With a suppressed sigh, Winston eyed the hostile woman before him, a birdlike creature who likely held onto every farthing that passed her way. “Mrs. Marple, would you say Mary Fenn was a proficient worker?” According to Mary Fenn’s mother, the proprietress of Marple’s Millinery worked her daughter to exhaustion. Not a surprise, really. However, it was an easy enough question to establish if Mrs. Marple was going to lie.
“Fair enough.” She scratched at her sleeve. “Showed up on time, did her work, though her bonnets tended to be overdone on the flowers.” She gestured to the rows of bonnets lying in a profusion of color on the shelves behind her. “Costly, silk flowers. Better to fill in with wax fruit and the like.”
Beside him, his partner Sheridan made a sound of basic male annoyance, the rudiments of female fashion being beyond his ken or interest. Winston cut him a glance before forging on. “And you found her character beyond reproach?”
Mrs. Marple’s eyes darted between Sheridan and himself, figuring out the angles, wondering what he wanted of her. A dicey thing, questioning the witness. Phrase it the wrong way and you led them to answer with information that sought to please, which wasn’t necessarily the truth. Put the thing too bluntly and they might turn on you and close up like a lockbox. Step, turn, guide, release, one danced through an interrogation.
“Wouldn’t hire a girl with poor character, now would I?”
“Certainly not.”
“However,” interjected Sheridan, “if you had without knowing, what is a gentlewoman to do?”
Mrs. Marple bristled at that. “Why, turn her out, of course!”
“Even if it meant losing a highly proficient employee?” Winston asked, pushing just a bit.
“See here.” She took a step closer, her bony hand raised in ire. “Having a suitor doesn’t make a girl untoward.”
“Miss Fenn had a suitor?” Winston already knew this from interviewing the mother. A Mr. Thomas James, mild-mannered accounting clerk.
Mrs. Marple blinked. “Only saw him the once. He came by to say a word of hello last week during luncheon. Mary said they were engaged to be married. I heard he dealt in perfumes. Created them, I believe. Mary was quite proud of the scent he’d last given her.”
Sheridan stood straighter as did he. Mr. Thomas had not been a perfumer. “Could you describe the man you saw?”
Again her eyes darted between them. “Why?”
Winston’s gaze didn’t waver. “The description, if you please, Mrs. Marple.”
“He didn’t come in the shop. I only saw the back of him from afar as she met him on the corner.” Mrs. Marple pointed to the shadowy corner that turned into an alley.
Winston could not quite keep the surprise out of his expression, and the woman flushed. “What harm was it to let them meet alone? She was a good Christian, Mary was.” The woman went back to scratching her arm. “Why, to accept the suit of a cripple, she’d nearly been a saint.”
Crippled? Mr. Thomas was certainly not crippled. Winston gave a nod of encouragement as if it were all old news to him. He prayed Sheridan would do the same. Thankfully, the lad was learning. “Heard it was true love,” Sheridan chimed in.
“What else could it be?” Mrs. Marple’s worn face eased, a dreamy expression coming into her eyes that made Sheridan cringe. “To overlook such a twisted and hunched figure, it had to be true love.”
“Indeed,” Winston said. Frustration pulled this way and that within his belly. The damage done to the victims was the work of a man with incredible strength. He couldn’t imagine a cripple capable of doing the deed.
He gave the woman a tight smile and thanked her for her time. He and Sheridan were halfway out the door when her voice stopped them.
“You might try talking to Miss Lucy Montgomery,” she said. “She was Mary’s closest friend. Thick as thieves, they were. She works as a maid in some great lord’s household. Ranulf House if I remember correctly.”
A lead was a lead. Winston touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you, madam.”
Her face was tight. “Just find the mad man who did this. No girl deserves to die that way.”
Winston thought of his sister-in-law Daisy. Resolve tightened in his chest. Nothing would stop him from finding the fiend.
