The Hunter (13 page)

Farah was his. Of that he had no doubt. From her white-blond ringlets to her ridiculously tiny feet. Her body, her heart, and her soul belonged to him. And his heart, black as it was, always had been and always would be at her mercy. His body was hers to command and only hers to touch. And his life was dedicated to filling her every need, serving her every whim, and being the source of her every smile.

So when Farah’s angelic gray eyes lit with a warm fondness as she handed a cup of tea to Morley in
his
parlor, Blackwell had to clutch at one of the silk pillows on the couch to refrain from picking up the china teapot, throwing the scalding water into Morley’s handsome face, and shattering the blasted thing over his head.

But this room, with its French paper and velvet-upholstered furniture, wasn’t the dank stone walls of Newgate. And in such a room, a man like the Blackheart of Ben More resorted to other means by which to show possession and disdain.

Besides, Farah would be cross if he ruined the soft blue carpets with the blood of her former employer.

“It’s been too long, Inspector Morley.” Farah settled in the ornate pale silver chair stationed between the two men like a referee in a fighting match. Except here, each man was dressed impeccably and faced each other from identical long couches.

Dorian sat back, arms splayed, his leg over one knee, eye patch covering his weak eye against the dimness of the fading light filtering in through the large windows. “I say not long enough,” he murmured, and took a sip of his own tea to avoid the sharp look from his wife.

“To what do we owe the
pleasure
of your visit?” she asked sweetly.

Morley perched on the edge of the opposite couch and leaned forward to put his teacup on the table in front of them. “This visit is more business than pleasure, I’m afraid. I’ve come to talk to your husband about a few of his … associates.”

“Oh?” Her fair eyebrows lifted and she slid her soft silver gaze across to Dorian.

“Farah—” Morley began, but was cut off by a warning sound from deep in Dorian’s throat. “Lady Northwalk,” he corrected. “This business is of a delicate nature, perhaps you’d like to leave your husband and me to discuss it without distressing you.”

Farah’s sweet smile never faltered as she downed her own tea and folded elegant hands across her lap. “Not a chance, Carlton. You should know me better than that. I worked at Scotland Yard for a decade. I don’t believe there’s anything you can say that I haven’t heard before. What are you here to discuss? And how do you think we can help?”

Morley looked away from her when she said
we,
and Dorian couldn’t help but feel sorry for the lout. Losing a woman like her would break a man. Even a stuffed shirt like Morley.

“There’s a killer stalking the streets,” Morley said severely.

“This is London,” Dorian scoffed. “There’s always scores of killers stalking the streets.”

“And some of them are in your employ.” Morley shook his head, grappling with frustration. “Women,
young
women, are dying. All of them mothers. And their children are vanishing. Not one of them have turned up, not one. No body. No trace. It’s like they’ve vanished.”

Farah tapped the tiny divot in her chin. “And that’s how you know these particular murders are connected?”

“More importantly, you think I have something to do with these murdered women and vanishing children?” Dorian demanded.

Morley looked him square in the eye, not something that many men had the constitution to do, and answered, “I think that if something like this is happening on such a large scale in London, there is an even larger chance that you’re either profiting from it, allowing it, or at very least have an idea who’s responsible.”

Dorian was not a superstitious man, despite his Highland heritage, but how the unmistakable auburn head of Argent appeared on his terrace in that very moment, as though conjured by conversations of assassins, Blackwell would never know.

Their eyes met through the glass of the giant parlor window—as much as Argent’s eyes ever met anyone’s—and when Morley turned in his seat, Dorian made a gesture toward his study.

“What you’re insinuating is ridiculous,” Farah said gently. “My husband is involved in no such thing. He may not be a saint.” She looked at him askance. “But I would not have married a man who was capable of such evil.”

Dorian warmed to the faith in his wife’s soothing voice. She’d made him a good man by believing it was so. Well, not so much a
good
man … but a markedly better one. A work in progress, some might say.

