The last thing Ethan wanted to see was the reflection of his own soul. God help him, it might look far too similar to the man sitting across from him.
But there was his mother’s influence. More and more often of late, Ethan had found himself thinking about her shame at the sins her circumstances had obliged her to commit, and her hopes that he would grow up to be a good man. She’d turned to religion near the end of her life, and had worried constantly about salvation, not only her own, but also her son’s. She had died of cholera not long after Ethan had joined K division.
One of Ethan’s last memories of his mother was how she’d wept with pride upon first seeing him in the blue uniform. She’d thought it would be the saving of him.
Oh, how she would have hated Sir Jasper Jenkyn.
“As for Dr. Gibson,” Jenkyn continued, “my compliments on your taste. A woman with a brain will keep you interested out of bed as well as in it.”
If Jenkyn thought Ethan cared for Garrett, he would use her as a pawn to manipulate him. She might be threatened or harmed. She might simply disappear one day, as if into thin air, never to be seen again unless Ethan did whatever unspeakable thing Jenkyn wanted of him.
“I prefer a woman who’s easy for the taking, and easy to discard,” Ethan said curtly. “Unlike Dr. Gibson.”
“Not at all,” came Jenkyn’s softly chilling reply. “As you and I are both aware, Ransom . . . anyone can be discarded.”
Leaving Whitehall on foot, Ethan headed north and cut across to the Victoria Embankment, a road and river walk along the Thames. The new roadway along the granite-faced embankment had been expected to ease the crush of daytime traffic along Charing Cross, Fleet Street, and the Strand, but it seemed to have made no appreciable difference. At night, however, the embankment was comparatively quiet. Occasional puffs of smoke or steam rising through the iron ventilation grids reminded pedestrians of the subterranean world beneath their feet: tunnels, telegraph wires, underground railways, and pipes for gas and water.
Wandering near a coal and forage wharf, Ethan reached a maze of alleys crowded with excavating equipment and temporary contractors’ workshops. He slipped behind a massive stone-channeling machine and waited.
In less than two minutes, a dark figure entered the alley.
As Ethan had expected, it was Gamble. The lean, wolfish face and sharp brow were distinctive even in the shadows. Like Ethan, he was tall but not so towering that he would stand out in a crowd. With his big arms and bulldog chest, he carried most of his power in his upper torso.
There were many things to admire about William Gamble, but very little to like. He was physically adept and aggressive, able to tolerate brutal punishment and keep coming back for more. His tenacity had driven him to train harder than any of Jenkyn’s men. He never complained or made excuses, never exaggerated or boasted. Those were all qualities Ethan respected.
But Gamble had been born into a coal-mining family in Newcastle, and the desperate poverty of his childhood had engendered a ferocity that had burned out any softer qualities. He had come to revere Jenkyn with an intensity that verged on zealotry. There was no sentiment in him, no trace of empathy, which Ethan had once judged as a strength but had turned out to be a weakness. Gamble tended to miss the fiddly little clues and signals that people unconsciously gave away in conversation. As a result, he didn’t always ask the right questions, and often misinterpreted the answers.
Keeping still, Ethan watched Gamble come farther into the space between the sheds. He waited until Gamble’s back was turned, and sprang from behind, fast as a striking cobra. Hooking the bend of his arm around the thick neck, Ethan jerked the man back against his chest. Ignoring Gamble’s violent writhing, he gripped his own left bicep and fitted his hand against the back of the man’s head to increase the pressure of the choke. The combination of pain and oxygen deprivation worked in a matter of seconds.
Gamble submitted, going still.
In a quietly vicious tone, Ethan asked near his ear, “How long have you been reporting on me to Jenkyn?”
“Weeks,” Gamble gasped, clutching at the arm around his throat. “You made it easy . . . sodding idiot . . .”
“An idiot who’s about to crush your larynx.” Ethan slowly tightened his arm against the trachea. “You’ve put an innocent woman at risk. If anything happens to her, I’ll beat the marrow out of you and hang you up like salted pork.”
Straining to breathe, Gamble didn’t reply.
For a moment, the urge to finish him off was nearly overpowering. It would be so easy to constrict his grip a few degrees more, and prolong the hold until the bastard was properly throttled.
Uttering a low curse, Ethan released him with an abrupt shove.
Wheezing, Gamble pivoted to face him. “If anything happens to her,” he retorted hoarsely, “it will be your fault. Did you think Jenkyn wouldn’t find out? Someone else would have told him if I hadn’t.”
“You’re daft as a rock if you think Jenkyn will like you better for turning into a snitch.” Seeing Gamble’s defensive posture, his muscles tensed to fend off an attack, Ethan said sardonically, “If I were going to kill you, I’d have done it already.”
“You should have.”
“I’m not the enemy,” Ethan said in exasperation. “Why in God’s name are you wasting time and effort fighting me?”
“Eliminate a rival without mercy,” Gamble quoted, “or one day he’ll try to replace you.”
Ethan snorted, unimpressed. “Parroting Jenkyn makes you sound like more of a lackwit than you already are.”
“As long as I’ve known Jenkyn, he’s never been wrong about anything. Before we left for India, he predicted that someday one of us would kill the other. I told him I would be the last man standing.”
Ethan smiled without humor. “He said the same thing to me. I told him to kiss my arse. Jenkyn’s a manipulative bastard. Why should you and I turn into a pair of dancing monkeys every time he winds up the barrel organ?”
“Because that’s the job.”
Ethan shook his head slowly. “No, Gamble,” he said, his voice pure acid. “Because we each want to be his favorite. He chose us because he knew we would do anything, no matter how vile, to win his approval. But I’ve had enough of it. ’Tis not a job, but a deal with the devil. I’m not a well-read man, but I have the impression those never turn out well.”
It had been a dreadful week. Garrett had gone through each day in a mechanical fashion, feeling bleak and empty. Food had no flavor. Flowers had no scent. Her eyes were itchy and sore from lack of sleep. She couldn’t pay attention to anyone or anything. It seemed the rest of her life would be an infinity of monotonous days.
The lowest moment had occurred on Tuesday evening, when Garrett had gone on her usual visit to the Clerkenwell workhouse, and afterward had dared to blow a short, hopeful little summons on her silver whistle.
There had been no response.
Even if Ethan were somewhere nearby, keeping an eye on her . . . he wasn’t going to come to her.
The realization that she would probably never see him again had plunged her into a sullen void.
Her father hadn’t understood the reason for her low spirits, but he had assured her that everyone had a fit of the doldrums sooner or later. The best cure, he’d said, was to spend time with cheerful people.