Oddly, he didn’t look at it but quickly pocketed the pin. “On the woman’s bodice.”
“It is familiar to you though, isn’t it?” She could see that much.
His nod was perfunctory. “I had one much like this, long ago.” His dark brows drew tight.
“Is it yours?” The very idea unsettled Daisy. Why would Northrup’s stickpin be with a dead woman?
“No.” He sounded very sure and yet the look of confusion remained. “Mine was lost to time.” His expression closed down, resolute and final. “But it is… curious. I need to think on it.” He seemed to shake himself into alertness. “As to the ledger, let’s have a look then.”
He balanced the book on his hand and opened it.
“Look for entries made after March fourteenth,” she said, happy to have a problem she could help solve. “That was when Mr. Abernathy, the manager at Florin, sold my formula to him.”
A half smile pulled at Northrup’s mouth as he thumbed through the pages. “And here I thought you were merely purchasing cosmetics at Florin.”
Daisy started. “You were following me?”
“Of course.” He flashed her an evil grin. “It was quite gratifying to see you searching for me.”
She pursed her lips. “Pest.” His grin widened, and Daisy eyed him with suspicion. “Have you been following me all along this night?”
“No. Talent, my valet, has been keeping watch since teatime.”
She ought to have known. “Another lycan, is he?”
Northrup shook his head as he searched the book. “No. Before you go off asking, I’m not at liberty to say what he is, only that he’ll keep you safe when I cannot.” His eyes flashed as he glanced at her. “And you’ll never see him following, so don’t bother looking for him.”
Daisy muttered under her breath and leaned over his arm to read along as the blunt tip of his finger traced down the entries.
“A few sales for men’s cologne, one for some liniment,” he said. “Then… Here. Marked two days before the first murder occurred.”
Daisy moved closer, and Northrup’s warm breath stirred the curls that tickled her temple. She fought to ignore the way the sensation made her want to lift her head and nuzzle into him. “M. Randal, Number 2 Glower Street. One bottle Daisy.” Her blood heated. “The blasted man even called the perfume by my name.”
Northrup couldn’t quite hide the laughter in his voice. “It is rather catchy. Is that what you called the scent?”
“I called it mine,” she snapped, knowing she sounded defensive. “But yes, I put my name on the top of the formula.” A stupid bit of whimsy that irritated her now. She pushed the feeling away. “But Daisy was never meant for public sale. It was my personal scent.”
The corners of his vivid eyes crinkled. “A nose,” he said softly. “You mentioned before that you had a perfume supplier, but I wasn’t minding. You create perfumes then?”
Daisy kept her gaze upon the ledger, wanting to have done with the conversation, but his attention did not deviate and she was forced to answer. “For Florin.”
Northrup’s eyes widened, but she ignored him. “I knew Craigmore intended to leave me with nothing. It was either plan or starve. I was not about to let that man have the last word.”
His raspy voice was a current of warm air against her cheek. “Well done, lass.”
Her cheeks were overwarm as she tapped a nail upon the ledger entry. “M. Randal. Do you suppose that is a man or a woman?”
Northrup stirred. “I cannot see a lady coming to a place like this for perfume. A gentleman either. But it is more likely than a woman doing so.”
“Agreed,” said Daisy. “Well, if it was a man who purchased it—”
“Then perhaps it was a gift.” Northrup turned his head to look down at her, his warm eyes and firm mouth scattering her thoughts.
“Seems logical.” She cleared her throat and stepped away from Northrup and his unnerving presence.
“Northrup, you said the werewolf killed the man. But what of the woman? How did she die, do you suppose?” A flash of bones, blood, and flesh filled her mind’s eye, and she swallowed.
“There were no slashes or bites. I think—” Northrup paused, biting his lips closed for a moment as if he were fighting against the memory of the corpse, and then he took a breath. “She expired from disease. There were tumors, her skin covered in papules. All the signs of tertiary syphilis.” His expression went grim. “She carried the same scent of sickness as the were does.”
