Page 46 of A Bride By Morning
Gabriel’s limbs were stiff from loitering in an adjacent side alley. The misting rain had long since begun to penetrate his wool overcoat. But he ignored these discomforts and concentrated on what he was about to do; the anger during his earlier carriage ride had transformed into a cold rage that congealed beneath his skin. The weight of the pistol hidden beneath his clothes was a reminder of how far his control had stretched. The bullet that nearly killed Lydia had been his limit.
After a few long minutes, Wentworth motioned with a hand, and the men crossed the road. When they entered the brothel, Gabriel’s senses were instantly overwhelmed with the redolence of pungent perfume intended to mask the sweat, body odor, and stale stench of fucking.
The sex workers eyed both men in interest, immediately preening for their inspection. Gabriel and Wentworth might have dressed down for the evening, but their attire and appearance bore unmistakable evidence that they had money enough to spend. An evening with one of them might make a prostitute enough to keep a few coins after she paid the landlord and the bawd.
The madame in question came forward to greet them. She scrutinized their clothes and clean, handsome faces. Her smile was one of eager interest. “Welcome,” she said in a thick, throaty voice. “Come to purchase a girl for the evenin’?”
Before either Gabriel or Wentworth could respond, one of the women approached, her dress displaying a generous amount of cleavage. “I’m free, ma’am,” she said, eying Gabriel with a hungry look. “Be happy to service this one. Maybe even his friend, as well.”
Wentworth ignored the doxy and held up a roll of notes to the madam. “For you and your girls, if you tell me which room the man in the red cap went into, and you don’t come upstairs if you hear him scream.”
The madam’s attention was fixed on the money, but she made no move to take it. “If ye hurt my girl in there with him—”
“No harm will come to her. Upon my honor.”
“Can’t depend on a man’s honor.” Nevertheless, she plucked the wad out of his hand. “But I can depend on this. He’s on the second floor, the third door on the right. Ye leave a corpse up there, yer takin’ care of it yerself.”
Wentworth bowed at the waist before heading to the stairwell. Gabriel followed after him, catching the eye of the earlier prostitute, who gave a wink and wiggled her fingers as if to say,Come back anytime.
Gabriel and Wentworth climbed the stairs and stopped at the correct door. Within, a man moaned his pleasure, the sounds puncturing through thin walls that did little to muffle the noise. Wentworth didn’t wait for those moans to escalate—he raised a booted foot and kicked open the door.
The prostitute rose from her knees with a startled screech. Rafferty whirled, his trousers around his ankles.
Unfortunate timing, indeed.
Gabriel tossed the woman a dressing robe left discarded over a chair. “Out.”
The prostitute fled the room in a hurry.
“What the?” Rafferty sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You can’t just come in here and—”
“For god’s sake,” Wentworth said in disgust. “Pull up your trousers.”
“Sod off and wait your turn!”
Gabriel reached his limit. He grabbed the pistol concealed within his overcoat and aimed it at Rafferty. “He said to pull up your fucking trousers.”
The other man gaped at the pistol. Gabriel motioned impatiently with the weapon, and Rafferty quickly bent to pull up the garment, his hands shaking as he fastened the buttons. “I—I don’t. . .”
Wentworth passed Gabriel a sharp glance. Gabriel understood the unspoken message:do not shoot this man in a bawdy house, you absolute fuckwit.But Gabriel knew how to interrogate a man until he broke. He had been trained for it.
“Now . . . now, I don’t want any trouble . . .”
“No, I don’t expect so,” Gabriel said, his voice filled with deadly calm. “Not when you have cargo that still needs to be unloaded for the Syndicate and money to collect. Yes?”
Fear exploded across Rafferty’s features. He lunged for the doorknob, but Gabriel was too fast. He had one of his throwing knives out in a blink. The blade sliced through the other man’s hand just as he reached for the doorknob.
The man shouted. Blood spattered on the carpet at his feet. Something went quiet in Gabriel’s mind—a dark, cavernous mental space he always retreated to in Moscow. A place where Gabriel St. Clair ceased to exist, and guilt did not sully his work.
“Monty,” Wentworth said quietly. “You promised.”
“Not to worry,” Gabriel said, approaching a whimpering Rafferty. He slid his pistol back into his coat; he’d always preferred knives. “I’m not going to kill him. As long as he cooperates.”
Gabriel seized the hilt of the blade, and Rafferty hollered again. “Shh. That’s enough. We’re in a business establishment, and the girls here still have to work. So let me make one thing clear. I take this blade out now, and you may still have use of your hand. I twist it, and you learn how to function left-handed, and you do it quickly. Understand me?”
The man gave another pathetic mewl, but nodded. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.
“Good.” Gabriel let his features settle into an icy disdain. It was a look that many men had seen before their deaths, one that he knew was as cold as a Russian winter. “You’ve done dealings with someone for your new shipment. I’m uncertain of the name he goes by, but you might know him as a man with one eye.”
