Page 13 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

thirteen

W HAT A MAN could accomplish in a few years of dishonest work was astonishing.

Christopher strode with Finn along the pavement on the high street in Whitechapel, marvelling at how people tripped over their own feet to move out of his way without him having said or done anything. Not now, at least.

While he fully enjoyed the unlawful fruit of his smuggling and gambling work, he didn’t relish in the fear his mere presence triggered in the hearts of everyone. But then again, it was better to be feared than loved, and he had a reputation to keep.

A boy stared at him, frozen in shock, and stopped playing with a worn ball. “The King?” he whispered.

Christopher didn’t nod or shake his head, not sure if the child would be terrified or pleased by the answer.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood.” The mother hurried to scoop the child up and carry him away. “It won’t happen again.”

Christopher gave her a quick nod. Telling her the child was welcome to play on the pavement wouldn’t help with his business. Although he’d taken Finn with him to look less menacing for the particularly delicate negotiation he was about to have.

Finn was a lad, still wet behind the ears with a sweet-looking face and enough charm to make the scandalous poet and libertine Paul Verlaine look like an amateur. He couldn’t possibly intimidate anyone.

Nods and tipping of the hats from passersby followed Christopher as he strutted down the street. He could commit murder right here, right now, in broad daylight, and no one would send for the coppers to arrest him, and even if they did, the coppers wouldn’t touch him. That was a power only fear could buy, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it intoxicating.

“Our last victory on the gang of the Reapers has really marked you as the unspoken king,” Finn said. “Them thugs are still groaning in pain after the beating.”

Yes, but Christopher suspected that his general appearance—dark coat, sturdy boots, and the not-so-hidden daggers and gun at his side—helped with the sense of fear and was part of his persona. Half of the work of being a feared criminal lay in the looks and the attitude. A good sense for business didn’t hurt.

Finn clicked his tongue. “I wish I’d seen the battle.”

“No, you don’t. It was brutal and bloody, and the Reapers are ruthless criminals who don’t hesitate to murder unarmed people.”

“That’s why I wanted to see the battle.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“Practically, a man.” Cheeky sod.

“What’s the woman’s name again?” Christopher asked to distract the lad from bloody battles, taking a side alleyway.

“Sarah,” Finn said. “She lives right there.”

They stopped in front of a door that smelled of rotting wood and poverty. The broken glass of the window had been repaired with a couple of wooden planks, and part of the roof leant to the right as if tired.

Christopher went to knock but changed his mind. “You knock, Finn. We don’t want to scare Sarah.”

“Sure, Guv.” Finn did as told.

“Hat off.” Christopher snatched the lad’s hat. “Where are your manners?”

Finn patted his jacket and trousers pockets. “I’m sure they’re here somewhere.”

“Ha-ha.” Christopher shot him a glare.

The door inched inwards, revealing a dark-blonde woman with fearful blue eyes.

“Madam,” Finn said. “We want a word.”

She gasped upon seeing Christopher.

“The King,” she said. “I don’t have money. I barely have a few shillings for food. Please don’t ask me for more. I have a baby to feed.”

He arched his eyebrows. Fear was one thing, but blatant lies spreading about him were quite another. He’d never, ever harassed the people of Whitechapel for protection money or any other means of extortion. Young single mothers had nothing to fear from him or his organisation. He guessed the lies helped keep his reputation high and criminal competitors at bay, but he had some damn principles.

“We aren’t here to ask for money.” Quite the opposite, if the story about Sarah was true. He removed his hat and stepped closer, letting the woman take a good look at him to notice his resemblance to Pearce. “Do I look familiar to you?”

Her mouth hung open. “Goodness.”

“Can we go inside and talk?”

She gave him an unconvincing nod.

He doubted she let him in because she trusted him. She trembled when they brushed past her into her flat. He had to swallow not to gag at the smell of mould and humidity. The single room that functioned as kitchen, dining room, sitting room, bedroom, and even the water closet could be an extension of Newgate Prison. One might catch consumption or the clap just by breathing.

In a corner, an infant slept in a makeshift crib made out of a wooden crate. He stepped closer to the baby, but Sarah blocked his path, a fierce light in her scrawny face.

“Don’t you dare!”

Great. So he wasn’t only a gangster who extorted money from impoverished, unwed mothers, but also a killer of children. His constructed persona was getting more outlandish by the minute.

He held up a hand. “I have no intention of hurting the child.” Besides, the child was likely his nephew. “He’s the reason I’m here.”

“You can trust the King,” Finn said. “He’s a man with honour.”

Not always, but anyway.

She moved aside reluctantly. “Arthur isn’t well. He’s been coughing since yesterday.”

Not surprising, given the humidity.

Christopher needed only one glance. The child’s silver-blond hair gave him away as a member of his not-so-happy family. “The Duke of Grafton is Arthur’s father.”

“He is,” she whispered.

Something cracked in Christopher’s chest at the sight of the scrawny sleeping baby. “I guess Pearce refused to take responsibility.”

Sarah lowered her gaze. “I begged him more than once to help me, but he doesn’t believe Arthur is his son.”

“Bastard,” Finn muttered.

Ironic, considering Christopher was the real bastard. Right now, he was looking at what his life would have been, had Father behaved like Pearce.

“How did you learn about me?” she said.

“Nothing happens in Whitechapel without me knowing it.” Almost nothing. Exaggerating was part of his image, too. “You were Pearce’s mistress.”

