“Good thing you had the dog.”
Winston ignored Talent’s amused huff and took a seat on the couch perpendicular to the man. “Are you Colonel Alden, sir?”
The man’s massive frame twitched just a bit. “Yes. And you are?” Not defensive, but cautious.
“Mr. Snow of London. In my earlier days, I was an Inspector First Class of the Criminal Investigation Division.” The lie flowed from his lips like wine from a bottle.
Colonel Alden made a sound of amusement. “Mouthful of a title, young man.” He sat impossibly straighter, his legs braced before him. “How can I help you?”
Winston had expected to ease into his interrogation. If only all the people he questioned were so accommodating. However, he would not mistake accommodation for truthfulness.
“I’ve been working on a case, by way of helping out a friend. I have heard that you are a collector of art, as is the man in question.”
“ ’Tis true. I admire art. Save, I am but a dilettante.” Alden’s remaining hand lay relaxed against his thigh. “Nor can I think of how I might be of service to you, but ask your questions.”
“Do you know of a Lord Isley? I believe he is old friends with Mrs. Noble.”
Alden’s hard gaze turned inward, a slow rotation that spoke of shock one tried to process quietly. “Well, well,” he said at last, “I’ve not heard that name in a while.” His stiff shoulders eased a touch as he looked down at his artificial limb. “Look here.” He lifted the limb and pushed back his coat sleeve. “Have you ever seen its like?”
Winston inspected the limb. Made of stainless steel and forged in the exact replica of the human skeleton, it actually appeared quite delicate. The only deviation from anatomical correctness was found in the palm of the hand. There, a flat surface made up a palm, upon which a long, undulating snake had been carved out. Thin wires ran from each finger joint, up past the wooden cap that attached the limb to flesh and under the colonel’s coat.
“Never.”
Alden grunted. “Nor will you, I gather. Observe.” His biceps bunched and, to Winston’s shock, the steel fingers curled inward. “The wires,” Alden explained, “are attached to a brace at the muscle.” He lifted his sleeve higher to reveal a rather large and intricate brace made of leather and webbed with wires. “When I flex, the hand reacts.”
“It is brilliant.” Winston wasn’t sure where the colonel was going with this demonstration but trusted that he’d get there eventually. People either answered questions directly, avoided them with belligerence and counter questions, or told him stories.
The colonel let his sleeve drop. “My father was the Marquis of Danville. He wanted me to become a soldier. Go to war like all other good third sons did. After all, the heir had produced his fair brood, and the spare had done the same, leaving our line stocked with plenty of fallbacks. Thus for what use was I if not to fight for England? And if there wasn’t a war, why, we’ve plenty of colonies to keep in line.” He sat back in his seat. “I might have defied him but he held the purse strings.”
How well Winston knew that predicament.
“So a soldier I became, even though I detested the thought. I wanted to be alone with my books, truth be told. Didn’t give a fig for following orders or barking them out, as the case may be.”
Alden extracted a cigarette from the slim gold case on the side table. “Have one?”
The image of a serpent was etched upon the fine gold case. Winston tore his gaze from the case and peered into Alden’s eyes. Nothing stirred, save mild curiosity as to why Winston was staring. Upon the floor, Talent noticed his querying look. His dog brows twitched as he too glanced at Alden then he grunted, not bothering to lift his head from the floor. Presumably, not threatened by the colonel in the least. So not Jones then. Or another demon. Winston centered his attention back on Alden, who waited for an answer. “Thank you, no.”
Alden paused to fiddle with his matches and lit the cigarette, a rather neat trick for a man with an artificial hand. The familiar perfume of fine Turkish tobacco filled the space, a blue cloud of it floating past a rather fine Leighton portrait of a girl. “Do you know what happened upon gaining my commission?”
Winston gave him a small smile. “I could not begin to fathom.”
