“If your , sir, were no different than a mechanical apparatus, you wouldn’t be afraid to touch a

woman. Yet you are.”

Darkness glittered inside his eyes.

There was only one thing that could have put that darkness there.

If Victoria continued, there would be no going back.

He could kill her for what she was about to say. Victoria would not blame him.

But there were worse things than death.

Living without the comfort of touch was far, far worse than death.

Victoria knew that because she had denied herself that simple comfort for over eighteen years.

She said what had to be said.

“The man who you”—the warning inside Gabriel’s gaze stabbed through Victoria’s heart; it did

not stop her—”he gave you pleasure.”

Victoria was vaguely surprised that the crackling flames inside the fireplace did not freeze.

“He knew how to make pain pleasurable.”

Darkness obliterated the silver of Gabriel’s irises.

“He made you enjoy .”

Chapter
10

“And you will never forgive yourself for it.”

Victoria’s voice rang out with feminine conviction.

Jamais.
Never.

Gabriel timed her breathing with the rise and fall of her s rather than the memories her words

evoked.

He could kill her. And she knew it.

Or he could let the second man kill her. And she knew that, too.

She was afraid. But she did not hide behind her fear.

She was the one woman who dared confront his past.

How had the second man found her?

Gabriel padded toward Victoria with calculated intent. She did not back away.

Purposefully he circled her.

Her hair the night before had been dull and lustreless—like her cloak. It now shone underneath the

electric light—a cold, wet, slick shield.

Victoria turned with Gabriel.

He could feel the heat of her ness. See his reflection inside her blue eyes, clouded with fear one

moment and glowing with desire the next. He could smell his soap and his shampoo on her skin and hair,

masculine scents femininized by the sweetness of her .

Stooping, Gabriel grabbed up her dress.

His gaze was on a level with her pelvis.

Victoria’s pubic hair was dark and curly. The lips of her were dark rose, like her s.

They were moist with arousal. Swollen with desire.

And he had not even touched her.

Damn Madame René to hell.

Victoria’s curiosity would build. As would Gabriel’s.

She would wonder how it would feel, to take a man one inch at a time. He would wonder how Victoria

would feel, slick wet flesh stretching one inch ... two inches ... five inches ... seven inches ... nine inches...

He would wonder what she sounded like when she cried out, first with the pain of losing her ity,

then with the pleasure of obtaining her first with a man.

He would wonder what it would take to make Victoria beg.

Gabriel straightened.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Childers, he made me enjoy the ,” he said coldly, deliberately. “Just as you

enjoyed reading the letters written by a man who terrorizes you.”

Gabriel turned his back on her—he could not remember the last time he had turned his back on either a

man or a woman—and threw her dress into the fireplace.

Black smoke curled up the chimney.

Gabriel tensed.

If Victoria tried to save the wool dress, he would stop her.

He didn’t want to hurt her. But he would.

“You have no right to destroy my clothing,” Victoria said tightly.

She did not try to salvage her dress. She, too, knew that he would hurt her if she interfered.

Right.

did not have rights.

Blue fire skimmed a brown wool sleeve,
died.

“You have lived on the streets long enough to know that might is right,” he said bluntly.

“And your might is greater than mine.”

Anger laced Victoria’s voice.

She did not like having to rely upon a man.

Gabriel knew too well what it was like being powerless.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Childers,” he turned back toward her, “my might is greater than yours.”

The stench of smoldering wool permeated the bedroom.

Victoria’s blue eyes sparked fire. “I do not have any more clothes.”

Gabriel could give her that much.

“Madame René will send clothes shortly.”

Velvet. Silk. Satin.

Clothes of beauty as well as practicality.

Gabriel would do everything within his power in order to give her a life in which to enjoy them.

Victoria tilted her chin, lips chapped, cheekbones too sharp, the line of her jaw too vulnerable. “I do not

want your charity.”

No, a woman such as she would not want charity.

“What do you want?” Gabriel asked softly. Knowing the answer.

She wanted the pleasure an angel could bring.
Voir les anges.
But did she want the pain an angel could

bring?
La petite mort?

“You said you would assist me in obtaining a position as governess,” Victoria returned stubbornly.

Gabriel did not reply.

He did not want to see her working in another man’s house, supervised by another man’s wife, caring

for another man’s children.

Tension coiled about them.

Fear. Desire.

A drying strand of dark hair glinted auburn underneath the overhead electric light. “I do not think the

clothes that Madame René creates are designed to be worn by a governess.”

Gabriel wanted to reach out and touch Victoria’s hair, to feel the outward chill and the warmth of her

skin underneath.

She would not survive the streets, let alone the second man.

Would she survive Gabriel?

It was time to find out.

“But you are not a governess, Mademoiselle Childers.” Gabriel held her gaze. “Are you?”

Victoria read the truth in his eyes.

She squared her shoulders; fleeting regret streaked through Gabriel that her s were no longer hard.

“How did you discover who my father is?”

“Libraries are wonderful institutions, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said politely. “The births and deaths of the

members of the
ton
are meticulously recorded for the good of the general public.”

She stiffly walked toward him, s lightly bouncing. She stiffly walked past him, buttocks gently

swaying.

Gabriel watched her through narrowed eyes.

Victoria jerked the pale blue silk spread off the bed and clumsily wrapped it about her.

She was hiding from a past that she did not want to admit.

Gabriel listened to the rustle of silk, the pop of an ember, waiting for her to regain her courage.

It did not take her long.

Slowly, pale blue silk clutched in a knot above her s, Victoria Childers—daughter of Sir Reginald

Fitzgerald, one of the richest men in England—turned to face him.

“My father will not pay to have me returned,” she said with quiet dignity.

Gabriel believed her.

“I do not plan on returning you to him,” he said truthfully.

“Nor will he pay you to keep silent about my . . . my lapse of respectability.”

A pulse throbbed in the base of Victoria’s throat.

She had a beautiful throat. Long. Slender.

It would bruise easily.

“I do not need more money.”

Gabriel had more money than he could spend in two lifetimes.

Victoria did not believe him.

“Then why did you go to the effort of digging up my parentage if you do not plan on blackmailing me?”

she asked tightly. “Blackmail is the price of sin, is it not?”

His cynical words, coming out of , momentarily jarred Gabriel. It did not deter him.

“Have you sinned, mademoiselle?” he gently taunted.

Victoria looked him squarely in the eyes. “Not yet.”

Gabriel’s tightened.

With anger. With desire.

He could not touch her. He would not let another man touch her.

Not as long as she remained in his protection.

“Your father could be indirectly involved with the man who sent you here,” he suggested.

A swift intake of air was his answer. It was followed by quick denial. “You don’t believe that.”

“Don’t I?”

Gabriel no longer knew what he believed.

I
think you are far more vulnerable than you want to think you are,
Michael had told him.
And yes,

I believe my uncle k new that.

But did the second man know it?

“No, you do not,” Victoria said emphatically.

The fear and the desire and the anger pulsing through Gabriel’s veins found an outlet.

He did not want to want this woman. But he did.

And yes, his desire did make him vulnerable.

