His expression turned wry. “A man might as well face his fears, or let them rule him.”
She wanted to wrap her arms about him so badly that her limbs twitched. She knew he did not think of himself as brave. But he was. More so than she.
Win shifted his weight as though uncomfortable with her silence. “The place is a veritable fortress.”
“It is at that.” No demon in its right mind would try to infiltrate a den of lycans.
Chapter Sixteen
Winston guided Poppy to the hack stands but she stopped short. He followed the direction of her gaze. A smart town coach painted glossy, ox-blood red and trimmed in gold stood at the curb. No crest graced the doors, but the coachman and two outriders were dressed in fine black livery. As if sensing her notice, one of the toms jumped down and bowed.
“A friend of yours?” Win asked.
“Yes.” She appeared both pleased and yet put out. Before he could ask another question, Poppy started forward, and Win followed.
The coach’s window curtains were drawn tight, and Win blinked in the dim interior as he climbed inside.
“Forgive the darkness, Mr. Lane,” said a woman.
His sight adjusted and settled on a diminutive woman tucked up against the black velvet squabs. Raven hair surrounded the pale moon of her face. Her red lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “I’ve a skin ailment which erupts upon exposure to sunlight.” Her words came out clipped with a deep roll in the middle. Russian perhaps, but she’d been in England long enough for it to have faded.
Her gown, however, was purely Asiatic. Made of crimson silk and embroidered with silver dragons, it was exotic and strange, yet seemed to suit her in some way that he suspected proper English gowns would not.
He took the seat on the opposite bench next to Poppy, who appeared perfectly at ease. “I’ve heard of such ailments,” he said. “Any small bit of sunlight exposure results in rapid skin burns.”
The smile grew a shade more. “Precisely.”
“Winston,” Poppy said. “This is Lena. She is my lieutenant, for lack of a better word.”
“Madam.” Poppy hadn’t offered a last name, but Win’s upbringing protested against using the woman’s given name.
Lena inclined her head, and the beaded hair sticks that speared her coiffure clattered. “Mr. Lane.” She turned her dark eyes back to Poppy. “What news?”
Poppy informed Lena with clipped tones then leaned back with a small sigh, and for once, she appeared utterly exhausted. Win let his hand fall to the seat, and their pinkies touched.
“Do you know who this Moira Darling could be?” Poppy asked Lena. The tip of her pinky moved against his. The light touch sent a lightning bolt of lust down the pathways of his nerves. Crossing one leg over the other, he watched Lena carefully.
The woman’s slim shoulders swayed gently with the rhythm of the coach as she stared back at Poppy. “No.”
For the life of him, Win could not tell if she was lying. Quite the feat since he ferreted out the best of liars. Save one. Poppy studied Lena as well, but seemed to be satisfied with the answer.
Again Poppy’s little finger stroked him. He stroked back, trailing his pinky along her slimmer one. A shiver of sensation lit over his heated skin. Win cleared his throat. “She stole something from him. We do not know what.”
At this, Lena gave a brittle smile. “Sounds like Isley, having a fit of pique over losing some nonsensical object.”
Win felt along the delicate edge of Poppy’s nail but he paused. “How well do you know Isley?”
Lena did not blink, and in the shadows of the coach, her dark irises glittered like bits of jet. “Enough to know that he always wants something from someone.” Her lashes swept down for a moment before she focused on Poppy. “I shall put out inquiries about this Darling woman.”
Poppy’s hand slipped away as she sat up straight. “Keep it quiet.”
Lena’s thin brows furrowed. “I always do.” Her mouth opened but she hesitated before finally answering. “You well know the dangers of interacting with Isley. It would be my honor to take over this investigation, should you wish it.”
Poppy scowled. “You think that because I am with child, I cannot defend myself?”
Lena shrugged. “Hardly. It was merely a suggestion.”