Despite Northrup’s rather dire claim that he would harass her into compliance, Daisy saw neither hide nor hair of him the following morning. True, there had been a moment last night in which she thought she saw his shadow lurking under the street lamp by her townhome, but the figure was gone as soon as she leaned closer to her window, and she couldn’t be sure it was him. She supposed she ought to have been alarmed at that sight, but it had brought a reluctant smile to her lips. Now, however, she felt mildly irritated that he was absent, and that irritated her as well. The blasted man. Had he played up the danger in an attempt to frighten her? Revenge, perhaps, for being treated as a fool by her the other night? Surely if it were truly dangerous, he’d be dogging her every step?
Whatever the case, she wasn’t one to sit around and wait for this beast to be caught. She ordered the coach brought round.
Number 98 James Street housed Florin, one the most famous perfumers in the world. For a time, Daisy’s father had provided Florin with the exotic oils and essences used to create their heavenly concoctions. This trade brought about her love of perfume. However, it was her special talent that made her intimately acquainted with the shop.
A crisply dressed shop clerk hurried out to greet her, offering a hand down from her coach. After gently ushering her inside, he assumed his post by the glass-paneled doors, poised and on the alert for the next shopper.
As it was nearly time for tea, the store was empty of shoppers, for which Daisy was thankful as this visit did not promise to be pleasant. Behind the glossy mahogany counter, Mr. Abernathy held court, standing rod straight in his starched suit. The man’s watery blue eyes widened upon seeing her, but he kept his expression composed, his mouth turned up with just a hint of a pleasing smile beneath his trimmed, white mustache.
“Madam,” he said in proper tones. “How may I be of service?”
“While I appreciate your efforts in subtlety, Mr. Abernathy, I have no desire to remain anonymous for the moment.” She set her reticule upon the glass-topped counter. “Let us get to the matter directly. I am quite cross with you and I suspect you know why.”
He blinked back at her in the picture of perfect innocence. But she did not miss the way the pulse leaped at his throat. Nor the small twitch of his mustache. “Mrs. Smith, I could never imagine doing you a wrong that would warrant your censure. Please be assured that there must be some mistake.”
Her smile was thin. A warning. “Mr. Abernathy, we’ve done good business together. Beneficial on both sides, I should think.”
And the man knew it. Daisy, in her role as the enigmatic Mrs. Smith, had provided the shop with numerous perfume formulas, all of which had become highly successful, including the much anticipated scent currently in development for the Queen. In return, Daisy received a generous portion of the shop’s profits and would never have to go hungry—despite Craigmore’s efforts to see her in the gutter. Yes, it was a beneficial relationship, but one in which certain players held more power.
Her finger tapped firmly upon the glass. “I would not like to see our relationship end due to pettiness. There are several establishments more than happy to purchase my formulas.”
Abernathy jerked his head as though slapped. “Here now, madam! You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
A deep red flush crept up from his high, white collar. “Have you no sense of loyalty?”
“Have I?” She leaned into his space, fighting the urge to poke his starched chest. “It is not I who sold secret formulas to an outside partner. A matter about which I am certain the members of the board would love to learn.”
His large Adam’s apple bobbed. “Now, Mrs. Smith, you cannot possibly believe that I would—”
“I
can, and I do.” She gave him her best Poppy glare, as effective on liars as it was on sisters. “You are the only one who handles the production of my personal perfume. It is not to be created for mass distribution, and you know it.”
“I cannot presume to understand—”
“Then I will put it to you plainly and use small words so there is no misunderstanding.” Her hand curled around his lapel, and the fabric crackled beneath her fist. “Another woman was wearing my perfume. You will tell me to whom you sold my formula, and in return, you may keep your position and my services. Or we will proceed by another route. Believe me when I say that such a course will not be to your advantage, Mr. Abernathy.”
Sweat pebbled down his brow as he gave her a stiff nod of agreement. Daisy smiled sweetly.
“The name, if you will, Mr. Abernathy.”
“Oi! You’ll wrinkle the silk.”
Ian spared a glance at his valet who was busy brushing his waistcoat as if Ian had lit it on fire instead of merely buttoning it in haste. The young man was worse than a nanny. “Talent, you do realize that I have dozens more?”
