Sins of a Virgin (23 page)

Heavy boots thundered up the stairs. She shouldn’t have left Gabriel with such a cryptic comment. There was no way he wouldn’t follow her to find out more. It might be physically impossible for the man.

However, that didn’t mean she had to see him.

“Lock the—”

Gabriel slammed open the door, his pale eyes narrowed. “What the devil did you mean?”

Canterbury blocked him, his lemon yellow tricorne tilting askew. “Miss Valdan is not at home to visitors.”

“I don’t give a damn what—”

Canterbury straightened his jacket, but when he raised his hand, an old dueling pistol glinted in his knobby, liver-spotted hands. “Someone is trying to kill the mistress of this house. If she says she’s not at home to visitors, then no one gains entrance.”

Gabriel’s fury melted into shock. He held up his hands in a placating manner. “I’m the one trying to protect your mistress.” Canterbury didn’t flinch, and a wary respect glinted in Gabriel’s eyes. With small steps, he tried to edge around her butler. “I mean her no harm.”

But neither was he there to offer comfort. He was there for answers.

What if Gabriel had been the one to arrest her ten years ago? Would he have believed her sobbed, incoherent explanation over Mrs. Ripley’s strident condemnations? Especially when the question was not if she had killed Ripley, but why?

She was suddenly grateful Glavenstroke had arranged official pardons for all of them, paperwork and all. She had no doubt if there was any question as to her guilt, Gabriel would arrest her himself.

He spared no pity for murderers.

But she no longer qualified as one. She’d been pardoned. In the eyes of the law, she was an innocent.

What she would be in Gabriel’s eyes, however, remained to be seen. She shouldn’t care, but she did. Oh, how she did.

“Thank you, Canterbury. Mr. Huntford can enter. He’s not worth wasting gunpowder on.” Madeline wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand until she’d done it. “We’ll be in the study.”

Canterbury lowered his pistol. “If you are sure, miss.”

Gabriel grabbed her arm in a viselike grip and his other hand rested on her waist.

This wasn’t an escort—this was imprisonment.

Anger gave her momentary respite from the sickly, childish terror that had welled up when she saw Mrs. Ripley. Madeline jerked away from Gabriel, but smiled at Canterbury. “There won’t be any need for tea. He won’t be staying.”

Canterbury bowed, keeping a glare fixed on Gabriel. As untraditional as Canterbury might appear, he took his position quite seriously. “Ring if you need anything.”

She nodded, striding ahead of Gabriel to the study before he could apprehend her again. Summoning what strength she could, she sat behind the desk, leaving Gabriel to choose one of the faded chairs beyond.

“Did you kill Arnold Ripley?” he asked, his voice tight, unforgiving.

“Yes.”

Gabriel surged to his feet. “You were convicted?”

The disgust in his eyes clawed a hole in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. “Yes.”

“And sentenced to hang?”

“Yes.”

Ask me
, she silently begged.
Ask me what happened
. He knew more about her than anyone save Clayton or Ian. She needed him to be different from the magistrates, the ones who’d proclaimed her guilty even before she’d been tried. True, she’d refused to tell Gabriel much about herself, but he should know she wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood. He might dislike her at times, but he couldn’t think her evil. Surely he’d trust her more than Mrs. Ripley.

“Were you transported?”

“No.”

“Then how did you escape from prison?”

It felt like he’d taken a razor to her heart and carved dozens of deep cuts. “Are you asking how many guards I spread my legs for?”

Gabriel’s hand tightened on the edge of the desk. He didn’t flinch at her question. “You’ve told me time and time again that you’re a whore.”

She
had
told him, and it was the truth. Yet hearing the word from his lips robbed her of whatever pretense she’d used to separate herself from the term. She felt filthy, like the muck on his boots. But she’d left whimpering and pleading behind her ten years ago. “I was convicted of Ripley’s murder, but then I was pardoned.” She stood. “Now get the hell out of my house and do not come back.”

S
he was a murderer.

Gabriel strode down the corridor, wishing for something fragile he could shatter against the wall.

How could he expect to solve his sister’s death if he couldn’t identify the murderer standing next to him? Hell, he’d even kissed her.

