At the corner, a paperboy stood, his little voice a mighty shout as he waved the latest edition over his head. “Mad killer stalks the fair people of London! Victims’ livers eaten for his supper!”
Daisy’s pace faltered, a small bobble of her feet that had Ian wanting to stride ahead and take hold of her arm for support. He needn’t see her face to know she was as white as milk.
“When will he strike again?” cried the paperboy. “Who among us is safe? Read all about it!”
Daisy moved past the boy without a glance. With the ease of a frequent patron, she walked up to a tavern, the Plough and Harrow, and entered. He gave her a moment before following.
The taproom was dim and smelled of ale, men, and roasted meat. Filled with the midday-meal crowd, shouts of laughter and genial conversation rumbled in the air. It was a comforting sound that invited a man to join in.
Ian slid the brim of his hat down low and followed her movements with a sideways glance as he tucked himself into a shadowed corner of the bar. She’d gone directly to a giant old gent dressed in homespun and sporting a stained apron. The man’s bushy brows rose in happy surprise as he caught her in a fond embrace.
“Meggy-girl! Now there’s a sight for sore old eyes.” He kissed her proffered cheek lightly. “What ye been up to, darling lass?”
Her laughter brightened up the room. “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, Clemens.” She drew away and tucked her hand into the crook of the old man’s arm. “Have you a seat in which an old friend might rest her weary bones?”
“Tosh, ye have to ask?”
Clemens led Daisy to a table by the window in the back, where a man sat nursing a pint. “ ’Tis the best seat in the house for my Meg.”
Without ado, Clemens grabbed the idling man by his scruff and tossed him aside. “Out with ye, Tibbs. Go prop up the bar if ye’ve a mind to stay. Miss Meggy needs the seat.”
Tibbs grumbled something incoherent as he stumbled to the bar.
Miss Meggy’s protests of Tibbs’s ill treatment were ignored.
“He’ll be there day an’ night if I let him,” Clemens said as he swept away all proof of the unfortunate Tibbs before holding out her seat as proper as any Belgravia footman might.
“Will it be your favorite for luncheon then, lass?”
Daisy took off her mourning bonnet, revealing hair of gleaming gold and silver moonbeams parted demurely down the center and gathered in the back in a riot of curls. “Yes, Clemens, thank you.”
Ian waited until Clemens departed to pounce. His tread was undetectable in the din of the room, his movements easy and at one with those around him. In short, nothing about him drawing near should have alerted her, yet the moment he pulled away from the bar, her head lifted and her summer-sky eyes pinned him.
He let his stride slow to a leisurely stroll, watching her watch him approach, and damn if heat didn’t flash down his groin, his balls drawing up tight with anticipation and the pleasure of having her eyes upon him.
“Daisy.” He stopped in front of her and, doffing his hat, gave her a bow. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
She sat back against her chair, letting one arm drape over the back of it. The pose was indolent, relaxed, and not at all ladylike. Thank the devil for frock coats or she’d see how it affected him. “Yes, quite, Lord Northrup. One would never presume to find you in such a plebeian establishment.”
He didn’t wait for her to bid him to sit, for he gathered he’d be waiting a long time. “It seems I like slumming as much as you.” He had to stretch his legs out under the table or risk knocking his knees against the tabletop. “Well, perhaps not as much. You appear to be quite the regular.”
Daisy’s soft mouth pursed. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but I’ll tell you for fear of suffering constant prodding.”
“The prodding is my favorite part.”
“This was my father’s local pub,” she said in an overloud voice, all her creamy skin turning rosy. “When he could afford it. I frequent it as well when I can. It’s clean, and Clemens keeps the riffraff away… ah, Clemens!” She looked up with a smile as the scowling Clemens stomped over with a tray in hand.
Clemens set down a tankard of peaty ale with a thud. His small eyes narrowed on Ian. “This nabob botherin’ you, lass?” A meaty fist curled near the vicinity of Ian’s head. “Shall I toss him for ye?”
