Chapter 4: The Highwayman: Chapter 4

Farah enjoyed London at night. Mingling with the beau monde at Covent Garden, or attending lectures, concerts, and after-parties with the rather transitory crowd of novelists who came to England just long enough to get depressed and move back to Paris to write about it.

Today she’d worn her new finest sea-green silk polonaise over particularly ruffled and beribboned petticoats in deference to her plans to see the latest Tom Taylor production with Carlton Morley as her escort. Seized by a whim of recklessness, she’d pulled the puffed and filmy sleeves of her bodice wide to expose an extra expanse of clavicle and shoulder.

The moment the clock struck six, she rose from her desk and shrugged out of her professionally cut jacket which she replaced with a soft fringed shawl and white silk gloves.

Cartwright, the newest clerk, at least five years her junior, watched her with unabashed fascination. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you wear that color before, Mrs. Mackenzie. It complements your eyes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright.” She smiled, unable to help a small tingle of pleasure at the attractive young man’s approval.

“Looking like that, you’ll have Sir Morley down on one knee before the night is over,” he continued, smoothing the thin golden mustache that teased his lip as though still delighted he could finally grow one. “If Morley doesn’t, seek me out and I might be persuaded to give up my coveted bachelor status.”

Farah’s pleasure dimmed, so she brightened her smile. “I’d never dream of perpetrating such a tragedy, Mr. Cartwright, on either accord. I, for one, have no wish to be any man’s trouble and strife.” She used the cockney term for wife while she fiddled with the edge of her glove. It bothered her increasingly that almost everyone she knew seemed to think that her status as a longtime widow was so pitiable. Over the past decade, a multitude of men had offered to make her their wife if only because their conscience couldn’t bear to think of her living, and sleeping, alone.

She’d deflected that behavior by wearing mourning dresses for nearly four years, until she’d reached an age where she was considered to be quite firmly on the shelf. It had abated after a while, and she was lucky enough to be employed in an environment where most of the men were either married or permanently disinclined to the institution. Which was just fine with her, as she felt similarly disillusioned toward the idea of a husband.

Her fortunes, modest as they were, remained her own. As did her time, her pleasures, her opinions, and, most importantly, her will. Being a middle-class widow of an ever-increasingly respectable age, she was afforded societal freedoms of which most women could only dream. She never required a chaperone, was allowed the most indelicate company, and could even take a lover if she liked, and no one but a vicar would so much as bat an eye.

No, Farah’s brief and tragic brush with marriage was likely to be the only one in her lifetime. All to the good, in her opinion, for she had more pressing things to take up her time, not the least of which was the pursuit of justice.

Brushing a tightening of melancholy firmly into the past where it belonged, Farah bid Cartwright a good evening, and swept into Scotland Yard’s rapidly vacating reception hall.

Sergeant Crompton and the desk sergeant, Westridge, emitted low whistles as she emerged from her office. “Well! Look ’ews trussed for a presentation to ’Er Majesty?” Crompton bellowed, his face ruddy from a chilly afternoon of making his rounds by the river.

“Gentlemen.” She laughed and executed a deep and flawless curtsy.

“Don’t you curtsy to the likes o’ them, Missus Mackenzie!” Gemma Warlow, a streetwalker known to work the docks, called to her with a bawdy geniality. “They don’t deserve to spit-shine your shoes!”

“Stuff your gob, Warlow!” Crompton called, though his voice lacked any true antagonism.

“Stuff it yourself, Sergeant!” Gemma shot back with a toss of her dirty-brown locks. “If you’ve enough in your trousers to reach me throat.”

Farah turned to the holding square in the middle of the reception room and addressed Gemma. “Miss Warlow, what are you doing back here?” she asked gently. “Didn’t I set you up at the reforming home?”

“Druthers found me and dragged me back to the pier. I got picked up for boffing during trading hours.” Gemma shrugged as though it was of little consequence. “Was a bit o’ kindness you did for me, Mrs. Mackenzie, but I should have known better than to think ’e’d let me go so easy.”