He made his living knowing truth from lies and yet he’d fallen for lies from a master liar.

Halfway to the entry hall, Mrs. Ripley’s salacious accusations began to clear from his ears. His steps slowed.

She’d been pardoned.

The realization began to seep into his awareness. There was more to the story than she’d said. In fact, she hadn’t told him the story at all.

Hell. He hadn’t even asked.

His heart twisted. Ten years ago. How old would Madeline have been? Thirteen, fourteen? What had happened?

When had he become such a vindictive bastard that he’d convict someone without learning the facts first? And why had he been so quick to leave Mrs. Ripley unquestioned? He suspected she was more interested in the money Madeline offered than violence, but he’d been so blinded that he hadn’t questioned her further.

He turned back toward the study. After Madeline had confessed, he’d been unable to hear anything but her guilt. Feel nothing but betrayal and humiliation that he’d begun to trust her. But it should never have been about him.

Ahead of him, Madeline slipped out of the study, her lithe grace marred by hesitation, as if each step was made by sheer willpower. She raised her hand to her face, and since her back was to him, he couldn’t tell if she brushed away a strand of hair or a tear.

“Madeline.”

She whirled toward him. “I told you to leave.” The chalky color of her skin transformed the delicate features of her face to porcelain. But the expression of loathing in her eyes was anything but fragile.

“What happened with Arnold Ripley?”

“Your question comes a bit late.”

Gabriel reached for her, but she knocked his hand away and resumed walking.

“Is this why you wouldn’t tell me about your past? Is this what you were protecting me from?” Gabriel asked.

A cold, brittle laugh drifted behind her. “Hardly.”

Gabriel called after her. “Then why won’t you tell me? Habit, again?”

She stopped abruptly as if his words had snagged her. “No. Whatever weakness might have tempted me to reveal anything about my past is gone. If you want to verify the pardon, check the official records.”

Gabriel’s hands fisted at his side, the cool tone in her voice flaying him. He couldn’t let her walk away. “All I could think about was my sister’s murderer.”

“Ah, I’m in fine company then.”

“Damn it. You didn’t refute Mrs. Ripley’s claims.”

A tiny sigh escaped her lips and her shoulders sagged. “Did it ever occur to you it was because the woman makes me ill? Besides, my explanation failed to sway her ten years ago. I don’t think anything has changed since then.”

Gabriel crossed the few feet separating them, moving around her so he could see her face. “What happened with Arnold Ripley?”

When she lifted her head, the lost look in her eyes knocked him back a step. Gabriel only had an instant to steel himself before she spoke.

“After my mother died, I was on my own. I had no family, but I still had the small room my mother and I rented from Mr. Ripley. I had a job as an assistant seamstress. I came home one day and Mr. Ripley asked for the rent. I didn’t have it with me, so I said I would retrieve it from my room. Mr. Ripley followed me.”

As a Runner, Gabriel had heard hundreds of stories like this. Yet he longed to block his ears from this one.

“He attacked me. Threw me to the floor. Told me he deserved a little extra for letting me stay there.” Her hands clutched the bodice of her dress as if pulling together torn edges. “I tried to fight him. But he was too big. Then I saw my basket of sewing on the ground. I grabbed the scissors and stabbed him. He tried to catch my arms so I stabbed him again. Mrs. Ripley must have followed her husband up to my room to make sure he got all the money. She started shrieking and called the constable.” Madeline shuddered, her eyes unfocused. Gabriel wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her until the memory faded, but she’d no longer welcome his touch; he’d lost that privilege with his ham-handed accusations earlier.

So instead of soothing her, he stood a foot away, each word branding another layer of guilt deep into his skin.

“She said that I’d seduced him, then murdered him. Swore up and down that her Arnold had been a good, churchgoing man, whereas my mother had been a prostitute. I was a pretty girl living on my own. No one saw reason to doubt.”

Rage at his own profession burned through Gabriel. Too many of his associates would have taken Mrs. Ripley’s account of the events, grateful to have the forty pounds they’d earn for a murder conviction handed to them with no investigation needed.

“The magistrate didn’t even need to be sober to sentence me to hang.”

