Chapter Twenty-six
As Win entered Mrs. Noble’s parlor and closed the door, Poppy cursed roundly. What had she done? She shook her head lightly as if to clear it. She trusted Win in this. Of course she did. He wanted her. The evidence was clearly outlined in the quite impressive bulge of his trousers and the heated gleam in his eyes. It was the same look he’d worn earlier when he’d touched her. Touched her nipple to be exact, before he’d done other things. Her cheeks warmed. She’d thought she’d been dreaming at first. And then that look in his eyes. So very hot and needy. She’d wanted to scream herself when they’d heard the chambermaid cry out.
Thwarted desire was an emotion Poppy was ill-equipped to deal with. She preferred simple feelings. Anger, sadness, joy; they could run their course through her system. She could shout, cry, laugh, and it’d be done. She’d been spoiled. Desire, the want of a man, had come hand in hand with meeting Win. And Win had never denied her. The want of him still burned inside her, swirling and pushing against flesh until it became a physical irritant.
Bloody man. He thought their former life an illusion. Wasn’t everything? She knew what she felt for Win right now. Did it matter what happened before or what would happen next? Now was what mattered. Of course, now she was walking away. After leaving him in an aroused state. Before tossing him over to another woman.
“Buggering…” She bit her lip, stopped because the action was too telling, then bit it again. Striding away from the parlor, she concentrated on the task at hand, not on Win and that… cow having a quiet tête-à-tête. “I’ll freeze her bloody fingers off if she touches him.”
Poppy took a deep breath. She was muttering when she ought to be quiet. Mrs. Noble’s bedroom was near. Poppy simply needed to find it. Creeping along now, she put an ear to a door a few feet down from the parlor. Nothing stirred from within but that did not mean a maid couldn’t be lurking inside. From out of her pocket, Poppy pulled a small mirror attached to the end of a length of thin steel. Kneeling, Poppy slowly slipped the mirror beneath the door and rotated it. The mirror sat on an angle so that, when Poppy adjusted her grip, the room within came into view. Keeping half her attention on the corridor and the other half on the mirror, she moved the mirror about and searched the room. Nobody there.
It was an easy thing to slip inside. Despite the flash attire Mrs. Noble favored, her inner sanctum was rather plain. Cozy even. A light maple wood paneled the walls, and cornflower blue drapes of sensible cotton graced the windows. A matched pair of well-worn armchairs flanked the hearth. Poppy’s fingers trailed over the back of one chair. On the floor lay a knitting basket with half a stocking still attached to the needles. The room was well-dusted, but something about the way the knitting had settled into the basket led Poppy to believe that Mrs. Noble had not picked up the needles for quite some time. Poppy tried to imagine the woman knitting and failed.
A wrought iron bed, painted a pleasing shade of creamy white, sat on the far side of the room. Given the furnishing, Poppy expected fine linen bedding, but instead found expensive and rather gaudy silk sheets of a deep and rather incongruous shade of black. Lena furnished some rooms within her club Hell with such things.
Frowning down at the rumpled and glossy sheets, for the maid had yet to make the bed, Poppy fingered the fabric. It slid over her skin and sent a ripple of disquiet along her spine. The Mrs. Noble she was familiar with would certainly admire sheets such as these. But not this room. One did not fit. Mrs. Noble was said to have lived here for many years. A woman who selected silk sheets would not decorate her room in such a quaint style.
Poppy slid a hand into one of her pockets and found the gun resting there. She preferred a knife for most situations, but this gun had the happy feature of being both a gun and a switchblade—one that hid alongside the steel barrel until needed. As Poppy did not know what she might encounter, it seemed a fitting choice. The grip was a comfort in her hands as she made her way on cat feet to the dressing room. Here dwelled the Mrs. Noble she knew. Thick crimson carpet covered the floor, and matching drapes of fine velvet hung from the windows. Silk and satin gowns in bold colors hung like butterflies against the deep mahogany walls. A copper tub big enough for two sat in the center of the room. The thought of Win alone with the woman who enjoyed this room had Poppy’s teeth gnashing. She lets just one finger stray… Focus, Pop. Focus.
Muscles tight with the thrill of the hunt, Poppy surveyed the room. The cloying scent of bath salts clogged the air. Too much. It stabbed at her nostrils and pierced her skull. Horrid smell, violets. She’d always hated it. A quick look at the glass shelves lining one wall confirmed that there were not enough salts to cause such a stench. Poppy held her gun secure as she crept toward the wall, the perfume of violets growing headier. Carefully, she ran her fingers along the edges of the wood paneling. It appeared solid. Look for the wear. Finger oils will eventually wear down a varnish. Win had taught her that, a lesson gleaned from listening to him wax on about his work. At the time, she felt guilty about learning tricks of the trade from him without telling her own, but now, as her eye caught the slight fading of varnish along the second panel, gratitude filled her instead.
