Chapter 2
Newgate Prison
“What will happen to you now?” Dorothea asked, though she already knew the answer.
The nightmares came every night—the rope swinging, Robert’s feet dangling. The fear that after all this time, she might be pregnant—and alone.
She still couldn’t reconcile this man before her with the charismatic gentleman she’d married. The dazzling smile that had melted her heart, soft kisses that promised a happy future. What a fool she’d been. What a monster he was.
“We both know my fate, luvvy,” he said softly.
“Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that again.” But she had to ask, had to know for sure. “Is it true? You’ve kidnapped children and killed men? For some mysterious employer who goes by the ridiculous moniker of The Vicar?”
“Careful, now. He’s a dangerous man with a network of criminals to do his bidding and spies all over London.
Keep your mouth shut or they’ll find you floating in the Thames.
” Robert scowled, then answered her with a heavy sigh.
“I killed my first man when I was ten. It was him or me. The Vicar kept me from hanging, so I was told, and I’ve been working for him ever since. Worked my way up.”
“To kidnapping little boys and girls?”
“That was a side job to tide me over, waiting for the real blunt. We took the boys from one flash house and sold them to another. They were already in hell. We just swapped them to another for a price. I do as I’m told.
” His eyes pleaded with her to forgive or at least understand, the softness returning to his gaze.
“It means a lot that you came to see me one last time.”
“I came for answers, to try to make sense of this before…” She turned her head, blinking back the tears.
“Did you get the money?” he asked, as if that would make it all better.
She nodded, feeling the heat in her cheeks. One of Robert’s “associates” had brought her his last wages with a promise of a “widow’s pension.” Dorothea had wanted to throw the pouch of coins back in the man’s face, but common sense won out. She had to eat. “I have to be out by the end of the week.”
“Will you go back to the school? You seemed happy there,” he said, trying to smile.
“Ha! She can’t take me back now. I’ll soon be the widow of a murderer and a thief.” She closed her eyes, praying for the strength to get through this visit, this week, this year. “In fact, no one seems to want to hire me or be associated with ‘trouble.’ I’m-I’m scared a-and I’ll never forgive you.”
That hard glint was back, his eyes as shiny as a watching crow. Dorothea shivered. She’d been happy at the Darlington School for Girls. Content and useful. He’d burned that bridge for her.
“Did you ever love me?” Why did it matter? She wouldn’t believe a syllable he uttered.
“I believe you are the only person on this earth I’ve ever loved. When I was with you, I was the man I pretended—dreamed—of being.” He stood, gave her a heartbreaking smile, and walked away.
“And now I dream of the gallows.” A tear slipped down her cheek.
Not for the loss of this man, this stranger, but for the loss of her innocence and the abrupt end of her fairy tale that had ended.
The realization that the world wasn’t a wonderful place.
It was its own kind of purgatory, and she’d have to bide her time and become a fighter. Or she’d never survive.
August 1820
Newgate Prison gallows
Sampson didn’t usually attend public hangings, but this one was an exception.
He stared at the fifteen men lined up on the gallows, understanding the fear in their eyes.
It was frightening to meet your maker before you could atone for your sins.
Those men would never have the opportunity.
Only panicked mumbles as they prayed along with the priest.
He had helped put three of them on that platform, a small part of The Vicar’s vast network.
Sam had taken off the physician’s hat he usually wore when assisting the O’Brien Investigative Service.
Nicknamed Paddy’s Peelers, Sam’s brothers and sister worked to rid the streets of London of thieves and murderers.
Patrick O’Brien had come from Ireland to join the Bow Street Runners and had slowly begun his own agency, acquiring a reputation for thorough investigations.
Now a retired Runner, Paddy and his “adopted” family had built a name for themselves by assisting local magistrates in tracking down villains.
When the magistrate couldn’t find a criminal, they called in Paddy and his Peelers to track them down.
Many private citizens often went straight to O’Brien and saved time.
“Lookin’ for some entertainment after the ‘angin’?”
He looked down at the doxie, gave her a half smile, and shook his head. “This is enough excitement for me.”
Turning away from her and pushing into the crowd, he tried to tune out the festive chatter, shouts of vendors, and a fiddle playing somewhere behind him.
