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

had grabbed Victoria, knocking

the tin of mints out of her hand.

Julien had loved Gabriel. And now he was dead.

Sorrow dulled Mira’s brilliant sapphire blue eyes. “Aye, we knew there be trouble. Ye’d best come wi’

me, then. Ye ain’t lookin’ so good.”

“I’m”—Victoria bit her lip—“I’m quite all right, thank you.”

Victoria wondered if anything would ever be all right again.

Would Michael?

Would Gabriel?

“Is ‘e dead?”

Victoria’s stomach surged at the bloodthirstiness in the woman’s eyes that were suddenly clear and

bright. “I beg your pardon?”

“Th’ man Mr. Gabriel was needin’ to kill—is ‘e dead?”

“Yes.” Satisfaction rang inside Victoria’s voice. “Mr. Michel killed him.”

“If ye take one, ye take ‘em both.” Mira’s sapphire blue eyes were unnaturally canny. “Cain’t turn yer

nose up at Mr. Michel’s scars.”

Victoria bit back a nervous laugh.

Hysteria.

Immediately she pictured Julien, his beautiful auburn hair gleaming in the glare of the overhead hallway

light while his blood turned thick and black on the steps.

All desire to laugh died. “I assure you, Miss Mira, I do not turn my nose up at Mr. Michel’s scars.”

Mira grunted. “Best you sit down, then, an’ wait till Mr. Gabriel takes care o’ things.”

A protest rose up in Victoria’s throat. Gabriel might not be able to tak e care of “things” this time.

She swallowed it.

“I am so sorry that Jules died.” Victoria swallowed a hiccup. “I liked him.”

Mira’s lined face softened. “Aye, we all liked Mr. Jules. Sit yerself down afore ye fall down, Ms.

Victoria. Ye don’t look like th’ bubbly type. I’ll git ye a drop o’ gin.”

Victoria sat down and numbly waited.

The waiting was no better in the candlelit saloon than it had been inside Gabriel’s suite ablaze with

electric light.

Three lives had ended this night. How many had died in the past because of the Earl of Granville and his

son?

She tried to tell herself they had been insane.

There had been no insanity in the violet eyes of the man who had deliberately pitted two angels against

one another.

Burning pain sliced through Victoria’s right cheek. She jerked her head back, heartbeat slamming against

her ribs.

Sapphire blue eyes peered down at Victoria. Mira held a red-stained washcloth. “ ‘Old still. Mr. Gabriel

wouldn’ like it none if we didn’ take care o’ ‘is woman.”

“My name is Victoria,” Victoria said quietly. “Victoria Childers.”

The maid with the wrinkled face and ageless eyes did not recognize the name Childers. And why should

she?

Childers was a common name.

It was only when a “Mr.” or a “Sir” or an “Honorable” or a “Lord” preceded a name that it took on

significance.

My name is Gabriel, reverberated inside her ears.

Gabriel had never pretended to be anything other than what he was. And Michael denied his claim to the

world he had been born into.

“Don’t need no last name in the ‘Ouse o’ Gabriel.” Mira dipped the washcloth into the water; steam rose

from the gray metal basin. “Don’t most o’ us ‘ave one.”

Mira was an unusual name for a woman born on the streets. Had she named herself?

“The cut ain’t deep on yer cheek, won’t be needin’ no stitches.” A stream of water cascaded into the

metal pan. Mira held out the washcloth. “ ‘Ere ye be, Miss. Victoria, wash yer ‘ands now while I dab a

little o’ somethin’ on yer cheek so it don’t fester.”

Dipping her fingers into the tall glass filled with clear liquor, Mira dabbed gin onto her cheek.

Biting back a gasp, Victoria concentrated on removing the blood from her fingers instead of the pain that

sliced through skin and bone.

The gin hurt far, far worse than had the wound.

“Ye drinks yer gin there, now.” The washcloth was plucked from between Victoria’s fingers. Crimson

dyed the water inside the gray metal pan. “I gots t’ ‘eat water fer Mr. Michel an’ the doc.”

The candles flickered and flamed while Victoria waited alone, the glass of gin sitting untouched before

her. A lifetime passed before Andy returned; a tall, thin man wearing a black wool coat, a tall black bowler

hat and carrying a black leather bag trailed after him.

The docteur.

The man with the black leather bag disappeared inside the door leading up to Gabriel’s suite; Andy sidled

close to Victoria, young-old eyes peering up into her face. He pointed to the glass of gin. “Ye drinkin’ this?”

“No.” Victoria numbly pushed it toward him. If gin increased the pain of external wounds, she didn’t

want to know what it did to internal wounds.

Two lifetimes passed before the guards appeared: they carried Michael on a satinwood door. Without a

word they climbed up the plush red carpeted stairs that edged the far wall into a blaze of electric light. The

doctor followed them.

Andy sat across from Victoria, sipping the gin. “They wouldn’t be takin’ ‘im up, if he wus dead,” he said

kindly. But to cheer up whom?

Three lifetimes passed before Gabriel appeared.

Victoria stood up, heart in her throat.

Gabriel didn’t meet her gaze. He followed Michael and the doctor upstairs.

Victoria sat back down, feet primly together. A lady by birth if not by nature.

The men in their crimson silk sashes and short black coats silently descended the guest stairs, carrying

with them the satinwood door. They disappeared through the entrance to Gabriel’s suite.

A cold blast of air sent the candle flames dancing.

Victoria glanced up. She didn’t need an introduction to know the name of