Talent scowled. “Oh, right, which makes caring for one’s things such a tiresome exercise.” Carefully, he pulled out Ian’s evening coat and helped Ian into it. “Hell, you’ve got forty cravats, as befitting a spoilt marquis, why not burn the one you’re wearing now? Save me the trouble of cleaning and ironing.”
Ian closed his eyes and wondered for what must be the hundredth time why he’d agreed to let Talent be his valet. And then remembered that the blasted lad hadn’t taken no for an answer. Bruised and battered within an inch of his life, the youth had been found literally on Ian’s doorstep ten years ago. And while Ian would have gladly employed young Jack Talent for other tasks, for the lad had the makings of an excellent spy, Talent hadn’t wanted what was offered. No, the man simply wanted a home, a place with the others.
It was the one reason Ian could not reject. Damn if the little bastard didn’t know it, Ian thought irritably as he adjusted the cravat Talent had just tied, earning another growl of disgust. It was a petty little victory in the war that was the state of Ian’s wardrobe. The laughable part was that society often touted Ian as a natty dresser, when really it was Talent’s insane and exacting standards that had Ian dressed to the nines and a leader of fashion.
“I think you’re cracked to go to Lena,” Talent said when Ian strode to his cabinet and pulled out a glossy wooden stake. “She’s just as likely to have your bollocks for dinner as help you.”
Ian thumbed the point of the stake. Not quite sharp enough. He pulled out the sanding block. “You think I’m incapable of defending myself?” The idea was laughable.
For once, Talent looked aghast. “Course not. Only, well, she’s ungodly.” With a shiver, Talent crossed himself. Talent’s piousness, as it were, had the tendency to rise up when he wanted to dole out a lecture and to go completely missing when it proved inconvenient to his own needs.
Ian laughed then. “You, my young friend, are the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.” Ignoring Talent’s scowl, he blew over the tip of the stake and wood dust swirled golden in the air. “We creatures are all ungodly in the eyes of humans, and they would likely have your bollocks on a spit if they knew what you were.”
“They’d have to catch me first,” Talent muttered as Ian slid the stake into his boot. “Just watch your back, all right?”
It unsettled Ian that someone still cared enough to warn him away from danger. It was that small thing that had Ian giving his staff leave to treat him with undue familiarity; they were all he had. Ian moved to step away from Talent and his concern, but not before giving the man a hard look. “Watch after her.”
Ian had stalked Daisy for much of the day, following her to such innocuous haunts as Florin and her milliner’s. Not that she’d noticed; he’d learned his lesson and stayed far downwind this time. Ian had caught her looking over her shoulder more than once. A smile tugged at his lips. Anxious for his company perhaps?
He came home to change only when his groom, Seamus, had arrived to take over the watch. Seamus was a strong, capable lycan. But Ian preferred Talent’s subtlety for the job.
“Do not let her out of your sight for anything. She can protest all she likes, but the lass is coming home with me tonight.” He would see this thing done with Lena and then he was collecting the stubborn Mrs. Craigmore.
“She’ll never even see me,” Talent promised.
Ian believed it. Talent’s skills were such that he could be practically under one’s nose and the poor sot wouldn’t be the wiser.
“So you’re set on bringing the girl here?” With a precise flick, Talent laid out Ian’s top hat and gloves. He knew better than to try to put them on him. Ian took to being dressed only so far. “Never seen you ask a girl to stay, I’ll give you that. Usually it’s a contest to see whether the door hits their sweet backsides before they get clear of it on their way out.”
“Lady,” Ian corrected with a twinge of irritation as he donned his gloves. The smooth leather scraped raw over his twitching skin. Damn, he was thinking about her again. Was she taking her tea? Changing into her dressing gown? He cleared his throat. “One cannot call a woman such as she a girl.” Not with that figure. “And she’s not coming here to stay. This is solely a matter of protection.”
Talent muttered something best left ignored as he followed Ian out of the dressing room and into his bedchamber.
“Now,” Ian said, “what of the were?” He needed to be well-informed when he faced Lena.