Ian lifted one brow a touch. “Am I, Meggy?” he asked Daisy as he stared down the barman. Ian wouldn’t hurt the man, as he admired those willing to protect women from unknown threats. But there was no reason to let anyone else realize that.
Daisy gave a small sigh. “No need, Clemens.” She inclined her head toward Ian. “Mr. Smith won’t be staying long.”
“If you’re sure, lass. You can’t be too careful these days, what with a killer on the loose.” The man didn’t notice Daisy blanch.
“It is good of you to worry, Clemens. But I am all right.”
“So long as you are certain.” Though his eyes were hard on Ian, he gently placed a plate of Welsh rabbit before Daisy. “If ye be needing anything. I’m just there.” He kept his eyes on Ian as he jerked his head toward the bar. “Right. There.”
“And not a step farther,” Ian added genially.
With another glare, Clemens thundered off, making a point not to wait for Ian’s order. Just as well since he didn’t fancy drinking anything offered by good old Clemens as it’d likely be spit in, or worse.
“Mr. Smith?” Ian asked when Daisy ignored him and set about eating her meal. He did not miss the way her hands shook just a fraction, but she seemed determined to let her worries go. “Why not simply call me Northrup?”
“Perhaps it is best to keep your anonymity,” she said.
He leaned on one elbow and watched as she daintily cut her cheese on toast into neat little pieces. “Perhaps I don’t want my anonymity.”
“Mmm.” She took a bite, savoring it for a brief moment. “Who says I was referring to your sensibilities? Perhaps I’d rather not be associated with you.”
He found himself grinning. “Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. You make my head spin, Meggy-girl, with your round-robin talk.” She scowled, and he swallowed down a laugh. “It is Meggy? Or Daisy? I wouldn’t want to be confused.”
“It is my name. Daisy Margaret Ellis.” She took another bite, eating her food with a strange combination of pleasure and economy. “Father called me Meggy before he settled on Daisy. Clemens took to it rather too fondly, I’m afraid. Frankly, I find both names deplorable. Why not Margaret or Meg?” She waved her fork in emphasis before catching his eye and seeing his broad grin. Instantly, she resumed her disinterested air. “You are a pest, you know that? Go away, will you? I’m not in the mood to play.”
The pain and sorrow creasing her eyes made him ache in sympathy. He knew that feeling of loss too well. Which was precisely why he would stay. “Ah now, I can’t be too terrible. After all, you are letting me share your table.”
“Better to do that than make a scene.” She patted her rosebud mouth with her table linen, and Ian shifted in his seat. A woman should not be allowed to possess such a mouth. “Besides,” she said, seemingly oblivious to his interest, “I wanted to know why you were following me.”
“Cannot this be a happy coincidence?” he asked lightly. He liked toying with her. When he batted, she always batted back.
“You’ve been following me since the church.”
“Oh?” He made a track through the condensation beading the pewter mug between them.
“Yes, ‘oh.’ ” Her knife sliced the bread cleanly. “I caught your scent not two feet out of the graveyard. Perhaps before.” Her shoulders lifted in a surprisingly Gaelic shrug. “I was distracted until then.”
“Ha! I bid you to prove it.” Though he made a show of smiling, it unnerved him just a bit to think he’d been caught out so soon.
The corners of her eyes tilted upward when she smiled in return. Much like a cat’s, he though
t with a sudden qualm.
“Your valet uses champagne in his boot polish mix—very ingenious of him as your boots are like mirrors. He draws your bath with oil of rose hip and sweet orange, which makes me believe you suffer from dry skin. You wear Le Homme Number 12 from Smithe’s, an expensive cologne featuring essences of vetiver, amber, and sandalwood. And though its popularity among nobs might lead me to confuse you with another, one cannot overlook your natural scent, which is a subtle mix of meadow grass, fresh rain, white wine, and well… you.”
Ian stared at her with his mouth surely agape. She did not flinch, though a fetching pink flush colored her cheeks. He snapped his mouth shut. “Fuck me,” he breathed with genuine surprise. So rare that anything truly shocked him these days.
Her flush grew. “Thank you, but no.”
