Robin Schone (13 page)

John had escaped the gutters to work inside the homosexual club.

No, he could never go back to being a simple country boy.

“Do you trust Stephen, John?” he asked impulsively.

Hating the plans that were formulating inside his mind. Knowing there was no alternative.

Gabriel would not allow his house to be turned into a killing field, not if he could stop it.

John’s back stiffened. “I trust everyone here, sir.”

Another sin.

Whores could not afford to trust.

Love.

Hope.

“Do you trust me?” Gabriel asked softly.

“Yes.”

In the end, Victoria Childers had also trusted him.

She had eaten his food and now she slept in his bed. Believing she was his guest.

She was not.

Victoria was as much a prisoner as Gabriel was.

“Should I trust you?” Gabriel queried gently.

“I did what I thought was right,” John said stiltedly.

And he would do so again.

Perfect prey.

The dawn closed around Gabriel.

He must choose. To let go of John and Stephen—because they did what they thought was right.

Or to keep them—knowing that their humanity would cause more death.

The second man
could
have bribed them.

If they were guilty, the second man would kill them.

If they were innocent, Gabriel’s dismissal would kill them.

It would be a far worse death than that which the second man would minister.

All of London would know they had been discharged. No one would hire the untouchable angel’s rejects.

John and Stephen would return to whoring.

A far, far better fate than that which would be theirs if Gabriel asked them to stay.

No one had a right to ask a man to do what Gabriel would ask them to do.

“They did not deserve dismissal, monsieur.” Gabriel stared at the wine-stained tablecloth: a woman’s

delicate profile emerged, nose straight, brow sweeping, chin firm.

Victoria did not believe that she was beautiful: she was.

Gabriel had only ever seen her type of beauty in one other person, and she would soon belong to

Michael.

“You warned them that a man would try to kill Monsieur Michel; you did not warn them against a

woman,” Gaston stiffly protested. “John and Stephen planned no harm when they allowed the woman

inside tonight.”

Gabriel’s decision was made.

He could not afford regret. Indecision.

Compassion.

Immediately Victoria’s image blurred; the linear profile of her face became a series of overlapping

stains.

“Why do you think my actions were too harsh, Gaston?” Gabriel glanced up from the tablecloth. “They

disobeyed my orders. Should I have increased their pay instead of discharging them?”

“They love you, monsieur.”

Faint sounds penetrated the empty saloon, a pan clanging, a soft curse.

Pierre was preparing a late breakfast.

Soon the house servants would come and clean up the carnage in the saloon.

Gabriel remembered the occasion and the year in which he had acquired each of their services.

He did not want their love; he wanted their loyalty.

“Love has a price, Gaston,” Gabriel said coolly. “It goes to whomever pays the highest salary.”

Or fee.

A whore’s love changed with every patron.

“The men are uneasy, monsieur.”

“Their positions are secure as long as they abide by the rules of the house.”

“They thought you died six months ago.”

Gabriel stilled.

Not once had Gaston or Gabriel’s people discussed the events that had occurred six months earlier.

“As they can see, I am very much alive.”

“You burned down the house,” Gaston said stonily.

And then Gabriel had rebuilt it.

The first to save an angel; the latter to catch a monster.

“I reimbursed them for the things they lost.”

“It is not a matter of possessions, monsieur.” The candle on Gaston’s right sputtered, died; the right side

of Gaston’s face darkened in shadow. “You did not trust them with the truth. They no longer know if they

can trust you.”

Trust.

Truth.

The faint aroma of coffee wafted over the stale odor of wine and cigars.

Whores could not afford to trust.

Gabriel had once thought he knew the truth; the second man had proved him wrong.

“Are you saying, Gaston, that none of my employees can be trusted?” Gabriel asked carefully.

Gaston squared his shoulders. “There is no one in your house who would betray you.”

“Yet you did not evict Monsieur Michel per my instructions,” Gabriel said sharply. “Some might say that

is a form of betrayal.”

The past haunted Gaston’s eyes. “Monsieur Michel would not let go of your body,” he said with

unaccustomed emotion.

Gabriel remembered . . .

. . . The echo of gunshot.

.. . The silver mist of breath.

Did you mourn me?

Yes,

“It was not my body,” Gabriel said remotely.

Michael had held the burned body of a beggar—not Gabriel.

Gabriel had placed the beggar’s corpse in his bed, hoping it would be mistaken for him.

And it had been.

Gabriel had done what was necessary to save Michael. So that he could live a life instead of a

nightmare.

Only to discover the nightmare had just begun.

“He thought it was your body, monsieur.” The rare burst of emotion illuminated Gaston’s face. “He

loves you. Monsieur Michel is a part of this family. I will not evict him.
Jamais.
He took care of us when

we had no place to go.”

Two words struck Gabriel like a fist.

Jamais.
Never.

Family.

They were all whores. Pimps. Beggars. Cutthroats. Thieves.

Their past would
never
change. They would none of them be together if they had a
family.

Gaston stared over Gabriel’s head. “Shall I give myself two months’ severance pay, monsieur?”

The left corner of Gabriel’s mouth kicked up.

Gaston had been with Gabriel for fourteen years. Gabriel had found him beaten to a bloody pulp in an

alley in Seven Dials.

The House of Gabriel would not be possible without Gaston. He managed both the house and the people

who worked inside it.

“So that you can seek employment with Monsieur Michel?” he asked easily.
“Je ne crois pas, mon

ami.
The two of you would open a rival house, and then where would I be?”

Gaston did not relax at Gabriel’s sally.

“The men are afraid, monsieur.”

All sense of levity abruptly dissipated.

“Pay them extra,” Gabriel said tautly.

