Poppy was silent. Then she swallowed audibly. “Part of me was happy to keep it all from you.”
“Because you did not want to offend my manly pride?” He said it lightly, though the idea that she believed he was so small-minded bothered him.
Her dark eyes found him. “Because I didn’t want you to stop looking at me as a woman. As a wife who needed you.”
The carriage shuddered over a rut as he absorbed her words. Win cleared his throat, and it sounded overly loud in the space between them. “When we did battle against those undead, with your back to mine, each of us moving as one, I did not feel diminished. I felt alive.” He stared at her, and his blood heated again. “I think you are magnificent, Poppy Lane.”
“When I am in my twilight, and in a fit of ennui, I shall have a house party just like this,” said Poppy. They strolled arm in arm, the picture of a content couple, along the stunning gardens of Farleigh. Hundreds of butterflies dotted the air, fluttering to and fro. Win did not know how Mrs. Noble’s staff had managed to collect so many live specimens, but it made quite the picture. At present, he and Poppy wandered beneath an arbor hung with a profusion of blush pink roses that sweetened the air with their scent.
It had been fairly easy to pose as Mr. and Mrs. Snow, he a retired inspector turned prosperous wine merchant. Between the two of them, they knew enough about Hector Ellis’s old business practices to speak proficiently on the subject. And Win wanted to keep his past as an inspector, as due to the oddness of human nature, people tended to open up to former inspectors more than they did actual inspectors.
“What is it about this party that appeals to you?” Despite their situation, relaxation softened his voice and made his gait slow. The gentle strains of Vivaldi drifted over the garden. Walking with Poppy was something he’d always loved to do. To hear her thoughts and to feel her arm pressed against him made his heart light. A butterfly alighted upon the intricate twist of her ginger locks and settled down like a golden ornament.
“None of them care,” she said. “Have you noticed? They aren’t concerned with appearances or doing one better than the other.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “If you are referring to the impromptu swim in the lake we witnessed upon arrival, then I could not agree more.” A swim that did not include clothing.
Her cheeks went a charming shade of strawberry. “Yes, well that, and the general attitude of the party goers. There is such a carefree air. But genuine, which I can hardly comprehend in this day and age.”
He stopped at the end of the arbor where a wood nymph water fountain made gentle music. “A bit too casual, I’m afraid.” He glanced back toward the house, not visible from their vantage point, but there just the same. “We’ve been here three hours and have yet to see our hostess.”
“I suspect we’ll have to wait for this evening.” Her red brows slanted down, highlighting her strong profile. “Do you suppose she’ll keep to that horrid rule of separating the sexes after dinner?”
“Perhaps not,” he said, not really paying attention. The butterfly had fluttered away, but a deep red strand of silken hair had slipped the knot and now coiled about Poppy’s white throat. “Mrs. Noble does not appear to care for society strictures.”
In her butter yellow gown, with her hair piled high, Poppy looked every inch the proper lady, yet he knew the steel core that hid just beneath the surface. But here, with the warm August sunlight dappling her white cheeks and glorious hair, she seemed almost at peace.
Unable to help himself, he stroked the smooth, alabaster curve of her cheek with his thumb, gliding it up a sunlit patch and along the downy tendrils of hair at her temple. She flinched at first contact, but did not step away. Her eyes studied him. They stood close. Close enough that he’d only have to lean forward and he’d be kissing her. He would start soft and mold her mouth with his, before gently opening hers.
His voice came out over-rough when he spoke. “I did not attend to you enough.”
A little furrow deepened between her brows. “What do you mean? You always came home in a timely manner. You were always attentive.”
He cupped her cheek, loving the cool feel of her against his skin. “No. I mean like this. We never just went away. Never spent time simply being. I lost track of appreciating you.”
Her slender hand settled on his chest, and his heart thumped in return. “Win, you didn’t have to take me away to make me happy. You just had to be with me.” Her voice broke in a whisper. “And I was.”