Ian shook his head to clear it. He felt dizzy, as though he’d been running and had come to a sudden stop. Jesus, but this woman kept him on his toes. “I’d say you were bamming me if it weren’t all true.”
The table creaked as she leaned in on her elbows, coming close enough that his insides heated again. He resisted the urge to pull away, if only to clear his reeling head. Her voice came at him in a satisfied purr. “And you had black tea and toast with bitter marmalade for breakfast.”
Heads turned at his shout of laughter. He ignored them in favor of the golden-haired olfactory genius sitting before him. Her sense of scent was as good as his, if not better, as he studiously ignored his for fear of being overwhelmed.
Daisy dropped her gaze and went back to eating with methodical determination.
“I’m a nose,” she said between bites.
“I should say so.”
She glanced up. “It’s an undignified talent for a lady to possess, I’m told.” Her shoulders lifted. “However, quite useful in detecting strange men intent on following my person.”
“I’d say it was bloody brilliant,” he countered. “Strange men or no.”
Her lids lowered as she took a sip of her ale. “Why is it that you are following me?”
Wariness fairly hummed about her, as if she were bracing herself for his retaliation, believing that he would want revenge for the way she’d put him in his place.
Admittedly, the idea had occupied his thoughts, but sitting with her now, retaliation was the furthest thing from his mind; he was enjoying himself too much. The experience was so novel to him now that he wanted to bask in it, the same way his wolf liked to lie out in the moonlight and soak up its strength.
His reply was forestalled as a short, portly fellow stomped up onto one of the center tables and made himself heard. “All right, gents. Now then, it be well known I’m a man of my word.”
A collective groan went through the room, and the man waved another hand. “Aye, I know. But”—he slapped his hands together—“a bet’s a bet. I lost, and it’s me turn to settle accounts.”
“What’s the damage this time then, Gus?” shouted a man to Ian’s right.
“An ode. By yours truly. Public’s choice.”
Instantly, the men and women in the tavern began calling suggestions. “Do Gladstone!”
“The Queen!”
Funny how Ian could feel Daisy’s cunning smile. Foreboding had his shoulders tightening as he turned. Her grin was that of a child at Christmas. “Marquis of Northrup,” she shouted.
Gus, who had been considering offers with a very serious air, jumped at the opening. “There,” he cried. “Now that’s a superior toff what’s worth me song.”
Ian resisted the urge to slide down in his chair. If only they knew that said toff was sitting among them.
Daisy laughed, her eyes resolutely not on him, which only made her notice of his every move all the more obvious.
Gus cleared his throat as the crowd went silent in expectation. His voice came out surprisingly clear and fine. “O woe is to be that lofty he. Our fine dandy, the Infamous Lord Northrup. How it pains the dears, this gentle’ man hears, that he can’t get it up for a tup!” Triumphant, Gus held out his empty mug as he sang on: “O have ye sers a dram to spare, so’s he can find his courage in a cup!”
The tavern shook with the roar of laughter. Ian refused to flush. Blast if that damn ode wouldn’t be sung on every street corner by nightfall. Courage in a cup indeed.
Daisy’s eyes sparkled with mirth as she caught his gaze, and the crowd went back to shouting out requests. The corners of her mouth dimpled as she held back a smile and the urge to laugh suddenly bubbled up within him. Either that or punch someone.
“Well,” she said, “at least I know my sister is no danger from, shall we say, an untoward advance due to your virile nature.”
Ian ground his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. Aye, he’d known it was coming. It still didn’t cosh the desire to wipe the grin off her mouth, preferably with the use of his. Perhaps his tongue down her throat would clear up any questions of virility or lack thereof. Because with her, he was getting the sneaking suspicion that it would not be a problem. But he found himself looking away, not liking what he saw in her eyes, the judgment and the pity. “Your sister was safe from me long ago. I’ve no interest in chasing after what doesn’t want to be mine.”
“Hmm.” Slowly, methodically, her nails rapped over the wooden table, playing a rhythm that made his eye twitch. “And yet you seem to favor redheaded women when trolling for whores.”