“Then tell me, mademoiselle,” he said ruthlessly, “what I am supposed to think about a man—a wealthy

man, a man of reputation—who allows his only daughter to sell herself so that she might have food and

shelter.”

And never once caring if she were killed or hurt.

Emotion flickered inside Victoria’s blue eyes—eyes that had seen too much, felt too much, wanted too

much. “He does not know that I am here.”

“Are you so certain of that?” Gabriel bit out.

“Yes, I am certain of that.” Her knuckles clamping the pale blue silk coverlet about her s

whitened. “My father has no use of a daughter.”

The registrar had listed a son, Daniel Childers. Victoria had a brother four years younger than herself.

In a society that passed wealth and title through male progeny, it was not uncommon for men to favor

sons over daughters.

Gabriel wanted to spare Victoria; he could not.

Secrets killed.

Men. Women.

.

“Why is that, Mademoiselle Childers?” he challenged. The stench of burning wool stung his nostrils. “

Why would a father allow his daughter to become a e?”

Pain lanced through Gabriel—it came from Victoria.

She did not glance away. “Because my father believes that women
are , sir.”

Victoria had been a governess for eighteen years, she had said. She had become a governess at the age

of sixteen.

Either her father had driven her out, or Victoria, in order to escape her father’s rule, had chosen to live

the life of a servant rather than that of the lady she had been born.

There was an alternative reason: Gabriel did not want to think about that.

He had to think about it.

“He married a woman, mademoiselle,” Gabriel goaded her.

“And she was a ,” Victoria returned, chapped lips drawn, chin high.

The registrars had mentioned nothing more than names and ranks.

“Your mother belongs to the untitled aristocracy,” Gabriel said sharply.

“My father believes that women are born into sin.” The bleakness darkening Victoria’s eyes weighted

Gabriel’s shoulders. “And he was right. My mother left him when I was eleven. For another man. I am like

my mother. I am a .”

Emotion killed. So why couldn’t he block this woman’s emotions?

Gabriel offered Victoria the only comfort he could. “You are not a , mademoiselle.”

“If I were not a , why did”—Victoria swallowed, holding on to the last of her secrets, her

employer’s name—”why did he have me dismissed from my post? Why did he write me those letters?

Why did I read them? Over and over I read them. Why?”

The second man called to Gabriel.

He was out there, waiting for Gabriel to find him.

For the first time, he had left a trail to follow.

Gabriel couldn’t leave Victoria alone. Not like this.

“We all want, Victoria.”

The words were ripped out of Gabriel’s chest.

Victoria stilled, cloaked in pale blue silk.

His woman, sent to him by the second man.

“When I was a boy, I wanted a bed to sleep in.”

The madame had given it to him.

“When I became a , I wanted to be successful.”

So that he need never go hungry again.

The madame had made it possible.

“When I became a man, I wanted to experience a woman’s passion. Just once I wanted to feel the

pleasure that I gave.”

Time slipped.

Gabriel remembered silky wet flesh weeping for release.

He remembered the taste of a woman; he remembered the scent of a woman.

Silk rustled; it immediately dispelled the memory of other women. It did not dispel the memory of his

desire.

After all these years, it still had not died.

Gabriel focused on Victoria’s eyes, Victoria’s body. Victoria’s scent that permeated the room,

overpowered now by the stench of burning wool, but there nevertheless.

“Did you?” she asked softly.

“No.”

The truth.

Gabriel had never lost himself in a woman’s pleasure.

The truth should no longer be capable of hurting; so why did it?

“You asked Madame René how to seduce a man,” Gabriel said remotely. “I’ll tell you. When he’s

hungry, feed him. When he hurts, offer him hope. When he has nowhere to go, give him a bed to sleep in.

In order to seduce, one must be able to create the illusion of trust.

“The man who wrote the letters made you dependent on him: you were hungry; he told you he

would feed you. You were afraid; he told you he would comfort you. And when you had nowhere to

sleep, he said he would share his bed with you.

“You’re not a . When one has nothing to lose and everything to
gain, Victoria, it’s very easy

to succumb to .”

The acrid sting of burning wool had brought tears to Victoria’s eyes.

He should not have burned the dress.

He should not have tried to comfort Victoria; there was no comfort to be had from a man who had

killed, and who would kill again. ,

Gabriel turned his back on Victoria—twice in one day, now—and strode into the bathroom. He

softly shut the door behind him. A barrier to reinforce the one that had momentarily slipped inside him.

Gray mist still writhed in the air.

Victoria had used his toilet: Gabriel lifted the wooden lid and used the toilet.

Worn drawers and limp stockings neatly hung over a towel rack.

Victoria’s pain-filled cry reverberated through him.
I am as clean as you are.

Water spotted the marble wash basin.

/

Gabriel stared into the mirror above it.

Dull gray peered through a fading patch of steam.

For one fleeting second Gabriel stared into the eyes of hope.

It coiled and disappeared like the illusion that it was.

Victoria stared at the closed door, unable to breathe.

A faint splatter penetrated the satinwood.

Hot color surged into her cheeks, identifying the sound.

Even an angel had to relieve himself.

The sense of unreality his confession had created dissipated. And once again she could breathe.

She firmly tucked the silk spread between her s. Grabbing the skirt to lift clear of her feet,

she gave him privacy.

A silver tray glinted on the black-marble-topped desk. The smell of ham and eggs and coffee filled

the air.

Victoria’s stomach growled.

When he’s hungry, feed him. When he hurts, offer him hope. When he has nowhere to go, give him

a bed to sleep in,
rang inside her ears.

Gabriel had fed her and he had given up his bed that she might sleep in it.

He had not offered her hope, but he had sought to comfort her.

Seduction.

The illusion of trust.

There was only one cup on the tray.

Victoria did not want to eat alone.

She poured a cup of coffee and inhaled the savory odor. It tasted like pure nectar.

Gray light permeated the library. Gold lettering glittered invitingly.

Victoria knew books; books had been her life for as long as she could remember. She did not know how

to comfort an angel.

Idly, she perused the rows and rows of leather-bound books. Straining to hear ... a whisper of air. A

footstep.

Gabriel.

Bold-embossed lettering caught Victoria’s eye: one man’s name, Jules Verne.

Journey to the Center of the Earth; Voyage au centre de la terre; Twenty Thousand Leagues

Under the Sea; Vingt mille lieues sous les mers; The Mysterious Island; L’Ile mysterieuse; Around

the World in Eighty Days; Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours...

Gabriel possessed many works by Jules Verne, both in English and French.

She more carefully studied other books by Victor Hugo. George Sand . .. the English author

Shakespeare .. .

Every title came in both a French volume and an English volume.

Coffee forgotten, Victoria plucked up
L’Ile mysterieuse,
the French edition of
The Mysterious Island
’

by Jules Verne, and stood beside the one window.

The English version was far less weighty.

Which language did Gabriel prefer to read? she wondered . .. English or French?

Blinding light exploded overhead.

Victoria blinked.

She did not have to see Gabriel to know that it was he who had the chandelier. Every bone

inside her body cried out her awareness.