Quite suddenly, he hurt. His heart. Everywhere. He ached with a sweet, sharp pain that made him want to groan. “Poppy…”
His hands still cupped her cheeks, and he leaned in, needing to kiss her, but on a breath, she pulled back. “Win, what do you wish for?”
Wish for? What good was wishing? Hard truth stared him in the face, and the darkness there threatened to drag him down. The words were difficult to form. “I wish to be the father I never had.” I want my child to be born. The lump in his throat grew until he could hardly speak. “I wish to see you safe.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I’ll never be safe. Not with the life I lead.” She didn’t flinch from it, but faced him head on when she spoke. Challenging him.
His fingers twined in the silken strands of her hair. She wanted the truth? “And when you are also a mother?” She tried to edge away. He held her fast. “What of danger then?”
Her brows took on an aggressive slant. “It isn’t—”
“Fair?”
“Yes, damn it!” Her cheeks flushed, and she took a deep breath.
His thumb stroked over the red wash of her guilt. “Little in life is.”
Absently she nodded, and her scowl broke into something dark, more like despair. “I’ve wanted this child. So badly. Only now that it is real…” She bit her bottom lip.
“You want the SOS more.” He tried not to feel the heavy weight of disappointment. She only wanted what most men he knew wanted as well. He couldn’t fault her for not being like other women. He’d known that much about her when he met her. He’d loved her uniqueness then, so he’d have to accept it now. Only it was clear that she wanted the SOS more than she’d wanted anything. Including him.
Poppy, however, glared up at him as if he’d slapped her. “That isn’t what I—”
“Is it the responsibility you fear losing or the danger?” He knew he was being a bastard, but he found himself unable to stop. Nor could he quell the tight ball of jealousy within him.
High color flagged her cheeks. “You are oversimplifying.”
“Because it is simple. We all place a measure of importance on things in our life. I’m merely asking the order of yours.”
“And what of you? As a homicide inspector, you risk your life every day. Would it be easy to walk away, then?”
“That choice has been made for me. I am no longer an inspector.” And didn’t it slash his soul to say it? It was akin to saying, “I am a failure.”
Poppy blanched before her chin thrust up. “Bollocks. That is merely a title. But here,” she slapped a hand upon his chest, “in your heart, you are a man who needs to fight for what is right.”
“Yes,” he said, despite himself.
Eyes the color of polished oak held him in place. “You sold your soul for it.”
“And for you.” For her most of all.
“And now?” Her voice shook with emotion as she gazed into his eyes. “Had you the chance to do it over again? What would you ask for? Knowing that I was a liar and a spy.”
“You!” He grasped her slim arms as if he could keep her there, in this garden, forever. What was waiting for him at the end of this long journey weighed like an anvil upon his heart. “I choose my wife and my child.”
The light in her eyes died, as swiftly as a candle being blown out. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Poppy was gentle as she removed herself from his grip. He tried to move, grab her back, tried to speak, to shout that he wanted her, needed her, but
his body froze. Was his choice so very distasteful to her?
Poppy’s voice was small and sad when she spoke again. “Only you did not choose me until you knew I was with child.”
“No.” No, no, no. She could not think…
Poppy shook her head. “When you look at me now, do you see only me? Or the child as well?”
How the hell could he answer that? To deny that Poppy and the child were the most important things in his life was illogical. His silence lasted too long. Poppy stepped back, straightening her spine as she did. “This talk gets us nowhere. Let us simply focus on the task at hand.” She walked backward, fading into the shadows beneath the trellis. Leaving him. “I shall see you at dinner.”
Chapter Nineteen
Paris, 1869—A Bargain
Winston sat in the crowded Parisian cafe and felt no pain. The little green fairy was taking care of that grandly. He slumped back in his seat, heedless of those around him, and simply stared. Faces swirled about him like a kaleidoscope gone mad. Eyes grew larger, rows of gleaming teeth flashing behind stretched lips. Too much laughter here. He needed to find another cafe. One where the somber chaps congregated as they drank their way toward death.