Edmond Druthers was a pimp and a game maker who ruthlessly lorded over vice trade on the docks. His reputation for cruelty was only superseded by his greed.

“Oh, Gemma.” Farah went to her and reached for her hand. “What are we to do about this?”

The woman’s manacles rattled as she pulled her hands from Farah’s reach. “Don’t be soiling those lily-white gloves now,” she warned with a cheery smile splitting her apple cheeks. Gemma had to be about Farah’s age, but the years had been less kind, and she looked maybe a decade older. Deep grooves branched from her eyes and her weatherworn skin stretched tight over small bones. “Tell me where you’re off to dressed so fine.”

Farah tempered the sadness and worry for the woman out of her smile. “I’m turned out for a night at the theater.”

“Ain’t that grand?” Genuine pleasure sparkled in the woman’s eyes. “Who’s the lucky doffer wot’s escorting you?”

“That doffer would be me.” Carleton Morley appeared at Farah’s side, his blue eyes twinkling at her from beneath an evening hat.

“Well, now!” Gemma exclaimed loudly. “Ain’t that the ’andsomest couple in London?” she asked the handful of drunkards, thieves, and other doxies stashed in the box awaiting their turn for a cell.

They all readily agreed.

“Shall we?” Morley, resplendent in his evening coat, offered his arm to Farah, who took it with a delighted smile.

Turning back to Gemma before leaving, Farah said, “Please watch yourself. We’ll talk in the morning about your situation.”

“Don’t you spend a minute worrying about me, Mrs. Mackenzie!” the woman insisted, pulling a tattered red shawl around her scrawny shoulders. “I’ll be spending a night on me back sleeping for once!”

Officers and criminals, alike, erupted into laughter that spilled into the early evening as Farah followed Morley toward the Strand. They were both silent for a time, their legs disrupting a soupy mist swirling off the river and hiding their feet from view. Gaslights and lanterns kept the dreariness of the gloaming at bay and gave the gray mist a golden glow.

The night was alive with music and merriment, but to Farah it seemed that she and Morley were apart from all that. Instead of being dazzled by the vibrant colors and merry music, they watched the street urchins dart between the legs of the wealthy, and the beggars reach out to callous and disinterested revelers. The city was ever split by an excess of wealth and poverty, of civilized progression and criminal erosion, and that weighed heavily on Farah’s mind tonight in the form of Gemma Warlow.

“Sometimes on nights like this, I’d give anything for the sweet-smelling countryside,” she said, feeling guilty for being distracted.

Sir Morley made a soft affirmative sound, and she glanced up at him to note that his light brows were also drawn into a preoccupied frown as he stared into the throng of people along the Strand, but focused on no one. He was very handsome in his evening clothes and white cravat. The consummate English gentleman. Tall, but not too tall. Trim, but strong. Handsome in a classic, aristocratic way that was both pleasing and approachable. His teeth were well cared for and not very crooked, and though he was nigh to forty, his gold hair was still thick and resisted gray. He walked in such a way that people parted for him, and Farah couldn’t stop herself from thinking that added to his attraction.

Sir Carlton Morley was a man of distinction, if not blue blood, and was respected by most people on sight, not to mention by reputation, as one of the most celebrated chief inspectors in the history of the Metropolitan Police.

“I think I should like to drink two whole bottles of wine by myself tonight,” she said, testing him, as neither of them ever had more than a glass with dinner.

He nodded and mumbled something, his aquiline jaw working in frustrated circles as though chewing on a thought.

“After that,” Farah continued conversationally. “I shall very much enjoy a swim in the Thames. I’ll most likely be nude. I wouldn’t want to soil my new dress, you see?”

“Whatever you like,” Morley agreed companionably, still yet to look at her.