He stood by the blue leather couch, framed by the glittering expanse of setting sun and shimmering blue

ocean in the painting behind him. His face was slightly pink; he had shaved. A black wool Derby coat and

gray pinstriped wool frock were draped over
his right arm. A crimson silk tie was knotted about a starched

white collar. The cut of a gray pinstriped waistcoat and trousers expertly fit his body. A silver cane

weighted his left hand, a black bowler hat his right.

There was no sign of the man with the beard stubble who had shared his needs with her. In his place

was an elegant, freshly shaven man.

Twenty-four hours earlier she would have thought him a pampered gentleman.

Victoria did not make that mistake now.

Gabriel was elegant. Gabriel was beautiful.

Gabriel was dangerous.

“Don’t stand in front of the window,” he curtly commanded. “And keep the blinds closed.”

Victoria did not move away from the window. “No one can see me.”

“You will not see the man who has a gun trained on you, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said silkily. “Perhaps

you will see a flash of light when he releases the trigger, perhaps not. One thing is for certain— you won’t

hear the gunshot: you’ll be dead.”

The danger of being shot by a man she had never seen was not real; the man in front of her was.

“You are going out,” Victoria said evenly. “Who is going to prevent someone from shooting you?”

Gabriel dropped the two coats, cane and hat onto the pale blue leather couch that had been his bed only

short hours earlier.

Leaning down, he retrieved a leather holster. Lifting up a cushion, then, he pulled a pistol out from

underneath. “He won’t shoot me.”

The barrel of the pistol was a dull blue-black.

The smell of ham and eggs cloyed inside .

Victoria recognized that pistol: it was the one he had hidden underneath the white silk napkin the night

before. It was the pistol he had been prepared to shoot her with.

Victoria stepped away from the window, legs trembling.
Stomach
trembling.

Bitter coffee rose up inside . “You are going out to look for him.”

And k ill him.

The unspoken words hovered between them.

“Yes.” Gabriel slipped the holster over his right arm and buckled the attached belt around his ribs.

“The ...”—tears pricked Victoria’s eyes; she didn’t want to be afraid, for her, for Gabriel— “the

e said there was another House of Gabriel prior to the opening of this one. She said that it burned

down. Did the man you are looking for burn it down?”

“No.” Gabriel adjusted the leather strap looping his shoulder before sliding the revolver inside the holster,

his motions sure, practiced, as if he had done so thousands of times. He plucked up the pinstriped gray wool

jacket off the couch and faced Victoria. “I burned it down.”

Victoria took a deep breath; the silk knotted at her s loosened.

Gabriel’s silver eyes dared her to ask the question that raced through her head:
why?

“Your books—you have both English and French editions,” she said instead. “Which do you prefer to

read?”

“I learned to read English.” He did not lie. “Someday I hope to be equally proficient in French.”

Her fingers tightened around soft leather. “Who taught you to read English?”

“Michael.”

“Michael is English.”

“Yes.”

The question came unbidden. “My father has never visited your house, has he?”

The shock Victoria had experienced the night before at seeing reputable men and women—men and

women who were her father’s associates—lingered in her thoughts.

“No, your father has never visited my house.”

Victoria believed Gabriel.

“My father would not hurt me,” she said firmly.

But to convince whom? Herself?

Or Gabriel?

“Not even to protect his reputation?” Gabriel queried gently.

“I think he might find vindication in the fact that I am where I am,” she said matter-of-factly.

For once, truth did not bring pain.

She had known the price of leaving his protection when she had been sixteen. She would never go back,

even if he would accept her.

“And what about your brother?”

Gabriel’s question knocked the breath out of Victoria’s lungs. Her fingers dug into the leather, insensitive

to the damage she might cause. “How do you know I have a brother?”

Stupid, stupid question.

The library registrar. . .

“I know that he is thirty years old.” There was no mistaking the scorn in his eyes. “I know that he’s a

man, mademoiselle, well capable of caring for a sister. But he didn’t.”

Victoria tilted her chin. He had no right to judge her... “My brother is not aware of my circumstances.”

“Why not?”

“He ran away when he was twelve.”

“And he didn’t care enough to ever come back and see how his sister fared?”

Victoria was momentarily taken aback at the anger in Gabriel’s voice.

Her brother had cared ... too much.

“My brother ran away because of me.” Memory clouded her eyes. “I do not blame him.”

But Victoria blamed her father.

She would
always
blame her father.

“Why did he run away, Mademoiselle Childers?”

Revulsion tightened Victoria’s stomach.

“My father punished Daniel,” she said reluctantly.

The father had often punished Daniel, she did not need to add.

Gabriel would be repulsed, the old Victoria warned.

Gabriel deserved to know the truth, the new Victoria argued.

Gabriel silently waited. Her choice ...

Victoria looked back ...

“I heard Daniel crying later that night, so I went into his bedchamber, and I climbed into his bed, and I

held him. To comfort him,” she said defensively, hating that she still felt defensive after all these years. “He

went to sleep in my arms. I fell asleep, holding him. My father awakened us.”

Victoria could not hold back the pain and the anger.

“He accused us of. . . of lying together in sin.” She audibly swallowed. “My father does not understand

that one can love— and touch—without carnal desire.”

“So you became a governess,” Gabriel said.

“Yes.”

“And you loved other women’s children—”

Victoria’s lips quirked in wry amusement. “Not all children are lovable—”

“—because you did not trust yourself with men.”

Victoria could no longer run from the truth.

“Yes.”

Two faint bongs sliced through the tension, Big Ben announcing the hour.

“Desire is natural, mademoiselle.” Silver lights danced inside his eyes. “The man who used your desire

against you is at fault, not you.”

Victoria imagined a boy who wanted a bed to sleep in ... an adolescent who wanted success so that he

would never be poor again ... a man who wanted to feel the pleasure he created for others.

“The man who used your desire against you was at fault, sir,” Victoria said compassionately, “not you.”

Gabriel’s head jerked back as if Victoria had slapped him.

Victoria waited for Gabriel to accept the truth.

ing his arms into the pinstripe coat, Gabriel turned his back and grabbed up the derby coat, cane

and hat.

She glimpsed the dark-haired guard who waited outside the door.

Gabriel did not acknowledge him.

Victoria stared into dark, curious eyes. And then the door closed behind Gabriel.

Leaving Victoria alone.

She was suddenly ravenous.

Sitting down in Gabriel’s chair, she laid the French book down for easy access and lifted the silver dome

off of the plate.

A blue enameled ring circled the white china.

Victoria ate with pleasure. When she had finished the last bite of ham, the last piece of egg and the last

crust of a flaky croissant, she replaced the silver dome and carried it to the door.

The dark-haired man—younger than Gabriel by at least ten years—turned to her with a drawn gun.

She had surprised him.

He had surprised
her.

“Please tell the chef that breakfast was quite delicious,” she said evenly, holding out the tray.

Slowly the man’s dark eyes took in the blue silk spread that bared Victoria’s shoulders.

A spark of mischief flared inside his gaze.

Apparently, ion had taken neither the joy nor the desire out of him.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Sliding the pistol underneath his black jacket, he smiled and took the tray. His

voice was soft, cultured, the voice of seduction. “Pierre will be pleased.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He really was quite handsome.

