Chapter Five
Mary discovered that working with Mrs. Lane was a far different endeavor than being a cog in Lucien’s machine. After years of double talk, decadence, and playing the part Lucien wrote for her, Mrs. Lane’s forthright manner and decisive action was cool water on a summer’s day.
Not one to sit about and have a servant handle things, Mrs. Lane went straight to unpacking. She did not speak a word about Inspector Lane, nor betray any emotion on her countenance, but her slim hands shook now and then when she did not keep them busy. Mary gathered that their discussion had not ended well. However, as they were not decamping, Mrs. Lane must have emerged victorious. Mary hadn’t really doubted the outcome, not after spending the last few days in Mrs. Lane’s company.
“Will you wear the pink for dinner tonight, mum?” Mary asked her, as she unpacked the gowns Lady Archer had provided. The pink satin evening gown was exquisite and a stroke of brilliance, as it would highlight Mrs. Lane’s bold coloring in an unexpected way.
Mrs. Lane’s keen gaze sought her out. “You realize that I do not truly mean to use you as my ladies maid.”
“You might as well,” Mary said without heat. “I’m quite good at it, and Lady Archer did not select evening wear that you can get into on your own.”
“Humph. I cannot think of anything more banal than picking out dinner gowns. Or striving to impress others with my clothing.” Mrs. Lane’s red brows drew together in a slash. “Blasted Miranda and Daisy. I should have known better than to entrust my wardrobe to them. I do not see why I cannot wear my current outfit.”
Mary bit the inside of her cheek. From what she knew of the Ellis sisters, there was a time when young Poppy Ellis had attended societal events. And she had been raised to be a lady, despite having lived the past decade among the middle class. Mrs. Lane turned back to her trunk, a massive blue leather one that, when she opened it, contained a veritable arsenal of weaponry. Some that Mary recognized and far more that she did not. She could not help but be awed by the efficiency and speed with which Mrs. Lane had prepared. Between Mrs. Lane assembling her weapons and her sisters selecting gowns, they had gathered everything needed for an ocean voyage in little over an hour.
“I suppose you could,” Mary said, choosing to ignore her employer’s fit of pique. “It would invoke plenty of conversation, at the very least.”
One elegant red brow rose pointedly. Mary gathered her courage and met Mrs. Lane’s piercing gaze.
Mrs. Lane’s crisp voice broke the silence. “You remind me of Mr. Lane. He too believes his cheekiness is amusing.” The small note of wistfulness in Mrs. Lane’s voice was well concealed but Mary heard it.
Mary spoke carefully as she hung up the pink to air out. “The inspector is stubborn as well?”
For a moment, Mary feared she’d overstepped her bounds irrevocably. Then Mrs. Lane answered. “He is that. But at the moment, he is angry. Justifiably, I’m afraid.”
A flurry of activity told Mary just how upset Mrs. Lane was. Mary kept her gaze averted. “Show him what he is missing.” The words hung in the air, and she could feel Mrs. Lane’s stare. Reluctantly, she turned to find that her employer appeared befuddled. Mary sighed inwardly. “When it comes to dealing with the female sex, men generally think with their smaller head. Inspector Lane has merely forgotten to listen to his.”
Mrs. Lane’s lips twitched spasmodically. “So you suggest,” she asked in even tones, “that I remind him to think with his cock?”
Mary’s cheeks heated. “Normally, I would suggest the reverse, but in a case of overabundant logical thinking, I believe a return to balance is in order.”
A strangled noise left Mrs. Lane’s throat but she maintained her poise. “You are a most unusual woman, Miss Chase.”
Rather the pot calling the kettle but… “Yes.”
Thankfully, Mrs. Lane turned back to her unpacking. “I shall take your suggestion under advisement.”
They worked in silence with Mrs. Lane sorting through her box of horrors as Mary exalted in the rainbow of silken gowns her sisters had selected, far more than Mrs. Lane would be able to wear on such a short trip.
