Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(41)

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.

“Is there a second choice?” Garrett had asked dully. “Because at the moment, the only thing I’d like to do with cheerful people is push them into the path of an oncoming carriage.”

However, the following morning, Garrett was finally able to feel something other than gloom. It was during an appointment with one of the clinic’s new patients, a watchmaker’s wife named Mrs. Notley, who had given birth eight months earlier and feared she might be with child again. After examining her, Garrett gave her the welcome news that she was not expecting. “None of the various evidences of pregnancy are there,” she told Mrs. Notley. “Although your worry is understandable, it’s not uncommon for a woman’s monthly courses to be irregular while her infant is still nursing.”

Mrs. Notley was overcome with relief. “Praise God,” she exclaimed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “My husband and I didn’t know what we were going to do. We have four little ones already, and can’t afford another so soon. We live in constant dread of when the next baby might come.”

“What method of prevention do you use?”

The woman blushed and looked uncomfortable at Garrett’s frankness. “We count the days after my monthly turn.”

“Does your husband practice withdrawal?”

“Oh, no, doctor. Our pastor says it’s a sin for a man to do that outside his wife’s body.”