Page 56 of Rules for Ruin

On returning from his house in Sloane Street that morning, he summoned Bill Walsh to his office. Walsh was, like Murphy, one of Gabriel’s chief enforcers—a big, ugly bruiser of a fellow, accustomed to using his fists. But unlike Murphy, Walsh possessed a modicum of intelligence.

“I have a job for you,” Gabriel said from behind his desk, barely looking up from calculating figures in his ledger. “And I want no violence, only results.”

“Anything, Mr. Royce,” Walsh replied.

“Go to Church Lane. Go to Devil’s Acre. Find me a fair-haired woman by the name of Grace who lived above a rag-and-bone shop in the Rookery seventeen or eighteen years ago. If you can’t discover her outright, then find someone who remembers her. When you do, bring them to me.”

“Is that all, sir?”

Gabriel flicked him a cool glance through the lenses of his round, gold-rimmed spectacles. “For now.”

Effie had claimed that this Grace person was someone her family had known long ago. A servant, Gabriel suspected, or some old retainer whose fate was a matter of sentiment. Regardless of the person’s status, she was important enough that Effie had risked a visit to the Rookery to find her. Important enough that Effie had asked Gabriel for help.

He recalled the queer, lost look in her eyes that day when he’d told her the slum had been cleared and its residents scattered to the four winds. Her face had fallen and her footsteps had faltered. She’d stared about the alley with a vague expression of devastation.

This Grace woman meant something to Effie. She may not be a key in herself, but if she could provide the smallest insight into Effie’s past, or offer any illumination on her present aims, Gabriel planned to find her. And he intended to find her first.

It wasn’t the only action Gabriel had contemplated after his and Effie’s interlude in the garden. He’d seriously considered having her followed for a second time, if not by Ollie or Walsh, then by another of his men. He’d nearly done it, too, for no other reason than to ensure her safety. The devil only knew what mischief she might be getting herself into. Another venture into Compton’s bedchamber? Another balcony? Another roof, by God?

Gabriel had ultimately abandoned the idea. What would have been the point in having her followed again? She’d spied Ollie quickly enough. It stood to reason that she’d spot anyone else Gabriel sent just as easily.

In any event, the odds she’d ricocheted straight from her disastrous near miss on Compton’s terrace to another reckless attempt at whatever it was she was doing were slim to nothing. It had been—what? All of twelve hours since he’d rescued her? Hardly time to fall victim to another mishap.

Chances were, she was safe in Brook Street, still recovering from the episode at Compton’s. Either that or she was occupied with some tedious society event. The season was packed to bursting with balls, routs, picnics, and every other variety of fashionable party.

Gabriel didn’t like to think of her in company with the rich, blue-blooded gentlemen that populated Compton’s world. Still, it was some consolation to know she was out of danger as he attended to shop business.

He would find her in the coming days to have that talk he’d promised her. Tomorrow or the day after, perhaps. Then, he could confront her rationally, logically, without the vivid memory of that blasted kiss seeping in to rob him of his senses.

Until then, diversion was what he needed, and the betting shop offered plenty of it.

He was still there hours later, coatless and rumpled in the main room, discussing the lists with Murphy, when Miles Quincey surprised him with a visit.

Gabriel’s mouth curved into a smile to see his old friend. “Miles. Don’t say you’re looking to place a wager?”

Miles stood apart from the rough and unshaven fellows who crowded the shop. He’d never approved of the turn Gabriel’s life had taken. Indeed, clad all in black, with a frown darkening his brow, he looked more like a disapproving clergyman than an intrepid newspaperman known for employing daring methods to get his stories.

“I never wager with my money,” Miles said.

“Only with your life, is that it?” Gabriel was but half in jest. Despite appearances, Miles was no bookish, untried gentleman. He had been quite lethal in their youth, and even beyond that, if the tales about his adventures abroad held any truth.

“Rarely even that anymore,” Miles said. “May I have a word with you outside?”

Gabriel slapped Murphy on his brawny arm, dismissing him as he joined his friend. “The air inside not refined enough for you?” he asked, accompanying Miles to the alley. “You’ll find it worse out here.”

“It’s not fresh air I want, but privacy.” Miles peered up at the sagging buildings that lined the alley. One stood out among them. Unlike its dilapidated and decaying brethren, it showed signs of having lately been repaired. “Tindall’s Lodging House has a new roof, I see.”

“It needed one. There are more families living there now.”

“You paid for it, I gather.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if anyone else gave a damn.”

Miles walked with Gabriel to the end of the alley. “I understand you’re attempting to find a few who will.”

Gabriel flashed him a look.

“My sources tell me you’ve lately been in society, meeting with Lord Compton and Lord Haverford,” Miles said.