Free A Wayward Man: A Prequel to A Dangerous Invitation (The Rookery Rogues) by Erica Monroe Page B

1832
    The two-story brick
Larker Textile Factory should have looked ominous. Steam roiled out
from the chimneys in thick gray tendrils, obscuring the moon. But
that was expected when London had exchanged reliance on cottage
laborers hunched over looms for churning machinery and ready-made
clothes.
    The variable speed
baton power loom sounded to Thaddeus Knight like the devil's own
calling card. Clack-clack-clack the looms went in their steady jig of
brimstone and hellfire. Once, he had thought the industrialization of
England was a sign of progress. Country folk migrating to London
would build a new social order, one free of the restraints of low
income and hypocritical aristocracy.
    Perhaps he was still
an idealist. He wanted badly to believe that the work he did as a
Sergeant in the H-Division of the Metropolitan Police Force was
meaningful. He was making a difference in the lives of those doomed
to the rookeries, or so he told his mother every time she questioned
why he chose to spend his days patrolling the streets of the East End
with only a truncheon for protection.
    They're people too,
Mother. They deserve justice.
    But what was justice
in a world that failed to mourn the lives lost to poverty, famine,
iniquity, or murder? He shook his head. Thaddeus had studied Plato,
Descartes, Confucius. Hell, he'd even read the social treaties of a
male prostitute he'd arrested for protesting nude in the middle of
the Smithfield market. He spent his nights poring over crime reports
from the Old Bailey, but he was no closer to the truth.
    His hands clenched
around the worn handle of his truncheon. He tapped the bully-stick
against his leg sheathed in the dark blue uniform common to the Met.
The blue had been meant to make the public believe they weren't a
military unit, but rather a civilian peacekeeping organization. Most
days, he did feel as though he was doing his part to help the borough
of Stepney.
    Today was not one of
those days. Nor, he suspected, would the next two weeks be any
better. From his supervisor, Superintendent Jonah White, he had
received a maxim: solve the case at Larker factory or move the hell
on. Thaddeus had been given release from his patrol duties only after
he'd begged to investigate the crime.
    The corpse of the
young woman he'd found outside the Larker factory haunted his dreams.
    “The duty of
the Police is to prevent the crimes,” White had said that
morning. “We're not the bloody Runners. You're destined for
greatness, lad. The work you did on catching those bloody
resurrectionists was brilliant. Don't botch it by dodging your
regular duties.”
    He had fourteen days
to uncover why someone had left a young girl beaten to a pulp outside
of the factory. A day for each year of the girl's too short life. As
he stood outside the factory, cloaked by the lack of street lamps in
this godforsaken part of Shadwell, he could not shake the sight of
the girl's face. Blood dribbling down her lips as she coughed. Her
slight frame was suddenly bitterly cold like this February night. She
was gone.
    The factory had let
out an hour ago. There was an alleyway behind the butcher shop in
front of the factory, which left him able to view the factory without
being seen. He should be back at the H-Division station, combing
through records for any mention of the factory owner Boz Larker.
Instead, he stood outside of this factory as if by his presence he
could prevent another murder.
    A light bobbed in
the distance. Thaddeus lingered in the alleyway. He pulled his coat
tighter around him to shut out the chafing wind. The light came
closer, closer until the body of a young woman appeared, surrounded
by golden luminescence.
    His breath died in
his throat. He gulped down the rising panic that always accompanied
the sight of a gorgeous woman; crimes were his specialty, while
flirtations had him facing definite heart palpitations. She was
beautiful, with a crown of flaming red hair that stood out bright
from underneath her brown