Whipping her knife open, Poppy held it at the ready. Now that she knew what to look for, the hidden thumb notch in the panel gave easily under her hand. With a small clink and a smooth glide, the panel slid open. Poppy braced herself against the cloud of perfume that assaulted her nose. Vile as the scent was, the large, rough wooden box resting within the shadows of the small closet had her complete attention. Quickly, quietly, she exchanged her knife for a small stake tucked along the back ribbing of her bodice. True to her word, Miss Chase had outfitted all of Poppy’s clothes with the essentials. Blessed girl.
Every sense snapped to full alert as she approached the box. She had the upper hand, for whatever might lurk within would have to spring up, while Poppy need only strike down. Even so, sweat trickled along her neck, and her breath grew short. There was always fear on the job. One simply had to respect it and keep going. The lid gave easily. She paused, not yet lifting, adjusted her grip on the lid and the stake, and then wrenched it open. Nothing moved.
Past the eye-watering smell of the bath salts that partially covered the body, Poppy made out the shape of the former Mrs. Noble, her eyes open and her mouth wide in supplication. Her soul had departed, but there was still enough blood in her to sustain a host demon.
“F*cking hell.” The lid banged shut as Poppy turned and raced from the room, toward Win and whatever demon was cozying up to him.
Win stepped into Mrs. Noble’s parlor and found the room was inordinately dark. Heavy brocade curtains barred the morning sun, leaving only the light from the fire snapping in the hearth and one silver candelabra for illumination.
Mrs. Noble sat in repose along the length of a scarlet satin fainting couch. No longer attired in men’s clothing, she now wore a provocative black silk dress that was not at all proper day wear. Cinched tight and thrusting her breasts up high, the bodice did not have sleeves but was held up by a webbing of sparkling strands composed of diamonds.
“Mr. Snow.” She undulated in a forward move, and a coil of black hair fell over her shoulder. “But where is Mrs. Snow? I thought I was to be entertained by both of you this morning.”
Innocently put words that managed to sound illicit. He walked into the room. “She has developed a migraine, I’m afraid.”
“Wives are known to do so. We simply shall have to forge on without her.” She curled her legs under her. “Sit, Mr. Snow, and let us get better acquainted.”
She patted the space next to her, and basic manners demanded that he comply. As an inspector, he’d had his fair share of dealing with forward women. Most of his colleagues did as well. Lonely widows, bored wives, the guilty, the curious—there were many reasons to find an inspector fair game. Some men took advantage. Win found those situations to be a lit fuse of danger. Pull away too quickly and the insulted lady wouldn’t tell you a thing. Let it go too far and you had an unwanted tongue down your throat, and the lady wouldn’t tell you a thing either.
On reluctant limbs he moved to sit, inwardly cursing Poppy as he did. Despite their discussion, he had no intention of seducing answers out of Mrs. Noble.
Satisfied, Mrs. Noble smiled prettily as her fingers danced along the wood filigree just behind his neck. “Now then, Mr. Snow, you promised me a story.” The tip of her finger touched his collar. “How did you acquire such magnificent scars?”
He eased away. “First, we must discuss the murder that has occurred under your roof, madam.”
She appeared remarkably unconcerned about the fact, but composed herself accordingly, lacing her hands in her lap and looking at him with wide, almost solemn eyes. A façade that might have worked had he not spied the mockery beneath it all.
“Tell me what you know of Colonel Alden,” he said.
“Ah, Charles.” With a sigh, she rested against the couch, arching her back just so. “The poor dear. I shall miss him. Though he’d always been a bit of a disappointment to me.” The diamond webbing on her shoulders glittered as she shrugged. “He was a bit of a bore.” She traced the scar closest to his jaw, and he managed not to flinch. “Such lovely wounds. They intrigue me.”
“If the colonel was a disappointment, why invite him here?”
Her finger moved to his neck. “I did not invite him. He showed up unexpectedly.”
Gods, but he itched to smack that finger away. “I was under the impression that you had invited him.” Someone was lying, and he did not think it had been the colonel.
She laughed, but the sound came off as affronted. “Really, Mr. Snow, you are beginning to sound accusatory.”
“Merely curious.” He turned toward her, sliding his thigh a bit onto the couch. Her eyes went to the movement. Damn him, he should have sent Poppy to question this viper. “The magistrate will likely ask you the same questions.”
Her lids lifted slowly. “You know, Mr. Snow, I really cannot recall the specific reason why I invited Colonel Alden. It was a simple, sudden urge.” She eased over an inch closer. “You know urges, Mr. Snow. They cannot be denied.”
He refrained from snorting. Subtlety was not her forte. “Have you met a woman named Moira Darling?”
As he hoped, the question threw her off balance. It was a moment before she answered. “I am beginning to suspect that your only interest in me is to ask questions.”
“The asking of questions implies interest, does it not, Mrs. Noble?”