“Perhaps not, Lady Northwalk,” Morley said, obviously trying to maintain his air of carefully practiced civility. “But like it or not, your husband built associations with some rather ruthless criminals, in his tenure at Newgate. I have it on good authority that many of those associations still exist.”

Dorian lifted a brow. He was no mere associate to the men he’d met in Newgate. He was their king. “In business like mine, one does not openly discuss their associates with any agent of Her Majesty’s and hope to keep his head attached to his neck.”

Especially when one of those associates was currently climbing up the back trellis, letting himself in the French doors of the second-floor balcony, and dropping through a secret passage into the study below. Dorian kept an ear open for the
thunk
of Argent’s arrival.

“Care to admit what business that is, Blackwell?” Morley asked sharply.

Dorian’s lip twitched. “I believe that’s Lord Northwalk to you,
Sir
Morley.” Dorian had been interrogated by this man in many less well appointed rooms, and under much less pleasant circumstances. Those times, it had been Dorian’s blood on the floor. Luckily for him, Farah’s marriage came with a title, and for the bastard son of a marquess like Dorian, it gave him great pleasure to remind Morley of that fact.

“Pick a business to discuss, Inspector. I am a vintner, landlord, business proprietor, investor, entrepreneur, and recently I’ve become a restaurateur.”

Thunk.
Argent was in place, and for such a big man, the assassin could always land quietly. Dorian didn’t flinch, having complete faith in the man to know how not to make himself known.

“Don’t
toy
with me, Blackwell.” Morley stood. “We all bloody well know you’re king of the London underworld. You fought the war. You won.”

“What we both know, Inspector, is that the London underworld, by definition, can have no king.”

Turning to the very window that had only just framed Argent, Morley heaved a great sigh, rubbing at the bags beneath his eyes. “
Lord
and Lady Northwalk…” He faced them again, an earnest pain in his blue eyes. “You know I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t at my wit’s end. These women, if you saw them, the looks frozen into their dead eyes, the ones who have eyes left in their skulls. The terror, the confusion, the … pain. Five have been murdered so far, in such brutal ways, all with missing children. Particularly sons under the age of ten. These women are being
assassinated
. I know this. Maybe you don’t care, Lord Northwalk, but I thought your wife still might.” He turned to Farah. “Because she, I think, is still a decent lady. A mother.”

Farah, cheeks and hips still delectably plump from the birth and nursing of their own beloved daughter, Faye, turned to Dorian with concern. “Have you heard
anything
about this, darling?”

“All I need is a name.” Morley’s face became more hopeful with each passing moment. “An inmate number, a
fucking
direction. I fear that these boys are being taken somewhere and killed, or worse.”

Dorian assessed the chief inspector with his one good eye. The man reeked of desperation. Should he tell him the truth? Should he admit his own incompetence?

“Dorian?” Farah pressed.

Goddammit.

“Seven months ago an … associate of mine, Madame Regina, contacted me to say that one of her employees had been brutally murdered on the premises and no one had seen a thing. Her young son, Winston, had disappeared from under their noses.” Dorian sniffed, galled to admit that he had had just as much, if not less, success tracking the serial murderer down.

“You let them keep children at the whorehouse?” Morley hissed.

“We’ve set up rooms for child care, where they can be safe and protected, not just from the streets, but from what is going on at Madame Regina’s,” Farah cut in, picking up her tea. “Many of these women have chosen this profession, many have not, but at the very least we can care for their children.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you, Farah,” Morley stated, and Dorian sensed the man was in earnest.

“I’ve been looking into the death at Madame Regina’s ever since, and so far have not found the culprit, though I’ve drawn the same conclusion. Whether in Soho, the East End, Hyde Park, or the Strand, these other deaths and disappearances must be related.”

Morley almost seemed relieved. “I’m having a devil of a time convincing the commissioners or anyone above me of that.”

“That is because they’re fucking idiots,” Blackwell said.

“On that, at least, we agree.”

Dorian pondered a moment, preparing to make one more galling move before the inspector left. “Should I learn anything, it will be dealt with, in my own way, but I will make certain that you are informed, Inspector.” It was an olive branch. Or, more aptly, an olive leaf, but it was the most Morley could expect from him.

