Shadowdance
Page 8
“Jack…” Ian began. His disappointment and regret, and the soft plea in his voice, worked a shaft of pain into Jack’s chest. He knew he was hurting Ian and Daisy by keeping his distance. Especially Ian. But he could not stand to look upon him for too long. Not when it was Ian who first comforted him when he’d been rescued. Not when the man knew what had been done to him. The familiar tight, suffocating feeling stole over him.
“No worries,” he said over his shoulder, even as his abdomen tightened in regret. “I’m late for work.”
It was another lie, and they all knew as much. But they let him flee.
Chapter Six
Book in hand, curled upon the couch with a soft cashmere rug tucked about her, was a delightful way to end the day. Mary did not want to think about Jack Talent, or the case, or anything at all. What she wanted now was to immerse herself in another world until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Yet she found herself not reading but floating from her body. With detached calm she hovered above herself. So still, eyes open wide but glassy. Precisely how she would look in true death. The thought no longer bothered her. If death came, it came.
Not wanting to dwell on morbid thoughts, she let her gaze roam listlessly about her small parlor. She loved her flat. Assembling it for comfort, she’d picked big, padded armchairs and covered the floors in plush carpets. Robin’s-egg blue lacquered the walls, the high gloss reflecting the light of her lamps and candles when it grew dark. Cream-colored velvet drapes kept the chill from creeping through the windows, and her couch was, in truth, a large, wrought iron campaign bed of some long-dead general’s and was piled high with plump pillows for lounging. Quite satisfactory. And nothing like the homes in which she had been raised.
Though the location changed from time to time, her childhood homes had all looked the same within—pink silk damask walls, dainty gilded furniture, and numerous mirrors to reflect Maman. Everything glittering and feminine. And Mary most of all. Always resplendent in frothy petticoats, rich satins, and lacy pinafores. Hateful, really, that Mary still loved to wear high fashion. Back then, however, she had loved it all. Loved playing with the battalion of French dolls provided for her, loved waiting for Maman to grace her with a morning visit. They’d sip rich chocolate and eat buttered crumpets, and Maman would tell her stories of lovely men. It wasn’t until later, when Mary fully understood just who and what those men were and why they provided the riches around her, that a sick, twisted dismay would weigh down her chest upon Maman’s arrival.
Maman. Ha. They weren’t even French. It had taken Mary ridiculously long to figure that out as well. But Maman was long dead, and that part of Mary’s life over.
She had friends. Tonight she might have gone out, might have danced and laughed. Yet she had stayed home. For she did not know how to be at ease with others. She’d never learned, growing up as that girl in the ivory tower. Mary sighed and sank back into her body. The sensation was akin to slipping under a warm blanket. It took her but a moment to orient, pick up her book, and turn toward the warmth of her heating stove. The cream enamel Swedish stove was more efficient and used fragrant wood instead of muddy coal. Behind the grate the flames danced. Self-pity never helped a thing. And she was better off than most. Being alone was perfectly fine. Perfectly.
A creak sounded upon her landing. Tensing, she glanced over the high back of her couch. Her hall was dark, only the small reading lamp at her side hissing away. Which made the sliver of light shining along the base of her front door perfectly visible, as was the shadow of someone standing behind the door. Mary’s hand slid to the revolver she kept by her side. Even in her home, she never let herself be without a weapon.
When she wanted to, Mary could move with speed and silence. In a blink she lightly vaulted over the couch, ripped open the door, and had her gun cocked and aimed. At Jack Talent’s broad chest.
“Put it away,” he said in a bored tone.
She allowed herself the pleasure of ignoring his request for a long moment. Then she lowered the gun and took stock of him. He stood, feet braced, hands at his side, in a manner that ought to have conveyed trust, but with his rippling strength, he appeared ready to pounce. Mist glittered at the tips of his cropped hair and on the weave of his black wool overcoat. He towered over her, all bunching muscle and boiling energy, and he had to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.