“A lover’s disease.” It hurt Daisy’s heart to think of what had become of the poor woman. And the man. Was he her lover? What of the werewolf? “Whoever bought this perfume must be warned.”
He snapped the book shut and offered up his arm. “Glower Street isn’t far off. Shall we?”
Chapter Ten
It was Friday evening; thus finding a hack proved difficult. Daisy had long since sent her own carriage home, and Northrup appeared to have tracked her down on foot. Thus, they were forced to walk to Mr. Randal’s residence.
Daisy glanced at the man at her side. His casual bowler tilted at a rakish angle and his stride confident yet carefree as though he owned the very earth beneath his feet, Northrup caught the eye of every female, and some males, as they passed. A charming fiend.
Night painted the landscape in colors of blue and charcoal. A chill touched the air, making their breath visible. His warmth beside her was a welcome thing. Daisy wrapped her fingers more securely around his forearm.
“What is that clinking sound?” Northrup shot a suspicious glance in the direction of her skirts.
“Some essential oils I took from the perfumer’s shack.” She pulled out the bottle of verbena for him to see.
His nostrils flared slightly as though already scenting it. “Why on earth would you take something out of that hellhole?”
Daisy laughed. “And let them go to waste when they are perfectly usable? You must be mad.”
“I should think you have wealth enough to buy your own oils should you so wish,” he said, looking bemused.
“Posh. Waste not, want not. Besides, Poppy loves verbena. I’m going to make a perfume for her with it.” She uncorked the verbena to take a whiff. The sharp lemony scent would chase away the lingering taint of death that clung to her.
Northrup reacted instantly, flinging himself away from her and covering his nose with his arm. “Ye gods, woman, put that away. Are you trying to kill me?” A violent eruption of sneezes shook his frame.
Quelling a smile, Daisy closed up the offending bottle. “Don’t like verbena, do you?”
He gave her a repressive glare between bouts of sneezing. His hand shook as he pulled a linen kerchief free. “Not many lycan do. It burns something fierce.”
“I shall keep that in mind, in the event you decide to get out of line.”
Northrup rolled his eyes. “And you call me a pest.”
They walked on in silence, but she felt the weight of Northrup’s stare. “What is it?” she finally said. His attention made her insides twitch, damn his eyes.
His buttered-toast voice rolled over her. “You are fearless, you know.”
She would not allow her cheeks to heat. Her cheeks ignored her. “I am not.” She studied the sway of her skirts as she strode forward. “I was terrified back there.”
“But you forged on, did what had to be done.” He stopped beneath a lonely lamppost, and his auburn locks, tangling about his collar, glowed under the wavering lamplight. Daisy admired them, and the clean lines of his countenance.
Northrup’s head tilted as he continued to look her over as if just truly noticing she was there. “For all your frippery, you’re a brave lass.”
Daisy didn’t know whether to be insulted or not. “Careful now, Northrup, or I’ll start to believe you like me.”
His teeth flashed in the glow. “I think I like you too well at that, Daisy-girl.”
His words gave sway to a spot deep inside of her. S
he prattled on as if she hadn’t heard, lest he realize he affected her. “You talk of frippery when it is all too apparent that you rather like playing the fop as well. Do not try to deny it.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Self-deprecation colored his chuckle. “Birds of a feather, are we?”
Her lips quirked, and she glanced away, the fluttery feeling inside her stomach making her long to run away so that it would stop. She was astounded that Northrup had let her come along with him. She couldn’t account for it; Craigmore was of the decided opinion that women stayed within the home. Of course, she knew on an intellectual level that all men, thankfully, were not like Craigmore. But it did not stop her from expecting them to be.
“Northrup?”
“Mmm?”
“I apologize. For not telling you about the perfumer before I went to find him. I am not…” She took a deep, coal-tinged breath. “I am not accustomed to having a man finding me worthy of being a partner.”
His gaze made her heart pound and her fingers shake. She hated feeling so exposed but found she hated his hurt and disappointment more.