“Actually … I appreciate that.” Morley nodded “And, I’ll extend the same offer. Though if it’s dealt with my way, you’ll likely learn from the papers.”

“My way might just as well end up in the papers.” Dorian smirked. “But the pictures won’t.”

They’d be too gory.

“We have an understanding, then,” Morley stated. “All I want is this killer stopped … by any means possible.”

“Indeed.” Dorian stood, enjoying his superior height to the man, and bent to kiss his wife. “Now get out of my house.” With that, he strode to his study and shut the door.

He and Argent stared at each other in silence as they waited for the sounds of Farah kindly bustling Morley down the hallway to fade to another part of the house.

Dorian Blackwell had known Christopher Argent longer than almost anyone else. And yet, he knew him not at all. They’d grown up in hell together, except Argent had been an expert at survival there, because he’d been born to it rather than sentenced. They both had blood on their hands, though Dorian’s was generally more figurative, and Argent’s literal.

What he knew about Argent: the man was a killer. He was loyal, but had no emotional ties to Dorian. To anyone. He was cold, unfeeling, and broken. What caused Dorian occasional pause was the utter lack of hesitation or humanity in the face of brutality. The dead, empty eyes that never quite met his, but always seemed to be looking somewhere in between.

Waiting. Ready to be lashed at, to be struck down. Waiting for an excuse. Any reason to retaliate. To kill.

Dorian had cultivated a ruthlessness, his own wall of ice behind which to keep his heart. He did what he had to. He manipulated, intimidated, maimed, and killed men when the situation called for such brutality. He’d struck down everyone who’d dared oppose him until he controlled the parts he wanted and left the rest for the dregs. His whole life he’d had a mission, a reason, a vengeance, and a search for salvation that had ended better than he could ever have dreamed.

But Argent. Dorian still didn’t know what drove him. The man was built like a Viking, and seemed to have a similar code. Which wasn’t much of one by anybody’s standards.

Once the door closed behind Morley, Dorian narrowed his eyes and asked the question haunting him for a few months now. “Is it you?” he asked. “Are you the killer Morley is looking for?”

Argent’s pale eyes swung between the brass globe paperweight on the desk and the fireplace poker hooked on the very expensive wrought-iron stand for other such implements on the hearth.

No doubt, he was identifying anything in the room that could be used as a weapon. Newgate habits died hard deaths, and counting the means by which one could protect oneself to the death was a habit not exclusive to the assassin.

“I don’t kill children,” Argent stated matter-of-factly. “You know that.”

“I didn’t think so … but people change.” God knew Dorian, himself, had changed since he’d been married.

“Do they?” The question took Dorian completely by surprise. Before Argent turned to face the window, Dorian thought he caught something on his face he’d never before encountered.

An emotion. Specifically, vulnerability.

What the devil?

If Dorian knew anything about weakness, it was that once one caught sight of it, it had to be exploited. Such was the only way to find out what he wanted. “As much as I hate to admit it, Morley has a point. This kind of brutality against women and children hasn’t been seen since—”

“Since Dorshaw,” Argent supplied.

“Precisely. Uncontrolled violence such as this creates chaos and fear out there on the streets, both of which are bad for business.” Dorian studied the broad back of his associate. Of a man he’d call a friend, if men like them had friends. Which they didn’t … He knew what riddled the flesh beneath Argent’s clothing, and for Dorian, a man with his own scars, who only had the use of one good eye because the other had been made milky by a knife fight at nineteen, Argent’s wounds still evoked a wince. For a man to endure what the assassin had was unthinkable, and Dorian had often found himself wondering if the cold, unfeeling man, who’d been his most ferocious ally, might someday turn into his greatest liability.

“If this serial murderer is you…”

“I told you it isn’t.”

“You’re the only man alive with whom I cannot decipher truth from lie.”

Argent was silent. Still as a reflective pool on a windless day.

Dorian had tried to make ripples in this particular pool before, without success. But something told him that he was close. That the pool wasn’t as serene as usual.