“Here.” Mrs. Lane suddenly appeared by her side and handed her a slim box of polished ash wood. “These are for you.”
Mary hesitated. Lucien often gave her gifts. Gifts of adornment. He did it to be kind, never understanding that she did not want to be dressed up like a doll. Mrs. Lane, however, wasn’t the sort prone to frivolity.
“Me?”
“Of course. Did I not just say?” Mrs. Lane bustled back to her trunk and began rooting about in it once more, dropping a heavy scimitar knife on the dressing table with a thud.
Mary’s fingers were careful as she set the box down and opened it. Nestled in black velvet were four gleaming metal stars. Japanese throwing stars shaped more like stylized suns. Their edges glinted, sharp and wicked.
“Happo shuriken,” she murmured. “How lovely.”
“Do you know how to use them?” Mrs. Lane asked from the depths of her trunk.
“A little. There aren’t very many Japanese gentlemen about, even fewer willing to teach their weaponry.” The GIM’s knowledge was second-hand. My, but they were beautiful.
Mrs. Lane straightened. “I want you to practice every day. Do it in here or your rooms, where no one can see. The walls are as good a target as any.”
That she had little care for the resulting state of said wall had Mary holding back a smile. “Yes, mum.”
Mrs. Lane nodded. “They don’t usually deliver a killing blow, but they’ll slow down your enemy well enough. I’ve a gun and knife for you as well. A good Regulator must be proficient in all forms of combat. As much as I wish that you had received proper training beforehand, there is little use crying over it now. We’ll get you set to rights later.”
“I am not entirely without training.” Although she gathered that her notion of training was not in keeping with Mrs. Lane’s exacting standards.
Mrs. Lane’s expression was proof enough of that. “You’ll do for now. Which is why I let you come along.” She sighed and ran a hand along her hair, her straight nose wrinkling when she encountered her hat. She tugged it off, completely destroying her coiffure.
“If you’d like, mum, I could find a way to incorporate some weapons within your millinery and gowns.”
Mrs. Lane’s pale face lit up with almost girlish glee. “Most excellent idea, Miss Chase.” With an idle flick of the wrist, she tossed her hat to Mary and then proceeded to attack her trunk once more. “Eventually, I’ll have to inform Mr. Lane of our plans. Sooner rather than later, I’m afraid.” Her voice lost its usual confidence, and though her face was hidden behind the lid of the trunk, Mary fancied she was frowning. Then her tone became brisk once more. “At the very least, we have Mr. Talent, which is a boon. He will watch over my husband while I confront the demon.”
Mary was about to answer that she did not know how helpful Talent would be, as he usually pouted like a boy in short pants and then promptly did what he liked, when they heard a commotion coming from the hall. One word in particular cut through the rumble: murder.
“Blast it!” Mrs. Lane grabbed a hip holster from the trunk and strapped it on. The dark glint in her eyes was unnerving as she grabbed her knife. “God help that demon if he has harmed my husband.”
“Bad discussion with the wife, Inspector?”
Winston did not bother acknowledging Talent as he strode down yet another endless corridor on this hulking beast of a ship. Bad discussion? It was the understatement of the year. Instead of getting anywhere with Poppy, she’d made him feel small and dishonorable, which was damned aggravating given that she was in the right; he had acted dishonorably in leaving her without asking for an explanation.
Worse was that, from the moment he’d seen her on the gangplank, his body and his soul had awakened, much like being jolted from a dream. No matter her betrayal, the anger he felt about it, or her present machinations, she made him alive. She excited him. And he wanted her still. Perfect. Bloody perfect.
Beside him, Talent nodded sagely as if he’d responded instead of remaining tight-lipped. “You look terrible at any rate. Pinched about the mouth. Remind me to add a bit of lavender to your shaving water. Soothes the nerves.”
