Winterblaze (25 page)

That had not, however, stopped her from claiming him. She was not a fool, and if he wanted to make her his, she would make him hers in return. He’d spoken of choices, and how hers had been taken from her, not understanding that there was a difference between choosing what was best and wanting something with one’s entire soul. She’d always wanted Win. Had she the ability to slap a sign upon him proclaiming “mine!” she would have done so.

With that firmly in mind, she maintained a neutral deportment as Mrs. Noble’s sweet voice addressed her. “What say you, Mrs. Snow? Is his tale worth it?”

“It depends,” Poppy said. “How good a trade do you offer?”

Mrs. Noble threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I do like you two.” With a languid lift of her hand, another footman came over. “Our guests require refreshment,” she said to him, then turned her eyes back on Winston. “There are stories to be told.”

Win planted his feet and rested an elbow on his thigh, moving in that way of his that was at once precise and yet
languid. A trick of movement that made one feel comfortable, beguiled into spilling secrets to a man who they were certain would not let them down. She hadn’t fully appreciated it until now. Pride shot through her, and with it, the nearly overwhelming desire to touch him, caress the silky locks of his hair, anything that would proclaim him hers.

Mrs. Noble was no less affected. Her eyes tracked Win’s movement as her bosom swelled on an indrawn breath. As if drawn by a string, she leaned into him, her lips parting in anticipation. His blue-grey eyes twinkled, a shared amusement, another ruse. Win’s smoky voice lowered intimately, and he spoke as if they were the only two in the room. “But you see, madam, I am quite… shall we say, shy about revealing this story to just anyone.” The widow’s lids fluttered at the near purr of Win’s voice. “I would much rather discuss such things in private.”

Their eyes held a beat, and then hers reluctantly slid over to Poppy. About bloody time, too. Poppy returned her look with what she hoped was a secretive smile. Win caught her eye, and he smiled too. “My wife prefers these little intimacies as well.” A cloying shade of wickedness tinted his words, and Mrs. Noble licked her lips.

Poppy valiantly held back from rolling her eyes. Really, who was this man? What had he done with her proper husband?

“Well then,” Mrs. Noble said, “shall we?” However, she paused and affected a moue of disappointment. “But I almost forgot, there is someone I believe would love to hear your tale. I’m sure you will not mind. He is most discreet.” She raised a hand, and a man moved away from his place by the mantel at the far side of the room and headed their way. The handsome younger man stopped by her side and took her hand, placing a light kiss on it.

“You summoned, my dear?” His voice was deep and smooth with the ease of a lover’s.

Mrs. Noble smiled a Cheshire cat’s smile, all teeth and malicious intent. “I did indeed.” She gave the man’s hand a squeeze. “Mr. Snow here claims to have the most interesting story to tell.”

All eyes fell on Win, and a twinge of alarm hit Poppy, for her husband had gone completely white. A fine sweat peppered his brow, and his throat worked as if he’d soon be ill. His gaze was not upon Mrs. Noble but on her companion.

P
oppy did not know what it was about the man that upset Winston so, but she was going to find out. She turned to Win, and his glazed eyes locked onto hers, wild and confused, as if he could not focus. “Darling,” she said, “come with me to retrieve my shawl? I find myself chilled.” It was hot as Hades.

With a little flicker of her power, an icy draft swirled through the room, causing more than one woman to shiver.

She did not wait for Win to answer but rather tugged him out of the room, down the hall, and onto the terrace where he could get some much needed air. He was shaking, his breath coming out in raw pants. The dark thing had him. She’d seen it before in others. Strong men and women who had faced death and terror and come away with a bit of it still clinging to their minds. Sometimes it never left them, that ugly residue of death. It would catch them unawares and torment them. And each and every one of them believed they were weak because of it. Poppy rather thought the opposite. That they were the
brave ones who had been chased by death and escaped to forge onward.

She did not stop until they were beneath the arbor, now dark with shadows and thick with the scent of roses in the warm, moonlit night. Win sat with a thud upon the stone bench, and she followed him down, placing a hand on his fevered brow. Her touch grew chilled, cooling him. “Win,” she whispered, looking into his unseeing eyes, “come back to me.”

He struggled for breath and she pulled him close, stroking his ravaged cheek. “Win, who was that man?”

His hands clutched her upper arms hard. “My brother.”

Her heart stilled. Win’s family had always been rather a closed subject. Which Poppy hadn’t fought, as she was likely to work herself into an indignant state when she thought of their treatment of him, of how they had abandoned him without a backward glance, solely because he had chosen to become a detective. She cringed now. All of that had been a lie. A bloody trick.

She thought of the man they’d just encountered. He was younger than Mrs. Noble but perhaps a bit older than them. He didn’t look anything like Winston but had raven hair and coal black eyes. His features were more Gallic than Anglo-Saxon. “He looked right at you. How could he not recognize you?”

Win’s head jerked up. “Why should he? He’s been led to think his brother is dead. It’s Isley’s bloody bargain at play, after all.” His features twisted. “Never mind that I hardly look as I did before.”

Her stomach dipped. “But to not have even experienced a glimmer of recognition? To not even feel… something?”

Win laughed, a dark, unhinged sound. “You of all people
ought to understand with whom we are dealing. He altered our lives, Poppy. He can twist things until up is down. How are we to know what is real and what is not?”

In her heart of hearts, she did not like to give Isley credit for the power he wielded. Certainly not now. Not when it was her life he’d toyed with, violated. She lurched up and began to pace, needing to feel her limbs move over solid ground. “Why is your brother here? And with Mrs. Noble? It cannot be a coincidence. She knew you would be affected. Her little grin was downright nasty.” The bitch. “She knows who we are, Win. She must.”