“I thought you were at Daisy’s birthday ball,” she said.
A deep furrow ran between his brows, brows that, when he smiled, tilted upward at the tips like the leaves of a bascule bridge. The feature ought to have given him an open, almost boyish look of expectancy, but his sour nature fought that appearance, twisting it into a near-permanent glower of disappointment. Even so, the very idea that nature had given him a face more inclined to joy made her fight a smile. Served him right for being so prickly.
“I thought you were invited too.” He gave a pointed look at her simple housedress. Mary kept her focus on his chin, now covered in a fine stubble of evening growth. It made his mouth appear softer, defining the bow of his upper lip. She flicked her gaze back up to his eyes.
“I didn’t fancy going out to a party.” Or seeing him there, if she were honest. Mingling with Jack Talent in a social setting was more than she could tolerate at the moment. Yet here he was, at her home. Her skin prickled.
His voice grew flinty. “I didn’t fancy staying.”
Before she could ask why he was here, or how he’d even found her home, he brushed past, his upper arm grazing the tips of her br**sts as he went. Mary crossed her arms over them as she pivoted to face him. “Oh, do come in.”
“Thank you.” He made himself at home on the parlor chair, which, unfortunately, was big enough to accommodate his large frame. The sight made her want to stamp her foot, or bolt. This was her refuge, and he was filling it up with his scent, his energy. She’d be surrounded by it for days now, unable to scrub it from her furniture.
Lamplight shone over his blunt profile as he glanced about her room, taking it all in. “Cozy flat.” The high bridge of his nose wrinkled. “Small, though.”
Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t leaving, Mary closed the door and set her gun upon the hall table. “Yes, well, I had a larger place but I kept getting lost.” Actually, she owned the building, but he needn’t know that.
His quick grin returned before he took it upon himself to pick up the book she’d discarded and leaf through it. “I always thought Mr. Rochester was a melodramatic prat.” He tossed the book back down.
“I like Jane.”
“Everyone likes Jane.” He picked up an apple from the glass bowl she had placed in the center of her tea table. Mary loved apples, and every fortnight she found a basketful of them sitting on her doorstep. A gift from Lucien that she’d always appreciated. Talent stared down at the green-and-red-marbled fruit engulfed by his big hand. He contemplated it for a moment, a strange look ghosting over his features before he appeared to pull himself free from whatever thought haunted him and took a hearty bite. Mouth full of crisp apple, he munched away, a bit of juice making his firm lips wet. And all the while, he watched her.
Mary gave herself a mental shake and focused on the situation at hand. “How did you find my home?”
The flat was located on the top floor of the building. Only three persons knew of its location: Lucien, Poppy, and Daisy. And she doubted any of them would tell Talent. Or that he would ask them.
Talent’s gaze grew hooded. “Followed your scent.”
“What?” Gods, but she did not want to know what her scent entailed. Nor did she like the idea of Talent knowing it so well that he could track her down by it.
That grin of his flashed bright. “Don’t fancy that either, do you?”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Talent, that through the whole miasma of London, you were able to track me down based on scent alone?”
Talent’s hard mouth slanted as he looked her over in a way that she felt to her bones. “We’re in each other’s pocket now, Chase. Most hours, you’re all I smell.”
Gracious. Heat flooded in unfortunate places, and to her horror, Talent’s gaze narrowed, his nostrils flaring as if he scented that reaction too.
An uncomfortable, stifling silence fell over the room. Mary swallowed down the urge to twitch.
“What are you doing here—”
“Do you want to work—”
They paused, their clashing questions falling into an awkward silence. Then Talent set down his half-eaten apple and sprang to his feet, a graceful move so fast she almost missed it. Her heart jumped but he merely regarded her with his usual scowl.
“Well? Shall we go out?” His hard features were once again implacable.
Mary cleared her throat. “Let me get my cloak.”