Winston halted. “I believe I made it clear that you are not my valet. Nor,” he added, taking a step into Talent’s space, “is it your business to speculate about my personal discourse. Good or bad. I’m not Ian Ranulf who you can goad into a temper with your insolence.”
Talent did not so much as blink. “So this isn’t you in a temper?”
Winston held that insouciant gaze. “Pray you never see me in one.”
The man grinned. “I live among wolves. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me—” Talent yelped as he was slammed to the floor, his legs flying out from under him.
With a grin of his own, Winston pressed the end of his walking stick into the man’s chest as he bent over him. “You were saying?”
Talent eyed him, clearly considering brawling in the narrow passageway, but other passengers were approaching. Waiting until the horrified couple scrambled away from the undignified spectacle of a man sprawled upon the floor, Talent knocked aside the stick and leapt neatly to his feet. “Thought you were more of a ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ type, Inspector.”
“Depends on the fight.” Winston set his lapels back in order. “Rest assured, I can do battle with both.”
They stepped out onto the promenade deck. Fresh sea air hit Winston, and he drew in a deep breath. They walked on a ways. “Mrs. Lane claims a demon is on the boat with the sole intent to bedevil me.” It wasn’t easy for Winston to say, much less think.
“Bloody demons.” Talent’s mouth twisted. “If you ask me, it’s safer to slice their heads off and be done with them.”
“I find your cavalier attitude toward murder somewhat disturbing, Mr. Talent.”
“Oh do you? I suspect you’d be singing a different tune should one catch you,” Talent said darkly. “They like to play with their prey, you know.”
Lovely. “Are you saying there aren’t any demons worthy of redemption?”
“Not one who’d have Mrs. Lane rushing out to save your hide.”
It took a moment to find a calm tone. “This is all moot, as Mrs. Lane tells me this one cannot be beheaded.”
“Every supernatural can be destroyed from beheading.”
Winston did not like the speculation that resided in the younger man’s eyes, nor the itching fury that was mounting in his chest. The railing made a dull clang as he punched it with the side of his fist. “She cannot have exaggerated to—”
“Bring you to heel?” Talent supplied with a dry snort. “Who the bloody hell knows what a woman will say or do to get her way?” His expression darkened. “Look at Miss Chase. Suddenly she’s a bleating Regulator in training. Sneaking little…” He pushed a hard breath through his nose.
Winston faced Talent, and the breeze sent his hair scattering across his ruined cheek. “Do you want to be a Regulator?”
Talent scowled at the sea. “Would do a lot better than Chase.”
Fighting a smile, Winston kept his voice neutral. “I suspect you’d make a fine Regulator.” He tilted his head, and the fluttering strands whipped back. “Why not apply?”
Hot color washed over Talent’s broad cheeks. “You can’t apply,” he muttered. “You can only be invited. Doesn’t matter, I’ve better things to do with my time.”
Ah, there was the rub. Miss Chase had been invited, and Mr. Talent had not. Winston might have believed that was where their animosity stemmed, but he knew better. It was clearly older than that.
“Daisy works with the SOS now,” Winston said. “Why not ask her to press your suit?”
Talent’s gaze snapped back to him. “Oh, I well know it. Who do you think got Mary Chase in? It takes months, months to process a novice, and yet Chase is in, within, what, a week? Working with your wife?” He pointed an accusatory finger at Winston as his scowl grew. “I’d be asking yourself why, Lane. I know I am.”
This time, Winston stepped near, letting the blunt tip of Talent’s finger press into his chest. “If my wife has any secrets, they are hers to keep.” And mine to discover.
Talent’s mouth opened as if he would retort but then he froze, his nostrils flaring and his gaze growing flat. “I smell blood.”
Carried on the wind came the scent of copper. And shit and piss. Win knew the smell too well. Not just blood. “That is death.”
Moving as one, they stalked toward the scent. Winston’s hand tightened on his walking stick. Above, seagulls squabbled in mid-air, diving and swooping around the massive smokestack.