“Thank you.” Victoria hesitated self-consciously. She took a deep breath. There really was no need for

self-consciousness—there was nothing she could do to shock anyone in the House of Gabriel. “Please tell

Pierre that I would appreciate it if my next meal is served with a tin of condoms. . . .”

Chapter
11

The London air was damp and chill. Yellow fog embraced the city.

Gabriel idly swung the silver cane.

It was hunting time.

He knew the address he sought; he just did not know if the man he wanted would be there.

Gabriel found the town house without mishap. It faced the park.

Childish voices permeated the yellow gloom that blanketed London. The children played London Bridge;

their nannies caught up on gossip.

No one would notice two men strolling in the fog. And if they did, no one would be able to identify them.

“Shoeblack fer a penny, guv’nor,” a gruff voice offered.

Gabriel stared down into six-year-old eyes that looked like they were sixty-six. He let the shoeblack

shine his shoes.

He did not think of his shoes. He did not think of the man he sought.

Gabriel thought of Victoria.

She thought to save an angel.

Gabriel was not an angel.

How does a woman love a man?
...

Michael loved Gabriel. His love had destroyed Gabriel’s life.

Gaston claimed Gabriel’s employees loved him. Their love allowed Gabriel to destroy their lives.

No woman had ever loved Gabriel.

He prayed no woman ever did.

The shoeblack sat back on his haunches so Gabriel could inspect his work. Blue glinted in his young-old

eyes.

The man who used your desire against you was at fault, sir, not you.

Gabriel jerked his foot off the box and tossed the shoeblack a florin.

The door to the town house opened.

A woman with two young girls—ages eight and ten—stepped out. The woman was dressed in a drab

cloak and bonnet; the two girls wore matching fur hats and muffs.

The governess looped a hand through an arm of each of her charges.

Victoria had said not all children were lovable. Had she been fond of the two girls? he fleetingly

wondered.

Would she be fond of a bastard’s children?

Gabriel waited to
see if the two girls and their governess went inside the park.

They did.

The governess shielded the two girls from Gabriel as she herded them through the gate. Fog quickly

shrouded them.

A muffin boy hawked his wares.

Victoria had not eaten her breakfast while he was there. Had she eaten after he left?

Gabriel bought a cinnamon muffin. No sooner had he finished it than the town house door opened again.

It was the man Gabriel sought.

He carried a standard mahogany cane in his right hand.

The silver-knobbed cane in Gabriel’s left hand was a reminder that nothing was what it seemed.

Gabriel pushed away from the park gate. Idly he crossed the street, deftly stepping over a steaming pile

of manure as he wove around a lumbering omnibus and a mule-drawn wagon. He gained the sidewalk.

The man leisurely walked down the steps and turned north, in the opposite direction of the park.

One pair of footsteps rang out in the coiling fog. It was joined by Gabriel’s footsteps.

Transferring his cane to his right hand, Gabriel reached inside his coat and pulled out the Adams revolver

from the shoulder holster; he kept it hidden underneath his derby jacket.

The man walked a little faster.

A bobby stood on the corner of the street ahead. Fast approaching the man and Gabriel was a hansom

cab.

The man raised his arm to hail it.

Gabriel had no choice but to act quickly.

“Sir. Sir!” Gabriel matched his footsteps to those of the man. Keeping his voice soft and unthreatening,

he asked, “Are you Mr. Thornton?”

The man paused and peered at Gabriel cautiously, arm still raised. He was dressed conservatively, a

middle-aged man with a pale, narrow, freckled face.

He did not look like a man who would terrorize a woman. Whereas Gabriel knew he looked exactly the

type of man he was: a man who had killed and would kill again.

“I am,” the man said nervously.

His first mistake.

Neither a lone man—nor a lone woman—should ever admit their name to a stranger on a street.

Gabriel ruthlessly took advantage of the man’s innocence.

“Your daughter Penelope has met with an accident, sir. The governess, a Miss Abercarthy”—the

woman at the employment agency whom David had questioned had been most eager to tell the handsome

man whatever he wanted to know—”asked that I fetch you.”

The man dropped his arm. The cabby’s nag clip-clopped on by.

“Penelope!” Surprise lit the man’s face. “Why, whatever has happened to her? Where is she?”

Gabriel did not have to lie.

“She’s in the park,” he said. Waiting to see if he would have to use force.

The man willingly turned toward the park.

There was a lull in traffic. Gabriel crossed the road easily, quickly, as if in a hurry to return to an

accident.

The man hurriedly followed him. Together they stepped through the open gate to the park.

“Where is she?” the man asked anxiously.

Children’s voices continued their play.
“London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down

...” overflowed the foggy park.

“Over here,” Gabriel said, stepping toward a thicker patch of fog toward the outline of a tree, away

from the playing children.

Thornton heedlessly walked into Gabriel’s trap.

Gabriel slammed the knob of his cane into the man’s chest.

He catapulted into the tree, breath escaping his chest in an audible
whoosh.
His hat toppled forward,

blinding one eye; at the same time, his cane flew out of nerveless fingers.

Gabriel pressed the silver knob into the man’s windpipe, effectively pinning him against the tree;

simultaneously, he shoved the blue-plated pistol into the man’s face.

Thornton gasped, visible eye wide with fear.

“I wouldn’t shout out if I were you, Thornton.” Gabriel’s breath shone silver in the yellow fog. He did

not
relieve the pressure on the man’s windpipe. “You wouldn’t want your two daughters to see you with

your face blown off.”

“Oh, I say ...” The man’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch, breath commingling with Gabriel’s.

“Quietly,” Gabriel softly warned him.

“My money—it’s in my coat.” The white of his right eye showed round like a miniature moon. “I can

pay you—I’m a rich man—”

Victoria had thought Gabriel wanted to blackmail her father.

For one second he wished the man in front of him were her father.

He would show him how little money mattered.

“I don’t want your money, Thornton.”

Thornton’s eye bulged. “Please don’t kill me.”

Victoria had not begged for her life. Had Thornton hoped to
make her do so?

Had he hoped to make her beg for pleasure?

Had he stolen into her bedchamber and seen her silk drawers when they were soft and white?

Gabriel held on to his anger.

“I won’t shoot you if you tell me what I want to know,” he said caressingly.

Gabriel didn’t lie.

A gunshot would attract attention; a crushed windpipe wouldn’t.

“Anything, sir,” the man babbled. He had no pride, no dignity, just the title gentleman that was a product

of breeding and wealth. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Gabriel didn’t doubt it.

“Anything, Thornton?” Gabriel asked softly, seductively.

“Yes . .. Yes!” Thornton said eagerly, hope blazing in the one eye that was visible.

It was his second mistake.

Hope killed.

It was time to end the game.

“Tell me why you’re terrorizing Victoria Childers.”

The man blinked. “Victoria Child—why, she is no longer employed in my household.”

“Why not?” Gabriel asked silkily.

The man’s eyes rolled nervously. “She—she—my wife dismissed her.”

“Now, why would she do that?”

“She—she—Victoria Childers—she flirted with me—”

It was Thornton’s third mistake.

A man did not lie when confronted by death.