“I would say that it was your previous partner who was unworthy.”
Really, he took her breath away at times. When he looked at her as if she mattered. Her, not Daisy the ornament, or Daisy the tease, but her. Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she said what he deserved to hear. “And for the other bit.”
His voice gentled, and she heard the humor hiding there. “What bit?”
He was watching her, a smile playing about his mouth, forgiveness already softening his eyes.
“For making you think I do not trust you to keep me safe. I do. Trust you, that is.”
His smile grew. “It relieves me to hear it, Daisy-Meg.”
There was an invitation in his voice, a lure for her to step close and forget herself.
He caught her expression and his smile grew fiendish.
“Don’t go getting calf-eyed on me,” he warned with amusement. “Or I’ll start to believe that you like me, too.”
“And we couldn’t have that,” Daisy said, feeling almost dizzy.
Northrup’s eyes were indigo in the dim. He looked at her as though he knew her every thought. “After all,” he said in a thick voice, “what would happen, Daisy-Meg, if you liked me?”
She couldn’t think past the heat filling her. Desperately, Daisy nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip. Control, she needed to gain control. This was why she stayed away from men, because her lusts, once set free, were too great to contain. A small voice prodded that she hadn’t been this overcome by her unlucky suitor in the alleyway the other night. Nor by the countless other men who flirted with her over the years. No, only by him. This man whom she liked all too well.
His voice was a husky whisper and a taunt that plucked at her nerves. “What might you let me do?”
No, not with him. Not now. Carnal knowledge of the casual sort was one thing. This—he was something else. Flushed, Daisy turned and began briskly walking, taking a turn onto the main avenue. It was busier here, with people darting to and fro, sellers hawking evening fare for harried clerks on their way home.
Northrup’s long legs kept pace with hers with vexing ease, his deep voice a buzz about her ears. “So you would run from me now?” He chuckled, but the light in his eyes had dimmed. “Don’t you know we wolves like the chase? It only makes us want to—”
He said no more but froze. Daisy turned back in confusion. His expression altered to one of such pain that her breath left her.
Chapter Eleven
Memory was a cruel thing. It could attack without warning. All it needed was for the scene to be laid, a seemingly random sequence of events, a certain combination of scents, the quality of light hitting the street just so. A sound, a touch, if set just right, could suddenly fell a man and bring him to his knees.
As it were, such events conspired against Ian as they turned a corner. Hitting the precise note in the landscape of his mind, the sensation opened hidden corridors he’d rather keep closed. The scent snared him first, the slight breeze touched with the warmth of fried haddock mixed with the buttery sweet note of toffee that the vendors hawked along the square. Then the light of the lanterns, misty blue-green in the fog, and a woman’s laugh, holding the same overloud trill. It was all the same, as it had been decades ago.
“Da, why d’ye suppose that fellow’s teeth all fell out?” That small hand, how it fit so well into his own larger one. “Well now, Maccon, I suppose he ate only toffees and not his parritch. Let it be a warning to you, lad.”
Ian’s step faltered. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. He wouldn’t picture him. But it came, the sight of those eyes, deep brown and shining, like sunlight in a tidal pool, and his little nose wrinkling with disgust.
“Go on with you, Da! You’re just trying to get me to eat parritch.”
“There’s a smart lad. But how else are you going to grow big and strong like me, I ask you?”
A black hole opened in his chest, and by gods, it hurt. It hurt so that he could not move. Street traffic buffeted him as he stumbled to a stop and tried to breathe through the pain. A scream of frustration built behind his clenched teeth, for nothing on earth could bring back what was lost. Someone banged his shoulder, the bloke muttering in irritation. Then a different touch, soft and smooth over his fingertips, brought him back.
“Northrup?”
Out of the black misery, her face came into view, her blue eyes narrowed, that pouting mouth a flat line of concern. “Is something amiss? You look ill.”