“Attracted to the blood,” murmured Talent.
Ahead, the deck narrowed as it curved toward the bow of the ship. Lifeboats creaked, and the paddle churned, but not a soul stirred.
They crept closer to the source of the scent. A grunt and a sound unnervingly like that of a man slurping soup came from the other side of the steam funnel. Winston’s hand slipped to the gun hidden within his inner coat pocket. At CID, he wasn’t allowed to carry one, as the populace of London had an aversion to police arming themselves. Even so, he’d used a gun before, when the danger was high. And only a fool would carry a weapon and not know how to wield it. He’d like to think himself not a fool, but a gun hadn’t helped him when a werewolf attacked him. Winston swallowed down the rush of bitterness that filled his mouth.
“Have you a weapon?” he whispered.
Talent spared him a glance. “I’m a shifter.”
Winston supposed that would have to do.
Together, they rushed around the corner, Winston’s gun out and cocked.
“Hell,” Talent said.
Winston stopped short as he spied the body. Male, young, wearing officer’s whites. Torn and bloody throat, his pants gaping open, sightless eyes gazing up to the heavens. Winston took in the particulars, then a shadow flickered in the periphery of his vision. Winston took off after it, with Talent at his heels.
Their feet pounded on the deck as they raced along. The sound of an iron door wrenching open had Winston increasing his pace. He skidded around the corner and tore through the open hatch. A man paused on the stair, his eyes gleaming yellow as he grinned back at them.
Bloody hell. His appearance was identical to the man who lay dead on the deck.
“Demon,” Talent said behind Winston. “Used his victim’s blood to assume his appearance.”
Winston launched forward. He couldn’t shoot in this bloody iron box of a hall, but he could tackle the thing. Unfortunately, it leapt out of range and practically flew down the next flight of stairs. Winston and Talent pounded after it. The stairs rattled and shook with their effort. Sweat stung his eyes as he ran.
The demon slammed open a lower door and disappeared through it. Winston followed an instant later. Dimly lit and barren of any fripperies, the corridor stretched in four directions. The sound of the demon’s retreating footsteps echoed throughout, coming at them from everywhere.
“Where are we?” he snapped to Talent.
“Cargo level, I’d say.”
Winston tossed his hat aside. He’d left his walking stick somewhere on deck and had only the gun for protection. “Divide and conquer. There are two main cargo holds. You take the fore, and I’ll take the aft.”
“I’ll take aft.” Talent flashed a grin. “It’s farther away and I’m faster, human.”
They both knew the demon more likely had fled aft—being as it was farther away. Thus it was more dangerous. As Win hadn’t the time to argue, he let it go.
“I’ll give you that one.” He nodded toward the dark stretch of hall. “Go then. We meet in the center.”
Talent ran off without another word. Taking a deep breath, Winston did the same, going about twenty feet before he encountered the first cargo hold entrance. The door hung wide open. A sign of entry? Or a diversion?
Inside was a cavernous space, cool and slightly damp. Far above, iron beams, painted a dull red, ran along the ceiling like the ribs of Jonah’s whale. Towers of crates, lashed down by thick hemp netting, made a tight maze ideal for hiding.
“Perfect,” he muttered, keeping his back to the wall as he entered with his gun pointed down but at the ready.
Careful to keep his step light and silent, Winston moved to the first crate. Being deep in the bowels of the ship, the hum of the engines was immense and enough to vibrate his bones. Farther in he went, on a bloody wild goose chase, he feared. Something creaked and he tensed. Puddles of yellow electric light from the overhead lamps were far and few, leaving too many corners for darkness to dwell.
The heaviness of the gun in Winston’s hand brought to mind another time. Of a foul alleyway, filled with fog and death. He’d nearly lost his life there.