Laying her other hand on their joined arms, she steered them into a doorway and out of the foot traffic. “Carlton,” she said, turning to face him. “You’re perplexed. Is everything all right?”

The casual way in which she used his first name seized his attention. This was a new intimacy between them, and they were both still adjusting to it.

“Forgive me.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to it. “I was being inexcusably discourteous. Do repeat what you just said?”

Not a chance, she thought, but her mouth relaxed into a smile. The kiss to her gloved hand settled a warm glow in her middle and she forgave him instantly. “I noticed Dorian Blackwell was acquitted at court today. Is that what weighs heavily in your thoughts?”

At the mention of the name, Morley’s features tightened with aggravation and his grip on her hand tensed. “Every time I get him on something, he slips through my fingers! I know he has half the force in one pocket, and half of Parliament in the other.” Releasing her hand, he took off his hat and ran frustrated fingers though his hair before settling it back on. “Damn him!” he exploded.

“And do you know what that rotten Justice Singleton had the audacity to do?” Morley asked, then continued without pausing for her reply. “He publicly reprimands me for malicious conduct toward the scum!”

Farah remained silent. She had her own opinion on that score, but realized now wasn’t the time to mention it. She’d thought Morley a man of very strict principle, above beating someone with their hands chained, no matter how deserving the knave might be.

“Perhaps we should entertain a more relaxing diversion than the theater tonight,” Farah suggested gently. “A stroll through the gardens maybe, or—”

“No,” Morley interrupted, placing a gentle finger beneath her chin. “No. I think I require the distraction of a comedy tonight. It will help to erase all thoughts of Dorian Blackwell.”

“Yes,” she agreed, enjoying the familiarity of his touch. “You’d do well to put him out of your mind for the evening.” Though, even as she said the words, she accepted that to rid the mind of one such as Dorian Blackwell was a great deal easier said than done. As things stood, she’d been attempting to do just that very thing for the better part of three days. For the entire time Blackwell had been held below stairs, he’d taken unbidden residence in her thoughts, invading them like an unwelcome song until his presence in the rooms beneath her had thrummed through her nerves with a constant awareness.

“I shall. I shall focus only upon your dazzling company tonight.” Morley gazed down at her upturned face with an intent sort of determination until his mood darkened again. “It’s only that, when he said those things about you and me—I felt like I could murder him.”

Farah tried her most disarming smile. “Don’t let it bother you overmuch, I’ve heard worse over the years, to be sure.” And wasn’t that the truth?

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” he murmured, his head drifting lower, lips hovering in the decreasing space above her own mouth.

“Yes,” she said decisively, and nudged him out of the doorway and back toward the walkway to resume their evening. “Dorian Blackwell isn’t even on the list of the most crude and vile persons who’ve addressed me in the strong room.” But he was somehow the most frightening, she silently added. Which was strange, if she thought about it. Over the course of her career she’d been threatened, propositioned, degraded, and begged, and Dorian Blackwell had done none of those things. He’d merely said her name. Perhaps a few insinuations. Farah was certain she’d misread the subtle promise threaded through his voice, but it still sent shivers through her each time she remembered it.

“Do you enjoy working for me, Farah?” Morley asked in a tone that was almost boyish in its reluctance. “I often find myself wondering if you wouldn’t rather be running a quiet and lovely home somewhere.”

Farah waved a hand in front of her face as though swatting away a distasteful smell. “I like to be busy. I think I would go absolutely bonkers if I didn’t have something productive to do with my day. I do enjoy working at Scotland Yard. I feel like I’m the keeper of London’s records and all her dirty secrets. I take great pride in my work.”

“I know you do.” Morley nodded, seeming distracted by a whole new set of troubles. “But, do you want to work at Scotland Yard indefinitely? Don’t you ever wish for family? For—children?”

