killer." She pressed her lips together and shot Beth a wary glance. "I must
go. I've said far too much already."
"Wait—" Beth cried, but Alice hurried off, leaving Beth alone in the hallway.
For a moment, she stood as she was, questions raining through her. A killer, he is. A
killer.
She wrapped her arms about herself. A jarring chill touched her skin, as though a
window had been thrown wide or some malevolent gaze locked on her with unerring
attention. Beth spun, looking to the darkened doorways that lined the wall, to the
shadowed and dim corners, but there was no one there watching her. Each door was shut
tight.
She recognized the fear lurking beneath the surface of her composure, an oily, fetid
sludge. With determination, she thrust it aside. There was no place here for ancient terrors,
no place for her to imagine dark things and malevolent intent. Alice's words were only
words. They had neither substance nor power.
Squaring her shoulders, she followed the path the girls had taken moments past.
At the top of the stairs, Beth paused and watched the progress of that lonely little girl as
she meandered down the last three steps, her hand trailing along the polished banister.
Suddenly, the child stopped and turned to look over her shoulder, her dark eyes locking
with Beth's, sorrowful and far too wise for her years.
Griffin Fairfax was her father. And Alice had called him—called them both—cursed
and doomed.
Again, a whisper of distress unfurled in Beth's heart, a dark and chilling thing held back
by a weak, gossamer thread. She thought of the shadow she had seen earlier, the silhouette
of a man outside in the storm, and she thought of the ugly cadence of Alice's words.
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 35 of 103
Chapter 5
Stepney, London, January 15, 1813
H enry Pugh paced slowly along the hallway of the Black Swan Tavern, studying the
bloody footprints that marked the killer's path. He moved carefully, pausing now and
again, searching out the place where the ghastly trail began. The footprints led in the
opposite direction of where Henry stood, toward the landlord's body.
Strange.
Halfway to the parlor, he froze, sickened and horrified by what lay before him.
The landlord's wife, Mrs. Trotter, was sprawled on the hallway floor, her skirt rucked
up, her limbs in immodest disarray. The top of her head was gone, caved in, and most of
her face, rendering her nearly unrecognizable. He could be certain it was she only because
her dress—drenched now in her own blood—was the one she had worn that same
afternoon when, smiling and winking, she had teased him as he had stood about, searching
for any excuse to remain where he was.
He'd been at the tavern to hear the landlord's tale of a stranger in the shadows. It was a
tale he had dismissed as unimportant. He had thought it all a ploy to bring him round to
see Ginnie. Everyone knew the Trotters loved to meddle, loved to bring couples together
and see them happily wed.
"Sweet on our Ginnie, are you?" Mrs. Trotter had asked, following his gaze to the maid,
Ginnie George.
Henry had ducked his head, felt hot blood rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, for
he was sweet on her. Raising his head, he had been helpless to stop himself from looking
at Ginnie, with her Cupid's-bow lips and wheat-bright ringlets. He was very fond of her,
and she of him, enough so that one night last week she'd let him steal a kiss behind the
tavern.
She was the reason he'd signed on for a decent living and a decent wage. A man needed
both if he was thinking to marry. Standing in the tavern, Henry had looked at Ginnie once
more and thought he was not ready for that yet, not quite ready to marry. But Ginnie made
him think that one day soon he might be.
A quick flash of her dimples and a coy look from beneath her lashes, and Ginnie had
gone off to her chores, leaving Henry under Mrs. Trotter's watchful eye, with his pulse
quickened and his palms
go. I've said far too much already."
"Wait—" Beth cried, but Alice hurried off, leaving Beth alone in the hallway.
For a moment, she stood as she was, questions raining through her. A killer, he is. A
killer.
She wrapped her arms about herself. A jarring chill touched her skin, as though a
window had been thrown wide or some malevolent gaze locked on her with unerring
attention. Beth spun, looking to the darkened doorways that lined the wall, to the
shadowed and dim corners, but there was no one there watching her. Each door was shut
tight.
She recognized the fear lurking beneath the surface of her composure, an oily, fetid
sludge. With determination, she thrust it aside. There was no place here for ancient terrors,
no place for her to imagine dark things and malevolent intent. Alice's words were only
words. They had neither substance nor power.
Squaring her shoulders, she followed the path the girls had taken moments past.
At the top of the stairs, Beth paused and watched the progress of that lonely little girl as
she meandered down the last three steps, her hand trailing along the polished banister.
Suddenly, the child stopped and turned to look over her shoulder, her dark eyes locking
with Beth's, sorrowful and far too wise for her years.
Griffin Fairfax was her father. And Alice had called him—called them both—cursed
and doomed.
Again, a whisper of distress unfurled in Beth's heart, a dark and chilling thing held back
by a weak, gossamer thread. She thought of the shadow she had seen earlier, the silhouette
of a man outside in the storm, and she thought of the ugly cadence of Alice's words.
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 35 of 103
Chapter 5
Stepney, London, January 15, 1813
H enry Pugh paced slowly along the hallway of the Black Swan Tavern, studying the
bloody footprints that marked the killer's path. He moved carefully, pausing now and
again, searching out the place where the ghastly trail began. The footprints led in the
opposite direction of where Henry stood, toward the landlord's body.
Strange.
Halfway to the parlor, he froze, sickened and horrified by what lay before him.
The landlord's wife, Mrs. Trotter, was sprawled on the hallway floor, her skirt rucked
up, her limbs in immodest disarray. The top of her head was gone, caved in, and most of
her face, rendering her nearly unrecognizable. He could be certain it was she only because
her dress—drenched now in her own blood—was the one she had worn that same
afternoon when, smiling and winking, she had teased him as he had stood about, searching
for any excuse to remain where he was.
He'd been at the tavern to hear the landlord's tale of a stranger in the shadows. It was a
tale he had dismissed as unimportant. He had thought it all a ploy to bring him round to
see Ginnie. Everyone knew the Trotters loved to meddle, loved to bring couples together
and see them happily wed.
"Sweet on our Ginnie, are you?" Mrs. Trotter had asked, following his gaze to the maid,
Ginnie George.
Henry had ducked his head, felt hot blood rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, for
he was sweet on her. Raising his head, he had been helpless to stop himself from looking
at Ginnie, with her Cupid's-bow lips and wheat-bright ringlets. He was very fond of her,
and she of him, enough so that one night last week she'd let him steal a kiss behind the
tavern.
She was the reason he'd signed on for a decent living and a decent wage. A man needed
both if he was thinking to marry. Standing in the tavern, Henry had looked at Ginnie once
more and thought he was not ready for that yet, not quite ready to marry. But Ginnie made
him think that one day soon he might be.
A quick flash of her dimples and a coy look from beneath her lashes, and Ginnie had
gone off to her chores, leaving Henry under Mrs. Trotter's watchful eye, with his pulse
quickened and his palms
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