Chapter Forty
Talent sat in a worn-down leather armchair the color of dried tobacco. He did not greet Winston as he walked into the room, nor did he appear to even notice. Winston knew better. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled near. Talent stared out of the tall window, and the grey London light fell hard on his face, highlighting the lines of fatigue, and the tributaries of pain recently wrought upon him. The only movement in him at all was the quick motion of his hand as he flipped an object over and under each finger before repeating the action.
Win stepped closer. The object was a cross. A crude thing made of iron, it was no more than three inches long. Whether Talent noted Win’s study of the cross, or he’d simply grown tired of fiddling with it, was unclear, but he stopped and covered the thing with his hand.
“I might wonder if you’ve come to gape.” Talent turned then, and the coldness in his gaze chilled. “Only I suspect you’ve been on the other side of that coin too long to do so.”
Win leaned against the footboard of the bed. Being a shifter, the external damage Talent had sustained had healed without scars, but emotional trauma was far crueler. “I’ve a job for you.”
A flicker of interest entered Talent’s eyes. “Go on.”
“I have to ask it. Are you able?”
In the blink of an eye, Winston found himself staring at himself. The sensation was off-putting, to say the least, but he nodded in satisfaction as Talent shifted back. “It will be dangerous. You may not come out of it.”
“Wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t.”
“Mmm. And are you, then, willing to perform the lowest sort of skullduggery?”
Talent’s gaze narrowed, his body growing taut and poised to act. “I’m listening.”
Poppy emerged from a bath clean yet worn out. The warm water had soothed her tired muscles and made her crave sleep. But she was hungry. Again. Glancing about, she tentatively settled a hand on her belly. “You are turning me into a glutton.”
Tender feeling fluttered across her heart. She hadn’t spoken to the little barnacle before now. A smile tugged at her lips. Barnacle. That’s what he was, attached to her insides and attached to her. And she would not let him go.
Her hand hovered before drifting down. Later, she could feel this. Later, she could say it, when Isley was captured, and Win… Her vision wavered. He’d asked her to trust in him. She did, but giving up control ate at her. As did the fear. The idea of losing him or her child made her insides heave. A knock on her room door cut through her racing thoughts, and she moved to answer it.
To her surprise, Jack Talent stood at her threshold.
“Mr. Talent. It is good to see you.”
He looked well. Healed at least and dressed in a fine linen suit very similar to Winston’s. His eyes, however, held shadows and pain. But he offered a tight smile. “Mrs. Lane. I’ve brought tea.”
It was then she noticed the tray he carried.
“I saw the inspector,” Talent said as she stepped aside to let him in. “He’s downstairs sparring with Ian and Archer.”
No doubt to alleviate his tension. Had she any energy, she would be inclined to join them. As it was, however, the sweet, yeasty scent of bread held the greater allure.
“However, he thought that you might be hungry and asked me to look in on you.”
She followed Talent to the small sitting area by the hearth and sat as he set out a meal for two.
He caught her looking and hesitated. “May I take tea with you?” The corners of his eyes tensed. “If you’d rather—”
Poppy touched his arm, then drew away when he flinched. “I would enjoy the company, Mr. Talent.”
He did not wait for her to pour but did the honors himself, his movements precise and assured. “How do you take it?”
“Right now? With milk and lots of sugar.”
“The babe?” he asked with gentle amusement.
“I believe so.” Poppy accepted her tea but looked around him. “Are those cream buns?”
Thankfully, Talent did not say a word as he filled her plate with not one but two buns. Bless the man. Poppy gave the offered treats the attention they deserved. Bliss. Utter bliss. She did not care what Talent thought of her; she was going to eat every bun that he did not.
Talent sat on the chair next to hers and quietly sipped his tea as she devoured her food. The silence between them, while not quite awkward, was not entirely peaceful either. They both were too aware of what had happened to Talent.
Licking a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth, Poppy finally spoke. “Mr. Lane tells me you want to be a regulator.” It was one of the many things she and Win had discussed before he had slipped out to consult with Archer and Ian, about what he wouldn’t yet tell her. But she had to trust him.
Talent’s gaze slid away. “I thought to be, yes.”
Poppy set down her plate. It was empty anyway. “I think you shall make an excellent Regulator, Mr. Talent.”
When he lifted his head in quiet surprise, she spoke on. “Accept the offer and you shall start training Monday morning.”
Ye gods but his concealed joy made her flush. She did not know why that would be so, but the room grew decidedly hot. Or perhaps consuming four cream buns in three minutes was not advisable. Her stomach turned, the room swaying a bit.
Oblivious, Talent leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “You honor me, ma’am.” His visage blurred before her eyes, the words he spoke a buzz in her ears. “I can only hope,” he said with strangely drawn-out diction, “that you will feel the same come Monday morning.”
Ice ran along her skin, and she gripped the arm of her chair. “What have you done?”
He stood, looming, his eyes holding regret. “Nothing I’m proud of.” Then he guided her heavy body down to lie upon the couch and slipped a small square of paper into her limp hand. “Do not worry, Mrs. Lane. The chemist assures this won’t hurt the baby.”
The baby. Their baby. Win. She needed to save them. But her world went black and she could think no more.