“Victoria Childers is not a flirtatious woman.” Gabriel delicately pushed the bore of the pistol into

Thornton’s right cheek. Bone and metal impacted. “Why did you lie to your wife?”

“Oh, please—”

“The truth, Thornton,” Gabriel crooned. “All I ask is the truth.”

“I”—the man tried to swallow, could not— “I did not lie to my wife.”

“Are you saying Victoria Childers flirted with you, Thornton?” he asked dangerously.

The man did not make a fourth mistake.

His eye rolled upward, as if looking for a savior from above. “No, no, I did not say that.”

“Then what did you say?”

“My wi-wi-wife”—he stuttered—”my wife is a jealous woman.”

“The employment agency supplies you with a fresh governess every few months, Thornton. Surely you

did not think that your scheme would go unnoticed.”

“I do not—I do not know what you are talking about.” The bore pushed the inner flesh of his cheek

between his teeth so he could not completely close his mouth. His vowels broadened. “It is my wife ‘oo

employs and discharges the governesses.”

His wife ...

“You must have quite a harem by now.”

Thornton was beginning to realize how dangerous Gabriel was. “Plese don’t ‘urt me,” he begged.

“You don’t think you deserve to be hurt?” Gabriel asked gently.

Wondering what Thornton had planned to do with Victoria if she had come to him.

Wondering what he would have done to Victoria after he had finished with her.

Would he have given her to the second man before or after he had used her?

“I have done nuthing, I tell you,” the man said painfully.

“Yet Victoria Childers was discharged. Without a reference. Governesses who do not have references

cannot gain reputable employment. You really leave your women no choice, do you, Thornton, but to come

to you?”

For food. For shelter. For . ..

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t have women. I have my wife. My wife would know

where the gov’r’nesses go.

They don’t come to me. No one comes to me. I don’t know what you are asking me. I have done

nuthing, I tell you.”

A discordant peal of truth rang inside the man’s voice.

Gabriel ground the bore of the gun harder into his face. The man would have a bruised cheek come the

morrow. It would match his bruised throat.

“Oh, please, sir, please put the pistol away.”

The man’s breath smelled of coffee; the acrid aroma of ammonia wafted upward.

In his fear, Thornton had urinated in his trousers.

A child’s giggle drifted through the air. A distant reminder of innocence.

Victoria had said her employer had lied. To get her discharged.

She had said her former employer had written the letters. To seduce her.

Do you think your uncle arranged a woman to be sent to me in order to lure me to my death?

Gabriel had taunted Michael.

“Where were you going when you left your house?” Gabriel asked sharply.

“To my”—the man’s distorted voice wavered—”club.”

Doubt crawled up Gabriel’s spine.

The man had admitted Victoria had been employed.
By his wife.

If he was not the man ...

“If you don’t have a fountain pen, Thornton, I’m going to kill you,” Gabriel said deliberately.

“Oh, I have a foun’n pen, sir!” the man said eagerly. “Inside my ‘rock here! See!”

It could be a ruse.

The man could have a gun inside his frock instead of a fountain pen.

There was only one way Gabriel would ever know the truth. “Get the pen out of your frock,”

Gabriel ordered. “I ca-ca-can’t. My co-co-coat is buttoned.” “ it.”

“I ca-ca-can’t with th’ pistol in my cheek, sir.”

Cynicism twisted Gabriel’s mouth.

“You would be surprised at what a man can do, Thornton.” A man could kill. Or a man could grant life.

“ your coat.”

The man fumbled with the buttons. Some seconds later his coat fell open.

“Now reach inside your frock. Slowly.”

Thornton reached inside his frock. Slowly.

Gabriel’s thumb cocked the hammer of his revolver, a deadly click that echoed in the fog.

If Thornton produced a pistol, he was a dead man, the click said.

Sweat dripped down Thornton’s cheek, glistened on the blue-plated muzzle. He carefully pulled out a

thick bronze fountain pen.

It uncontrollably waved back and forth.

Had Victoria trembled in her fear? he wondered.

“I want you to write something,” Gabriel said brusquely.

It was time to find out who the real letter writer was.

“I do not—I do not ‘ave any paper.”

“Remove your left cuff.”

Gabriel stepped back far enough to allow Thornton to bring his hands in front of him.

He read Thornton’s intentions before the man had time to carry them out: he was going to run.

“Do you know what a bullet does to a man’s face at this range?” Gabriel asked softly.

Thornton ripped off his left cuff.

Carefully, Gabriel eased back the pistol. A round white pressure spot indented the man’s right cheek.

“If you yell, I will kill you,” he said clearly. “If you run, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Thornton breathed in short quips of air. “Yes, I understand you, sir.”

“Bon.
I want you to write on the cuff.”

“What? What do you want me to write? I’ll write anything you want. Anything. Just tell me what to

write ...”

Gabriel quickly thought. “Write, ‘The eternal hunger of a woman.’ ”

There was no recognition on Thornton’s face, only the fear of dying and the willingness to do anything at

all to escape death.

Using his mouth to uncap the fountain pen and his left palm as a desktop, Thornton hurriedly scribbled

the words down on the stiff white cuff, breath steaming the air.

Finished, he looked up eagerly, a child waiting for approval.

“Hold up the
cuff so I can read it,” Gabriel ordered.

Thornton held up the cuff, bronze cap plugging his mouth, hand visibly shaking, cuff weaving back and

forth, black script dancing.

Gabriel snatched the cuff out of Thornton’s hand.

The black script did not match that in Victoria’s letters.

His guts knotted with realization.

Thornton was not the man who had written Victoria Childers’s letters.

Chapter
12

A stiff white cloth floated down onto the linen sheet that Victoria tucked underneath the mattress.

Puzzled, she picked it up.

It was a man’s cuff. Black ink slashed across it.

Victoria turned the cuff right side up.

The eternal hunger of a woman
slapped her in the face.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Victoria dropped the cuff; at the same time she jerked upright.

The cuff spiraled downward. Warm breath tickled the back of her neck.

She pivoted around.

Gabriel stood only inches away from her. He smelled of cold air and London fog.

The eggs and ham and croissant Victoria had earlier devoured rose up into .

“I met your former employer, Mademoiselle Childers.”

Met her former employer. ..

“The man who wrote that note on the cuff was not my employer,” she said stiffly.

“
Au contraire,
mademoiselle.” Gabriel’s breath smelled faintly of cinnamon. “Peter Thornton was very

much your employer.”

Was
her employer?

Did Gabriel infer that Peter Thornton was her former employer? Or that he was
the former
Peter

Thornton?

Had Gabriel killed him?

Victoria brought her hand up to . Her pulse throbbed a warning against her fingers:
death,

danger, desire.
“How do you know that Peter Thornton is the name of my former employer?”

“I sent one of my men around to the various employment agencies.” The warmth of
Gabriel’s breath

was a sharp contrast to the coldness in his eyes. “He told them that he had interviewed a governess named

Victoria Childers whom he wished to employ, but he had misplaced her address. The West Agency found

your file. They did not have your current address, but they hoped that your former employer would.”

Admiration vied with Victoria’s resentment. “You are very thorough, sir.”