Farah was quiet as the questions dug beneath her rib cage to get at her heart. She hadn’t wanted to be at Scotland Yard at first, but had taken the position there because she hoped to someday get at what she needed. To unlock the secrets of her past. As time went by, she had begun to despair of that ever happening. As to the other question … she’d never allowed herself to think on it. Words like family and children had disintegrated when she was very young, and she’d never quite been able to resurrect them without her heart breaking. Though something deep inside her clenched and ached at the idea of a child of her own. A family.

“I’m famished,” she said brightly, hoping to derail this topic of conversation. “Let’s consider an early supper before the theater … something Italian?”

Reluctantly, Morley let the subject lie and agreed. “I know a place right next to the Adelphi.”

“Excellent!” She beamed.

They avoided both the heavy topics of the Blackheart of Ben More and her future during their light Italian supper, instead allowing themselves to be serenaded by a roving violinist and gorging on a scrumptious Pasta Pomodoro with an excellent red table wine. They discussed inconsequential things like the construction of new underground railways and the increasing popularity of detective fiction. The play at the Adelphi was diverting and well written, and both of their spirits had vastly improved as they strolled down Fleet Street toward her apartments above Mr. de Gaule’s coffee shop. As the night wore on, and the farther east they traveled, the streets of London became more dangerous, and Farah was glad that Morley always wore a weapon.

“I wager they’ll write ha’penny novels about you next, Sir Morley,” she teased. “Perhaps even include your chase of he whom we shall not be naming for the rest of the evening. How grand would that be?”

“Ridiculous,” Morley muttered, but his blush could be seen even in the lamplight, and his eyes were pleased as they glanced down at her.

Another one of de Gaule’s poetry readings had dissolved into absinthe-soaked debauchery. The sound of Gypsy music and overloud laughter spilled onto the street and mingled with the calls of prostitutes and gin peddlers.

“I never understood why you chose to stay here, after all these years.” Morley gripped her elbow more protectively as he escorted her up the dark back stairs to her rooms. “These—these so-called Bohemians are not the sort for a woman of your gentility to be trifling with.”

Farah laughed merrily and turned to him, one stair above so she could meet his gaze straight on. “Can you imagine me trifling with anyone, Carlton? Though I’ll admit to a certain fond fascination with Bohemians. They’re all so creative and free-spirited.”

Instead of charmed, Morley appeared concerned. “You don’t ever … attend these soirees, do you?”

“And what if I did?” she playfully challenged. “What if I mingled with the brightest and most progressive minds of our time?”

“It’s not your mingling that worries me, but something else altogether,” he muttered.

“Dear Carlton.” Her gaze softening, she reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder, letting her thumb graze the neat hair at his nape. “I’m too old to mingle or trifle or whatever other euphemism for scandalous behavior worries you.” She glanced down the stairs toward the cobblestones painted in crossed golden squares by the windows of the café. “But I love this part of the city. It’s so alive, so full of youth and art and poetry.”

“And cutpurses and rakes and prostitutes.”

That drew another warm laugh from her throat. “Most of whom know me from the Yard. I am careful and I feel quite safe here. Besides,” she added lightly. “We can’t all afford a terrace near Mayfair, now can we?”

She’d meant the jibe about his new home acquisition as a light tease, but her words seemed to sober him, and he regarded her there in the shadows with a new intensity. “Did you … enjoy yourself tonight, Mrs.—er—Farah? With me?”

“I find I hardly enjoy anyone’s company more than yours,” she answered honestly.

“Good.” His breath seemed to be coming faster now, his eyes darting with indecision. “Excellent. That is—I had a very particular subject I wanted to discuss with you tonight.”

A small tingle thrilled through her as Farah deduced just where this conversation might be headed. How on earth would she respond? “Of course.” She sounded equally breathless. “Would you … like to come in for some tea?”

He stared at her door for a long moment. “I fear it would not be prudent to invite me into your home right now. Not with how much I—Christ. I think I’m going to bungle this.”

