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.”
He struggled for breath and she pulled him close, stroking his ravaged cheek. “Win, who was that man?”
His hands clutched her upper arms hard. “My brother.”
Her heart stilled. Win’s family had always been rather a closed subject. Which Poppy hadn’t fought, as she was likely to work herself into an indignant state when she thought of their treatment of him, of how they had abandoned him without a backward glance, solely because he had chosen to become a detective. She cringed now. All of that had been a lie. A bloody trick.
She thought of the man they’d just encountered. He was younger than Mrs. Noble but perhaps a bit older than them. He didn’t look anything like Winston but had raven hair and coal black eyes. His features were more Gallic than Anglo-Saxon. “He looked right at you. How could he not recognize you?”
Win’s head jerked up. “Why should he? He’s been led to think his brother is dead. It’s Isley’s bloody bargain at play, after all.” His features twisted. “Never mind that I hardly look as I did before.”
Her stomach dipped. “But to not have even experienced a glimmer of recognition? To not even feel… something?”
Win laughed, a dark, unhinged sound. “You of all people ought to understand with whom we are dealing. He altered our lives, Poppy. He can twist things until up is down. How are we to know what is real and what is not?”
In her heart of hearts, she did not like to give Isley credit for the power he wielded. Certainly not now. Not when it was her life he’d toyed with, violated. She lurched up and began to pace, needing to feel her limbs move over solid ground. “Why is your brother here? And with Mrs. Noble? It cannot be a coincidence. She knew you would be affected. Her little grin was downright nasty.” The bitch. “She knows who we are, Win. She must.”
Win rose as well and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Isley is playing with us. Enjoying our pain and frantic searching. I do not want to believe that Osmond too is ensnared by Isley, but he may well be.”
“Osmond?”
“My brother.” He lowered his hand. “I’m sure I told you his name.”
“I would have remembered that. You always referred to him simply as your brother.” Poppy’s lips twitched. “Your parents certainly were creative with their name giving.”
Winston leveled a glare at her, but she could tell he was trying not to smile. He had never liked his name and had grumbled about it when they’d first met. “Father fancied old English names. Undoubtedly he sought to shout to the world our Englishness through and through. My brother goes by Oz, or Marchland now, I suppose. Jesus.”
He rounded on her. “I believe you are correct, however. Mrs. Noble looked at you as though she knew you.”
“You noticed that as well? I did not like that look. It was as if she was seeing straight into me.” She rolled her shoulders as if the movement could dispel the sticky feeling that crept along her skin.
“Damn it.” He started to pace along the path she’d beaten down. “None of Isley’s victims ought to remember him, and yet they do. I have to believe it is because Isley has allowed it, that he wants us to find Moira Darling.”
“Well of course, he wants us to find her. Why else would he make the bargain with you?”
“No,” he stopped. “You misunderstand. I think he knows exactly where Moira Darling is. If you remember, he asked me to find what Moira Darling stole from him. Not necessarily to find her.”
Poppy’s blasted corset held her too tight to draw a proper breath. “He would hardly need you for that. If he knew where she was, he could easily force her to give whatever it is back to him.”
Standing half in shadow, the ruined side of Win’s face glowed in the moonlight. “Something is not right.”
“I’d say, presently, just about everything is ‘not right.’ ”
Win waved this off, his countenance fierce with concentration. “It is Isley.” He halted and pinned Poppy with the intensity of his gaze. “He needed us to be together.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We weren’t speaking. I gather Isley did not plan on that all those years ago. Do you not see? We took the wind from his sails. He had no idea how we might respond once he placed his cards on the table.”
“Surely he would figure that we’d protect our child.”
“No, he needed that extra incentive. Whatever Moira Darling stole must be something that requires both of us working together to find. Isley is a gambler, but not a foolish one.”
“Let us drop this search and go and kill the bastard.”
Win’s mouth canted on a smile, but his voice grew soft yet resolute. “No, sweet. First off, the bargain is still in play. Kill him and he still gets our child. No, we are going to find this Moira Darling, because when we do, I’m going to discover just what it is he truly expects to get out of this game, and I’m going to beat him at it.”
By the time Winston and Poppy had returned, guests were wandering in to dinner. Thus they were forced to do so as well. Those around Winston appeared to be enjoying themselves, drinking wine, eating their food with appreciation. As for Win, he might as well have been eating mud. Food stuck to the roof of his mouth and clung at his throat when he tried to swallow. He could do little more than ignore his dinner companions and steal pain-inducing glances at his brother.
Dear God, how could he have forgotten Oz? Certainly, the knowledge that he had a brother hadn’t gone, but Win simply had forgotten to think about him. The very notion now shamed and saddened him. Though they were only two years apart in age, they’d never been close brothers. Oz had been forever at Father’s side, learning all things ducal, while Win had been his mother’s pet, chafing under her clinging nature. Oz had chosen Cambridge and Win Oxford. After that, there had been only Poppy, the CID, and his deuced bargain. Had Oz a wife? Was this a weekend fling? Had he too bargained away his soul like a fool? Somehow, Win thought not. Or perhaps he simply hoped.