He could only blink down at her as his throat closed. Loneliness, need, and despair made him quake. A flash of something darkened her eyes as she looked him over, understanding, pain that was her own, and then it was gone. If she treated him with pity, he’d howl and leave her standing alone on the street, but her pert chin merely lifted. “If you’ve plans to swoon simply so you can look up my skirts, I’ll kick your head and leave you where you lie.”
She grabbed his empty hand, filling it with her warmth. “Come along and cease your dramatics.” She proceeded to tug him down the street with cool efficiency, her hand staying in his, holding it firmly. Warmth spread along their connection, up his arm and into the gaping maw of his chest. His feet worked to keep up, despite his longer stride and the mincing steps forced on her by her skirt.
“I don’t know whether to be insulted or amused at such a blatant attempt.” The sound of her snappish voice was a balm. She glanced over her shoulder at him with an assessing eye. Whatever she saw in him did not meet full approval for she tugged harder, her look turning saucy. “I expected more creativity from you, Northrup. This is your idea of a chase? It’s pathetic, really.”
The painful lump of emotion in his throat softened and turned tender. Lightness bubbled up from within as her barbs continued. “You can do better, I’m sure. In the future—”
He stopped short, using their momentum to whip her about. His free arm snaked around her neat waist to hold her against him. And his mouth came down upon hers.
He meant it to be a peck, a lighthearted thank-you for seeing his pain and offering diversion instead of pity. That was what he had intended. But the moment his lips touched hers, his body decided on a different course. On a breath, he tilted his head into the kiss and fitted her closer.
Sweet mother, her mouth was as hot and delectable as he dreamed. He kissed her as if he’d done it a thousand times before, opening her mouth, shaping her lips with his as if he owned them. Shock made her rigid for just a moment, and then all that tightness turned to soft warmth and pressed into him, forcing a pained groan from his mouth. Her free hand fisted his lapel, and then she was kissing him back.
Jesus, she knew what she was about. Heat shivered over his skin as her tongue tangled with his. Coming up on her toes, she angled her head and suckled his lower lip with a little greedy noise. His fingertips sank into the soft curve of her cheek as he held her still and gave her what she
wanted.
They stood locked together on the street, attacking each other. He could think of no other word for the fierce biting, needy kisses, and the blinding speed of it. Their lips parted on a gasp as if they’d been struck by an electrical current.
With his arm still wrapped about her waist, he panted lightly as he stared down at her, taking in the lovely flush of her cheeks and her plump pink lips, wet now from his kiss. She blinked up at him, speechless apparently. So was he. She’d twisted him around her finger without effort, and all he wanted now was for her to twist harder. Christ, he was in a bad way. He did like her. Too much. And she was human. Destined to die someday. He couldn’t go through it again. It would kill him.
His hands shook, shook, damn it. But he played the part she expected of him and slipped one hand beneath her bustled train to give her rump a squeeze, getting a satisfying squeak out of her in the process. “In the future,” he said, straining to appear calm and unaffected, “I shall be more direct in my quest to get up your skirts, Daisy-Meg.”
Chapter Twelve
As it turned out, M. Randal was the Honorable Mr. Jonathan Randal, fourth son of the Earl of Kentwick, who, unfortunately, had not been at home. After a bit of Northrup’s not inconsiderable persuasion, they finally spoke with Mr. Randal’s valet, who had informed them that the perfume had been given as gift.
“For Miss Annika Einarsson, Mr. Randal’s fiancée,” Randal’s valet had told them. The man stood rod straight in Mr. Randal’s proper, if unadorned, front parlor. “I purchased it myself. Sent out, of course, by Mr. Randal.”
“And you decided to purchase perfume from a back-alley perfumer rather than a reputable supplier?” Daisy asked, unable to hold back her curiosity.
The valet sniffed but his expression remained implacable. “He may be the son of an earl, but he’s the fourth son. Mr. Randal barely has blunt enough to rub two shillings together.” The valet smoothed his immaculate lapels. “His father pays my salary. His mother provided the betrothal ring. Miss Einarsson is the money in this match. Can a man blame Mr. Randal for wanting to give her something on his own?”
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