Don’t think of it. But his vision blurred as his mouth filled with saliva. Hands shaking, Winston pressed himself against the wall of the ship, and cold iron bore into his shoulder blades as he fought for control. The squeak of a door hinge had him freezing. From his vantage point, he could see nothing more than the crate in front of him and darkness beyond. He cannot be destroyed. What if Poppy had been telling the truth? And here Winston was, armed with only a gun. Hell. He ought to go back. But, if he stayed and fought, it could end here. Winston swallowed hard. He had to try.
Bugger, but he couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of the blasted engines. His breath and heartbeat sounded overloud in his ears, an irritant that could get him killed. And something was coming. He could feel it by the dip in his guts.
Focusing on a spot before him, Winston let every muscle relax, going still and quiet. Exhale. Inhale. Softly. The pumping of his blood slowed too. And with this came an elevation of his senses. It was a trick he’d learned in his training days from his grizzled old partner, Nelson, when Win had come too close to getting his head knocked off by a suspect. He’d forgotten it in his recent fears. No more. Win exhaled again and concentrated on the air about him and the sounds of the engines thrumming, a steady beat that—
There! The scuff of a shoe from the left had him adjusting his grip on his pistol. Sweat trickled along his neck, tickling him. He stared at the edge of the crate until the wood grain blurred and the shadowed passage came into sharp focus. Another scrape, the shuffling of fabric. The bastard was coming closer.
Win’s heartbeat thumped against the side of his throat. His thighs quivered, and his arms burned, aching with the need to move. Steady. And then he heard it, the lightest intake of breath.
With a burst of strength and speed, Winston whipped around the corner, slammed into the body standing there, and aimed for the head. His finger was already pressing down on the trigger when a flash of shining red hair and the scent of lemons stayed his hand. A second later, he registered the sharp point of a knife digging into the underside of his jaw. For a moment, he could only stare. Bulging purple glass lenses stared back at him, giving the impression of coming nose to nose with a mechanical owl. But the delicate slope of her nose and the sharp angle of her jaw was pure Poppy.
Another moment more and he became aware of the fact that his gun was pressed hard against her temple.
“Shit!” He lurched away as if burned. “What in the bloody hell?”
Poppy wrenched the enormous brass goggles from her eyes and glared. “What are you doing here?”
Her smooth cheeks were flushed, and her red hair straggled from beneath the leather straps of the goggles, but she appeared collected and cool. Not so for him.
“What am I—” He scrubbed a damp hand over his face. “Infernal woman, you nearly gave me an apoplexy. They ought to count you among the ten plagues of Egypt!”
Her mouth puckered. Not from irritation, he realized, but from repressing a laugh. Obstinate, crazy…
“Oh, I’m much more effective than a plague. Well, more accurate at any rate.”
“I almost blew your head off!”
With a deft twirl of her fingers, she tucked her knife back into the sheath strapped around her hips. “And I almost filleted you. Had I not such fine reflexes—” He snorted, and she spoke louder, “I’d be a widow right now.”
“We’ll have to thank God for small mercies.” He grasped her elbow and towed her behind the crate. His voice lowered. “Why are you here?”
“There’s a dead man up on deck. He’s causing quite a commotion.”
“Yes, I know. Talent and I almost caught the bastard who did it in the act. It was a demon. We followed him down here.”
Damn it all, he’d almost killed her, and she talked as though they were at tea. Her sharp eyes took in their surroundings. “Where is Talent now?”
“Ferreting the demon out from the other end of the ship. Hopefully he won’t run afoul of Miss Chase and nearly kill her as well.”
“She’s up inspecting the body, so that is doubtful.” Poppy kept her profile to him. “I think he got away.” Her gaze returned to him. “I came in through the east entrance. You?”
“West.” His fingers twitched at his side.
“As I thought. Either we missed him or he’s gone.”
