Page 32 of A Bride By Morning
But that life was gone, and he could never return.
Smoke wafted through the road as he strolled down a narrow lane redolent with the aroma of coal fire. A scream echoed in the distance—perhaps a drunkard or easy prey for a criminal. Who could tell? People watched him with alarmed bafflement as Gabriel roamed the East End streets. He couldn’t blame them; it wasn’t every day they saw a gentleman casually strolling their part of the city, let alone past nightfall. He made sure to greet them with a cheerful voice, his distinctive accent marking him as an outsider.
Every criminal in London assumed a stupid toff made for an easy mark.
Then, in the darkened lanes of Whitechapel, a shadow fell across his back. Gabriel had years to grow intimately attuned to danger. He honed his instincts for combat. But that night, he wanted them to see the expensive textiles of his coat and gloves, the gleaming buttons they could filch and sell for a fine price.
That night, he wanted them to think him helpless.
A sharp whistle split the air, and two men strolled out from opposite ends of the lane, effectively closing Gabriel in. One of them smoked a cheroot, the lit end glowing in the dark. The other wore a black cap low over his brow.
“Bit far from the posh end of town, guv,” the man with the cheroot said, exhaling in a puff of smoke.
Gabriel’s performance was timid and perhaps a touch stupid. “Ah—yes. I’m not sure of my way back. Could you help in redirecting me to Mayfair?”
The smoking man grinned slowly, his notice catching on the man in the black hat circling at Gabriel’s back. Both were confident they’d just stumbled upon the easiest robbery of their fucking lives.
“Maybe,” Black Hat said, inching closer.
A violent rhythm pulsed through Gabriel’s veins, a song of brutality that had become his enduring companion since Moscow. He soothed it back to perform a bit longer; they were all monsters meeting in a dark alley. These men just hadn’t recognized it yet.
He pretended to scoff. “Gentlemen, if you don’t intend to offer any assistance, then I bid you—”
“Thinkin’ I like that coat, guv,” the cigarette man said.
Black Hat made a noise of agreement. “Bet those buttons could fetch a bit of quid, aye Mitchel?” He motioned to Gabriel’s footwear. “And them boots?” He gave a soft whistle. “Reckon those’ll keep me cockdeep in whores for a year.”
“Aye, that they could,” the cigarette man said. “Might check to see if he has blunt in his pockets. Eh, guv? Wanna help a lad out?”
“No,” Gabriel said. He exuded arrogance, the assuredness of an aristocrat secure of his place in the world. Let it provoke them. He was growing tired of their mutual mockery of politeness. That fraying thread of control was on its last filament. “Fuck off.”
Black Hat shoved him hard into the wall. Gabriel gritted his teeth against the jolt through his bones, but he had endured worse. So much worse.
“Now that wasn’t nice, was it, Mitchell?” Black Hat said, pulling a knife from inside his jacket. “Thinkin’ you owe us an apology, but we’ll take the coat, the boots, the gloves, and might consider leavin’ ye with a pair of trousers to find yer way back to yer fancy Mayfair residence.”
“I said”—His voice was steady, dangerous—“fuck off.”
Black Hat snarled, and both men attacked. And Gabriel’s remaining fiber of control splintered. Brutality surged through his body. It had been whetted like a blade for worse. For men who had been trained to kill.
His assailants grunted in shock when he fought back. They attempted to coordinate attacks, but Gabriel was faster. He was better trained.
And he had craved a fight all fucking day.
Gabriel let them get a few hits in—punishments he endured at the cost of his proclivities. God, but this was what he needed to feel alive. His body was a weapon formed from steel, forged in fire, and sharpened without mercy. He knew nothing else. Everything he became over the last ten years was in that alleyway.
He would do well to remember it if he ever thought he was good enough for Lydia.
By the time Gabriel finished, both men were battered and unconscious on the ground. He plucked their weapons from the pavement and straightened his coat. The tide of violence that had dispersed through his veins began to wither. Then it was gone—and he was empty again. A void where his mind should be. A void where his heart should be.
Ice through his veins.
Just when Gabriel pondered provoking another fight elsewhere, a man stepped into the lane and leaned a shoulder against the building. Gabriel’s lips flattened when he realized it was Wentworth.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Wentworth said.
“Neither should you,” Gabriel said in annoyance, wiping one of the blades against his coat. It was a decent weapon. He’d keep that one. “Are you following me?”
Wentworth snorted. “Of course not. I was at the Brimstone playing a game of hazard when Nick Thorne received word that an aristocrat was wandering about his territory like a fucking stray dog. I thought to myself, ‘It can’t be Gabriel St. Clair, who’s supposed to be in Surrey with his new bride. Surely not.’” His expression turned hard. “But here you are. Not where you’re supposed to be.”
