Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(59)

“Was she worth it?” Gamble jeered.

Gripping the railing behind him, Ethan smiled faintly. “Aye.”

In the next moment, he tipped back and let the momentum bring his legs up, his body rolling into a backward flip before heading into the water feet first. During the dizzying plummet, he was vaguely aware of more shots being fired. Holding his breath, he braced for the impact.

The world exploded into foul, freezing blackness, like hell after all the fire and brimstone had been extinguished. Liquid death. He struggled feebly, unable to see or breathe. Finally he had reached the level of damage his body could not endure.

He was pulled downward into a cold, insistent silence where there was no time, no light, no self. He vanished beneath the great river and the city of millions and its inscrutable sky, his body nothing but mites and motes of fleeting mortality. The throbs of his failing heart echoed the rhythm of one name . . . Garrett . . . Garrett. She was somewhere. Not far. He clung to that thought as he was pulled by the ancient current to his fate.





Chapter 15




“Eliza,” Garrett said wearily, rubbing her eyes, “just because my father wants something doesn’t mean you have to give it to him.”

The cookmaid faced her defensively as they stood in the kitchen, where the heavy, ripe sweetness of mincemeat pie hung thickly in the air. “I gave ’im the thinnest sliver, no wider than your finger—look, I’ll show the pie to ye—”

“I don’t want to see the pie. I want you to follow the weekly menu I gave you.”

“’E can’t abide eatin’ like an invalid.”

“He is an invalid.”

After working long hours at the clinic, Garrett had returned home to discover that Eliza had taken it upon herself to make one of her father’s favorite dishes, an enormous mincemeat pie that was too heavy and rich for his sensitive digestive system. It was also frightfully expensive, made with six pounds of currants and raisins, three pounds of apples, three pounds of suet, two pounds of sugar, two pounds of beef, a pint each of wine and brandy, and a variety of spices, all loaded into a flour crust and baked into a dark, sticky mass.

There was no sound from her father’s room upstairs—Eliza had already carried a slice up to him, and he was undoubtedly gorging on it as fast as possible. “In an hour or two, he’ll be complaining of stomach pains,” Garrett said. “Mincemeat pie is made with everything that’s bad for him, from suet to sugar.”

Half defiant, half apologetic, Eliza retorted, “Mr. Gibson used to eat it every Sunday. Now ’e’s never allowed a single bite. What pleasures ’as he got left? No wife, no sweets, can’t ’ardly walk, eyes too poor for readin’ . . . just sits in his room and counts the days until ’is next game of draw poker. I say let ’im have a midge o’ joy now and then.”

An impatient reply hovered on Garrett’s lips, but she bit it back as she considered Eliza’s words.

The cookmaid had a point. Stanley Gibson, once a vigorous and active man—a constable with a London beat—now spent most of his days in a quiet room. A cheerful, comfortable room, but even so, there must be times when it felt like a prison. What harm would it do to allow him a little indulgence now and then? In Garrett’s concern over doing everything she could to preserve what remained of his physical health, she mustn’t deny him the small enjoyments that made life tolerable.

“You’re right,” she said reluctantly.

Eliza’s mouth sagged open. “I am?”

“I agree that everyone deserves a midge of joy now and then.”

“It’s right fair-minded of ye to say so, Doctor.”

“However, if this particular ‘midge’ keeps him up half the night with a bellyache, you’re going to help me with him.”

The cookmaid’s lax mouth stretched into a satisfied grin. “Yes, Doctor.”

After going upstairs to visit her father, who had looked vastly pleased with himself and stoutly insisted the mincemeat pie would cause him no troubles whatsoever, Garrett went down to the front receiving room. She sat at the escritoire desk and sorted through correspondence, and picked at the slice of mincemeat pie Eliza had brought her. She could only manage a bite or two. She’d never been fond of sweet-and-savory dishes, and she’d certainly never shared her father’s fondness for this one. In her opinion, mincemeat pie was a jumble of ingredients that had never been meant to unite in one crust. It was a heavy, overpowering dish, entirely resistant to digestive enzymes.

Even before the pie, her stomach had felt unsettled. She had worried all day, knowing that by now Ethan had taken the incriminating information to Scotland Yard. The machinery of justice had been set in motion, and both Lord Tatham and Sir Jasper would surely be on the defensive, trying to save their own necks. She reassured herself with the thought that Ethan was familiar with every inch of London, and he was as sharp and surefooted as any man alive. He could take care of himself.

In a few days, when the conspirators were safely behind bars, Ethan would call on her. It cheered Garrett to think about him at her doorstep, big and handsome, perhaps a bit nervous as she invited him inside. They would discuss the future . . . their future . . . and she would convince him that despite his concerns, they would be happier together than apart. And if Ethan couldn’t bring himself to propose to her, Garrett would simply have to do it herself.