Frighteningly so.

The man who had written the letters could take lessons from him.

“Ignorance kills, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said softly. “So do secrets.”

He knew about her father. Her brother.

Victoria did not have any more secrets.

One thought rapidly followed the next.

Victoria had never seen Peter Thornton’s handwriting, but if it was not he who wrote the letters, who

did? At the same time it dawned on her that she had never before seen the handwriting of the silver-eyed,

silver-haired man before her.

Laissez le jeu commencer.

Let the play begin.

But who were the players?

Unexpected hurt squeezed Victoria’s chest.

Gabriel did not trust her. But she had trusted him.

She
would not
be afraid.

Dropping her hand, Victoria squared her shoulders; her s strained against the knotted silk. “And so

you once again believe that I am in league with this—this man whom you claim is after you.”

Hot breath seared her cheek.

“Aren’t you?” Gabriel asked lightly.

She tasted cinnamon.

Gabriel’s eyelashes were too long, too thick. His face too beautiful. Too remote.

The smell of burned wool lingered in the air.

Victoria wore the cover to his bed. Even if she had a safe place to
run to, she couldn’t. He had burned

her dress.

She was trapped. With only the truth as her savior.

Truth had not saved her position six months earlier.

“No.” Victoria gritted her teeth. “I am not.”

“The man who wrote the letters knew you wore silk drawers, mademoiselle.”

Peter Thornton had been the only man she knew who had had access to her bedchamber and intimate

apparel.

Who else would know—

“I sold all but one pair of my drawers on St. Giles Street.” Victoria did not look away from those

dangerous silver eyes. “Anyone who followed me could have went into the store after I did and purchased

whatever I’d sold.”

The thought that a stranger had dogged her footsteps did not comfort Victoria.

“It’s possible,” Gabriel admitted.

But not likely, his silver eyes said.

She would not beg. Cry.

She would not be hurt because an untouchable angel did not believe her.

Victoria notched her chin up higher. “I will not be a victim.”

The black of his pupils devoured the silver of his irises. “You already are, Victoria Childers.”

Awareness of her bare chest and shoulders above the pale blue silk spread and of her ness

underneath it inched over Victoria’s skin.

He was too close, the heat emanating from his body too hot.

How could he doubt her?

He had
talk ed
to her.... He had told her his needs. ...

“And whose victim am I, sir?” Victoria challenged. “You say there is a man who would hurt me; I have

not seen this man. You claim you will protect me; it is you who are threatening me. Whose victim am I?”

Her hurt was briefly reflected inside his gaze. It was replaced by cold calculation.

“A man is terrorizing you, mademoiselle.” Cinnamon-flavored heat feathered her lips. “Yet you won’t

give me his name. Why is that?”

“I don’t know his name,” Victoria repeated stubbornly. There was no disguising the desperation in her

voice.

“You said it was Thornton.”

“Yes,” she bit out.

“Why didn’t you give me his name?”

She her lips, tasting cinnamon, tasting Gabriel’s breath. “Because I was afraid.”

She was
still
afraid.

“Of what, mademoiselle?”

Both his voice and his breath were a caress. The coldness inside his eyes froze her eyelashes.

“I was afraid that you would find him,” Victoria said.

“But I did find him.”

“I was afraid you would talk to him.”

“I did talk to him.”

Black specks dotted Victoria’ s vision. “I was afraid he would tell you who I am.”

“I know who you are.”

“You do not know who I am!” she lashed out.

He did not blink an eyelash at her outburst—an outburst that proved anew Victoria was not the woman

she had always thought herself to be.

Calm. Rational.

Above the desires of the flesh.

Dark knowledge glimmered inside Gabriel’s eyes. “I know you, Victoria.”

He had seen her body, his eyes said.

Gabriel knew the size of her s, the narrowness of her hips, the curve of her buttocks. But he did

not know
her.

“What do you know of me?”

“I know that you enjoy the feel of silk against your skin.” His gaze flicked over her shoulders,

toyed with the silk tucked between her s. “I know that you’re courageous. I know that you’re loyal.”

His eyelashes lifted, silver gaze pinning hers. “I know that you’re going to get me killed.”

Victoria’s breath caught in —or perhaps it was his breath that snagged inside . “I

would never hurt you.”

“I know that, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because of your eyes.” Gabriel’s eyes darkened, silver becoming gray. “You’re here because of your

eyes.”

She must not have heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Madame René told you that Michael and I are friends.”

It took a second for Victoria’s thoughts to switch from one subject to another.

“Yes. She said that there are bonds between you that could never be broken.”

Except through death . . .

“When we were thirteen, a madame in Paris took us in.” The past crowded Gabriel’s gaze. “She trained

us to be .”

Six months earlier Victoria would have been horrified. In the last six months she had seen far younger

boys and girls on the streets pandering their flesh.

“Michael.” Victoria carefully phrased her next question, afraid of upsetting the precarious balance that

flowed afresh between them. “Was he also trained to please ... men?”

Gabriel’s face remained impassive.
“Non.”

Victoria tried to imagine the sort of friendship that would grow between two boys trained so differently.

“Do not pity me, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said sharply.

“I do not.” Victoria’s throat tightened. “I think you are fortunate to have a friend like Michael.”

A friend who would understand the boy Gabriel had been and the man he had grown up to be.

A muscle ticked inside Gabriel’s left cheek. “You are here because you have Michael’s eyes.”

Victoria blinked in confusion. “Your friend has blue eyes?”

“Michael has hungry eyes, mademoiselle. The color doesn’t matter.”

Hungry eyes . . .

Heat coursed through Victoria. “I do not..
.flirt
. . .
”

She
had not
invited the last six months . . .

“You want to be loved, mademoiselle.”

The five years Victoria had lived under her father’s care after her mother had left crashed down on top

of her. He had forbade emotional expression, physical contact, endearments.

A woman’s need to love, he had repeatedly said, was a woman’s sin.

“And is that so wrong?” Victoria asked, her voice echoing a young girl’s cry. “Is it a sin to need love?”

“ can’t afford to love.”

“Why not? Why should anybody be deprived of simple affection?”

Cinnamon-flavored regret flickered inside Gabriel’s eyes, silver to gray, gray to silver. “I am not capable

of loving a woman, mademoiselle.”

Victoria stood to her full height. “I did not ask for your love, sir.”

“I have shared with you more than I have ever shared with anybody else—”

“Thank you—”

“—but trust comes at a price.”

It always came back to one man.

Victoria could not keep the anger out of her voice. “I do not know who the man is that you seek.”

“I know that.”

Then why did he keep questioning her?

“I don’t know who wrote the letters.”

Cinnamon burst over her cheek and her lips. “Then tell me something that you do know, mademoiselle.”

Victoria did not know how to love a man. She did not know how to
seduce
a man.

“I cannot imagine knowing anything that would be of interest to you, sir,” she said. “I am a governess,

not a—a—”

Victoria floundered.

“?” Gabriel supplied cynically.

“I did not say that,” she retorted.

“You defended me to Madame René,” he said unexpectedly. Wariness tinged his voice, shadowed his

eyes. “Why?”