They did not speak as they headed into the frigid night. Londoners fought back against the cold by heaping on the coals. Great billows of smoke rose from a profusion of chimney pots. What was too heavy to dissipate fell in black flecks that danced about them like the devil’s snow.
Due to the late hour, few were out, most human traffic being shepherded by coach now. A hack rattled past, horse hooves clipping over the cobbles.
Walking next to Talent, she felt the singular, cozy comfort that steals upon one who is with a good friend. That Talent gave rise to such equanimity instantly shattered it, and her stomach clenched. She ought not trust him any further than she could toss him. Perhaps it was not his presence, but the predictability of all his actions that she took comfort in. Well, one could hope. “Where are we going?” she asked to break her muddled thoughts.
His attention stayed on the walk before them, but his pace, which he had slowed to match hers, faltered for just a step. A wry grimace twisted his mouth. “You know, Chase, I don’t believe I thought that far ahead.”
“And you are admitting this?” She made a noise of astonishment. “I shall have to make note of the day.”
He looked at her sidelong, and the brackets framing his mouth deepened. “You better. It doesn’t happen often.”
Mary ducked her head to hide her smile. “Well,” she said after a step, “we might consider going to Trafalgar Square. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”
Talent grunted. “Perhaps.”
Taking that as an agreement, Mary headed down Charing Cross road. They soon entered the square, a wide-open public space that featured tranquil fountains and a Corinthian column rising 170 feet into the air. The monument was in honor of Admiral Nelson and was guarded by four large bronze lions, one at each corner of the massive base. Half walls flanked three sides of the square, creating a sense of place despite the openness of the area.
Far off, keeping to the edge of the square, a group of women idled about. A lone man, wearing a horrid lime-green bowler—its color so vivid that it was discernible even in the low light—lounged against the wall, close enough to keep an eye on the women but not so close as to interfere should they be approached.
And approached they were. Two fellows strolled by, eyeing the flesh for sale, before one broke away. An agreement was clearly reached, and the man guided two women off to a shadowed corner.
“Perhaps the fellow in the hideous hat might have seen something. It appears as if he might be here nightly.”
“And if he had, you’d be the last person he’d tell,” Talent retorted. “He might be a sinner but he isn’t stupid. The ones who stay alive never are.”
Mary caught Talent’s expression. “My, the way you are sneering, Talent, one would think you’ve never partaken in that particular exchange.” Most males she knew had at one time or another.
Talent’s brows lifted just a touch. “Once, when I was too young and ignorant to know any better.”
It was her fault for broaching the subject, but the sudden image of Talent bedding a strange woman was entirely unpalatable. “And you do not approve of it now?” she asked, as if untroubled. “Odd, seeing as your former master used to be quite infamous in regards to his bedding of prostitutes.” She would not call them whores. Despite what society thought, she knew too well how human they were beneath their protective veneer.
The corner of Talent’s mouth twitched. “Ian and I do not see eye to eye on everything.” He resumed his glaring. “Point of fact, I cannot fault the women for seeking coin. I know how desperation feels. The men who use them are what makes me ill.” The scowl upon his face grew. “It’s disgusting.”
“Because they are not treating the woman as people?” She almost smiled at him. But he brusquely shook his head, killing her sudden goodwill.
“Those women make their choice to be treated as such.” His lips curled. “But by procuring, those men are degrading the act into something meaningless.”
He shocked a laugh out of her with that. “Goodness, you are a prude.”
Talent snorted. “Prude? Because I object to the buying and selling of women? How very hackneyed of you, and everyone else,” he muttered before leaning forward to crowd her with his body and pin her with an intense look. “Believe me, angel, I am not a prude. Just because the very idea of lying with a woman who doesn’t truly want me turns my stomach doesn’t mean I don’t want to tup one. I’d simply rather have some regard for my partner.”
Mary blinked and tried to ignore the flush of warmth his words wrought in her. “But you’re a man.”
He cocked his head. “What the bloody devil does that have to do with anything?”