The look on Poppy’s face made it quite clear what she thought of that, but she answered calmly enough. “This fight is Win’s and mine.” Her hand fell back to the squabs and rested next to his thigh. Win did not take it, but showed his support by facing Lena’s burning gaze unflinchingly.
Apparently satisfied, Lena nodded, then studied Poppy in the ensuing silence. A look passed between them, and Winston understood that Lena wanted to discuss business.
Poppy held the other woman’s gaze. “Report.”
“Isley’s appearance is already stirring up trouble,” Lena said. “We’ve had five murders in the last two days. Lower level demons cutting down humans for fun. They’ve been dealt with, but the Nex are using Isley to incite protests within the underground.”
“The Nex?” Winston looked from Lena to Poppy. “As in the Latin term for slaughter?”
“To signify both the slaughter of ignorant humans and the metaphorical destruction of supernaturals’ basic rights. Pithy, isn’t it?” Poppy’s mouth pinched. “They are a resistance group who seeks to expose supernaturals to the world and are a bloody thorn in the SOS’s side.”
Lena made a sound of annoyance. “They are using Isley as a figurehead because he has escaped from Hell. Not many have done so, and no demon wants to return.” Black humor filled her eyes. “Hell is a most uncomfortable place to be.”
“I gather,” Win muttered. “But are not all demons from Hell?”
“No.” Lena crossed one leg over the other, causing her silk gown to hiss. “Demons are born in another plane of existence. There are many names for this place: Duat, the underworld, the shadowlands,” she lifted a shoulder as if to say names were meaningless, “but it is not hell. It is simply another place. Hell is a prison, designed for those who do evil and seek to bedevil this world.”
Poppy’s naturally ivory skin turned wan, and shadows dwelled beneath her eyes. “Send word to Michael Scott. Have him run the usual story.”
Win jolted up. “Michael Scott, the bleeding shock journalist with The Cryer?” When Winston had been on the Ranulf case, that bloody man had run wild with sordid tales of werewolves and liver-eating madmen. Of course now Win knew they were true. At the time, it had been one more nuisance to drive him to distraction.
“The very one,” Poppy said, unrepentant. “We constantly leak stories. You know tales of vampires, werewolves, ghosts that haunt St. Giles and such.”
Win’s mouth fell open before he snapped it shut. “You willingly let Londoners know about such things? Wouldn’t it be safer to quash all evidence?” He wasn’t for lying to the public but he understood working for the greater good.
“That would in actuality be harder to do.” Poppy gave him a small, pained smile. “You understand better than anyone that people always know deep down when they’re being lied to.” It was bold of Poppy to say so, but he kept his expression neutral. Discomfort spread over her features but she pushed on. “So we give them an enticing version of the truth. Give them a bit of a thrill, then they are satisfied.”
It was quite clever.
With a sweep of her straight lashes, Poppy dropped the subject and turned back to Lena. “Pull Regulators off of low priority cases and put them on patrol. Double shift until the situation dies down.” Her red brows drew together. “They’ll balk. We are sorely understaffed,” she said to Win before addressing Lena again. “Tell them that a double shift means double pay.”
Lena nodded then rested her hand upon her knee as if relaxing, but Win had the thought that this woman never truly relaxed. “We need to increase our recruiting efforts, that is clear.” Her gaze turned speculative. “How goes it with the GIM?”
“Miss Chase,” Poppy interjected Mary’s name with enough emphasis to make clear that Lena ought to afford the lady some respect, “is doing well. She needs further combat training but that can be attained easily enough.”
The coach hit a rut, and Lena’s hair sticks clattered. “Rumor has it Lucien Stone suffers a fit of ennui and considers stepping down as head of the GIMs.”
“I’ve heard so as well.” Poppy settled more comfortably against the squabs, and Winston stared. His wife commanded the space around her like a duke with utter and total confidence in her place within this world. “If he does, Daisy will take over. Her connection to the Lycans as their queen would give them an iron-clad alliance.”
Lena’s red lips formed a brief smile. “It was wise of you to bring the lycans and GIMs together.”
