Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

no harm when they allowed the woman

inside tonight.”

Gabriel’s decision was made.

He could not afford regret. Indecision.

Compassion.

Immediately Victoria’s image blurred; the linear profile of her face became a series of overlapping

stains.

“Why do you think my actions were too harsh, Gaston?” Gabriel glanced up from the tablecloth. “They

disobeyed my orders. Should I have increased their pay instead of discharging them?”

“They love you, monsieur.”

Faint sounds penetrated the empty saloon, a pan clanging, a soft curse.

Pierre was preparing a late breakfast.

Soon the house servants would come and clean up the carnage in the saloon.

Gabriel remembered the occasion and the year in which he had acquired each of their services.

He did not want their love; he wanted their loyalty.

“Love has a price, Gaston,” Gabriel said coolly. “It goes to whomever pays the highest salary.”

Or fee.

A whore’s love changed with every patron.

“The men are uneasy, monsieur.”

“Their positions are secure as long as they abide by the rules of the house.”

“They thought you died six months ago.”

Gabriel stilled.

Not once had Gaston or Gabriel’s people discussed the events that had occurred six months earlier.

“As they can see, I am very much alive.”

“You burned down the house,” Gaston said stonily.

And then Gabriel had rebuilt it.

The first to save an angel; the latter to catch a monster.

“I reimbursed them for the things they lost.”

“It is not a matter of possessions, monsieur.” The candle on Gaston’s right sputtered, died; the right side

of Gaston’s face darkened in shadow. “You did not trust them with the truth. They no longer know if they

can trust you.”

Trust.

Truth.

The faint aroma of coffee wafted over the stale odor of wine and cigars.

Whores could not afford to trust.

Gabriel had once thought he knew the truth; the second man had proved him wrong.

“Are you saying, Gaston, that none of my employees can be trusted?” Gabriel asked carefully.

Gaston squared his shoulders. “There is no one in your house who would betray you.”

“Yet you did not evict Monsieur Michel per my instructions,” Gabriel said sharply. “Some might say that

is a form of betrayal.”

The past haunted Gaston’s eyes. “Monsieur Michel would not let go of your body,” he said with

unaccustomed emotion.

Gabriel remembered . . .

. . . The echo of gunshot.

.. . The silver mist of breath.

Did you mourn me?

Yes,

“It was not my body,” Gabriel said remotely.

Michael had held the burned body of a beggar—not Gabriel.

Gabriel had placed the beggar’s corpse in his bed, hoping it would be mistaken for him.

And it had been.

Gabriel had done what was necessary to save Michael. So that he could live a life instead of a

nightmare.

Only to discover the nightmare had just begun.

“He thought it was your body, monsieur.” The rare burst of emotion illuminated Gaston’s face. “He

loves you. Monsieur Michel is a part of this family. I will not evict him. Jamais. He took care of us when

we had no place to go.”

Two words struck Gabriel like a fist.

Jamais. Never.

Family.

They were all whores. Pimps. Beggars. Cutthroats. Thieves.

Their past would never change. They would none of them be together if they had a family.

Gaston stared over Gabriel’s head. “Shall I give myself two months’ severance pay, monsieur?”

The left corner of Gabriel’s mouth kicked up.

Gaston had been with Gabriel for fourteen years. Gabriel had found him beaten to a bloody pulp in an

alley in Seven Dials.

The House of Gabriel would not be possible without Gaston. He managed both the house and the people

who worked inside it.

“So that you can seek employment with Monsieur Michel?” he asked easily. “Je ne crois pas, mon

ami. The two of you would open a rival house, and then where would I be?”

Gaston did not relax at Gabriel’s sally.

“The men are afraid, monsieur.”

All sense of levity abruptly dissipated.

“Pay them extra,” Gabriel said tautly.

“They want to know whom they should kill, monsieur, instead of jumping out of their skins like rabbits

every time a bottle of champagne is uncorked. S’il vous plait. If you would only describe the man who

comes for you ...”

Victoria had said similar words.

If you do not answer my questions, then you cannot expect me to answer yours.

Gabriel opened his mouth.

It was a reasonable request. Men who placed their lives in jeopardy in order to save the life of another

deserved to know what their potential killer looked like.

The words refused to come.

“There was a man here tonight,” he said instead.

“There were several hundred men here tonight, monsieur.”

Gabriel ignored Gaston’s sarcasm.

“The man has gray hair—he’s in his mid- to late fifties. His name is Gerald Fitzjohn. I want his London

address. Send Jeremy to the library to look it up.”

“Jeremy just retired, sir.”

“Then I suggest you wake him, Gaston,” Gabriel said softly, dangerously.

“Very well, monsieur,” Gaston replied woodenly.

“Send Jacques around to the Times and the News.”

They were two of the most popular newspapers in London.

Gaston opened his mouth to protest—Jacques, too, had just retired.

He shut his mouth.

“I want Jacques to check the employment advertisements for the last year and a half.” Gabriel

remembered Victoria’s assertion: If he had k nowledge of your house, sir, he would not prey on his

children s governess. “Tell him to look for repeated advertisements for a governess by the same party. If

he finds