Death. He did not fear it. Why should he? He was already dead inside. No dreams left, no hope, no Poppy.
Ah, there it was, the pain. Like a marriage-minded mama with daughter in tow, pain pushed with insistent hands through the layers of alcohol-induced numbness and put itself front and center, demanding attention. He rubbed his tender chest. She’d ripped his heart out. And had been messy about it. Gaping wounds remained. He took another deep drink, and as the viscous anise flavor slid down his throat, he grimaced and looked down at himself, wondering how it was that there wasn’t a bloody hole in him. No. Simply a slightly soiled waistcoat and rumpled evening kit.
Was it evening? Or morning? When had he arrived?
Gas lamps burned in this murky place. Heavy velvet curtains lined the windows. One could never see the passing of time here. He hunched over his glass and wished for… what?
He thought of his dream to become a detective and realized that he no longer cared. Without Poppy, and the joy she brought into his life, any happiness he might find as an inspector would be a shadow of the real thing.
“It’s hopeless,” he muttered into his glass.
Foxed as he was, it took him a while to realize that the sounds around him had stopped. Completely, as though a thick blanket had been thrown over everything. His head heavy, Win had a bit of a time getting it to lift. When he did, he gawked. The cafe had gone still. Still as in every soul inside of it had simply frozen, as if they’d turned to marble. Now that was a trick. He looked about, blinking to clear his eyes. But the woman at the table beside his remained bent forward, her mouth stretched in a silent laugh, her bosom nearly falling out of her low, green velvet bodice. The waiter’s eyes remained glued upon those white mounds as his hand hovered an inch above the tabletop, the coffee cup in his hand steaming.
Footsteps echoed in the ringing silence, and Win wrenched his gaze toward the sound.
A man strolled toward him, his gait easy as he wove between the frozen patrons. Wearing a black walking suit and a waistcoat of scarlet satin, he appeared neither young nor old. His form was trim, his features almost indistinct. Dark hair hung unfashionably long from beneath a top hat that hid his eyes. And while Win stared, the man’s thin lips curled in a smile. The man’s chin lifted, and Win caught sight of his eyes. White. White irises that looked anything but human.
Win inhaled sharply. But the man blinked, and the eyes turned a normal hazel brown. The strange smile he wore, however, remained. The click of his boot heels stopped as he stood before Winston.
“Mr. Lane.” The man inclined his head. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
Waiting? Perhaps absinthe wasn’t the way to go. Perhaps opium would be better. Winston tried to reply and found his voice did not quite work. Decidedly, he’d imbibed too much.
Not waiting for an invitation, the man pulled out the chair opposite Win and sat. A slim, pale hand extended toward Win. “You may call me Mr. Jones.”
Win stared at the hand, and then at the man. He could not make himself move to shake hands. Mr. Jones let his hand fall and smiled again as though Win’s rudeness amused him. “Your glass is empty, Mr. Lane.”
Was it? Win hadn’t noticed.
“Let me get you another.” Jones’s fingers snapped, and like that, the cafe buzzed with life once more.
A waiter appeared at their table as if he’d been there all along. Win tried to think but found himself unable as the waiter set down a fresh glass of absinthe. Jones tapped the marble tabletop with one long fingernail. “Nothing is hopeless, Lane. Drink up.” His hand dipped into his coat pocket, and he pulled free a rolled length of foolscap. “Then we can discuss terms.”
Win touched his throbbing head. “Pardon, sir… I am a bit… muddled.” He took a deep, clearing breath. “Do I know you?”
Again came that smile, curling and dark with promise. Again the eerie flash of white in his eyes. “No. But you will.”
Chapter Twenty
Come with me.” Winston waited impatiently at his dressing room door as Jack Talent put aside a pair of boots he’d been polishing.
“Where are we going?” Talent asked as they traversed the long, wide upper hall.