Her fingers drifted from his shoulder to his cheek, as she tried to look as encouraging as possible, even though her heart raced away with her thoughts. “Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

His hand covered hers on his cheek. “I want to court you properly, Farah,” he said in a rush. “We run such a successful enterprise together, just imagine how well we would run a society home. We enjoy each other’s companionship. And, I think, we have developed feelings stronger than friendship over the years.” His hand curled around hers and brought it to his chest, right above his heart. “Neither of us has to be lonely anymore, and I could think of no one else’s company I’d rather have every night for the rest of my days.”

That pleasant warmth returned to her stomach, though Farah found herself somewhat underwhelmed by his declaration. So he was no Rossetti or Keats. Should she hold that against him?

“Consider what you are offering,” she said evenly. “I’m a widow well past the marrying age. A man of your position and deserving needs a young wife who will be content to make him a comfortable place to come home to. Someone to provide him with fat babies and respectable society. Everyone I know is either a criminal or a Bohemian.” She smirked before adding wryly, “Sometimes both.”

“You’re seven and twenty,” he argued with his own smile of bemusement. “That’s hardly in your dotage.”

“Eight and twenty last month,” she corrected. “And I suppose I’m trying to warn you that I’m entirely too set in my ways to make you a dutiful wife.” Though her stomach fluttered at the thought of children.

He was silent a moment, though he looked rather thoughtful instead of insulted. Reaching up, he brushed a ringlet from her bare shoulder to spill down her back, exposing the white skin uncovered by her shawl. “Your first marriage…” He hesitated. “Was it so awful?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” She smiled sadly. “Just … tragically short.”

“I’d love for you to tell me about it someday.”

“Perhaps,” Farah lied as she focused on the warmth of his fingers as they hovered above her skin. Desire drifted about them like the London mist, a gentle, masculine form of it that was soothing and agitating all at once.

“I’d also like the chance to compete with your late husband for your affections. I would even strive to live up to his memory.” Those elegant, gentle fingers finally closed around her shoulder, pulling her toward him. “The prospect doesn’t frighten me like it would some men.”

Touched, Farah allowed herself to drift against his lean body. “You are a very singular man,” she complimented, her lashes sweeping down at this unexpected intimacy. “And quite handsome, too. These things are best never decided quickly. Give me a night or two to examine my feelings?”

“I should have known a woman as efficient and fastidious as you wouldn’t get swept away. Give me some hope, Farah,” he pleaded, his grip pulling her torso against his and his hand stealing around to the curve of her back. “Something my lonely heart can hold on to.”

“I can’t say it’s not a dazzling proposition,” she said sincerely. “Tempting, even.”

His eyes flared with hope. With heat. “Tempting? Not half as tempting as you. God, Farah, you don’t know how that word on your lips inflames me. Though, having been a married woman, I suppose you might. Damn, but your husband must have been the happiest man in all the empire, if only for a short time.” His finger stole beneath her chin, his other hand pressing their bodies even closer.

Farah endeavored to keep the sadness out of her smile. “We were both happy, for a time.” Though, she expected, not in the way that he intimated.

“May I kiss you, Farah?” The fervency in his question was at once frightening and exciting.

She considered it, then lifted her head.

Their first kiss was soft, tentative, and altogether pleasant. Farah was grateful for the relative darkness of her stairwell so she didn’t have to worry about how to school her features, or whether her eyes should be opened or closed. She was able to simply enjoy the warmth of his closeness. The feel of the pressed linen jacket beneath her fingertips. The skill of his mouth as it danced and swept across hers in light, intriguing strokes. There was a momentary insistence before he gentled his pressure again. A hint of moisture as his tongue hovered close to her mouth, but never more than a whisper.