The residual terror on her face abruptly smoothed as she presented him with the sultry expression he’d grown to loathe. “Fortunately, someone higher up in the government took a liking to me and intervened. Enough tawdry history. I’ll expect you at eight tomorrow night for the masquerade.”

Everything she’d told him until the pardon had been the truth, but she was still hiding something. Yet Gabriel nodded once, recognizing the dismissal as well as the reprieve. “Rest until then.”

Her chin lifted. “I’ll do as I see fit.”

Gabriel knew he’d thrown away the right to argue further. He bowed and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-one

R
ather than renting a hackney, Gabriel walked to the Home Office, hoping the perpetual London rain would clear his thoughts. It failed.

He nodded as he passed a constable huddled miserably in his watchbox. All pardons came through the Home Office. If Madeline spoke the truth, there’d be record of it there.

After a few words with a clerk and a brief wait, Gabriel leafed through a pile of records. Most were conditional pardons, where criminals were given the option of being transported to Australia rather than face execution. Full pardons were rare. In fact, there were fewer than half a dozen in several years of records that Gabriel examined.

And none was for a Madeline St. John.

On the slight chance she’d received a conditional pardon and spent the last ten years in a penal colony, Gabriel read through every single pardon.

Then he read through them again.

Nothing. No Madelines. No St. Johns or even a single bloody Valdan.

He’d left her free in her house. Would she even be there when he went back or would she have fled? Could he arrest her if he needed to? It was a miracle a woman with her beauty had survived prison the first time.

The clerk jumped as Gabriel tossed the heavy files back onto his desk.

“I need to see another year before and after this.” His disgust must have colored his voice because the young man nervously straightened his cravat.

“Right away, sir. What are you looking for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“A pardon for a murderer named St. John.”

The clerk’s fingers ceased mangling the folds of his neck cloth. “I—just a moment, sir.” When he returned, he was leafing through a new sheaf of paper. He glanced up. “A Madeline St. John?”

Gabriel rocked forward on his toes, nodding.

“Well, I have one here for the murder of Arnold Ripley.”

Gabriel didn’t notice the tightness in his chest until it eased, allowing a great, deep breath to expand his lungs.

The clerk, however, held out the paper with a frown. “But why were you looking at the records from ten years ago? The pardon was only handed down last September.”

What the devil—

The door to the office flew open and one of the young constables from the Bow Street Office scrambled inside. His shoulders drooped in relief when he spotted Gabriel. “There’s been another murder. Coulter says to come at once.”

G
abriel examined the purple blotches on Bourne’s throat. “Has the body been moved?”

Coulter shook his head. “Not by me, but I can’t say if he was robbed before or after he was killed.”

In this neighborhood, either was likely. Probably by the very people huddled around the entrance to the alley, watching.

The man’s pasty white flesh had been stripped of everything that could bring a penny or two, including clothing and hat, and left in a crumbling alleyway. Gabriel took off his greatcoat and tossed it over the body. Damnation. He should have sought Bourne out immediately when he didn’t make their appointment, but little other than thoughts of Madeline had filled his head for the past few days.

And that distraction had cost him.

Gabriel looked at the bruises again. It was impossible to know for sure if they were inflicted by the same hands that had strangled Molly Simm. But Gabriel didn’t believe in coincidence. His only witness to the Simm case had also been strangled.

Coulter tugged the brim of his battered hat lower against the rain. He was the constable who’d been assigned the Simm case. He was also one of the few constables who valued justice more than the few pounds earned for condemning a man to hang. “No one saw anything?” Gabriel asked.

Coulter grimaced. “Never do. Do you think the killer found out he was our witness?”

“Probably. Bourne wasn’t the reserved type. He dined off the story of his last sighting of her for days.”

“A few other constables will be here soon to help me move the body.” The warning in Coulter’s words was clear. The other constables might report Gabriel’s presence back to Potts. He had to be gone before they arrived.

Yet Gabriel pulled out his notebook from his pocket, hunching over it to protect the paper from the rain as he recorded every single observation. He couldn’t risk overlooking anything. The same icy self-doubt that terrorized his nights wouldn’t let him. What if he’d failed to catch the killer not because the murderer was clever, but because he himself had been inept?