A jolt passed through Winston’s middle. “What?” He looked between the two women, and noted Poppy’s implacable expression. “You planned for Daisy to become a GIM?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Poppy said with a wave of her hand. “I had no idea Daisy suffered from syphilis.” Something dark passed over Poppy’s face before clearing. “I merely knew Conall Ranulf’s character, and I knew Ian’s. Ian would make a better leader of the Lycans than his brother. He had honor when his brother did not, and he believes in the SOS’s cause. Ignoring Ian’s desperate request for help pushed him to make an alliance with Lucien Stone and the GIMs.” Her gaze held steady even as the coach swayed. “Lucien and Ian were old friends. It seemed the natural course of things.”
This was his wife? This Machiavellian creature?
As if reading his shock, her expression turned wry. “It was a gamble that paid out.”
“And the fact that your sister was in danger?” Daisy had been stalked by a mad werewolf. Disappointment colored Winston’s tone.
Poppy closed down, going cold. “Ian Ranulf is one of the most powerful supernaturals I know. He vowed to keep Daisy safe, and I had to trust in that.”
“It is an awful amount of trust to place, Poppy. You played with your sister’s life.”
Ice cold air filled the coach. “We were monitoring the situation.”
Anger twisted like a knife in his gut. “How could I forget?”
The SOS had also been watching as he investigated the case and ended up being attacked by the werewolf, but it was a cheap shot, and he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. Poppy was a creature of logic and control, just as he was. And perhaps that was the problem. Logic and control ought not to rule love and color decisions concerning family, yet it had. It had crept into their lives at some point when neither of them was looking. He hated that this was how their fate had unraveled.
The cold surrounding Winston had a bite to it now. Poppy glared at him from across the small divide between them. “I might have brought her to SOS headquarters. And if you know anything of Daisy, you’ll know that she would have found a way out and back to Ian. The woman has the curiosity of a cat and was obviously attracted to Ranulf.” Poppy’s brown eyes bore into him. “Every morning we rise up from our beds and death is there, hanging over us, waiting for an opportunity. Life is a gamble, husband. The question is, will you play your hand when the risk is at its greatest?”
“What do you know of the Komtesse Krogstad?” Win asked Poppy, after Lena let them off at the Chelsea Embankment.
She almost started at the sound of his voice. Their argument in the coach had left Poppy tender and bruised of heart. She had thought—hoped—he would understand her work and how there were times in which the only choice was between bad and worse. But he had looked at her with wounded and disillusioned eyes. Poppy braced herself and let the hurt slide over her. She would let it go for now. They had work to do.
“That she is not really a komtesse.”
Afternoon sunlight bathed the wide walking park that fronted the Thames, casting everything in a golden glow. It was cooler here by the water, with a forgiving breeze carrying the scent of brine. Poppy smoothed back a strand of hair that had slipped free before taking a huge bite of the Chelsea bun they’d stopped to purchase a block over. Cinnamon and lemony sweetness filled her mouth. Gods, but it was delicious. She could eat two more, given the opportunity. Having never been the sort to go weak-kneed over sweets, she could only surmise it was due to the baby, which left her elated and terrified all at once.
She popped the last bite into her mouth then licked her sticky fingers. Win’s gaze rested on the action, and something within her tightened. She let her hand fall. “She’s a cobbler’s daughter from Christiania. She had a knack for attracting extremely wealthy protectors. Apparently, she worked her way through Norway and down the Rhine before settling in London. Posing as a komtesse added cachet to both her and her paramours, so everyone was happy with her illicit title usage.”
Win cleared his throat and turned his attention forward. “Was? Does she not have a protector now?”
“She doesn’t need one. At the moment, the komtesse does what pleases her and nothing more.” Poppy glanced at his stern profile. “She is quite lovely, actually.”
He made a sound. “You’ve visited her before?”