Why had Victoria defended a man who had by turns seduced her and threatened her?

“Because you want,” Victoria said.

Despite his past. Or because of it.

Gabriel did not deny his wants.

Regret glimmered inside his eyes. “If you could, mademoiselle, would you help me?”

Help an untouchable angel...

“Yes.”

Victoria would help him.

“You have information that I need.”

There he went again—

Victoria opened .

“I want to know the interior layout of the Thornton house,” Gabriel said.

snapped shut. “What?”

“I want to know what room Mrs. Peter Thornton sleeps in,” he said, as if it were the most common thing

in the world for a man to ask a woman whom he had praised for courage and loyalty to give him

information about another woman’s sleeping quarters. “Regardless of whether you give me that information

or not, I will seek her out. With that information, however, I will be less likely to accidentally surprise

someone.”

And k ill them.

“Did you ...
injure
Mr. Thornton?” Victoria asked compulsively.

“He is alive, mademoiselle.”

For now.

Seduction.

The illusion of trust.

Victoria’s mouth tightened. “You are seducing me into providing you private information.”

“No, mademoiselle, I am asking you to trust me. As I trust you.”

Every breath Victoria drew was warmed by Gabriel’s breath.

“Why do you wish to visit Mrs. Thornton in her bedchamber? Why not take tea with her?” Victoria

reasoned. “I’m certain she would find you quite charming.”

Victoria was horrified to hear the jealousy in her voice.

Mrs. Thornton was a beautiful woman. Her pale blond hair was glossy with health, her lips and her

hands were not chapped from cold or exposure.

“She employed you,” Gabriel said enigmatically.

“Yes,” Victoria said curtly. “It is not unusual for the woman of the house to oversee the employment of

”—Victoria had long ago become used to referring to herself as a servant, so why did she balk now?—“

servants.”

“What is the average stay for a governess?”

Victoria frowned. “That depends upon the needs of a household and the competence of a governess.”

“Mrs. Thornton employs—and discharges—two and three governesses a year.” Gabriel paused,

monitoring her reaction.
“Every
year.”

Two and three governesses ...
Every year.

Gabriel could not be suggesting what Victoria thought he was.

“That’s ... Her children are spoiled.” Penelope, the eldest, loved to tattle; no doubt it had cost many

servants their position. “Governesses often seek other employment.”

Gabriel’s gaze was relentless; his breath was warmly enticing. “You did not seek other employment,

mademoiselle.”

And how did he know that?

“I was making inquiries.”

The truth.

“Did Mrs. Thornton know that you were making inquiries?”

“I...” Victoria remembered Mrs. Thornton barging into her bedroom unannounced one evening shortly

before dismissing her. Victoria had been poring over a newspaper. “Perhaps.”

“Many governesses do not have homes or family.”

There could be no mistaking Gabriel’s implications.

“And because many of us are homeless, you think that Mrs. Thornton is employing—and discharging—

governesses for some nefarious purpose?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly, watching her ...

“You think that those other governesses were subjected
to
the same treatment that I received?”

“It is possible,” Gabriel said.

But if that was the case .. .

“You think that the man who wrote the letters to me also wrote letters to the other governesses.”

Gabriel did not
respond.

He did not have to respond. The answer was in his silver eyes.

Victoria’s skin felt like it was trying to independently crawl away.

“You think those other governesses are dead,” she said in dawning horror.

While Victoria was still alive. Saved by stubborn independence.

He unwaveringly gauged her reactions; his body heat did not warm her.

“Surely Mr. Thornton would know if his wife were an accessory to”—Victoria fought down her panic

—“to murder.”

“It pleases him to believe his wife is a jealous woman.”

Victoria had never seen Mrs. Thornton display any signs of jealousy.

“Why would she . . . What pleasure would a woman gain in—I have seen Mrs. Thornton’s handwriting.

” Victoria’s floundering voice found reason. “It was not she who wrote those notes.”

Warm cinnamon breath her face. “Then we must discover who did write them.”

Victoria could trust Gabriel. Or she could distrust him.

Her choice . . .

“How do I know the writing on the cuff isn’t your handwriting?”

“That is easily proven.”

As was Mrs. Thornton’s involvement with the man who waited for Victoria to come to him for food.

Shelter. Pleasure.

“You will not hurt Mrs. Thornton,” Victoria said. But to convince whom?

“I will not kill her,” Gabriel agreed.

“How did you ... persuade Mr. Thornton to meet with you?”

“I met him in the park outside his home.”

Yes, the park shrouded in fog would be private.

“Mrs. Thornton shops in the mornings,” Victoria hurriedly suggested. “Perhaps you could catch her then

...”

“I saw the governess they replaced you with, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said with calm deliberation. “

Perhaps they will lose patience with you and concentrate on her.”

And another woman would fall victim to the pattern. Dismissal without a reference. Dying a little every

day with poverty and despair.

Receiving letters promising pleasure and safety.

“Very well,” Victoria said decisively. “I will help you.”

“Merci,
mademoiselle.”

Without warning, Gabriel stepped back.

“Trust, mademoiselle.” The warm cinnamon breath was replaced with the acrid odor of burnt wool. “We

must both trust.”

Victoria would not allow him to lie to her. “Yet you do not trust me, sir.”

A drop of London fog glittered on his shoulder. “Perhaps it is myself that I do not trust.”

“Don’t.”

The objection was out before Victoria could stop it.

An ember popped in the fireplace.

“Don’t what?” Gabriel asked softly.

“Don’t seduce me with an illusion of trust.”

Victoria wanted to believe that the beautiful man in front of her found her attractive. She wanted to

believe that she could trust an untouchable angel.

She wanted to believe that he would not seduce her with words merely to gain her trust.

Victoria knew better than to believe simply because she wanted to.

“You think the man who wrote the letters can lead you to the man you want.” She held his gaze with

resolve. “Perhaps he can. I have told you I will help you, so please don’t lie to me.”

“I do not lie.”

He did not like having his drawers pilfered; he did not like being called a liar. . .

“There are many different types of lies, sir.” Victoria tilted her chin in challenge. “Omission is as much a

lie as prevarication.”

“I always pay my debts, mademoiselle.”

It was not the response she had expected.

“Do you think that you owe me a debt?” Victoria swallowed. “And that you can repay it by telling me

what you believe I want to hear?”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe I owe you a debt, Victoria Childers.”

“Why?”

“I loved a man, mademoiselle. If I had not loved him, you would not be here.”

Michael.
The chosen angel.

“You loved him ... as a friend?”

“I loved him as a brother.”

Victoria had loved David as a brother. Her father had twisted her innocent love and defiled it.

“There is no sin in love,” she protested involuntarily.

“No, mademoiselle, there is no sin in love,” Gabriel said unflinchingly. “The sin is in loving.”

A man such as he should not feel so much pain.

A woman such as she should not care.

“I wish I had never read the letters,” Victoria said quietly. “I wish I had never learned that aspect of my

character.”

Gabriel did not move; he suddenly felt miles away. “You wish that you did not desire an angel?”

There was no hiding from the truth.

“No.” For better or for worse, Victoria did desire Gabriel. “No, I do not wish that.”

