Page 24 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

twenty-four

C HRISTOPHER HATED RECEIVING bad news on an empty stomach.

When he’d left his bedroom that morning after a rather pleasant encounter with Elizabeth and an even more pleasant bath, he hadn’t had time to break his fast.

He probably had shocked her. Years had passed since their time in the cottage. All the intimacy they’d shared didn’t exist anymore. But he couldn’t deny he’d kept thinking about her taking a bath in his bedroom. And after all, she’d given him a spectacular view of her beauty and allowed him to touch her.

He’d taken all his discipline not to kiss her hard and jump into the bath with her. But he feared his eagerness might be mistaken for an attempt at taking advantage of her. She was tired, shocked, and lonely.

He’d wait for her to be fully recovered before touching her again. No, before courting her. Properly. If she wanted him to.

He gnashed his teeth and focused on what Smithy had to say. The warehouse near the dock was so noisy with the sailors’ yells and the ships’ horns that his nerves were tense with frustration.

“The cargo of the last ship has been taken.” Smithy waved a hand around towards the half-empty warehouse. “The coppers have been thorough in their search. Didn’t leave a toothpick.”

He slammed a hand on the wall, staring at the crowded dock. “Who were the coppers?”

Smithy scratched his stubble. “Not our boys. New coppers. Guv, some of them were former members of the Reapers.”

“What? Are they coppers now?”

Smithy nodded. “Hired as collaborators by the police. The Reapers know a few things about our routine. That’s why they were so successful. The others were outsiders, but they said their gaffer is a toff, a powerful one. I heard them talking about having to report to the duke. Who the hell is that duke? A rival to the King?”

Christopher had a hunch. “Anything else?”

“The coppers’ gaffer mentioned Gryphon House?”

“Grafton?”

“Maybe.”

He muttered a curse under his breath. Damn Pearce. He must have used his political influence to send a new unit of peelers to Whitechapel.

So today’s attack on his shipment was payback for something Christopher hadn’t done, which was ironic, considering he’d done a lot of things. But Pearce’s interference wasn’t the main problem.

“How much did we lose?”

Smithy threw a meaty hand up. “Two thousand pounds, give or take. But the loss is more crushing for our partners. A few pounds make the difference for a family in Whitechapel. Lots of people are going to starve this week.”

Not if he could avoid it.

His smuggling business was based on cooperation among small investors. Everyone put in the amount of money they could afford to gamble, and so far, the return had been favourable. But a detained shipment meant that several families had lost their income.

“Should we proceed with the next shipment?” Smithy asked. “Speed things up?”

“Yes, but change the date and time without telling anyone until the last moment. No more surprises.”

“Aye, Guv.” Smithy nodded and disappeared into the dark warehouse.

Christopher walked back to the palace in a foul mood. Pearce had declared war on him, and Christopher wouldn’t let his brother ruin what he’d built.

That bloody, greedy, self-centred duke! He was also stupid because if he took the time to watch the real world, he’d realise Christopher had done nothing to take Elizabeth from him.

Before going to the palace, he stopped at Sarah’s house. She lived in a flat in the driest part of Whitechapel where the humid air from the Thames didn’t blow.

He calmed down before knocking, lest she get scared.

“Mr. Blackwood.” She opened the door, offering a smile that, while small, didn’t hold any fear.

“Call me Christopher. We’re practically family. How is Arthur?”

Her smile brightened her whole face. A rosy, plump face, that is. No more gauntness.

“Heavy, hungry, and loud.” She laughed, and he laughed as well. “Come and see him.”

He was in a hurry, but he didn’t mind staying. The warm air in the flat was rich with the scent of baked biscuits and fresh flowers. Sunlight flooded the sitting room, and pretty, frilly curtains adorned the windows.

At least he’d done something good by helping Sarah. Arthur was playing with a wooden train on the rug. His hair reached his chubby cheeks as he made little noises that might sound like words if one used a lot of imagination.

“No more coughing.” Sarah picked him up and gave him a kiss with a smacking sound. “Do you want to hold him?”

He stopped smiling. “No, I’ve never held a baby.”

“Time to start.”

“I’m not sure—” Too late.