“I fell in love with the army.” He took a deep draw and let out a trail of smoke. “Loved the order of it. The simplicity. Found it soothed my mind.” He laughed, a rather rattling sound deep within his chest. “Took to it like a duck to water. And then this happened.” He lifted his artificial limb. “Ridiculous thing. A paper cut, if you can believe it. A deuced paper cut that turned gangrenous and had to be chopped off.”
The colonel frowned down at his limb as if remembering the indignity of it.
“Bad luck,” Winston said.
“Cursed luck is what it was!” The steel fingers curled slightly as the colonel rested his arm upon his bent knee. “They sent me home. Where I was useless. Away from my men.” He cleared his throat. “You were an officer of sorts, an inspector at least. You know what it is to be among your comrades. They understand your life. Not like those at home.”
Winston ducked his head in agreement. He was as cast off as the colonel had been. It left one unmoored and aimless.
Alden did not seem to notice Win’s disquiet. He took another draw at his cigarette before peering thoughtfully at Winston. “That’s when Isley came in. Met him at some party given by Mrs. Noble. An art exhibit for that painter who died this spring… Manet. Heard of him?”
“Yes,” Winston said, shifting uncomfortably. “Quite talented, I believe.”
The colonel waved his cigarette in a lazy fashion. “It was Isley who found me this hand. He took me round the next day to a tinker, of all things, although I suppose it’s about right. Who else could fashion such a thing?”
“Did you ever meet a woman named Moira Darling?” Winston asked.
The colonel shook his grey head. “Never heard of her.” He stared at his steel hand again, as if discovering it anew. “Clever thing. Saved my life, really.”
Winston was losing the colonel. Soon he’d be on a different track, and it would be impossible to get any further information about Isley out of him.
Idly, Alden tapped a finger against his gold case again but did not open it. His long, weathered fingers stroked the thing with a sort of meditative reverence. An action, Winston suspected, that was habit.
“Did Isley give you that case, sir?”
The colonel stopped. “This? No. I bought it…. That is to say someone…” The colonel’s expression went blank as if he were trying to catch a memory or perhaps one had tickled the corners of his mind, but then he harrumphed and his intense focus returned. “Tell you the truth, I am not sure where I picked this up. But it wasn’t from Isley. Couldn’t have been…”
“Merely curious,” Winston said.
“Isley was the one responsible for my returning to the army, you know.” Alden’s big body seemed somehow frail in the setting sunlight as he squinted at him. “I mentioned my distress at being sent home and the man made a few inquiries. The next week, they called me back in.” Alden frowned, looking off into the distance. “I’d forgotten that. Can’t imagine how I could…” He shook his head slowly.
“Must have simply slipped your mind,” Winston said. Or someone put the thought back into it. The question was why? And what was another of Jones’s victims doing here?
“Might I ask, sir, what it was that brought you to this party this weekend?”
The colonel’s bushy brows lifted. “Damnedest thing, really. I hadn’t thought of Amy Noble in years, then my butler brought in the mail and an invitation was there. Figured, why not?”
Indeed. Win studied the colonel anew. There was obviously something about this man that Jones wanted Winston to discover. Usually, Win enjoyed games of wit. But today, he barely stifled the urge to curse. Or perhaps try to shake the truth out of the colonel.
But the colonel’s atte
ntion had drifted to the window, his keen eyes tracking a lady as she strolled along the terrace with the other female guests. Winston’s muscles clenched. He was staring at Poppy. Poppy, who looked utterly breathtaking in a gown of deep silver satin.
“Do you know her?” he asked the colonel without taking his gaze from his wife.
Alden shook his head. “She simply caught my eye. The way a fine piece of art might, you gather?”
Win nodded. He did not imagine the colonel’s interest to be more than abstract.
The colonel’s attention wandered back to Poppy as she strolled along the terrace. “It is strange. Just then, it felt as though I’ve seen that very picture before. Perhaps in a painting. Note the evening light, the way it glows on the soft curve of her cheekbone, how it gleams along the edge of her jaw and the small shadows beneath the pillow of her lower lip. Chiaroscuro, they call that effect.”