“Men do not differentiate between the physical act and love.” Not any she knew. As for her opinion in the matter, she found the endeavor noisy, awkward, and undignified. Indeed nothing in her personal experience would lead her to recommend it.
“No worries,” he said over his shoulder, even as his abdomen tightened in regret. “I’m late for work.”
It was another lie, and they all knew as much. But they let him flee.
Chapter Six
Book in hand, curled upon the couch with a soft cashmere rug tucked about her, was a delightful way to end the day. Mary did not want to think about Jack Talent, or the case, or anything at all. What she wanted now was to immerse herself in another world until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Yet she found herself not reading but floating from her body. With detached calm she hovered above herself. So still, eyes open wide but glassy. Precisely how she would look in true death. The thought no longer bothered her. If death came, it came.
Not wanting to dwell on morbid thoughts, she let her gaze roam listlessly about her small parlor. She loved her flat. Assembling it for comfort, she’d picked big, padded armchairs and covered the floors in plush carpets. Robin’s-egg blue lacquered the walls, the high gloss reflecting the light of her lamps and candles when it grew dark. Cream-colored velvet drapes kept the chill from creeping through the windows, and her couch was, in truth, a large, wrought iron campaign bed of some long-dead general’s and was piled high with plump pillows for lounging. Quite satisfactory. And nothing like the homes in which she had been raised.
Though the location changed from time to time, her childhood homes had all looked the same within—pink silk damask walls, dainty gilded furniture, and numerous mirrors to reflect Maman. Everything glittering and feminine. And Mary most of all. Always resplendent in frothy petticoats, rich satins, and lacy pinafores. Hateful, really, that Mary still loved to wear high fashion. Back then, however, she had loved it all. Loved playing with the battalion of French dolls provided for her, loved waiting for Maman to grace her with a morning visit. They’d sip rich chocolate and eat buttered crumpets, and Maman would tell her stories of lovely men. It wasn’t until later, when Mary fully understood just who and what those men were and why they provided the riches around her, that a sick, twisted dismay would weigh down her chest upon Maman’s arrival.
Maman. Ha. They weren’t even French. It had taken Mary ridiculously long to figure that out as well. But Maman was long dead, and that part of Mary’s life over.
She had friends. Tonight she might have gone out, might have danced and laughed. Yet she had stayed home. For she did not know how to be at ease with others. She’d never learned, growing up as that girl in the ivory tower. Mary sighed and sank back into her body. The sensation was akin to slipping under a warm blanket. It took her but a moment to orient, pick up her book, and turn toward the warmth of her heating stove. The cream enamel Swedish stove was more efficient and used fragrant wood instead of muddy coal. Behind the grate the flames danced. Self-pity never helped a thing. And she was better off than most. Being alone was perfectly fine. Perfectly.
A creak sounded upon her landing. Tensing, she glanced over the high back of her couch. Her hall was dark, only the small reading lamp at her side hissing away. Which made the sliver of light shining along the base of her front door perfectly visible, as was the shadow of someone standing behind the door. Mary’s hand slid to the revolver she kept by her side. Even in her home, she never let herself be without a weapon.
When she wanted to, Mary could move with speed and silence. In a blink she lightly vaulted over the couch, ripped open the door, and had her gun cocked and aimed. At Jack Talent’s broad chest.
“Put it away,” he said in a bored tone.
She allowed herself the pleasure of ignoring his request for a long moment. Then she lowered the gun and took stock of him. He stood, feet braced, hands at his side, in a manner that ought to have conveyed trust, but with his rippling strength, he appeared ready to pounce. Mist glittered at the tips of his cropped hair and on the weave of his black wool overcoat. He towered over her, all bunching muscle and boiling energy, and he had to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.
“I thought you were at Daisy’s birthday ball,” she said.