“For two years until he was convinced I had a lover. A misunderstanding, because it wasn’t true. Someone must have spread gossip about me. Pearce was my only one. He left me. A few weeks afterwards, I discovered I was with child. I talked to him, but he didn’t hear reason. He believed that Arthur belonged to another man. I had to leave the flat he’d paid for me. I couldn’t find a job once I was showing, and an unmarried mother isn’t welcome in many places. So I ended up here.”

Curse his brother.

Arthur started coughing, awful, raspy sounds that seemed too loud for a baby that small.

“It’s all right.” Sarah held him up, and Arthur clung to her with his tiny arms.

As the baby coughed, his large eyes widened, showing their sparkling blue colours. No doubts. The baby was the son of the Duke of Grafton.

He sucked in a breath to ease the worry within him. “You’re going to leave this dump today. I’ll send my men in less than an hour. Don’t be alarmed when they come. They’ll help you and Arthur move to a nice place. I’ll find a physician for Arthur as well, and you’ll get bags of fresh food every day.”

She didn’t look relieved. “In exchange for what?”

“Arthur is my nephew. I take care of my family.”

She kept rocking the baby gently as Arthur stopped coughing. The fit had left the baby red and shaking, though.

“Arthur will get better, and you two won’t lack anything,” he said. “You’ll receive a decent allowance and will always have my protection.”

He didn’t expect gratitude and didn’t care for it, so he walked out of the house before his fury towards Pearce showed.

“Madam.” Finn nodded at Sarah and sped up to keep up with Christopher’s angry strides.

Pearce had always had everything from money to the title to Father’s company, and yet he refused to take responsibility for his own blood. Father had never backed away from his duty. Hell, Christopher’s mother had been a prostitute, turned mistress of a duke, and Father had loved her dearly. She and Christopher had never lived in poverty. The fact Christopher appreciated his father more now that he was dead was sad.

He tensed when a hand closed around his arm. “What?” He turned around only to exhale when Sarah’s worried face came into view.

“Sir,” she said. “Thank you.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady.

He’d do more than give her a house and food. He’d talk to his bloody brother and tell him how despicable he was. For a criminal, he had a strong sense of justice when it came to responsibilities and illegitimate children.

She released his arm and rushed back inside.

“What you did for that woman was right and fair,” Finn said, punching the air.

“No, it wasn’t. It was nothing.”

He walked home in a foul mood, ignoring the terrified glances and the people scurrying away from him. Once he stepped into his royal palace , he headed upstairs to his personal rooms.

Since everyone in Whitechapel knew him as the King, it was only appropriate that the headquarters of his operation, the garrison, and his home were called royal palace.

“Finn, go to Smithy and tell him to prepare Sarah’s new home, get her some money and a physician,” he said. “Quick.”

“Will do, Guv.” Finn rushed to the other side of the garrison.

Darko wagged his tail and jumped on Christopher upon seeing him, putting his large paws on Christopher’s chest. The dog’s damp black nose bumped against his chin.

“Mate.” Christopher patted the dog’s flank.

Darko was so tall, when he stood up on his hind legs his amber eyes stared straight into Christopher’s. Sometimes he found the dog’s stare hard to hold, as if Darko knew secrets no man could fathom.

Darko followed him up the wooden stairs and to the gallery, grunting all the way as if complaining about something.

Christopher kicked the door to his bedroom open, remembering too late there was a woman asleep in his bed. She bolted upright, her hair dishevelled and her chemise wrinkled.

She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “Are you back?”

“I believe I am.”

He sat on the bed and removed his boots with a yank. He needed a good boxing session to vent his frustration. It would cost little for a wealthy man like Pearce to take care of Sarah and Arthur. He had the means and the power to do so without sacrificing anything of his privileged life. No one expected him to marry Sarah, and mistresses were tolerated among the aristocrats as long as the affair was carried on with discretion. Hell, Sarah wasn’t even a prostitute. Yet his brother had decided to let his son and the mother die of starvation. What a paragon of honour.

The woman ran a hand over Christopher’s shoulder. “We can finally start.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. You can leave. Or stay here and sleep. I don’t mind.”

“But we didn’t do anything.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Which wasn’t unusual. When one had to deal with smuggling whisky and tobacco, avoiding the non-corrupt peelers at every turn, keeping rival gangs out of his territory, and bribing as many police officers and judges as possible, there wasn’t much time left for anything else.

A criminal business wasn’t different from any other business. It required strategy, knowledge, and a good instinct for making and handling money. His business teacher at Eton would be proud of what Christopher had achieved in a few years. Or maybe not.

He hadn’t slept for almost thirty hours straight, having to take care of a particularly delicate shipment to the Americas. Then he’d gone straight to Sarah, and now the combination of fatigue and sheer anger at his brother gave him a headache. The last thing he wanted was a tumble.

He lay in the bed, and the woman snuggled closer to him, warm and soft and smelling of flowers. Unbidden and uninvited, Elizabeth’s sweet face came to his mind; it happened every time a woman huddled with him in bed. Sometimes at night, when he slept with a woman next to him, he would wake up believing Elizabeth was next to him. His mind played nasty tricks on him.

He’d spent only a few days with her, but the snowy days he’d shared with her had branded his soul with fire. If he’d known that moment, when he’d let her go ahead to Spencer Hall, would have been the last they would ever share, he would have behaved differently.

He would have held her in his arms one last time, thanked her for saving his miserable arse, and kissed her again but with more passion. But no. He had to live with a pale ghost and the memory of her waving at him from a wet platform as he left her.

After all, he’d told her he would never forget her.