With a sweep of her straight lashes, Poppy dropped the subject and turned back to Lena. “Pull Regulators off of low priority cases and put them on patrol. Double shift until the situation dies down.” Her red brows drew together. “They’ll balk. We are sorely understaffed,” she said to Win before addressing Lena again. “Tell them that a double shift means double pay.”
Lena nodded then rested her hand upon her knee as if relaxing, but Win had the thought that this woman never truly relaxed. “We need to increase our recruiting efforts, that is clear.” Her gaze turned speculative. “How goes it with the GIM?”
“Miss Chase,” Poppy interjected Mary’s name with enough emphasis to make clear that Lena ought to afford the lady some respect, “is doing well. She needs further combat training but that can be attained easily enough.”
The coach hit a rut, and Lena’s hair sticks clattered. “Rumor has it Lucien Stone suffers a fit of ennui and considers stepping down as head of the GIMs.”
“I’ve heard so as well.” Poppy settled more comfortably against the squabs, and Winston stared. His wife commanded the space around her like a duke with utter and total confidence in her place within this world. “If he does, Daisy will take over. Her connection to the Lycans as their queen would give them an iron-clad alliance.”
Lena’s red lips formed a brief smile. “It was wise of you to bring the lycans and GIMs together.”
A jolt passed through Winston’s middle. “What?” He looked between the two women, and noted Poppy’s implacable expression. “You planned for Daisy to become a GIM?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Poppy said with a wave of her hand. “I had no idea Daisy suffered from syphilis.” Something dark passed over Poppy’s face before clearing. “I merely knew Conall Ranulf’s character, and I knew Ian’s. Ian would make a better leader of the Lycans than his brother. He had honor when his brother did not, and he believes in the SOS’s cause. Ignoring Ian’s desperate request for help pushed him to make an alliance with Lucien Stone and the GIMs.” Her gaze held steady even as the coach swayed. “Lucien and Ian were old friends. It seemed the natural course of things.”
This was his wife? This Machiavellian creature?
As if reading his shock, her expression turned wry. “It was a gamble that paid out.”
“And the fact that your sister was in danger?” Daisy had been stalked by a mad werewolf. Disappointment colored Winston’s tone.
Poppy closed down, going cold. “Ian Ranulf is one of the most powerful supernaturals I know. He vowed to keep Daisy safe, and I had to trust in that.”
“It is an awful amount of trust to place, Poppy. You played with your sister’s life.”
Ice cold air filled the coach. “We were monitoring the situation.”
Anger twisted like a knife in his gut. “How could I forget?”
The SOS had also been watching as he investigated the case and ended up being attacked by the werewolf, but it was a cheap shot, and he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. Poppy was a creature of logic and control, just as he was. And perhaps that was the problem. Logic and control ought not to rule love and color decisions concerning family, yet it had. It had crept into their lives at some point when neither of them was looking. He hated that this was how their fate had unraveled.
The cold surrounding Winston had a bite to it now. Poppy glared at him from across the small divide between them. “I might have brought her to SOS headquarters. And if you know anything of Daisy, you’ll know that she would have found a way out and back to Ian. The woman has the curiosity of a cat and was obviously attracted to Ranulf.” Poppy’s brown eyes bore into him. “Every morning we rise up from our beds and death is there, hanging over us, waiting for an opportunity. Life is a gamble, husband. The question is, will you play your hand when the risk is at its greatest?”
“What do you know of the Komtesse Krogstad?” Win asked Poppy, after Lena let them off at the Chelsea Embankment.
She almost started at the sound of his voice. Their argument in the coach had left Poppy tender and bruised of heart. She had thought—hoped—he would understand her work and how there were times in which the only choice was between bad and worse. But he had looked at her with wounded and disillusioned eyes. Poppy braced herself and let the hurt slide over her. She would let it go for now. They had work to do.
“That she is not really a komtesse.”
Afternoon sunlight bathed the wide walking park that fronted the Thames, casting everything in a golden glow. It was cooler here by the water, with a forgiving breeze carrying the scent of brine. Poppy smoothed back a strand of hair that had slipped free before taking a huge bite of the Chelsea bun they’d stopped to purchase a block over. Cinnamon and lemony sweetness filled her mouth. Gods, but it was delicious. She could eat two more, given the opportunity. Having never been the sort to go weak-kneed over sweets, she could only surmise it was due to the baby, which left her elated and terrified all at once.