“Yes.” Win watched his wife, the sunlight kissing her skin and setting the red in her hair aflame. He gathered he would never see a more beautiful woman in the world. Because she was his. Win lowered his voice confidentially. “The lady happens to be my wife.”
The colonel colored. “Really, man, you ought to have said something. I do apologize for speaking out of turn.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. I found no offense in your admiration, certainly.”
“Good of you,” the colonel grumbled before giving Win a light slap on the shoulder. “Go collect your lovely wife then, my boy. Before someone younger and wilder than I sets his eye upon her.”
It was strange, but when Poppy pictured the sort of woman Isley would be attracted to, she thought of the typical English rose. That paragon of femininity and grace who men fought wars to protect and who never spoke her mind when she could be making a man feel that his opinion was the only one that mattered. Poppy knew of such women in an academic sense, but had never befriended any of them. The closest thing she had to female friends were her sisters, and they were hardly model ladies, thank God. It appeared that Isley had little interest in proper English ladies either. Not if Mrs. Amy Noble was anything to go by.
Surrounded by young men who seemed to hang on her every movement, she held court from a large red velvet divan, her elbow on the arm of it, and her feet propped up on one end in a pose of utter relaxation. That she lounged about as if she were in her boudoir instead of entertaining guests was not so extraordinary. That she dressed as a man was. Her fine black dinner suit did not hide her femininity, but rather was cut to accentuate her curves. Her hair was raven black, save for a swath of white that started at her left temple and was swept back with the rest to fall in a sleek river down her back. She looked utterly foreign and utterly lovely.
Resting her hand upon Win’s forearm, Poppy walked across the room. Smoke grey satin rustled with each step she took, the heavy slide of those yards of fabric against her legs. How would it feel to always walk unfettered, not just when playing the role of spy? More to the point, why did she persist in wearing corsets and proper gowns? It irked her to realize that she had more in common with those English roses than she’d thought. Despite believing herself to be independent, she had tried to please everyone, take care of them all. As a result, she’d lost a bit of herself in the process.
Mrs. Noble looked up as they came before her. She had to be at least fifty but did not look a day past thirty-five with her skin as smooth and unlined as a peach. Her eyes flashed ebony in the candlelight, and Poppy thought for a moment that Mrs. Noble recognized her. But they’d never met before, and the strange look was gone, replaced by one of mild interest.
“Mr. and Mrs. Snow,” she said with a young maiden’s voice, “how delightful to meet you.” She took in Win’s scarred profile with interest. “Now there’s a story waiting to be told. Sit down and perhaps I can manage to entice it out of you.”
Win’s mouth quirked but he accepted the light chair a footman had pulled up, just as Poppy accepted hers. “Madam,” he said, “perhaps we can trade stories. One of mine for one of yours.”
Mrs. Noble leaned in, and the drop crystal beads on her black velvet diadem caught the light. “A barter?” Her trilling laugh had more than a few men smiling. “I like that.”
Win settled more comfortably on his chair, crossing one foot over the other. “Mind you, it’s quite a story. I’ll expect something similar in return.”
Mrs. Noble cut a glance toward Poppy, giving away the fact that she had been constantly aware of Poppy’s presence. The woman appeared to feed off of it, taking a base feminine pleasure in having Poppy watch while Win flirted with her.
Though Poppy detested to admit it, part of her had never understood why Win had pursued her on that long ago day at Victoria Station, nor why he’d immediately begun courting her. She was not beautiful, or charming, and was in possession of rude, red hair. Her manner could at best be described as abrupt, but was often called mannish. And while she rather liked the person she was inside, she did not suffer fools lightly. In a society that revolved around shallow, false behavior, this was not a beneficial tactic. That this handsome, intelligent man, a duke’s son for pity’s sake, seemed to see no other woman than her… At times, she’d wondered if it had all been some grand mistake.
That had not, however, stopped her from claiming him. She was not a fool, and if he wanted to make her his, she would make him hers in return. He’d spoken of choices, and how hers had been taken from her, not understanding that there was a difference between choosing what was best and wanting something with one’s entire soul. She’d always wanted Win. Had she the ability to slap a sign upon him proclaiming “mine!” she would have done so.