She did not have the courage to ask Gabriel if he regretted bidding on her.

“Madame René delivered some clothes to you,” Gabriel said abruptly, silver eyes guarded.

Clothes.

Madame René.

Victoria took a deep breath.

It had been a scant few hours since Victoria had stood before Gabriel while Madame René

measured her. It seemed like a few years had passed.

Gabriel was prepared for her to reject his clothes. His person. His past.

Choices . ..

“Did you bring these clothes up with you?” Victoria asked briskly.

“No.”

She stared. “Then how do you know they are here?”

“Gaston told me they had arrived when I returned. I told him to bring them up. I heard the door open and

close a few minutes ago.”

And had not told her.

Gabriel’s omission did not curtail a spark of anticipation. Grasping handfuls of silk in both hands, Victoria

preceded him out of the bedroom.

An assortment of white boxes were piled high on the pale blue leather couch—three long dress boxes,

shorter rectangular boxes, three hat boxes. Four shoe boxes. The boxes were all stamped with rose petals.

Victoria had not had a new dress in over a year. She had never owned a custom-made dress.

It was unseemly to take frivolous pleasure in expensive clothing when there were so many on the streets

who had so little.

“There are too many boxes,” she said repressively.

“Madame René has assured me that women never have too many clothes.”

Was that a smile in Gabriel’s voice?

Victoria quickly glanced up—she had seen cynicism twist his mouth, but she had never seen him smile.

And he did not now. But there was a smile in his eyes.

Beautiful silver eyes .. .

“I will pay you back,” she said hurriedly.

His voice was a light caress. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, seeing your pleasure is payment enough.”

Her stomach somersaulted. “Are you flirting with me, sir?”

“No, mademoiselle.” The smile left his eyes. “I do not flirt.”

“But you know how?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, I know how.”

To flirt. To kiss. To give pleasure.

But he did not know how to receive pleasure.

“What shall I open first?” she asked. And knew that she sounded like a child at Christmas.

Faint memories stirred. Of a loving voice and warm laughter . ..

Sounds familiar to an eleven-year-old girl, not to a thirty-four-year-old woman.

The memories were gone as quickly as they had come.

Gabriel gestured toward the couch. “Whichever box you prefer, mademoiselle.”

Victoria tentatively sat down; leather squeaked, silk swished. Carefully she picked up a rose

petal-imprinted box.

It was surprisingly heavy.

She curiously lifted the lid.

It was a box full of gloves—wool gloves, leather gloves, white silk gloves, long silk evening gloves. They

were stained with red.

Someone had spilled ink on them.

Victoria frowned.

Two of the black leather gloves had mannequin hands stuffed inside them, as if they had been plucked

out of a showcase.

Slowly it dawned on Victoria that the hands inside the black leather gloves were not carved out of wood:

they were made out of flesh and bones.

The hands were human hands. And the red ink that stained the gloves was human blood.

Chapter
13

“Dear God,” echoed in Victoria’s ears.

It was a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like Victoria’s voice. It came from far, far away.

Too far away to have come from Victoria.

One second the box laid on her lap, the next second it was gone.

Numbly holding the lid between her fingers, Victoria glanced up.

Gabriel’s face was dizzily close.

He had fine pores, she thought. His skin was baby-smooth.

Silver eyes captured her gaze.

A silky masculine voice bolted through her memory . ..
If she’s not yet dead, she soon will be.

“It’s the e’s”—Victoria could not bring herself to vocalize the body parts that had been

amputated—”it’s her.”

“Possibly.”

Gabriel straightened, face shooting back. He held the box between long white fingers.

Victoria dropped the lid. “It’s not Madame—”

“No, it’s not Madame René.” There was no emotion inside Gabriel’s eyes—no pleasure, no horror. “Her

hands are smaller.”

Victoria had never before fainted. She had never before
wanted
to faint.

She did now.

Victoria abruptly realized there had been one other person who would have known about her personal

artifacts.

“Doily knew that I wore silk drawers,” she whispered.

And now Dolly was dead. As Gabriel had predicted.

Victoria convulsively swallowed.

The room tilted.

“Put your head between your legs,” a sharp voice rang out.

Victoria looked at the other boxes—the three dress boxes were long enough to hold a torso. The three

round hatboxes were deep enough to hold a head—

The eggs and ham and croissant she had eaten earlier rushed up into .

She lurched up, feet tangling. The silk tucked between her s slipped free, slithered down her body.

Victoria ran for the bathroom.

Gabriel had spoken of death, but it had not been real; it was all too real now.

Victoria wondered if Madame René would be disappointed in her weak stomach. And then she didn’t

wonder anything.

She dropped down on her knees before the porcelain toilet. And remembered more words—hers,

Gabriel’s.

Do you plan on k illing me, then, to spare me this.
. .
death?

You would thank me in the end.

Perhaps she would.

Gabriel opened up a hatbox. A crimson-stained hat cradled a woman’s head.

Death had erased Dolly’s pain and horror.

Gabriel opened the second hatbox. A smart Windsor hat with a short black veil resided within.

No death there.

Gabriel opened the third hatbox. The frivolous feathered confection inside held a man’s head, gray hair

smeared with dark crimson. Gerald Fitzjohn’s face was lax.

He saw Victoria’s pleasure. He saw Victoria’s horror.

For a brief moment he had shared her pleasure. He did not share her horror: Gabriel had lived on the

streets too long to be repulsed by faces of death.

Dolly and Fitzjohn had been slated to die; they had died.

The price of sin: blackmail. Death.

Have you sinned, mademoiselle?

Not yet.

Gabriel replaced the three lids. Straightening, he rounded his desk and pressed the buzzer underneath the

black marble top. Striding across the carpet, he flung open the satinwood door.

A man with rich mahogany-colored hair jumped to attention. “Mr. Gabriel, sir!”

“Remove the boxes on the couch, Evan,” Gabriel calmly ordered while rage rose within him.

He would have spared Victoria the reality of death. The second man obviously did not want her to be

spared.

Green eyes stoically met silver ones.

“Yes, sir,” Evan said.

Gabriel wondered if Evan sympathized with Victoria’s plight.

He wondered if he would try to set her free.

Gabriel stepped aside for Evan to enter.

Evan stooped to pick up a box.

“Evan.”

Evan paused.

“There are human remains in some of the other boxes.”

Perhaps there were remains in all of the other boxes, although Gabriel doubted it. The weight of the

boxes combined would have raised questions when they were brought up.

Evan stiffened in horror, proof that not all men who had lived on the streets had lost the ability to be

repulsed by death.

“Take the body parts and dump them into the Thames,” Gabriel ordered flatly. “Burn the clothes and the

boxes.”

Many people disappeared into the Thames. Gabriel did not want slivers of human bone inside his

furnace.

Evan did not question Gabriel. He picked up a weighted hatbox.

“Evan.”

“Yes, sir?” Evan’s voice was subdued.

He
had
been a sympathizer.

“Gaston did warn you to guard Mademoiselle Childers well, did he not?”

Evan did not turn around. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell Julien and Allen what is in the hatbox you hold,” Gabriel ordered blandly. “Tell Julien and Allen that