Win rose as well and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Isley is playing with us. Enjoying our pain and frantic searching. I do not want to believe that Osmond too is ensnared by Isley, but he may well be.”

“Osmond?”

“My brother.” He lowered his hand. “I’m sure I told you his name.”

“I would have remembered that. You always referred to him simply as your brother.” Poppy’s lips twitched. “Your parents certainly were creative with their name giving.”

Winston leveled a glare at her, but she could tell he was trying not to smile. He had never liked his name and had grumbled about it when they’d first met. “Father fancied old English names. Undoubtedly he sought to shout to the world our Englishness through and through. My brother goes by Oz, or Marchland now, I suppose. Jesus.”

He rounded on her. “I believe you are correct, however. Mrs. Noble looked at you as though she knew you.”

“You noticed that as well? I did not like that look. It was as if she was seeing straight into me.” She rolled her shoulders as if the movement could dispel the sticky feeling that crept along her skin.

“Damn it.” He started to pace along the path she’d beaten down. “None of Isley’s victims ought to remember him, and yet they do. I have to believe it is because Isley has allowed it, that he wants us to find Moira Darling.”

“Well of course, he wants us to find her. Why else would he make the bargain with you?”

“No,” he stopped. “You misunderstand. I think he knows exactly where Moira Darling is. If you remember, he asked me to find what Moira Darling stole from him. Not necessarily to find
her
.”

Poppy’s blasted corset held her too tight to draw a proper breath. “He would hardly need you for that. If he knew where she was, he could easily force her to give whatever it is back to him.”

Standing half in shadow, the ruined side of Win’s face glowed in the moonlight. “Something is not right.”

“I’d say, presently, just about everything is ‘not right.’ ”

Win waved this off, his countenance fierce with concentration. “It is Isley.” He halted and pinned Poppy with the intensity of his gaze. “He needed us to be together.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We weren’t speaking. I gather Isley did not plan on that all those years ago. Do you not see? We took the wind from his sails. He had no idea how we might respond once he placed his cards on the table.”

“Surely he would figure that we’d protect our child.”

“No, he needed that extra incentive. Whatever Moira Darling stole must be something that requires both of us working together to find. Isley is a gambler, but not a foolish one.”

“Let us drop this search and go and kill the bastard.”

Win’s mouth canted on a smile, but his voice grew soft yet resolute. “No, sweet. First off, the bargain is still in
play. Kill him and he still gets our child. No, we are going to find this Moira Darling, because when we do, I’m going to discover just what it is he truly expects to get out of this game, and I’m going to beat him at it.”

By the time Winston and Poppy had returned, guests were wandering in to dinner. Thus they were forced to do so as well. Those around Winston appeared to be enjoying themselves, drinking wine, eating their food with appreciation. As for Win, he might as well have been eating mud. Food stuck to the roof of his mouth and clung at his throat when he tried to swallow. He could do little more than ignore his dinner companions and steal pain-inducing glances at his brother.

Dear God, how could he have forgotten Oz? Certainly, the knowledge that he had a brother hadn’t gone, but Win simply had forgotten to think about him. The very notion now shamed and saddened him. Though they were only two years apart in age, they’d never been close brothers. Oz had been forever at Father’s side, learning all things ducal, while Win had been his mother’s pet, chafing under her clinging nature. Oz had chosen Cambridge and Win Oxford. After that, there had been only Poppy, the CID, and his deuced bargain. Had Oz a wife? Was this a weekend fling? Had he too bargained away his soul like a fool? Somehow, Win thought not. Or perhaps he simply hoped.

“I’ve heard to expect the unconventional here, but that man is a sight to destroy one’s appetite.” The man across the way made no attempt to lower his voice. Winston wasn’t surprised; not really. He had received enough remarks by now to expect it. His years as an inspector had taught him how deep the capacity for human cruelty could go. He told himself this as he placed his linen in
his lap and accepted the second course brought in by the waiters in liveried white. However, it did not stop him from feeling multiple eyes upon him or from biting back the urge to snarl at the people gaping at him. Perhaps if Poppy weren’t visibly bristling on his behalf, or the fact that the boorish man’s remark had caught Oz’s attention as well, humiliation wouldn’t be filling his throat this very moment.

“So Snow,” said Colonel Alden next to him, “I suspect you worked on some interesting cases in your time.” He deliberately raised his steel hand into the air to wave over the waiter pouring out the wine. “Any you are able to discuss?”

As attempts to divert attention went, it wasn’t all bad. It might have even been welcome if it wasn’t so bloody obvious. Winston took a sip of wine, forcing it past the lump in his throat. “I cannot name names, Colonel. However, no detective is without a good anecdote to share.”

Again came the loud man’s voice, more forceful this time. “Looks like a butcher’s been at him. What did he say was his work?”

Winston set his wineglass down with care. The ruined side of his face burned, which made his hands ache to curl into fists. Archer once said he’d made up songs and sung them in his head to get him past the fury.

“Songs?” Winston had repeated, incredulous. “Such as ‘Row Your Boat’ and the like?”

Archer had given him a tight smile that acknowledged Winston’s goading for the easy shot that it had been. “More like, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, and your miserable mother too.’ ”

“I’m impressed,” Winston had said. “It is at once utterly vulgar and completely puerile.”

Archer had flashed a rare grin then. “But quite effective.”

Winston glanced up at the man who’d done his best to annoy him, and Archer’s song played in his head. Surprisingly it did help. Enough to allow the corners of his eyes to crinkle with evil glee. “I didn’t.”

The man blinked, actually shocked to be addressed by Winston. “Didn’t what?”

“I did not give my profession, Mr…?” The man was a new arrival, and Win wondered offhand what the bastard would have made of the nude swim party.

“
Lord
Butherwell,” the man corrected with a sniff.