Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

Like hers, Talent’s room was below stairs, in a small corridor cordoned off for guest servants. As much as she’d like to turn around and not speak to Talent altogether, Mary’s steps did not slow as she went to him.

She had not seen much of Mr. Talent since being on board the Ignitus. He had chosen to ride a horse alongside their servant’s carriage on the trip to Farleigh. Upon arrival, he’d kept mostly to his room, and she was glad for it.

Drawing herself up, she knocked on the door, ignoring the way her heart clicked away beneath her ribs and the coldness in her fingers. A noise from within told her he was coming. She willed herself to be civil.

The door opened, and Jack Talent surveyed her. Hair mussed and shirt gaping at the collar, he’d evidently just risen and hadn’t the decency to fully dress before receiving her.

She pressed her lips together. “Mr. Talent.”

“Miss Chase.” His voice rumbled along her skin, followed shortly by a hot gaze that had her pausing.

“I…” She cocked her head and glared at him when the gaze lingered on her br**sts. “There’s been a murder, Mr. Talent. Mrs. Lane requests that you search the grounds.”

Slowly his head lifted. “Is that so?” Smiling faintly, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Are you certain this isn’t simply a way to pay me a visit?”

“Do not be absurd.” What game was the bastard playing now? “Stop acting the idiot and get dressed.”

She moved to go when he was suddenly in front of her. He smiled again, not his usual one but a stretched and strange smile.

“Not so fast.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Why don’t we take our time? Perhaps start our search in here?”

She gaped at him. Jack Talent propositioning her? Hot fingertips brushed her jaw, and she stilled. His eyes were glazed over with heat and dark promises. She searched that lusty gaze and found nothing more. No anger, no resentment. No Jack.

Her mouth went dry as dirt. But she made herself cup his hand to her cheek. Such a hot hand. “Say my name again,” she said. “I want to hear it fall from your lips.”

Again he smiled. But he did not light up. “Mary. The lovely Mary Chase.”

His voice was flat, wrong. She forced a smile. “Right you are.” She patted his hand. “Now, behave yourself and get dressed.” She glided away, keeping a sedate pace as if all was right with the world. When she knew it bloody well wasn’t.

Taking Poppy’s hand, Win went directly to Tully, the butler of Farleigh. Like most butlers, the man was impeccably dressed, groomed, and mannered. He gave them a small bow as they approached. “Mr. Snow, I understand you are acting as investigator in this bit of unpleasantness. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

“You can take us to your mistress directly.” Win was prepared to hunt her down if Tully proved uncooperative. However, the man simply gave another small bow.

“Your timing is exemplary, sir. Mrs. Noble has asked that you meet her in her private parlor.”

Win did not know exactly why the information that Mrs. Noble had sent for them bothered him, only that he grew weary of being batted around like a mouse trapped between a lazy cat’s paws.

When they reached the hall leading to Mrs. Noble’s personal parlor, Poppy halted him. “I think you ought to go in alone, Win.”

He glanced at the paneled walnut door a few feet off then back to her. “Why? She is expecting both of us.”

“Yes, but she wants you to tell the story. Not me. And there is the matter of questioning her in regard to Colonel Alden.”

He did not know if he liked the sound of that, nor the way she was offering him up like a shank of beef. But as Poppy never proposed anything without good reason, he did not outright protest. Not yet. “You think she will be more amiable in speaking directly with me, do you?”

The way her lips flattened in distaste gratified him somewhat. “I do. Never mind that I can then skulk about while you two talk.”

“ ‘Skulk’, eh?” He grinned. “How un-apologetically blunt of you.”

She looked at him askance. “I thought you would approve.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Go on, then.”

“Very well.” He gave her a short nod before muttering, “The things I do.”

He had almost got to the door when she grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Her face scrunched up in a manner he knew to mean that she was struggling with some internal conflict. When she finally found her words, they came out clipped and efficient. “Mrs. Noble might have certain expectations should you go in there alone.”

Winston bit back his laugh, but he could tell by the way her lips compressed again that his effort to hide his amusement failed. So he let it show as he leaned in close enough to feel her soft breath against his cheek. “Yet into the lion’s den you send me.” When her scowl formed, he grinned, suddenly enjoying himself. “Do you know, Poppy Ann,” he said against her smooth cheek, “I do believe you are worried.”

Her straight, strong teeth closed over his earlobe and the muscles along his abdomen tightened in response. “And I believe that you like me worrying over you.” Her warm breath against his ear sent shivers along his skin. She nipped him then, hard enough to make him jump. “Behave, Winston Lane.”

His hand found its way to her neck, holding her there. His mouth touched her ear. “Then it would be wise not to give me a cockstand while I am working, wife.”

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.

“Fucking 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 br**sts 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.