He was concentrating on the men standing on the far right of the gallows.
Only two were responsible for selling the fake certificate of insurance to Sam’s father, but all three worked for the mysterious Vicar.
Dunn had overseen half his operations in Town.
It would cause a large hole in the criminal network.
“Good riddance,” Sampson mumbled as the trap doors opened, and the crowd roared their approval.
He turned abruptly and pushed his way back through the cheering throng.
Another battle won, but the war raged on.
But today, Dr. Sampson Brooks had found retribution, and he said a small prayer of thanks.
“Rest in peace now,” he whispered softly to his dead parents.
Dorothea stood alone in a multitude of people, clutching her shawl at her neck against the strong gust. The crowd watched the gallows in excitement, waiting for the men to swing in the wind.
She, on the other hand, just wanted this chapter of her life to end.
She had moved to another part of Cheapside, remained a widow, but took back her surname.
She had been fairly isolated when she was married, preferring to play the wife.
To her surprise, few people recognized her when she introduced herself as Mrs. Dottie Brown.
They would have turned their back on Mrs. Robert Dunn.
She’d changed in the past few weeks, no longer humming as she worked, no longer eager to see what was around the next corner. She had a plan. Earn enough money and move to America. No one would know her, no one would care about her past, and no one would ever break her heart again.
A disturbance ahead caught her attention.
A man pushed through the mass of people, shouting and cursing.
At the same time, Dottie felt a small hand slip into hers.
She looked down to see a girl, perhaps six or seven, gazing up at her with huge doe eyes.
Her dress was tattered and dirty, her hair uncombed and greasy.
The round face was streaked with dirt and… tears?
As the irate man shoved past them, she hid her face in Dottie’s skirts.
“Are you alright?” she asked the girl.
The waif shook her head, then peeked over her shoulder to watch the man disappear in the sea of spectators. She studied Dottie a moment before pointing to the men on the scaffold.
Dottie’s heart cracked a little more. “Your father is up there?”
The girl shook her head.
“Your brother?”
She nodded and gripped Dottie’s hand more tightly, her eyes pinned on the young man next to Robert on the platform.
A loud slam and the men dropped. Dottie closed her eyes against the sight and pulled the girl into her skirts. It was over. Time to start again.
A tall, handsome gentleman with brown hair and hazel eyes paused in front of them.
Their eyes met as he passed, and she had the feeling she knew him.
Where they would have met, she had no idea.
But Dottie was drawn to him in the oddest way.
He studied her for a moment as if he, too, found her familiar.
With a murmured, “Ma’am,” and a tip of his hat, he melted into the crowd.
Dottie looked down at the girl with a raised brow. The street urchin nodded, and in silent agreement, the two lonely females left the gallows behind them.
Cheapside
They walked toward her new home—a cozy room attached to the kitchen of a public house.
The owner’s wife gave her a place to stay in exchange for baking bread and helping with the cooking.
Dottie had a warm bed and a kitchen at her disposal to make her various pastries, which she sold on Gracechurch Street to the busy shoppers.
On Sundays, she went to St. James’s Park where the promenade was crowded with people.
Dottie enjoyed baking, finding it therapeutic as she kneaded the dough and pounded out her frustrations and emotions.
She was already making a small profit. Though she hadn’t wanted to take her husband’s money made by illegal gains, there would have been no way to buy the equipment and ingredients needed to start her business.
She looked down at the small girl beside her. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves. How remiss of me.” Dottie forced a smile. “I’m Mrs. Brown. What is your name?”
The child gazed around, spotted a flower vendor, and pointed.
“A guessing game, is it?” She pondered the array of flowers. “Daisy?”
The girl shook her head.
“Violet?” This time, the child managed a weak smile and nodded.
“That’s a fine name. Violet. I like the sound of it. It may suit you once you’re cleaned up.” She studied her new young friend. “Do you speak?”
Violet shook her head, giving Dottie a woeful look, then gripped her forearm with both hands.
Dottie sighed. “I won’t send you off. No reason for both of us to be alone. But it all depends on the landlady. We’ll have to think of something to tell her, other than we met at a hanging.”