Mary Mother of… Slowly, methodically, he counted to ten. God save man from curious women. “Been checking up on me?”
Her look was the sort one gave to an ignorant child. “That would imply effort, when one need merely mention your name to learn of it. No wonder Archer wants your head.” A golden curl bounced at her temple as she shook her head.
His fingers twitched. Damn what Archer thought. Damn her too. He wanted to growl, howl his irritation, bare his teeth, and set her in her place. He scowled at the barman watching them instead. The man flinched and quickly turned back to wiping the glass in his hand with a rag. “You assume that your sister is the only ginger-haired woman in the world.”
He forced himself to meet Daisy’s eyes. “That a man cannot have lived as long as I have without the possibility that there might be another woman in his life possessing similar coloring?” Don’t speak of it. His heart was going too fast. The pain was rising.
Daisy paled. “Who was she?”
Ian studied his fingers, unsurprised to find the nails had grown long, lengthening into the beginnings of claws. He relaxed on a breath, and they retracted with a pinch of pain.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “Whores are at the root of my current predicament.”
Predicament. He almost laughed. A fine word for losing heart. He couldn’t look at Daisy and say the words, yet he’d started his mouth running so he had to finish.
“I can’t… Christ. It ought to be more than a financial transaction.” And damn Archer for putting that thought into his head those many months ago. But there it was. He couldn’t pay a woman to swive him anymore. Not when he remembered what he used to have. Companionship as well as passion. The stink of it was, he didn’t want to finesse a woman into his bed either. When had sexual relations become so complicated?
Laughter, the clink of a glass, and the murmur of conversation swelled around them. Daisy moved, a subtle gesture that brought her an inch closer to him. Her eyes, when he made himself look, did not hold pity but the dark pain of personal understanding. “I find it hard,” she said in a voice so low a normal man might have missed it, “to imagine any available woman you set your sights on not offering herself to you freely.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Is that an offer then, Daisy-Meg?”
“I prefer to leave you with bated breath rather than answer,” she said tartly before her expression turned sorrowful. “You were at the funeral. Why?”
He sat a bit straighter. “To pay my respects.”
“You know something.” Her slim throat worked on a hard swallow.
“About that night.”
“Aye.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I went to the autopsy.”
“Isn’t that the sort of business best left to the police?”
“Police.” He snorted. “They couldn’t find their cocks to take a piss.”
Ian felt a moment’s qualm when she colored, but her lips twitched. What was it about her that made him forget even basic manners?
“Careful now,” she said as if reading his very thoughts. “My brother-in-law is police, and I shall have to be insulted in his stead.”
“Winston Lane,” Ian confirmed with a nod. “He’s seems capable enough. But there’s no getting around the fact that he cannot help with this particular issue.”
Again came the subtle paling of her cheeks. She was trying mightily to take the notion of werewolves in stride, but it wasn’t quite working. Could he blame her? Hadn’t he blanched when he’d learned that his kind wasn’t the only thing to go bump in the night?
“Does Winston know about… werewolves?” she asked.
“No. He thinks the killer is using a knife. Archer and I were not inclined to dissuade him of the notion.”
“Archer was there?” A little furrow had worked its way between her golden brows. She waved her question away. “Of course he was. What good is one meddling noble when you can have two? Never mind. Tell me what you found.”
As practical as a Scot, she was. “There was another victim,” he said. “Murdered before your attack. A woman. Young lady, actually.”
“Poor dear.” Daisy’s hand trembled as she took a deep drink of her ale. “The same… did she…”
He nodded dully. He’d be damned if he’d tell Daisy about that poor girl being violated. Swallowing down his rage, he told the bare facts of her death.
“God.” Daisy shuddered. “He’s got to be stopped.”
“He will be.” Ian reached out, laying his fingers lightly on her wrist. At any other time, he might be smug about the way her pulse leaped. Now he sought only to keep her there should she bolt. “There is a link between the women.” His grip tightened a fraction. “Daisy, did you let your friend Mrs. Trent borrow your perfume? Or you hers?”
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