Cover By April Martinez

The Devane Files Book 1: Out of Hell

by Denyse M. Bridger
Available from Liquid Silver Books
ISBN: 1-59578-268-0
Genre: Victorian Mystery Erotica Novel

In 1892, London is only now beginning to forget the horrors of the "Ripper" murders. Inspector Michael Devane, who worked on that notorious case, has been assigned to the murky Whitechapel district now that Chief Inspector Fred Abberline is retired. Devane is a haunted man, his mind frequently lost to the fog of an opium addiction. But Devane is also a man of brilliant vision and intuition, something Abberline recognized years earlier.

When theatre producer Robert Bradshaw is violently murdered in his townhouse bedroom, Devane is drawn into a shadowy world of obsession, abuse, and hatred, all barely hidden beneath the thin veneer of proper society. In Bethany Anne Bradshaw, the lovely widow, Michael also discoveres that he is not so immune to passion as he once believed, and his judgement may be faulty for less-than-honorable reasons when he begins an affair with her, ignoring the fact that she has strong motives for killing Bradshaw...

Read an excerpt:

         Devane cast a faintly amused glance at Goodwin as they were again led by the imperious butler, this time down a long, shadowed corridor, and into a spacious, yet cozy room. Books lined the walls in dark-stained wooden shelves. A massive desk dominated the corner closest to the room’s large, twin windows. A short distance from the desk there was a huge, ornate fireplace, with a crackling blaze warming the room and banishing the late-night chill. Two big, well-stuffed armchairs were positioned on either side of the hearth, and a small settee faced the great fireplace directly. It gave the illusion of being a room set within the library itself. Beside each chair was a small table, and a lamp. At the moment, a tea cart stood between the two seats.

         “Lady Bradshaw?”

         Goodwin’s voice held such genuine deference, Devane’s attention flickered to him for an instant before he turned to look at the woman who rose from one of the two armchairs. She was little more than five feet tall, had light brown hair that held a tint of fire in the present lighting, and her eyes were the color of Chinese jade. Her features were soft and delicate, a face filled with gentleness, but also intelligence. Her mouth curved into a weak smile and she inclined her head in greeting before she spoke.

         “Sergeant Goodwin,” she murmured, voice roughened with emotion, and contained tears. “Won’t you sit down, gentlemen?” She indicated the settee and the chair with a graceful motion of her hand.

         “This is Inspector Devane, Mrs. Bradshaw,” Goodwin made the pronouncement by way of introduction this time, and Devane stepped forward to take Lady Bradshaw’s hand. He brought the shaking limb to his lips and kissed her chilled fingers gallantly, using the gesture and the opportunity to gauge her emotional control and response to what had happened in her home. The backlash of grief he’d expected was absent, all that resonated through the brief touch of their limbs was confusion and, oddly, relief.

         “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Bradshaw,” he said quietly.
“Thank you, Inspector,” she sat and smiled again very slightly when he chose the seat across from her. “Would you care for some tea?” she asked a moment later, flustered for a moment by the perceived lapse in manners.

         “No,” Devane declined with a shake of his head. “I’d like you to tell me what’s happened.”  Her eyes widened, and she darted a glance at Goodwin, before facing Devane’s dark gaze again.

         “You’ve not been told?” she asked the question with soft incredulity.

         “I know your husband has been killed, madam,” Devane answered evenly. “I’d like you to tell me whatever you can about the circumstances.”

         “My husband’s just been murdered, Mr. Devane. Quite brutally.” She twisted away, hid her reaction to voicing the words, then swung back to meet his expectant expression. “In our bed, Inspector!” She rose, suddenly unable to contain the tempest of feelings that wracked her body. She wrung her hands, willing composure that she, and no doubt they, knew was purely false. Her distress was tangible, and she appeared determined to retain some control over herself.

         Devane watched her agitated pacing for a few contemplative minutes, sensing the constant rise and fall of the tidal waves of her confusion and despair. Her face was a mirror to every thought she had, though he doubted she’d ever been fully aware of it. He wondered, for a fleeting second, if her husband had seen her as clearly as he did just then?  As clearly as he’d never been able to see his own wife, oddly enough.

         “I am sorry, madam,” he finally offered it as a way to resume some form of speech, the silence having grown unbearably heavy and laden with tension.

         She turned again, her eyes wide as she stared at him, attempting to focus and remain calm. The effort to direct her attention made her truly look at him for the first time since he’d entered the room, and the empathy that glimmered in his dark brown eyes suddenly offered her a lifeline in the sea of conflict that was threatening to drown her sanity. She took in his presence without conscious thought; seeing the fine clothes, the fashionably long sideburns, his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee, the slightly unruly waves of hair that matched his eyes so perfectly. He was pale, and there was a tiredness in his spirit, but his kindness and sharp mind were equally evident. Devane was a shockingly handsome man, she realized as the entire appraisal coalesced into a single thought…