How could she be so calm? The thrill of the chase, even the fear, had transmuted into something earthier and basic. His blood was up, and to his horror, he had a cockstand one could hang a hat on. Winston wanted nothing more than to toss up Poppy’s skirts and pound into her. Like a rutting animal. Worse, the blasted woman appeared completely unaffected and would most likely slap him should he try anything. He shook his head and took a breath.
“Go back to the cabin, and I’ll search the rest of the area.”
They’d been together long enough for him to know her “surely you jest” look quite well. He did not care a whit. The woman wasn’t facing that thing. Nor could he think with her nearby. His hand curled around Poppy’s arm, holding her secure lest she get any fanciful notions of leaving his side. “Either you go, or we both wait it out here.”
Her breath was cool on his cheek. “Listen, I’ve more experience with these matters than—”
“Forgive me, but I was under the impression that your role within your organization was of an administrative nature.”
Moss brown eyes flashed darkly. “Are you suggesting that I cannot handle myself in the field?”
“I am suggesting that one of us has greater experience in the field and that person is not you.”
“Of all the preposterous, pompous—”
Winston clamped a hand over her mouth and dropped to a crouch. The step of a boot had sounded beyond, and his blood froze. Poppy did not fight, and he let his hand slide free.
“Left corner about ten yards off.” Poppy’s voice was but a breath. Which rather amused him, given that they’d just been talking loud enough for anyone to hear them. Still, he simply nodded and held her tight against him. Christ but they’d been squabbling like infants, and now they were trapped. His muscles tensed as a deliberate step sounded just around the crate. Whoever it was wasn’t bothering with stealth. Poppy stiffened as well. Their eyes met, and her hand slipped into his pocket and wrapped around his gun. Bloody blasting hell. He held her gaze, his heart wrenching in his chest for fear for her. It ought to be him protecting her. But he gave a slight nod. Let her aim be true.
Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow loomed. Everything slowed and yet sped up as he twisted to the side, and Poppy lifted the gun and fired. Her arm bobbled at the last second. A bad shot. Winston reached out for the gun, ready to take it from her and shoot the demon down. Smoke clogged his throat and ruined his vision. His ears rang from the report of the gun. But not enough to miss Talent’s irate shout.
“What the bleeding devil?”
Gun smoke dissipated, and Talent stood, glaring pure murder down at them. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Poppy wrenched free of Winston and rose. “Had I been, you would be dead, Mr. Talent.”
Getting to his feet was far harder, for visions of Poppy being cut down before him still swirled within Winston’s head. But he straightened and adjusted his lapels if only to do something to calm himself. “You shot wide, didn’t you?” And damn if pride didn’t swell within him. Fancy that.
Poppy did not smile, but it lurked in her eyes. That, and a certain smugness that irked. “How good of you to notice, Mr. Lane.”
“Well, I didn’t,” snapped Talent. “You scared ten years off my life.”
“Mr. Lane and I were defending ourselves. You ought to have made your presence known.”
Talent snorted. “Right. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Demon, I’m walking toward you to ascertain whether or not you are my mates. Care to clarify for me?’ ”
Winston smothered a laugh with a cough. “Well then. All’s well and all of that.”
They both glared at him, so he simply led the way out.
“How did you track the thing down here?” Winston asked Poppy as they left the hold while scanning the area for lingering threats. His nerves were shot for the day and, short of drinking a restorative, he could only ask questions and hope the familiar practice would further calm him.
“Goggles.” Poppy tapped a purple lens resting on the top of her head. “Demons are born in the Underworld and thus carry a trace of it on their flesh in the form of chemical rays. The violet lens picks up those rays.” She gave a nod in the direction of the stairwell. “He left strong traces all the way down, but they trailed off here. I suspect because he calmed down once in his element.”
She handed him the goggles. “The rays are strongest when they are afraid or exerting themselves.”
They’d reached the stairwell. Torn between gaping at his wife—she of the demon hunting expertise—and the goggles, he took a moment to put them on. The world dimmed to a soft violet, not nearly light enough to see properly. Winston gnashed his teeth. Poppy had walked into that hold nearly blind.