“Word on the streets is of no good. Not one lycan that anyone knows of has turned.” Talent shrugged as he poured Ian a glass of port. “Could be a country lycan gone bad, but with the Ranulfs controlling the borders, I cannot see that happening.”
Ian took the proffered glass and drained it in one gulp. “Aye, the Ranulfs would know if a werewolf came into London. Hell, the sorry bastard would be taken out before he made it to Hampstead.”
Certain as the sun rising in the east, a wolf clan always protected its territory. And London was the territory of the Ranulfs. No beast dwelled within the city proper without the Ranulfs knowing about it. Which made Ian’s teeth grind. Being an ousted member of Clan Ranulf, he was well acquainted with their vigilance in regards to territory. Damn it, and now his hands were tied. On a silent curse, he turned away, handing Talent his empty glass.
As if reading his thoughts, Talent’s expression turned shrewd. “You’re going to ask Lena to approach The Ranulf about it, aren’t you?”
The Ranulf. Ian almost laughed. Even after all these years, he’d be damned if he called Conall The Ranulf. The very notion turned his wame. “Something of the sort.” He drew a hand through his hair and then put on his hat. “It isn’t as if I can approach them.”
He knew he sounded bitter. It had been Ian’s decision to leave the clan. He didn’t regret it, and yet the very notion of still being exiled twisted his guts. He hadn’t realized how very lonely it would feel. Allowed to live on the fringes due to his royal blood, but unable to return to his clan. But he had willingly thrown his birthright away with both hands, and it had been for the best.
Chapter Eight
Daisy counted herself an overzealous fool once more as her coach rolled up before her quarry. The only information she had to go on were past conversations in which Miranda talked about her days in the streets, days in which their father had forced her to steal for him. Dirty blighter. Had Daisy known of his machinations, she would have put a stop to it, even if it had meant taking a parasol to her father’s rather thick skull.
Her driver jumped down and murmured a few words to the man lounging against a lamppost. The man nodded, money discreetly changed hands, and Daisy’s stomach rolled in sudden anxiety. Outside her window, an enormous crow circled once, then twice, cawing as if in agitation, and her pulse sped up. She was not generally superstitious but the overgrown bird’s presence simply cried out “ill omen.”
Her coach door opened. His smell hit her first, ripe onions and old sweat, poorly masked by a copious amount of surprisingly fine cologne. The coach rocked as he hefted himself inside, clearly not a man accustomed to entering conveyances. Daisy shrank away from the stench until her shoulders hit the bolsters.
Shrewd eyes, shadowed by a bright orange bowler trimmed in royal purple, studied her as a toothy grin erupted over his narrow face. “Well, ’ello, ’ello.” His long length oiled in next to her. Too close. “ ’Tis me lucky day, I see. Usually don’t provide services meself. But for you, I shall hav’ to reconsider.” He rubbed his hands in clear anticipation, leering at her breasts as he did. “Ah but yer a fine full bushel. Wot will it be? A bit o’ tip the velvet muff? Bump the goat?”
Daisy could only blink in shock. This was the infamous Billy Finger, Miranda’s former partner in crime? And here Daisy thought she was the sister with the lewd knowledge.
“Mayhaps somthin’ darker, eh? Cat ’o nines tickle your fancy? Course, I wouldn’t object were you so inclined toward working the gutter lane over the old lobcock here.” With that he grabbed his crotch like an offering.
Her voice finally broke free. “Oh, do shut up!”
Billy frowned, but then shrugged, his bony shoulders moving under a canary-yellow frock coat. “Right then. A silent meetin’ o’ flesh, as it were. I understand perfectly, me lady. Dirty puzzle, you are. Let’s get you unrigged.”
He reached for her, and she slapped his hands. “What? No! Contain yourself, you idiot. I’m not here for an assignation.”
A scowl twisted his face as he scratched the greasy hair peeking out beneath his hideous example of haberdashery. “An’ what’s a gent to expect, invitin’ him into yer coach? I’ve got no time for chin music with a mad hattress.”
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