“Do not think that fetching smile will deter me, Mr. Snow.” Unfailingly, she found the one white coil of her hair and toyed with it. “Now then, by your logic, you would not object to a question or two yourself?”
Win objected to many things about this interview, and this place, but he kept his benign social smile in place. “I can hardly do so.”
Her teeth flashed in the candlelight, not white but an unnerving grey color, as if she was decaying from the inside. “Excellent.” Her bosom swelled as she leaned close. “Do you regret the choices you’ve made in your life, Mr. Snow?”
He sat back against the settee, away from her. “Pardon?”
Round and round the white coil twisted, her finger nearly swallowed up by the act. “Do you regret having not lived a fuller life?” Ebony eyes held his. “Bedded more women? Taken more risks?”
“Moira Darling,” he snapped back. “Do you know her?”
“Yes. A sad woman who never lived life to the fullest. And all she was left with were pain and loneliness.”
He nearly jumped in his excitement, but she slid closer, placing a pale hand upon his arm. Blood rubies glittered on her fingers. “The risks, Mr. Snow.”
“Where is she?” He wasn’t going to play this game. He’d already given up his soul. He would not give anything more.
She ignored his question as neatly as he’d ignored hers. Her fingers tiptoed along his sleeve. “I’ve quite a number of most excellent talents, Mr. Snow. And one of them is reading a man.” The tip of her finger touched the thick scar on his cheek. He steeled himself not to retreat, and she smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. “You, sir, have played your hand entirely too safe.”
Had he? Had he wasted his opportunity to live a larger life? The edge of the armrest bit into his side with each breath he took. Lord Winston Hamon Belenus Lane might have had numerous women lined up to bed him, simply because he was a duke’s son. He might have lived in utter opulence, traveled the world over, gone to a different party every night. Inspector Winston Lane had bedded only one woman, put numerous criminals in jail, and been slashed within an inch of his life for his efforts.
The smile upon Mrs. Noble’s face grew, stretching and coiling at the ends. He looked back at her and what she so blatantly offered, but in her place another woman sprang up in his mind, her vermilion hair spread out like a satin banner upon his pillow and her brown eyes alight with keen intelligence.
Mrs. Noble’s simpering voice brought him back. “You see it now, don’t you? How you might have lived in glory.”
Win detached Mrs. Noble’s creeping hand from his arm. “Risk doesn’t signify a life well lived. It is what you risk your life for.”
In the wavering light, her eyes appeared to go pure black, but she blinked, and the illusion was gone. “Then let us risk some more.”
Before he could question, she moved onto him, her arm sliding around his neck. His hand shot to her shoulder, staying her progress. “I believe you have misunderstood the situation, Mrs. Noble. I am not interested in bedsport.”
Her breath gusted over his cheek, bringing forth a strange scent of smoke and iron. “Come now, Lane. All men are interested.”
“That depends on the partner.” He leaned in, giving her a smile with bite. “I prefer my wife.”
A mistake to get closer. Her palm cupped him warmly. “That is because you haven’t yet tasted the meal I offer.”
He locked his hand about her wrist, wrenched her hand away, and pushed her against the arm of the settee. “You called me Lane. Which means you know why I am here.”
The simpering look did not leave her face. “Did you enjoy meeting your brother?” Her hips lifted against his. “I’m desperate to see how you two compare.”
He growled low and shoved back, hard. “Did you kill the colonel?”
Her grey teeth glinted in the lamplight, the points of her canines appearing sharp. “That canary was not invited to the party. I’m afraid he had to go.”
Bloody hell, but he hated coyness. Past all patience, he pressed his forearm across her chest. “Who is Moira Darling? Where is she?”
Like a snake, she coiled her leg around his. “Closer than you think.”
He gave her a rough shake. “Where?”
She laughed then. Laughed and laughed. “I would not try to find her, Winston Lane. The knowledge will only bring you misery.” The whites of her eyes disappeared with a wash of inky black. And then she disintegrated. Winston blinked, his mind not catching up with his eyes as she literally fell to pieces before him, her body crumpling, turning to black lumps. Lumps that moved. Spiders.
With a shout, he jumped up. Hundreds of spiders swarmed, crawling over his arm, up his boot. The door slammed open with a bang. Poppy stood in the doorway, her gaze fierce as she took in the scene.
“Get back!” He ripped off his coat and flung it. Spiders scurried and surged as he stamped at them.
She did not heed. A shiver lit over the room, a swirl of air. The arctic blast of cold hit hard and fast, sucking the air from his lungs, biting into his skin. More forceful than what he’d felt on the ship, this air tore through the room with the strength of a gale, tossing spiders about, freezing them where they lay. He trudged toward Poppy, his teeth chattering, his body hurting from the cold. When he got to her side, she cut the power loose.
“C-c-cold…” His teeth rattled.
“I know,” she said, grimacing. “I’m sorry.”
“Cold b-blooded.” He glanced at the piles of little black spiders littering the room. “Spiders are.”