“Here.” Poppy leaned in and fiddled with something on the side of the lens. A click and a soft whirring sounded. Win started as a series of lights flickered around the rims of the lenses.
Beside him, Talent made a sound of pleasure. “Would you look at that. Brilliant.”
Poppy’s crisp voice was at Winston’s ear. “Now you look.”
He turned his head toward the iron stairs and sucked in a breath. Footsteps of eerie, glowing violet covered the treads, and a ghostly mist of the same glowing substance hovered in the air.
“Fluorescence,” he said.
“Just so,” said Poppy. “Special lenses, designed by the SOS, capture the refrangibility of the light within the demon’s essence.”
With a resigned sigh, he took off the device. “First werewolves, now this. As a man of logic, I cannot believe I’m saying this, but there are times I think I preferred my state of ignorance.” Win handed Talent the goggles so that he might try them, then turned his attention upon Poppy. “Hell of a thing to discover that the crackpots raving in Piccadilly Circus about monsters among us aren’t all mad.”
Poppy flashed Winston a rare grin. “Don’t go picking out your corner of Piccadilly just yet. There are far greater curiosities than mere demons and werewolves.”
And wasn’t that the truth? “Do not worry, sweet; if anything is to drive me mad, it will be you.”
Mary hated death. Which was rather ironic considering that, as a GIM, she was exposed to as much death as the average grave digger. Though they had the fortune to work with death that was safely boxed up. Fresh death was a GIM’s specialty, and the corpse upon the first class promenade deck was certainly fresh. She edged farther away from the crowd of officers that hovered over their fallen comrade. Mrs. Lane had sent her to watch the proceedings and guard over the corpse, but Mary could not fathom what she could guard it from. The poor man was dead. And beginning to smell.
Discreetly as possible, she pressed a lace kerchief to her nose. It would be intolerable for Mrs. Lane to find out that Mary had a weak stomach when it came to these matters. Somebody had placed a blanket over the man’s upper half, but his legs peeked out from beneath it. Blood, blackening from exposure to the air, seeped around the white trousers of his uniform. Swallowing hard, she looked away and into the eyes of a young officer.
“Oh.” She hadn’t even heard him approaching.
His pleasant face broke into a kind smile. “You shouldn’t be here, Miss. This isn’t a sight for a lady.”
Mary had no response. She was also instructed not to break her cover. Damn but she ought to have come in her ethereal form.
The officer’s genial smile remained. “Besides, the gulls have begun to make a play for him.”
Bile rose in Mary’s throat.
“Don’t worry, Miss. We’ll keep them away.”
She stumbled, bumping into the metal call box that jutted out from the wall. Instantly, the officer was there, grasping her arm. It wasn’t until he touched her that she felt the sting. Gasping, she pulled away. Blood smeared her arm and stained his white glove red.
“I fear you’ve scratched yourself,” he said with a frown at her arm and then to the call box.
“Bother.” Mary cursed herself for being so affected. This could not continue. She had to master death. Yet even as resolve filled her, the breeze sent the stench of decay over her, and she blanched.
Thankfully, the officer was too busy inspecting her arm.
“We can’t have our lovely guest bleeding, now can we?” His dark eyes gleamed with good humor as he stripped off his glove, and with gentle care, wiped the blood from her arm with his bare thumb.
His touch was a lovely warmth against her cold flesh, and she couldn’t find it in herself to protest. He finished by pressing his glove to her arm.
“Shall I see you back to your rooms, Miss?”
And let Poppy discover her weakness? Or, heaven forbid, Jack Talent? She’d rather stop her heart for good. Mary slipped from the officer’s grasp. “That is quite all right. I’m perfectly well, honestly.”
She backed away. There was little she could do here now anyway.
“Good day then, Miss.” The officer bowed politely before returning to the scene of the crime.