She popped the last bite into her mouth then licked her sticky fingers. Win’s gaze rested on the action, and something within her tightened. She let her hand fall. “She’s a cobbler’s daughter from Christiania. She had a knack for attracting extremely wealthy protectors. Apparently, she worked her way through Norway and down the Rhine before settling in London. Posing as a komtesse added cachet to both her and her paramours, so everyone was happy with her illicit title usage.”
Win cleared his throat and turned his attention forward. “Was? Does she not have a protector now?”
“She doesn’t need one. At the moment, the komtesse does what pleases her and nothing more.” Poppy glanced at his stern profile. “She is quite lovely, actually.”
He made a sound. “You’ve visited her before?”
She could see in his eyes that the possibility irritated him, as it was one more thing he did not know about his wife. To hell with him then. The bloody bastard had bargained away their child. Her voice grew as hard as the square pavers beneath her feet. “On occasion. The komtesse is one of our best informants. And she’s very fond of the occult.”
He tilted his head down, away from the sun’s harsh glare, leaving only the smooth sweep of his unmarred jaw visible. “She believes in it, but does she know the full truth?”
“Her belief only goes so far. She’ll turn a blind eye toward anything that would frighten her. The occasional séance to call ghosts of lovers past, however, is quite entertaining.”
Directly in front of them, a piano grinder had set his pushcart down. Discordant clanking filled the air as he turned the crank. A horrid noise, yet lively enough to entice a group of girls to dance. Two little ones, no older than seven, and two young ladies around fifteen danced a quick jig to the music as their older sisters looked on with their arms linked in easy companionship. Like a few others, Poppy slowed to watch them, her heart warming as she thought of her own sisters at that age.
Win stood by her side, close enough to feel the heat of his body but not quite touching. “Remember the day Miranda and Daisy taught me the polka?”
She felt herself smile. “They were so proud to teach you something you did not know.” It was a lifetime ago; that day Poppy had played the piano as the girls danced Win about the parlor until the three of them fell down laughing. It had been the first time Miranda had truly laughed since their mother had died, and Poppy had nearly wept in gratitude that Win had been able to coax it out of her.
He leaned in a touch, his voice at her ear, and she could hear the smile in his tone. “I was happy to learn from them. And proud to teach them the waltz.”
How graceful he had been and careful to lead the girls through the steps, quietly correcting them yet taking no notice of their furious blushes when they made a mistake. He’d waltzed with her as well. Later that night, just the two of them in the darkened parlor. They hadn’t needed music then; their bodies had their own rhythm. Her cheeks heated, and she knew that if she turned her head, she’d find him watching her. Would she see the ghost of those days haunting his gaze? Poppy did not think she could bear it.
“I should not have spoken to you the way I did,” he said in a low voice. Her breath left in a soft exhalation, but he kept on speaking as if he hadn’t heard. “I ought to know better than anyone that one must detach all feeling in order to make impossible decisions.”
“Your anger was well-placed,” she whispered. “I gambled with my sister’s safety. I might have lost her.” She wrapped her arms about herself and held still.
Win’s touch at her lower back skittered along her senses. “I did not consider Daisy’s nature or see the entire picture. You did. And your gamble paid out.”
Poppy rubbed her arms. “Forget it.” For all her neediness, his sudden praise made her want to run from herself, and she did not know why.
“I cannot,” he said, but he dropped his hand as if he knew she was on the verge of bolting.
“The komtesse’s house is just there,” she said with a toss of her chin, desperate to bring the subject back to the task at hand. The grand, red brick town house jutted out from the rest of the buildings, elegant in design, with its Gothic arches and circular windows.
Poppy kept her stride quick, knowing he would keep up. Nevertheless, her limbs felt heavy, as though weighted down. “She is quite relaxed about societal manners.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his lip twitch. “Are you warning me to brace my delicate sensibilities, Poppy?”
She slid him a sidelong glance. “I suppose I needn’t. I’m sure you’ve entered your fair share of bordellos and the like.”
His mouth quirked further, and his blue-grey eyes twinkled. “All in the name of investigations, I assure you.”
She sniffed. “I didn’t think otherwise.”
“Mmm.”
A reluctant smile pulled at her lips. “The point being that one knows what to expect in such establishments, and thus one is prepared when the irregular occurs.” She could almost feel his eyes rolling, and she gave him a repressive look. “It’s another thing altogether to enter what you believe to be a respectable residence only to find a dwarf dressed as a cherub—or undressed as it were—or some such thing, now isn’t it?”