A deep furrow ran between his brows, brows that, when he smiled, tilted upward at the tips like the leaves of a bascule bridge. The feature ought to have given him an open, almost boyish look of expectancy, but his sour nature fought that appearance, twisting it into a near-permanent glower of disappointment. Even so, the very idea that nature had given him a face more inclined to joy made her fight a smile. Served him right for being so prickly.
“I thought you were invited too.” He gave a pointed look at her simple housedress. Mary kept her focus on his chin, now covered in a fine stubble of evening growth. It made his mouth appear softer, defining the bow of his upper lip. She flicked her gaze back up to his eyes.
“I didn’t fancy going out to a party.” Or seeing him there, if she were honest. Mingling with Jack Talent in a social setting was more than she could tolerate at the moment. Yet here he was, at her home. Her skin prickled.
His voice grew flinty. “I didn’t fancy staying.”
Before she could ask why he was here, or how he’d even found her home, he brushed past, his upper arm grazing the tips of her br**sts as he went. Mary crossed her arms over them as she pivoted to face him. “Oh, do come in.”
“Thank you.” He made himself at home on the parlor chair, which, unfortunately, was big enough to accommodate his large frame. The sight made her want to stamp her foot, or bolt. This was her refuge, and he was filling it up with his scent, his energy. She’d be surrounded by it for days now, unable to scrub it from her furniture.
Lamplight shone over his blunt profile as he glanced about her room, taking it all in. “Cozy flat.” The high bridge of his nose wrinkled. “Small, though.”
Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t leaving, Mary closed the door and set her gun upon the hall table. “Yes, well, I had a larger place but I kept getting lost.” Actually, she owned the building, but he needn’t know that.
His quick grin returned before he took it upon himself to pick up the book she’d discarded and leaf through it. “I always thought Mr. Rochester was a melodramatic prat.” He tossed the book back down.
“I like Jane.”
“Everyone likes Jane.” He picked up an apple from the glass bowl she had placed in the center of her tea table. Mary loved apples, and every fortnight she found a basketful of them sitting on her doorstep. A gift from Lucien that she’d always appreciated. Talent stared down at the green-and-red-marbled fruit engulfed by his big hand. He contemplated it for a moment, a strange look ghosting over his features before he appeared to pull himself free from whatever thought haunted him and took a hearty bite. Mouth full of crisp apple, he munched away, a bit of juice making his firm lips wet. And all the while, he watched her.
Mary gave herself a mental shake and focused on the situation at hand. “How did you find my home?”
The flat was located on the top floor of the building. Only three persons knew of its location: Lucien, Poppy, and Daisy. And she doubted any of them would tell Talent. Or that he would ask them.
Talent’s gaze grew hooded. “Followed your scent.”
“What?” Gods, but she did not want to know what her scent entailed. Nor did she like the idea of Talent knowing it so well that he could track her down by it.
That grin of his flashed bright. “Don’t fancy that either, do you?”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Talent, that through the whole miasma of London, you were able to track me down based on scent alone?”
Talent’s hard mouth slanted as he looked her over in a way that she felt to her bones. “We’re in each other’s pocket now, Chase. Most hours, you’re all I smell.”
Gracious. Heat flooded in unfortunate places, and to her horror, Talent’s gaze narrowed, his nostrils flaring as if he scented that reaction too.
An uncomfortable, stifling silence fell over the room. Mary swallowed down the urge to twitch.
“What are you doing here—”
“Do you want to work—”
They paused, their clashing questions falling into an awkward silence. Then Talent set down his half-eaten apple and sprang to his feet, a graceful move so fast she almost missed it. Her heart jumped but he merely regarded her with his usual scowl.
“Well? Shall we go out?” His hard features were once again implacable.
Mary cleared her throat. “Let me get my cloak.”
They did not speak as they headed into the frigid night. Londoners fought back against the cold by heaping on the coals. Great billows of smoke rose from a profusion of chimney pots. What was too heavy to dissipate fell in black flecks that danced about them like the devil’s snow.