“I’ve heard to expect the unconventional here, but that man is a sight to destroy one’s appetite.” The man across the way made no attempt to lower his voice. Winston wasn’t surprised; not really. He had received enough remarks by now to expect it. His years as an inspector had taught him how deep the capacity for human cruelty could go. He told himself this as he placed his linen in his lap and accepted the second course brought in by the waiters in liveried white. However, it did not stop him from feeling multiple eyes upon him or from biting back the urge to snarl at the people gaping at him. Perhaps if Poppy weren’t visibly bristling on his behalf, or the fact that the boorish man’s remark had caught Oz’s attention as well, humiliation wouldn’t be filling his throat this very moment.
“So Snow,” said Colonel Alden next to him, “I suspect you worked on some interesting cases in your time.” He deliberately raised his steel hand into the air to wave over the waiter pouring out the wine. “Any you are able to discuss?”
As attempts to divert attention went, it wasn’t all bad. It might have even been welcome if it wasn’t so bloody obvious. Winston took a sip of wine, forcing it past the lump in his throat. “I cannot name names, Colonel. However, no detective is without a good anecdote to share.”
Again came the loud man’s voice, more forceful this time. “Looks like a butcher’s been at him. What did he say was his work?”
Winston set his wineglass down with care. The ruined side of his face burned, which made his hands ache to curl into fists. Archer once said he’d made up songs and sung them in his head to get him past the fury.
“Songs?” Winston had repeated, incredulous. “Such as ‘Row Your Boat’ and the like?”
Archer had given him a tight smile that acknowledged Winston’s goading for the easy shot that it had been. “More like, ‘F*ck you, f*ck you, and your miserable mother too.’ ”
“I’m impressed,” Winston had said. “It is at once utterly vulgar and completely puerile.”
Archer had flashed a rare grin then. “But quite effective.”
Winston glanced up at the man who’d done his best to annoy him, and Archer’s song played in his head. Surprisingly it did help. Enough to allow the corners of his eyes to crinkle with evil glee. “I didn’t.”
The man blinked, actually shocked to be addressed by Winston. “Didn’t what?”
“I did not give my profession, Mr…?” The man was a new arrival, and Win wondered offhand what the bastard would have made of the nude swim party.
“Lord Butherwell,” the man corrected with a sniff.
At the word “profession”, Butherwell’s long nose had wrinkled in disgust. Win returned his look with one of bland disinterest. He made it his business to know the names and station of London’s ton. Butherwell was a second generation baron with little money and even less influence. Exactly the sort insecure enough to throw stones at glass houses. “However, Butherwell, I am happy to assuage your rampant curiosity.”
He did not have a chance to, for Poppy suddenly leaned forward, her brown eyes promising bedlam beneath those slanted brows of hers. “He is an Inspector First Class with the Criminal Investigation Division of Scotland Yard. It is men like my husband who keep your soft hide protected from London’s criminal element.”
A pinch of pain took him in the gut upon hearing his old title. He was finished as an inspector. But damned if he was going to rectify Poppy’s error here and now. Not that it mattered. Butherwell’s disgust grew into a sneer.
“A tradesman, in our midst,” he said to the populace of the table, most of whom were looking on in avid interest. It wasn’t every day a squabble broke out over dinner. “This is what so called ‘progress’ has brought us, being forced to share a meal with a man who—” he gave Poppy a condescending look—“consorts with London’s criminal element.” He turned to Winston and raised his voice as if he feared Winston had trouble hearing. “I say, oughtn’t you be slumming in some back alley down in London?”
Winston neatly sliced his roast. “Do I give the impression of being lost, sir?”
Butherwell’s grey mustache quivered with a snort. “You give the impression of a man who does not know his place.”
“Come now, my lord,” tittered Mrs. Noble. “We are all friends here, are we not?”
God, but Oz’s gaze was a palpable weight on Win’s neck. They shared the same blood, bluer than any person sitting at the table, or in the district, for that matter. Even if he could admit the truth of his birth, Win would rather be hung by his balls than admit it to this lot. Tossing out pedigree was not the way he wanted to earn respect, nor did he need theirs.
“My dear Mrs. Noble,” said Butherwell, “I merely fear for your reputation. There are curiosities, and there are riffraff. It is best you know the difference.”
Win’s hand clenched his knife. He did not look up. Should he do so, he’d be planting Butherwell a facer. Past the buzzing in his ears came Oz’s deep voice. “I do not believe our hostess needs assistance in discerning the difference, Butherwell.”