Dorian Blackwell probably kissed much differently than this, Farah found herself thinking. He was probably savage and hungry. Perhaps a bit too forceful and consuming in his passions. His mouth was so hard-looking. A cynical slash against an obstinate jaw. No, the Blackheart of Ben More would be selfish and demanding. Certainly not restrained or respectful like—Oh, Lord! What was she doing thinking about that criminal’s mouth while entertaining the lips of a gentleman? Angry, more at Blackwell than at herself, she cursed the man for again invading her thoughts uninvited. Again. The unmitigated nerve!

Just as the warmth in her stomach bloomed into a more pervasive heat that spread a blush over her skin, curiosity and guilt nudged her toward exploration. Farah clutched at his shoulders and considered using her own tongue. Was that permissible? Would he recoil at the French manner of kissing? She’d really only heard of it from the mouths of prostitutes, but the idea had intrigued her for some time. Should she invite him inside again? Perhaps, in spite of whichever answer she decided to give him, she would still not reach the age of thirty untouched.

Just as that resplendent thought flitted across her mind, Morley pulled back, his rapid breath producing faint puffs of steam in the gathering chill.

“Come to church with me tomorrow,” he gasped. “I don’t want to wait until Monday morning to see you.”

Farah let out a disappointed breath at the most tame request she could possibly imagine. How could he think of church at a time like this? She supposed, if he insisted on being a gentleman, she should be a lady.

“I’m not religious,” she admitted. “Moreover, I do not like churches. But if you’d like to meet for tea when church is over, you could call upon me in the afternoon.” She smiled at the idea, liking the prospect of exploring more of these pleasant kisses with him. Of thinking about the future.

Stepping back, he released her, but not before lifting her gloved hand to his lips once more. “I would like that more than I can say.”

Just as quickly as the warmth in her soul had ignited, the chill of the evening extinguished it, and Farah found herself wondering if the sensation had been in response to the kiss … or the intrusive thoughts she’d harbored about another man. Disturbed, she gathered her skirts, pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, and slowly began to climb the stairs. “Good night then, Carlton.”

“Sweet dreams, Farah Leigh.”

Pausing, she turned very slowly back to where he looked up at her. “What did you call me?”

“Farah Leigh. What did you think I said?”

“I thought I’d heard you say Fairy.” She whispered the word.

Sir Morley’s hair gleamed copper as he threw his head back and laughed. “That kiss must have affected you as much as it did me.”

“Indeed.” Farah turned and climbed the rest of the way to her door, unwilling to show him the sudden sadness washing over her. Because he’d been utterly wrong, her mistaken hearing had nothing at all to do with the kiss.

As she unlocked her apartment, her heart was heavier than it had been in months. An old and familiar grief twisted through her, its blade as sharp as it had been a decade ago. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and stood in the frigid darkness for a moment, her trembling fingers hovering above her lips.

How was it, after all these years, she could feel so … conflicted? Like in some way she was being unfaithful? No, that was too strong a word. But, somehow, it still applied.

Stop this, Farah, she scolded herself. It had been ten years since the boy she loved had died. Seventeen since they’d been separated. She was nearly thirty. Surely she deserved to build a life with someone if she so chose. Certainly Dougan would understand.

Guilt compounded the sorrow until Farah felt so wretched she knew there would be no sleeping tonight. Crossing her cozy parlor, she took longer than usual to light the candle on the mantel so she could see enough to lay a fire in the stone hearth.

Lifting the candle, she reached for her basket of kindling. A swift movement in her periphery caused her to jump and turn around. The candle flame flickered, danced, and sputtered madly, as though trying to escape the devil whose face loomed above hers. His dark eye full of sin, the blue one with malice, he glared down at her with lips pulled back from white, predatory teeth to form a disgusted sneer.

Farah’s screams crowded in her throat, preventing their escape as she groped behind her for the fire poker. To her shock and despair, two other large forms melted from the shadows and advanced from either side.

“I hope you enjoyed that kiss, Mrs. Mackenzie.” Dorian Blackwell licked his finger and pinched the flame of her candle, plunging them back into darkness. “For it shall be your last.”