With that firmly in mind, she maintained a neutral deportment as Mrs. Noble’s sweet voice addressed her. “What say you, Mrs. Snow? Is his tale worth it?”
“It depends,” Poppy said. “How good a trade do you offer?”
Mrs. Noble threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I do like you two.” With a languid lift of her hand, another footman came over. “Our guests require refreshment,” she said to him, then turned her eyes back on Winston. “There are stories to be told.”
Win planted his feet and rested an elbow on his thigh, moving in that way of his that was at once precise and yet languid. A trick of movement that made one feel comfortable, beguiled into spilling secrets to a man who they were certain would not let them down. She hadn’t fully appreciated it until now. Pride shot through her, and with it, the nearly overwhelming desire to touch him, caress the silky locks of his hair, anything that would proclaim him hers.
Mrs. Noble was no less affected. Her eyes tracked Win’s movement as her bosom swelled on an indrawn breath. As if drawn by a string, she leaned into him, her lips parting in anticipation. His blue-grey eyes twinkled, a shared amusement, another ruse. Win’s smoky voice lowered intimately, and he spoke as if they were the only two in the room. “But you see, madam, I am quite… shall we say, shy about revealing this story to just anyone.” The widow’s lids fluttered at the near purr of Win’s voice. “I would much rather discuss such things in private.”
Their eyes held a beat, and then hers reluctantly slid over to Poppy. About bloody time, too. Poppy returned her look with what she hoped was a secretive smile. Win caught her eye, and he smiled too. “My wife prefers these little intimacies as well.” A cloying shade of wickedness tinted his words, and Mrs. Noble licked her lips.
Poppy valiantly held back from rolling her eyes. Really, who was this man? What had he done with her proper husband?
“Well then,” Mrs. Noble said, “shall we?” However, she paused and affected a moue of disappointment. “But I almost forgot, there is someone I believe would love to hear your tale. I’m sure you will not mind. He is most discreet.” She raised a hand, and a man moved away from his place by the mantel at the far side of the room and headed their way. The handsome younger man stopped by her side and took her hand, placing a light kiss on it.
“You summoned, my dear?” Hi
s voice was deep and smooth with the ease of a lover’s.
Mrs. Noble smiled a Cheshire cat’s smile, all teeth and malicious intent. “I did indeed.” She gave the man’s hand a squeeze. “Mr. Snow here claims to have the most interesting story to tell.”
All eyes fell on Win, and a twinge of alarm hit Poppy, for her husband had gone completely white. A fine sweat peppered his brow, and his throat worked as if he’d soon be ill. His gaze was not upon Mrs. Noble but on her companion.
Chapter Twenty-one
Poppy did not know what it was about the man that upset Winston so, but she was going to find out. She turned to Win, and his glazed eyes locked onto hers, wild and confused, as if he could not focus. “Darling,” she said, “come with me to retrieve my shawl? I find myself chilled.” It was hot as Hades.
With a little flicker of her power, an icy draft swirled through the room, causing more than one woman to shiver.
She did not wait for Win to answer but rather tugged him out of the room, down the hall, and onto the terrace where he could get some much needed air. He was shaking, his breath coming out in raw pants. The dark thing had him. She’d seen it before in others. Strong men and women who had faced death and terror and come away with a bit of it still clinging to their minds. Sometimes it never left them, that ugly residue of death. It would catch them unawares and torment them. And each and every one of them believed they were weak because of it. Poppy rather thought the opposite. That they were the brave ones who had been chased by death and escaped to forge onward.
She did not stop until they were beneath the arbor, now dark with shadows and thick with the scent of roses in the warm, moonlit night. Win sat with a thud upon the stone bench, and she followed him down, placing a hand on his fevered brow. Her touch grew chilled, cooling him. “Win,” she whispered, looking into his unseeing eyes, “come back to me.”
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