, asking him to be her first lover.

She’d feared her future, and then a new one was handed to her. Society let her in without question, and the one person who made him feel as though he belonged was lost to him forever.

Until last night when he’d picked her out of the crowd with frightening ease.

She had grown into a beautiful woman, his Vie. Tall and slender, with skin like peach-kissed alabaster, and features that were both sharp yet sensual. Her hair was still that strange combination of copper, blond and brown, so that it changed depending on the lighting. Her smile could still illuminate an entire room.

She was a woman, that was for sure; the soft breasts pushed upward by the gown she’d worn—the color of which he couldn’t remember—were proof enough of that. But one look in her eyes was enough to determine that no matter what she looked like, how she dressed, or who she was with, she was still his Vie. Once his shadow, then his friend, and finally his torment.

And to think that she had almost made the mistake of coming to him, of speaking to him. Hadn’t her grandfather warned her about socializing with people of his ilk? Surely he must have advised her to not reveal her past connections with North and the theater? No one could know of her sordid beginnings, that her mother had allowed her to be raised in such circumstances. Hadn’t that been what old Vaux-Daventry, Lord Spinton, told North that day he’d actually tried to claim Octavia for his own?

She deserves better
, the old man had told him.
If you truly care for her, you will never come near her again.

So North hadn’t, despite Octavia’s efforts to entice him. He still had all the letters she’d sent, letters that arrived like clockwork for the longest time and then eventually dwindled as he refused to reply and she learned to stop trying. Even though he sometimes kicked himself for letting her go, he knew the old man had been right. He couldn’t have given Octavia the life she deserved—the life her birth entitled her to. His one act of rebellion against this was the flowers he had sent to her on her birthday.

A casual hello at a party would not raise eyebrows, but Octavia hadn’t looked casual; she had looked ready to call him some foolish pet name and rush into his arms. Obviously her grandfather had been able to teach her to act like a lady, but he hadn’t been able to change her completely.

For some reason, that realization was as saddening as it was joyful.

The carriage rolled to a halt. Had he arrived home already? The trip seemed so short, but then he’d had his mind on other things.

He lived in his mother’s house—the one his father had bought for her back when Covent Garden had still maintained some degree of respectability. His mother had named him North because that was the corner of the piazza in which
the house was situated. It was an elegant yet simple structure of smooth red brick, and but a short walk from the theaters and the Bow Street offices.

Once it had been home. Now it was simply his house.

North barely stepped through the door when his housekeeper, Mrs. Bunting, rushed to meet him.

Little hands clasped before a generous bosom and a happy smile greeted him. Bunty was as much a part of this house as he was—having been there for more years. “There’s a gentleman waiting for you in your office, Mr. Sheffield.”

North often conducted business out of his home, and his address was public knowledge—it was one of the reasons he slept with a loaded pistol nearby, and why he had a very large man by the name of Johnson acting as his butler. Johnson searched every stranger who came into North’s home. It wasn’t just for of his own safety that North had this done, but for the safety of his servants as well. He hadn’t made a lot of enemies in his career, but he’d made enough. Harker, for example.

“Is Johnson with him?” he asked, combing his fingers through the unruly waves on his head. If he wore a hat, his hair wouldn’t get so messy, but hats made his head itch, and he hated the feel of anything around his skull.

“Yes, sir.”

North relaxed as he walked through the main hall to the room that served as his office. The danger of his job was very real, but he trusted Johnson and knew there was no point in living his life in fear. Fear kept a man smart, but too much of it got him killed.

Other than his bedroom and small dining room, his office was the only room in the house he used on a regular basis. He’d had it redecorated after leaving Bow Street several years ago, when he launched out on his own. The walls were a deep, rich blue and the Aubusson carpet was a dove gray
with blue and plum woven through. The desk was a deep, polished oak and big enough for a fully grown man to sleep on. He knew this because he had actually done it on occasion. The chairs in front of it were the same dark blue as the walls, and one of them had a man sitting in it. Johnson—all brawn and bollocks—stood behind him.

The man stood as North closed the door behind him. Immediately North recognized him as Octavia’s escort from the night before. He was the current Lord Spinton, heir to Octavia’s grandfather. The man she was rumored to marry.

What the hell did he want? Slight of build and slight of hair, Spinton nevertheless had a kind, unthreatening air about him that made North want to like him despite his prejudices. Was Spinton there to warn him away from Octavia? He needn’t bother. North had no intention of going near her.

“Lord Spinton,” he greeted in a toneless voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Sheffield.” Clutching a brown beaver hat in his hands, Spinton reclaimed his chair as North sunk into a similar, but more comfortable one, behind the desk.

North allowed himself a brief smile. “I do not think I had much choice.”

Spinton colored. Well, damned if the man didn’t seem to be as sincere as his unassuming nature.

“I have come to see you about a confidential matter concerning my betrothed, Lady Octavia Vaux-Daventry.”

A claw sunk deep into North’s heart and yanked. Even though he had heard the rumors, they had been just gossip until now. “Congratulations on your betrothal, my lord.”

Another blush. “Oh, it is not official yet, but I hope that Lady Octavia will soon condescend to make me so happy.”

As if North cared. He didn’t. Really. “Where do I fit in?”

Spinton jerked a little at his abrupt tone. What did the man want, more felicitations? He couldn’t help but be a little peevish that while he wasn’t good enough in the old earl’s eyes, this milksop—he didn’t care if that was unfair—obviously had been. Of course, Spinton had a lot more to recommend him than North ever had—as far as society would be concerned at least.

“Lady Octavia has recently begun to receive strange letters.” Spinton pulled several folded papers from his jacket and extended them across the desk. “She does not find them worrisome, but as her future husband, I find them greatly disturbing. I took these from the wastebasket in her parlor.”

Frowning, North took the letters. Was someone threatening Octavia? Why? Blackmail, perhaps? Had they found out about her past? Is that why Spinton came to him? And why had Spinton resorted to rifling through his intended’s garbage?