She could see in his eyes that the possibility irritated him, as it was one more thing he did not know about his wife. To hell with him then. The bloody bastard had bargained away their child. Her voice grew as hard as the square pavers beneath her feet. “On occasion. The komtesse is one of our best informants. And she’s very fond of the occult.”
He tilted his head down, away from the sun’s harsh glare, leaving only the smooth sweep of his unmarred jaw visible. “She believes in it, but does she know the full truth?”
“Her belief only goes so far. She’ll turn a blind eye toward anything that would frighten her. The occasional séance to call ghosts of lovers past, however, is quite entertaining.”
Directly in front of them, a piano grinder had set his pushcart down. Discordant clanking filled the air as he turned the crank. A horrid noise, yet lively enough to entice a group of girls to dance. Two little ones, no older than seven, and two young ladies around fifteen danced a quick jig to the music as their older sisters looked on with their arms linked in easy companionship. Like a few others, Poppy slowed to watch them, her heart warming as she thought of her own sisters at that age.
Win stood by her side, close enough to feel the heat of his body but not quite touching. “Remember the day Miranda and Daisy taught me the polka?”
She felt herself smile. “They were so proud to teach you something you did not know.” It was a lifetime ago; that day Poppy had played the piano as the girls danced Win about the parlor until the three of them fell down laughing. It had been the first time Miranda had truly laughed since their mother had died, and Poppy had nearly wept in gratitude that Win had been able to coax it out of her.
He leaned in a touch, his voice at her ear, and she could hear the smile in his tone. “I was happy to learn from them. And proud to teach them the waltz.”
How graceful he had been and careful to lead the girls through the steps, quietly correcting them yet taking no notice of their furious blushes when they made a mistake. He’d waltzed with her as well. Later that night, just the two of them in the darkened parlor. They hadn’t needed music then; their bodies had their own rhythm. Her cheeks heated, and she knew that if she turned her head, she’d find him watching her. Would she see the ghost of those days haunting his gaze? Poppy did not think she could bear it.
“I should not have spoken to you the way I did,” he said in a low voice. Her breath left in a soft exhalation, but he kept on speaking as if he hadn’t heard. “I ought to know better than anyone that one must detach all feeling in order to make impossible decisions.”
“Your anger was well-placed,” she whispered. “I gambled with my sister’s safety. I might have lost her.” She wrapped her arms about herself and held still.
Win’s touch at her lower back skittered along her senses. “I did not consider Daisy’s nature or
see the entire picture. You did. And your gamble paid out.”
Poppy rubbed her arms. “Forget it.” For all her neediness, his sudden praise made her want to run from herself, and she did not know why.
“I cannot,” he said, but he dropped his hand as if he knew she was on the verge of bolting.
“The komtesse’s house is just there,” she said with a toss of her chin, desperate to bring the subject back to the task at hand. The grand, red brick town house jutted out from the rest of the buildings, elegant in design, with its Gothic arches and circular windows.
Poppy kept her stride quick, knowing he would keep up. Nevertheless, her limbs felt heavy, as though weighted down. “She is quite relaxed about societal manners.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his lip twitch. “Are you warning me to brace my delicate sensibilities, Poppy?”
She slid him a sidelong glance. “I suppose I needn’t. I’m sure you’ve entered your fair share of bordellos and the like.”
His mouth quirked further, and his blue-grey eyes twinkled. “All in the name of investigations, I assure you.”
She sniffed. “I didn’t think otherwise.”
“Mmm.”
A reluctant smile pulled at her lips. “The point being that one knows what to expect in such establishments, and thus one is prepared when the irregular occurs.” She could almost feel his eyes rolling, and she gave him a repressive look. “It’s another thing altogether to enter what you believe to be a respectable residence only to find a dwarf dressed as a cherub—or undressed as it were—or some such thing, now isn’t it?”
Win stopped short, the scar on his left brow pulling tight as his eyes narrowed. “Is that what we’re going to find? Naked dwarves?”
“Henri is often about, but he may be otherwise engaged.” She shrugged and strode onward, lest he see her grin. “One never knows.”
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