Due to the late hour, few were out, most human traffic being shepherded by coach now. A hack rattled past, horse hooves clipping over the cobbles.
Walking next to Talent, she felt the singular, cozy comfort that steals upon one who is with a good friend. That Talent gave rise to such equanimity instantly shattered it, and her stomach clenched. She ought not trust him any further than she could toss him. Perhaps it was not his presence, but the predictability of all his actions that she took comfort in. Well, one could hope. “Where are we going?” she asked to break her muddled thoughts.
His attention stayed on the walk before them, but his pace, which he had slowed to match hers, faltered for just a step. A wry grimace twisted his mouth. “You know, Chase, I don’t believe I thought that far ahead.”
“And you are admitting this?” She made a noise of astonishment. “I shall have to make note of the day.”
He looked at her sidelong, and the brackets framing his mouth deepened. “You better. It doesn’t happen often.”
Mary ducked her head to hide her smile. “Well,” she said after a step, “we might consider going to Trafalgar Square. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”
Talent grunted. “Perhaps.”
Taking that as an agreement, Mary headed down Charing Cross road. They soon entered the square, a wide-open public space that featured tranquil fountains and a Corinthian column rising 170 feet into the air. The monument was in honor of Admiral Nelson and was guarded by four large bronze lions, one at each corner of the massive base. Half walls flanked three sides of the square, creating a sense of place despite the openness of the area.
Far off, keeping to the edge of the square, a group of women idled about. A lone man, wearing a horrid lime-green bowler—its color so vivid that it was discernible even in the low light—lounged against the wall, close enough to keep an eye on the women but not so close as to interfere should they be approached.
And approached they were. Two fellows strolled by, eyeing the flesh for sale, before one broke away. An agreement was clearly reached, and the man guided two women off to a shadowed corner.
“Perhaps the fellow in the hideous hat might have seen something. It appears as if he might be here nightly.”
“And if he had, you’d be the last person he’d tell,” Talent retorted. “He might be a sinner but he isn’t stupid. The ones who stay alive never are.”
Mary caught Talent’s expression. “My, the way you are sneering, Talent, one would think you’ve never partaken in that particular exchange.” Most males she knew had at one time or another.
Talent’s brows lifted just a touch. “Once, when I was too young and ignorant to know any better.”
It was her fault for broaching the subject, but the sudden image of Talent bedding a strange woman was entirely unpalatable. “And you do not approve of it now?” she asked, as if untroubled. “Odd, seeing as your former master used to be quite infamous in regards to his bedding of prostitutes.” She would not call them whores. Despite what society thought, she knew too well how human they were beneath their protective veneer.
The corner of Talent’s mouth twitched. “Ian and I do not see eye to eye on everything.” He resumed his glaring. “Point of fact, I cannot fault the women for seeking coin. I know how desperation feels. The men who use them are what makes me ill.” The scowl upon his face grew. “It’s disgusting.”
“Because they are not treating the woman as people?” She almost smiled at him. But he brusquely shook his head, killing her sudden goodwill.
“Those women make their choice to be treated as such.” His lips curled. “But by procuring, those men are degrading the act into something meaningless.”
He shocked a laugh out of her with that. “Goodness, you are a prude.”
Talent snorted. “Prude? Because I object to the buying and selling of women? How very hackneyed of you, and everyone else,” he muttered before leaning forward to crowd her with his body and pin her with an intense look. “Believe me, angel, I am not a prude. Just because the very idea of lying with a woman who doesn’t truly want me turns my stomach doesn’t mean I don’t want to tup one. I’d simply rather have some regard for my partner.”
Mary blinked and tried to ignore the flush of warmth his words wrought in her. “But you’re a man.”
He cocked his head. “What the bloody devil does that have to do with anything?”
“Men do not differentiate between the physical act and love.” Not any she knew. As for her opinion in the matter, she found the endeavor noisy, awkward, and undignified. Indeed nothing in her personal experience would lead her to recommend it.
