shades darker than his fair hair, and Pru realized her error. He was a shadow. The Knight of Shadows, in fact.
“As a man who has braved many a scandal, I care not what is said behind silk fans.” He waved her worries away. “You’ve a bedroom rather than a cell. And no one as of yet calling for your blood. Until the inquest is over, it’s best you remain out of the public eye so that I might protect you as well as I can. Those are the only answers I can give you for now.”
Bereft, shaky, and utterly exhausted, Prudence gathered the last bit of strength she had to square her shoulders and ask, “Promise me you’ll search with everything you have. Promise me you’ll look elsewhere than in your own house for the killer.”
“I promise I will look where the investigation leads.”
A desolate disappointment pressed upon her with a tangible weight, curling her shoulders forward as if they could keep his words from piercing her heart. “Do you believe me…husband? Do you believe that I am innocent?”
His gaze became intent, searching, and then frustratingly opaque. “I believe you were right when you said that the truth will come out.”
Pru successfully fought off crumpling until he’d turned his back.
“Good night, Miss—” he paused then, catching himself this second time. “Good night.”
When the door closed behind him, Prudence limped to the bed as if a herd of horses had trod on her feet, suddenly hurting everywhere.
She collapsed onto the counterpane and released the tears she’d been too numb to cry since this nightmare began. They broke upon her like the tide, threatening to pull her under their current of despair.
She should have wept for a dead man. For the loss of her parents’ respect and her freedom. For the horror of her utter ruin and the fear of being unable to lift her head in society ever again.
But she wept, because her husband couldn’t bring himself to say her name.
Chapter 9
Morley didn’t think his wife was dangerous solely because he wanted her. She was dangerous because he wanted to believe her.
He emerged from the underground tunnels into Whitechapel, searching for trouble. Aching for it. His muscles rippled beneath his skin. Ready. Oh, so ready. He felt hot and cold all at once. He needed to hit something. To maim. To pound.
Fucking unfortunate word, that.
Also…relevant.
He’d wanted to pound into her everything he’d denied himself for the past three months. To thrust and thrust and thrust until he lost himself to the bliss he knew he’d find in her body.
What harm could it do now?
She’d almost seemed like she’d wanted it. Hadn’t she? No. No. Surely, he’d imagined the expectation in her eyes.
The invitation.
Leaving her like that, with her dress half hanging off her shoulders, was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. God! Just uncovering her neck to the top of her corset—the mere sight of her shoulder blades had driven him mad with lust.
For a stranger. For a possible murderer.
For his wife.
He was a beast on a short leash tonight. His wedding night. He’d used every ounce of civility he could feign on this difficult, exhausting day and now he could set free his wrath on the dregs of the city. Tonight, he was on the hunt for a singular criminal. A particular crime.
And he knew just where to find it.
He passed plenty of illegal acts. Bordellos, gambling hells, gin peddlers, thieves, and all sorts up to every kind of sin.
This was his genesis, and might very well be his end. This putrid place where the shadows were full of danger and the pallid streetlamps only illuminated unpleasant truths. He slid between them like a cat, avoiding detection as even desperate, waifish fiends and daring prostitutes shrank from his shade.
He heard the name whispered behind his back upon occasion.
Is that him? The Knight of Shadows?
The police beat was easy to avoid, he’d been doing it for decades. He knew their routes, and their times.
Hell, he knew most of their names.
What he needed to discover, was which ones sold cocaine to the innocent and weak.
The deeper he drove himself into the squalid darkness of Dorset Street, the more layers of himself peeled away. He shucked off Carlton Morley. His stringent mannerisms and his staunch courteousness. He even yearned to be rid of the ridiculous mask and moniker of the vigilante.
Tonight, he felt like someone else. Someone he thought he’d buried long ago.