Sarah handed him the soft bundle of joy. Arthur watched him with those large blue eyes so similar to his own, except for the light of pure innocence shining in them. Innocence that Christopher would do his level best to protect.

He wished Arthur’s eyes stayed shining and curious forever, that his nephew would never get hurt or resent anyone.

“Nephew,” he said, inhaling Arthur’s sweet scent.

With a little noise, Arthur placed a sticky hand on Christopher’s cheek and said more gibberish with the confidence of someone making a proper speech. As he patiently listened to everything Arthur had to say, he wondered what Father had felt when he’d held him. Had he been regretful, worried, or happy? Had he truly loved him or only felt guilt?

Arthur returned the stare in a solemn way as if he could read Christopher’s mind. A silent understanding passed between them as he promised to take care of Arthur, no matter what Pearce did. Arthur nodded as if telling him not to worry.

Then Arthur stretched out his arms towards his mama, giggling for who knew what reason.

“Thank you, Christopher.” Sarah took Arthur back. “I owe you?—”

“Nothing. As I said, we’re family.”

She turned serious. “I loved Pearce. I really did. He treated me with respect and took good care of me.” She rocked Arthur, shifting her weight. “I still care about him, even though he didn’t believe me when I told him I wasn’t unfaithful.”

“He doesn’t deserve your affection.” He stopped there, not to let out a string of curses in front of Sarah and Arthur.

“He loves deeply and completely. That’s why he gets hurt so easily.”

“He loves only himself.”

She shook her head. The woman was stubborn and under Pearce’s spell. “Please don’t hate him. Not because of what he did to me.”

“I have plenty of reasons to choose from.”

“Ta!” Arthur waved his little hand, smiling so brightly Christopher’s chest cracked.

He cleared his throat. The last thing he wanted was to argue about Pearce’s soul with Sarah. “I have to go.”

“Thank you, Christopher, for everything.” She touched his arm with too much compassion.

He didn’t deserve her affection, either.

As emotion swelled in his throat, he left the house, muttering a quick goodbye.

No matter what Sarah said, Pearce was responsible for the unhappiness of Sarah, Arthur, Elizabeth, and Christopher himself, but he didn’t take responsibility for any of that. What a great example of a bloody duke. ‘Loves too deeply’ his arse. Pearce was a spoiled brat with too much free time on his hands.

Once at the palace, he went straight to his office. Darko asked for a pat on the head, and Christopher obliged. He opened the safe and took out a stash of banknotes.

“Christopher?” Elizabeth stepped inside, carrying the sunshine with her.

He smiled, tension leaving his shoulders although a different type of tension shuddered through him. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He blocked visions of her in the bathtub from flashing across his mind because he didn’t want to give her the impression he had only wild thoughts about her, which was somewhat true, but she didn’t need to know.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked, blushing in an adorable way.

“Always for you.” He slid the money into his satchel, doing a quick sum on how much he needed.

“I wanted to talk to you about Finn.”

He paused. “Did he do something?”

“No, he’s a nice young man, but he can’t do maths.”

“Half of the people in the palace can’t.” He shrugged.

“Yes, but he’s a clever boy, and I think that an education would benefit him. I’d like to teach him if you agree.”

He strapped the satchel across his shoulders. “Does he want to learn?”

“He does.”

“All right. I’ve never thought he’d care. I’ll have some books delivered here.” He stopped on the threshold next to her, ignoring his blood boiling for her. “But Elizabeth?”

“Yes.” She fiddled with her hands.

“You don’t have to ask for my permission.” He took her chin and stroked her jaw with a thumb, just to touch her silky skin. The feel of her skin was intoxicating. “You can do what you want.”

“I know. It’s that …” She chuckled. “I don’t know.”

Bloody hell, she was adorable.

“You’re free here to do as you please.” And since he was a bastard indeed, he whispered, “as you did this morning in the bathtub.”

She blushed more fiercely but laughed as well, and he loved the sound. “I … well … I acted on impulse.”

“You should do that more often.” He brushed his lips against her cheek just to hear her sigh. He ought to stop before he trapped her lovely face in his hands and kissed her, breaking his promise to be gentle to her. “Would you like to come with me? I have to do a round.”

“A round?” Her expression turned wary.