“They want to know whom they should kill, monsieur, instead of jumping out of their skins like rabbits

every time a bottle of champagne is uncorked.
S’il vous plait.
If you would only describe the man who

comes for you ...”

Victoria had said similar words.

If you do not answer my questions, then you cannot expect me to answer yours.

Gabriel opened his mouth.

It was a reasonable request. Men who placed their lives in jeopardy in order to save the life of another

deserved to know what their potential killer looked like.

The words refused to come.

“There was a man here tonight,” he said instead.

“There were several hundred men here tonight, monsieur.”

Gabriel ignored Gaston’s sarcasm.

“The man has gray hair—he’s in his mid- to late fifties. His name is Gerald Fitzjohn. I want his London

address. Send Jeremy to the library to look it up.”

“Jeremy just retired, sir.”

“Then I suggest you wake him, Gaston,” Gabriel said softly, dangerously.

“Very well, monsieur,” Gaston replied woodenly.

“Send Jacques around to the
Times
and the
News.”

They were two of the most popular newspapers in London.

Gaston opened his mouth to protest—Jacques, too, had just retired.

He shut his mouth.

“I want Jacques to check the employment advertisements for the last year and a half.” Gabriel

remembered Victoria’s assertion:
If he had k nowledge of your house, sir, he would not prey on his

children s governess.
“Tell him to look for repeated advertisements for a governess by the same party. If

he finds any, I want him to write the names or addresses down.”

Victoria might believe that she was a random victim of her employer; Gabriel knew better. Men who

preyed upon women usually had a history of previous victims. The household in which she had been

employed probably advertised for governesses on a regular basis.

“Très bien,
” Gaston said.

“Have David visit the employment agencies.” David could charm either man or woman, young or old. “

Tell him to say that a governess named Victoria Childers applied for employment, but he misplaced her

address.”

Gaston’s eyes widened, learning the cloaked woman’s name and previous profession.

“When Jeremy finds Fitzjohn’s address, tell him to
search through the archives for the family name of

Childers. If he finds a Childers family listing a daughter named Victoria, take down the names and address.

”

“Très bien.”

Very good.

There would be no good from the night.

The killing had begun.

“Gaston.”

“Oui?”
Gaston asked guardedly.

“I want this information by noon today,” Gabriel said softly. “Have a maid wake me when they return.”

Gabriel was suddenly dead tired.

The thought of sleeping on a leather couch was not a pleasant one.

Twenty-seven years ago he would have thought it a luxury.

No, he was no longer a boy.

He was a man, and he knew the price of life.

“Très bien,
monsieur. I have appointed Evan, Julien and Allen to guard the woman. They will change

shifts every eight hours.”

“Merci.”

Gaston wrung his hands.

Gabriel wondered if the woman slept... or if she, too, worried.

No one has ever held me,
she had confessed.

But she would have let him hold her . .. drenched with sweat and sex.

“Many men sympathize with the woman’s plight,” Gaston blurted.

Gabriel felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“I will kill the man who lets her escape,” Gabriel said softly. Dangerously. “Tell that to the men who

sympathize with her.”

“They do not like to think you are punishing her.”

“And why would they think that, Gaston?” he asked, the softness in his voice barbed.

“Marcel did not discuss the note he found, monsieur,” Gaston said defensively. “But the men, they sense

there is something wrong. You could have stopped the auction, yet you did not.”

No, Gabriel had not stopped the auction. Instead, he had bid on the woman and now he had the woman.

By noon, word of the cloaked woman who had tempted the untouchable angel would have spread all

over London.

“Tell them that the man who wishes to kill me will also kill her.” Gabriel let the truth leak into his eyes

and his voice. “If she escapes, she’s a dead woman.”

Gaston’s gaze settled on Gabriel’s. In his brown eyes was a single question.

Why?

Why had Gabriel built a house where every desire could be fulfilled merely to lure an assassin?

Why would an assassin want to destroy two male whores so badly that he would willingly walk into a

trap?

What had the second man done to him—after twelve years of whoring—that Gabriel could not tolerate a

simple touch?

Gaston did not ask the questions. But Gabriel knew that Victoria would.

He had told her more than he had ever told anyone.

He had told her that he had begged, but he had not told her what he had begged for.

He knew that she would ask, though. In a day. Or two days.

Victoria would ask what he had begged the second man for. And Gabriel would tell her.

She deserved that much.

“We would die for you, monsieur,” Gaston said simply. “No one will go against your wishes.”

Yes, men—and women—would die. That was part of the play.

Gaston glanced away. “What I said about Monsieur Michel—”

Gabriel remembered his parting words to Michael.

“I don’t think we need worry about Monsieur Michel,” he interrupted, pushing aside the pain.

He thought of Victoria’s worn wool dress, tattered silk drawers and sagging stockings.

My virginity is all I have left,
she had said.

But that wasn’t all that Victoria had left.

She had passion.

I wanted your touch; therefore, I am a whore,
she had told him.

And he had let her believe it.

But it wasn’t passion that made a man or a woman a whore—it was performing sex when there was no

passion that made one a whore.

Michael had been a prostitute; he had never been a whore.

Unlike Gabriel.

Does that warrant my death?

“Send a message to Madame René,” Gabriel said abruptly. “Tell her that we are in need of a

seamstress.”

Blackness pressed down on her eyes,
a man’s hand
— Gasping, Victoria fought to sit up, breasts

quivering, hair impeding.

Only to discover that the blackness was not a hand.

Victoria had gone to sleep in darkness; she awoke in darkness.

She became aware of the firmness of the mattress beneath her buttocks and the softness of the sheet