Poppy’s voice followed shortly after Oz’s. “A true gentleman does not feel the need to make his station known.”
“And a true lady does not voice her opinion in the presence of a man,” snapped Butherwell. “However, as you are not a lady, I shall forgive your blunder.”
A tremor went through Winston’s arm. “Enough.” The entire table hushed as Winston set his silver down and let his gaze lift to Butherwell. “I remind you that there are ladies present. Including my wife.”
Butherwell’s complexion ran to florid. It became magenta now and again his overlong mustache moved as he snapped, “I do not believe I understand your point, man.”
Winston held his gaze and spoke in measured tones so as not to further confuse the buffoon. “It is simple. I shall strive to keep that fact in mind in order to refrain from exercising my brute, working class strength upon your flaccid, gentleman’s face.” He let his lip curl enough to highlight the sneer of his scar. “But it shall be a very near thing. Pray you remember likewise before you utter another word.”
There was a gasp, and Butherwell went pale. His nostrils flared, his hand holding the knife clenching. Winston stared back, waiting. It would take two seconds to disarm the man, one more to shove his face into the pudding. Beneath the table, a slim hand fell to his thigh and gave him a squeeze, not in warning, but in solidarity.
Winston lifted one brow, and Butherwell’s mouth snapped shut. The man promptly turned his attention to the waiter hovering just beyond the table. “The beef is dry. Take this back and bring me another. Bloody.”
By Winston’s side, Poppy leaned in a touch, and her clean scent tickled his nose. “Do you know,” she murmured, low enough that no one else could hear, “I could make him disappear with one missive.”
His lips twitched, but he kept his eyes on his dinner. He could not face her. Not yet. “It is a very good thing I’m no longer with CID or I’d have to do something about that information.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see her wicked grin. It was that grin, conspiratorial in nature and one of thousands that they’d exchanged over the years, that made him forget where he was, who he was, and grin right back.
Thankfully, the dinner ended. Win was one of the first to rise. He needed fresh air, Poppy, a drink—and Poppy. Her dark gaze collided with his, and he wondered if he’d have to sell his soul again to bed her without regret. For right now, it felt essential that he get her alone and sink into her tight embrace. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel as if he were flying apart if those endless, smooth legs of hers were wrapped around him and held him close.
Shouldering past slower, carefree guests, he was following her out when a man stepped into his path. Deep-set eyes of near black bore into him, and Win’s heart slammed against his ribs. That face, that blade of a nose that was almost aquiline, that slightly put-out expression, was so like his father’s that Win could almost believe he faced a ghost instead of his brother.
Oz’s intense gaze eased first. “Marchland,” he said by way of introduction. “Mr. Snow, was it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Years of training held him back from brushing his brother aside and getting the hell out of there. But he was unable to say anything more. If he were lucky, Oz might think him overwhelmed by standing face to face with a duke. One could hope. Oz nodded. He was too well-bred to mention Butherwell’s remarks, but speaking to Winston showed a mark of his favor. Were Win simply an inspector, and not his brother, he might feel gratitude. As it was, however, an old tightness banded about his chest. This was the world he’d been desperate to get away from, where rank and title superseded character. Oz might keep a dozen mistresses, beat his children until their bones broke, destroy lives on a whim, and if he did, not one soul would lift a finger to stop him, much less utter a word of reproach. Win did not want to go back to that. And he most certainly needed to get away from Oz. Now.
Unfortunately Oz’s study of him returned. This time, his brother’s lips turned down at one corner. Yet another painfully familiar gesture. “Do I know you?”
Shit.
Oz’s dark brows met in the center. “I do not know why, but I cannot shake the feeling that we’ve met before…”
It was on the tip of Win’s tongue to deny it and flee, save his brother was here and he could not believe it a coincidence. “Perhaps at an earlier party? Are you old friends with Mrs. Noble?”
“Mrs. Noble was a very dear friend to the former duke.” His expression tightened. “She was a great comfort to him when my younger brother died unexpectedly.”
Oz’s words slammed into Winston, hard and brutal, and it was all he could do not to react. Oz nodded to a man who passed by before turning his attention back to Win. “My father was a great lover of art, as is Mrs. Noble.”
Yes. He almost said it aloud and cleared his throat to cover the gaffe. “Did they perchance meet through a Lord Isley?”
“You know him as well?”
He was going to be ill all over Oz’s polished leather shoes. “In passing. You?”
Thank Christ, Oz shook his head. “Never met the man. Only know the story of how my father and Amy met. Father became one of her greatest financial backers, and Amy has always been grateful.”
Win forced a bland smile. “Well then, sir, I am uncertain how or where we might have met. A face such as mine is hard to forget.”
Making mention of his maimed appearance had the reaction Win expected. Oz very deliberately did not look at his scars. “Likely you are correct. Pardon my mistake.” He began to ease back as most people did upon being forced to address his maiming.