“My brother had one of my shipments nicked by the coppers out of spite. Now I have to reimburse the people who trusted me with their money.” He patted the satchel. “You said you trusted me, too.”

Her smile was the first good thing of that day. “Let’s go.”

He threw glances at her as they walked through the coal-dust-covered streets of Whitechapel. Not that he looked for something in particular about her delicate profile, but he found fascinating the way her eyebrows pulled together when she was thinking about something that bothered her, or how she rolled her bottom lip between her pearly teeth when someone said something she didn’t like.

He’d been deprived of her company for so long that he couldn’t stop staring at her. If it hadn’t been for his brother’s stupidity, Elizabeth wouldn’t be free to take a walk with him. So he guessed he had to thank Pearce for being such an ass.

“I think we should discover who’s behind the rumours about us,” he said, taking a shortcut through an alleyway.

“Why is it so important?”

“Because Pearce has become a thorn in my side. If he keeps blocking my shipments because he wants revenge, I’ll be out of business in a matter of months. It’s not just about me. Many families count on my business to put food on their tables. If I can provide him with evidence that we didn’t do anything wrong, he’ll leave me alone.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start. I have no idea why someone would be so malicious. I suspected someone, Rebecca, the daughter of Viscount Keadew, but she wasn’t present at the ball the night we met. I didn’t think about who the gossipmonger might be in the past months.”

“There are two options. The person who accused us was genuinely mistaken. They saw something they misinterpreted and believed they were doing the right thing by talking to Pearce. Or they saw us, knew the affair between us would be an effective lie, and went on with their plan with the purpose of hurting you or Pearce. Personally, I think the first option is bollocks.”

She nodded. “I agree. So the person could be one of Pearce’s enemies or ours?”

“Let’s start with making a list of the people who were at the ball that night.”

“Whoever it is knows you as well. They knew Pearce would be furious if his own brother had an affair with me.”

“Indeed. That should help shorten the list.” He stopped at the door to Mrs. Jones’s house.

The wail of a child sounded from the other side.

“The King.” Mrs. Jones opened the door, holding a baby in one arm while another two children cried behind her, tugging at her skirt. “My husband isn’t here.” Her voice held a note of fear he didn’t like.

“It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t waste time and handed her the money. “For the lost shipment.”

She didn’t take it. He wasn’t sure if her hesitation was due to fear of getting into trouble with him, or because she didn’t think compensation was necessary.

“I won’t use this compensation as leverage against your family,” he said. “You invested your money in my enterprise. It’s only fair.”

Mrs. Jones glanced at Elizabeth who smiled. “Thank you.” She accepted the money with a trembling hand.

“Good evening,” he said, tipping his hat up.

They left Mrs. Jones and proceeded to the next one.

“What you’re doing is very decent of you,” Elizabeth said. “You don’t need to reimburse these people, but you’re doing it anyway. Why?”

“It’s good business. My enterprise is based on repeat and solid partnerships. If the news spreads that I lose money and don’t care about my partners, no one will want to do business with me.”

“I don’t believe that is the only reason.” She put a hand on his arm. “You have a good heart, Christopher, no matter how hard you try to hide it.”

“You see only kindness in people. I’ve been surviving for so long, thinking only about staying alive, I’m not sure I can’t be selfish. When your focus is about surviving and finding the next meal, you don’t have time to care about others.”

“You’re wrong.” She hooked her arm through his. “When we were in the cottage …” She paused, and he tensed. It was the first time they’d talked about the cottage. “We were focusing on surviving, yet we took care of each other. Taking care of each other is what kept us alive. Caring is a strength, and we proved it.”

“I was happy I could be myself with you without being judged or branded as the bastard son of a duke.” He brushed her cheek with a finger but forced himself not to do more and withdrew his hand.

She took it, her lips parting. He waited for her to say something, but she simply laced her fingers through his. A moment of charged silence thickened between them, like one of those moments in the cottage when he hadn’t been sure if he could kiss her or not. Not an uncomfortable silence, but there were things he wished to say, like that he wanted her to stay with him forever, which was selfish of him. She deserved more than his headquarters filled with criminals, and if her name could be cleared, she’d have a second chance at living her aristocratic life.

“Let’s finish the round,” he said in a raspy voice.

She didn’t let go of his hand.