“Are you going to introduce us, darling?” Joe murmured.
Joe gave her his best smile.Aware of her startled look, he prayed that she wouldn’t let her guard slip and ruin the pretence. He was amazed that she was willing to go along with it in the first place, but it helped him so was happy to play along with it himself for now.
Marguerite’s stomach flipped. For a few seconds, all she could do was stare at him before she gave herself a mental shake and slowly, reluctantly, turned to face the Count.
“Er, this is the Count everyone is talking about. Count Valentine,” she muttered, deliberately mispronouncing the man’s name.
The Count’s face turned florid. From the glittering rage burning in his eyes, it was evident that he was furious. It was only the presence of the stranger that stopped him from issuing her with some sort of insult in retaliation.
Well, it serves him right. Maybe next time before he forces his attention on someone he will find out what their name is first, she thought with a scornful sniff.
She couldn’t ignore the fact that she was considerably more confident now that she had an ally whom she could use as a shield. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to mind. She had no idea if he could sense the animosity between her and the Count, but if he had, he had decided to stay and help her.
Thankfully, he is just as heroic as I had imagined him to be, she mused somewhat dreamily.
Joe almost groaned when she turned a somewhat dreamy gaze upon him. Such complications were the last thing he needed right in the middle of an investigation, especially with Sayers so close. At the moment, though, it served his purposes so he could do little other than smile insipidly back in order to give the Count the impression they were a loving couple.
Marguerite turned a somewhat triumphant look on the cloaked figure. He didn’t seem so macabre now she had a strong man beside her. In fact, when compared to Thor, the Count looked pale, limp and lifeless. She looked at him as one might a pathetic creature.
“I am sure the hostess will be looking for you by now. I will be returning home with my fiancé. Good evening to you,” she snapped coldly. She had little sympathy for him given his earlier behaviour.
The cold finality in her tone left the Count seething.
“I think it would be best if you came with me, Marguerite,” the Count declared flatly, refusing to budge. “It isn’t appropriate for you to be here like this, no matter what arrangement you think you have with this man.”
“I don’t think I have any arrangement, I do have an arrangement with him,” Marguerite countered.
“Oh, come now. Marguerite can stay with me. Given we are to be married, I will not turn her care over to anybody,” Joe interrupted, not giving her the opportunity to protest herself.
The Count’s gaze turned cold. “Well, you need to speak with your father about that, Marguerite. I understood from your father that you have no suitor. I don’t care who this man is, but he is not your fiancé as you claim, of that I am certain. I will not leave you here with him.” He turned to Joe and levelled a look on him that made it quite clear he considered Joe to be unworthy of even being in the same room as him.
Joe felt his blood boil because, if anything, Sayers wasn’t worthy of being in a house like the Carmichaels, let alone in the presence of someone from the Star Elite. He should be behind bars, for each murder he had carried out, each theft he had been a part of, and for each and every life he had ruined along the way. In spite of himself, Joe’s shoulders squared, and his entire demeanour became dark and threatening.
Marguerite felt the stillness in him almost immediately. Glancing up at him, something within her flipped over, but it didn’t leave her with a warm, dreamy feeling like before. This was alarm because the man who had once been so gentle with her was now incredibly dangerous. The atmosphere within the room turned dark and sinister. Suddenly feeling less confident, her gaze flickered between the men as she tried to find a way to dilute the situation without anybody getting hurt. She suspected that if these men started to fight it would be swift, bloody, and brutal, and only one of them would walk away with their lives intact.
Joe’s gaze was hard when it met the Count’s in silent challenge.
The Count didn’t even blink. “I am afraid that whatever arrangement you have entered into with this-woman-I have an arrangement with her father, and that takes precedence given that he is her guardian.”
“But I am afraid any association you claim you have has not been agreed with her father,” Joe announced blandly. “Because I spoke with him only last night, and he gave us his blessing. Besides, it doesn’t really matter whether Eustace agrees or not. She is of age. She doesn’t need his permission anymore. We are to be wed, and that is final. Now, seeing as you have only met my fiancé this evening, I don’t consider that our personal arrangements are any of your business. I have known Marguerite for well over a year now and that, as far as I am concerned, gives me a better understanding of both her and her father.”
Joe watched the Count open his mouth to protest and decided to push him some more. He looked at the woman beside him.
“You don’t have an acquaintance with this man, do you?” His eyes silently challenged her.
“No, I don’t,” Marguerite replied firmly. She turned back to the Count. “I wouldn’t because I am not that kind of person. I am engaged, and would never encourage the attentions of anyone else.”
Joe nodded, carefully ignoring the slight hesitation in her voice that warned him she was lying. He looked at her closely but, strangely, could not see anything but contempt in her gaze. It was disconcerting. He couldn’t decide if she was telling him the truth or not. Was she lying because it was all a charade, or was she hesitant because she truly belonged to the Count?
“Well, we have to go and see the vicar in Whitechapel,” he murmured. He tried to make his voice husky as he pointedly mentioned the area the Count was born. “So, we need to leave.”
He was looking at the woman, Marguerite, but well aware that the Count had gone still. He didn’t even bother to glance at the man, even though he could feel that hateful gaze boring into him.
“I didn’t realise Reverend Malden did emergency weddings,” the Count declared conversationally, having suddenly dropped his false persona.
Joe nodded. The man had no idea he had just announced his awareness of one of London’s seedier, crime-infested areas. For a Russian, who inhabited an affluent area of London, he should not even be aware that a high-crime area like Whitechapel existed. The man spoke with a kind of knowledge that could only be described as intimate, and that, to Joe, said everything.
“Oh, yes. He is a long-standing acquaintance of mine,” Joe murmured.