“No pardon necessary, Your Grace.” Win gave him a tight nod and then slipped away. He did not give a damn if it wasn’t done. Or if the room fell in a dead faint because he’d left before a duke. Isley had found consolation for his father, had he? Forget being ill; Win was going to punch something in a moment.
Poppy caught up to him, her lemon-linen scent soothing him even as she searched his eyes in gentle concern.
“He thought he knew me,” he said. “But he couldn’t make the connection.” With terse words, he told her the rest of the conversation.
“Jesus, Win.” Her lips went pale, and she angled her body as if to block out the rest of the room. That she still sought to protect him made his chest go tight. He did not need it, but the better part of him wanted to be worthy of her devotion.
“I’m all right.” He was. Now that he could touch her and hear the steady cadence of her voice.
“Good.” She leaned closer, her silken cheek near his. “Shall we track down Mrs. Noble? She was headed toward the library when dinner let out.”
It was a strange destination, as most of her guests were going to either the smoking room or the grand parlor. “Let us go then. God help me if Oz shows up there as well.”
The pale arc of Poppy’s neck gleamed in the candlelight as she looked back over her shoulder. “He appears to be heading off to the smoking room with the other gentlemen. I believe we are safe from that fiasco.”
He laughed without humor. “ ‘Fiasco’ is an understatement.”
However, when they reached the library, they found it empty. Poppy’s keen gaze caught his. “Now where do you suppose Mrs. Noble has got off to?”
The answer came by way of a footman, who headed toward them. “Sir, Mrs. Noble has retired for the evening,” he murmured. “She would like to receive you tomorrow for tea.” He bowed neatly and left them standing in the hall.
“Botheration,” Poppy muttered. “I do not want to be here for tea tomorrow. This place feels wrong to me.” Around them, ladies and gentlemen wandered to and fro, laughing and pairing off. A quartet softly played Beethoven in the parlor, and the golden light from hundreds of candles gave the house a muted glow. Music, beauty, laughter. It ought to be soothing and yet Poppy was correct; there was something off about the whole thing this night. What once felt like true gaiety now shone false and brittle, as though Winston was watching a play.
Poppy made a furtive gesture. “Blast it, I could almost believe that woman is toying with us.”
Win frowned in the direction of the stairs. “Mmm. As if she is aware that we are ruled by a time limit, perhaps?”
“Could she be under Isley’s control?”
Still watching the stairs, Win clasped Poppy’s hand in his. “Come. Let us see what we can see.”
Poppy’s voluminous silk train rustled and swayed as they made their way to the second floor where Mrs. Noble’s room lay. Flickering lamplight guided their path. Below, Moonlight Sonata began playing in steady, ponderous notes that spoke of amateur piano lessons.
“Someone’s been practicing,” Poppy murmured as they plodded along to the tune. The notes followed them, rising and crashing. It was almost enough to drown out the rhythmic sound coming from the end of the upper hall. But not quite.
Perched at the top of the stairs, Winston and Poppy exchanged looks. Color crept over Poppy’s high cheeks. “You must be joking.”
Win glanced toward the dim corridor where the unmistakable sounds of sexual congress rang out. “I rather wish it were a joke.”
Cautiously, they moved closer and the sound increased, both in tempo and in fervor.
“Well,” Poppy cleared her throat, her nose wrinkling in a charming manner, “surely they cannot go on for long.”
Knowing that one of the participants was likely Mrs. Noble only served to irritate Win. He scowled at the door from which the sound emerged. “I do not know, sweet. But if Ode to Joy begins to play, I am going to be most thoroughly put out.”
With surprising speed, Poppy pressed her face into his neck and burst out laughing. Her warm breath seeped into him, and he wrapped his arms about her to keep her there. He smiled against her temple. He wanted to vent his frustration, but holding her as she laughed made his heart light just the same.
A huff of irritation escaped her, and then Poppy’s muffled voice rose up from the crook of his neck. “Bloody woman, going off to tup. I swear to God, Win, I could kill her.”
His fingers toyed with the loose strand of silken hair at her nape. “That is one way to shut them up.” When she choked out a weak laugh, he leaned back a little until she raised her head and faced him. As expected, she wore her warrior’s expression, one that promised mayhem and retribution, but fear lived there too, so guarded that he might have missed it did he not know her so well. “I could force my way in there, but we won’t get anything from her like that.” Softly, he brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I’m afraid we’re done for the night, sweet Boadicea.”
“Damn it, Win. What if she doesn’t know Moira Darling either? What if Isley’s led us astray?”
His hand slid to her neck and clasped it. When he spoke, his voice was far calmer than he felt. “Hear me, wife, we will find Moira Darling, and we will win. On my life, I swear it.” Cold foreboding touched his spine at the vow, for he feared it might come to that.