“As Mrs. Noble proves elusive for the moment, we are going to question one of the other guests.”
“Wouldn’t you rather question the servants?” Talent asked.
Most guests were preparing for dinner, and the light of the day was fading fast. Around them, maids were lighting the lower gas lamps as tall footmen attended the upper sconces. A golden glow began to rise through the house. Drinks were being served in an hour, but Poppy refused to dress with Win in the room—another change that chafed his nerves—so he had dressed first.
“Not now. No servant likes to be questioned during the busiest hour of the day.” He’d track them down mid-morning, in that slim hour between breakfast and luncheon. “Besides, I’ve heard tell that a Colonel Alden has just arrived.” Five bob to the lower footman had done the job.
“Don’t see what an old colonel can do for us.”
“Ah,” Win stepped lightly down the center stairs, “but he is reputed to be an art collector. As was the demon Isley.”
Talent’s nostrils pinched as though scenting something foul. “Bloody demons. I hate dealing with them.”
“You can always go back to your room.” Win fought a smile as he glanced at the library door where the footman had told him Colonel Alden was taking a solitary drink. Winston tapped a finger against his walking stick and considered how best to approach the man. He looked Talent over. “How good a dog can you be?”
The corners of Talent’s eyes creased. “You’re attempting to flush a supernatural out, Inspector?”
“I gather most supernaturals would detect a shifter in their midst as opposed to a mere dog?”
Something dark flickered over Talent’s eyes then was gone. “Not all. But a demon ought to.”
“Then we’ll be sure to pay close attention to the colonel’s reaction.”
Winston expected Talent to find some privacy to change, but the man merely glanced about and, finding the corridor they’d stopped in empty, turned back to Winston with a devilish grin. The air about Talent suddenly shimmered, or perhaps it was Talent himself that shimmered. Whatever the case, it happened in the blink of an eye, too quickly for Winston to study. One moment Talent stood before him, the next an enormous dog looked up at him, panting as if it were laughing. By its side lay a pile of clothes and Talent’s boots.
Winston eyed the grey, shaggy beast with appreciation. “A wolfhound, eh? Cheeky.” He gathered up the clothes and stuffed them behind a potted palm. “Come along then, Felix.”
A low growl had him glancing down. “Too bad,” he said. “I’m keeping the name. Always wanted a dog named Felix.”
Winston entered a large library that looked much like any other manor library, filled with the ubiquitous leather couches and imposing portraits of ancestors past. It smelled of books and wood polish.
A man sat, half hidden by the wings of the red leather armchair he occupied. Blue coils of smoke drifted in lazy tendrils just above the chair. When the scent of tobacco hit Winston, he tensed. Jones’s cigarettes. Was it Jones?
The occupant of the chair stirred, and the firelight caught the reflection of one polished steel arm. Curious.
“Good evening, sir,” Win said as he came farther into the room.
The man gave a small start then leaned forward. Alert eyes watched Winston from beneath a set of white brows.
“Evening.” The man tapped out a line of ash in the crystal tray by his side. The action brought Win’s attention back to his false arm, which started at the elbow. From there, a true work of metal art was attached in the form of a forearm and hand, currently resting upon the leather arm of the chair. “Impressive beast you have there.”
Winston had almost forgotten about Talent. “He is my most loyal companion.”
Talent thumped rather hard against his leg on the way to find a patch of warm sunlight on the gleaming oak floor. He settled down with a grunt and promptly lowered his head.
“Lovely breed,” said the man. “Rare, though. I know of a Captain Graham who is attempting to revive it.”
“Admirable work,” Winston said.
The man’s keen gaze raked over Win’s face. “Hell of a set of scars.” The man said it with appreciation rather than disgust. “Didn’t think there were many wolves left to hunt. Seems you found one, though.”
Winston blinked. Strangely enough, most people did not ascribe his scars to a wolf attack. Most assumed they were the work of knives. “In this instance, it was a case of the wolf hunting me.”
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