Win stopped short, the scar on his left brow pulling tight as his eyes narrowed. “Is that what we’re going to find? Naked dwarves?”
“Henri is often about, but he may be otherwise engaged.” She shrugged and strode onward, lest he see her grin. “One never knows.”
Poppy was having him on. Win was sure of it. He told himself this as they were led into Komtesse Krogstad’s parlor. Even so, he kept his wits about him and his back to the wall. Not that he had anything against dwarves. Unclothed was another matter. Poppy, blast her, kept a serene expression but she was clearly reveling in his unease, the chit.
He leaned in, enjoying the way the skin prickled along her neck as he did. “If we do encounter a na**d dwarf, I’m leaving him to you.”
She raised a brow, her gaze studiously upon a gilded peacock statue that peered down at them from the green marble mantel. “Who said he enjoyed women?”
“All right, I’ll sacrifice myself, but I detest displays of jealousy. So avert your eyes, will you?”
Win was rewarded with a bubble of laughter escaping her lips. On any other woman, he’d have called the sound a giggle, but he would never dare accuse Poppy of giggling. The sound went straight to his heart and turned it over. He found himself grinning wide as she turned her head.
“Cheeky,” she said before glancing up. Their noses almost touched, they were so close. Poppy’s smile faded on an indrawn breath, and his gaze fell to her mouth. Such a lovely mouth, wide yet feminine, the bottom lip a bit plumper than its bowed top. And so very soft. Heat rippled down his chest.
Her cheeks pinked as he stared. Struggling, he cleared his throat. “You started it.” The heat within him grew, making him feel languid yet hard all at once. Her breath smelled of sugar and spice. Everything nice. He leaned closer, ready to take, when the door opened. Poppy jumped as though pricked with a pin, bumping his shoulder with her chin when she turned around. He took an awkward step back and turned as well.
Win had to give the komtesse credit; she obviously knew she’d walked in on something but she took no outward notice of their indiscretion. Though from Poppy’s description of her, he gathered she’d seen worse, and often.
She paused at the threshold of the parlor to survey them, and Win took the moment to study her back. This was one of Isley’s mistresses? Had she suspected she bedded a demon? Had it thrilled her to do so?
Though she was not what he’d expected, Win could see her appeal and why she’d been a favorite of dukes and the supernatural alike. She was tall, like Poppy, and lean as well. Her bone structure was strong, almost masculine, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a long, expressive nose. But her lips were full, puffed as if she’d just been kissed. Wheat blond hair rippled in twin waves down over her shoulders. The tresses glinted in the light as she came forward. She was a Botticelli, “La Primavera” gazing at them with quiet knowing. The effect was heightened by the white toga-style dress she wore.
Win took all this in like any other man who appreciated beauty. Yet he wanted to sigh in defeat. For all her grace, the woman did nothing for him. No, only the redheaded warrior woman at his side had ever stirred him. He was well and truly cursed. And wasn’t that just splendid?
“Mrs. Hamon,” said the komtesse, holding out a welcoming hand to Poppy, “it is good to see you once again.” Her voice was dark honey. A fine trap for a man. And then Win realized what she’d called his wife, and his insides jumped. His gaze cut to Poppy, who sent him a warning with a mere flicker of her lashes.
Poppy took the komtesse’s hand. “Komtesse. Thank you for seeing us.”
The komtesse’s laugh was light and airy. “Please call me Brit, as we are old friends, are we not?” She smiled at Poppy, but she made her awareness of Win known by the incline of her head and the way her gaze drifted over him.
Poppy straightened. “Brit. This is my associate, Mr. Belenus.”
He caught himself just before he laughed out loud. The imp was using his middle names. Had she always done so? Associate, was he? Very well. He took the komtesse’s outstretched hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Enchanted,” he said, settling into his role.
“We came to talk to you about Lord Isley,” Poppy said, her usual forthright manner a shade more brisk.
The komtesse’s brows winged up, but her expression remained serene. “Let us use the studio.” With a fluid swirl of her skirts, she turned from the room.
No one spoke as she led them down a wide hall whose walls had been papered in gold damask. The sound of laughter and the notes of a fiddle playing a mad tune as some fellow sang along, off key and rather badly, drifted through the house. Paintings covered the walls, although their subjects were not the usual staid compositions or classical portraits, but of life—little vignettes so real that Win felt he could reach into the frames and touch them. He was no true student of art, but he liked to keep educated and thus recognized the works of Whistler, Degas, and Renoir.
“You follow the Impressionists, Komtesse,” he said.
“I prefer to say I follow what art pleases me, Mr. Belenus,” the komtesse answered. “But you may make that assumption if you prefer to place art into neat categorizations.”
He could almost feel Poppy struggle to hide her smile. He kept his eyes on the paintings, appreciating them for the pleasure alone this time. His step slowed as a portrait of a lone young man sitting in languid repose by a glass of absinthe caught his eye.
The komtesse glanced over her shoulder. “ ‘The Absinthe Drinker’ by Manet. One of my favorites.” She stopped and came shoulder to shoulder with Winston and Poppy as they looked up at the painting. “The public hated it when Manet first presented it. They thought it vulgar, as if life should only be portrayed as tidy and perfect. It is the richness of color and the man’s expression that draws me into this piece.” Her voice turned soft. “What do you suppose he’s thinking? Does he wonder if his life is slipping away?”
Win swallowed past the thickness in his throat. It was like looking at his younger self, that sad, hopeless wretch who’d bargained with the devil. A bead of sweat rolled down the valley of his back, so slow and steady that he could track its progress. “Perhaps he was thinking of what he could not have.”
Poppy’s voice, quiet with contemplation, touched his ear. “He looks a bit like you. When you were younger.”
He could not breathe. His collar hugged him too tightly. Two sets of feminine eyes bore into him and another trickle of sweat rolled down his back. The moment pulled, vibrating like a plucked bow, then the komtesse stirred.
“There is another portrait I want to show you. Come.” She opened a door, and they stepped into a room done up in vibrant shades of peacock blue. Four large, low slung couches of saffron and gold silk, covered with purple and red pillows, made up a sitting square in the center of the room. It hurt his eyes just looking at them so he glanced about at the paintings on the wall instead, lest he be overcome with indigestion.
“Have a seat,” offered the komtesse.
Not bloody likely. Those horrid couches were meant to be lain upon, drink in one hand, a smoke in the other. Winston was damned if he’d put himself in a prone position in an unknown house. Poppy didn’t seem to mind, though, and reclined with surprising finesse. The sight of her long, lean body uncoiled upon that harem couch, her booted feet tucked beneath her skirts and one hand at her nape to support her head, did strange things to his equilibrium. Winston shifted his stance with a surge of irritation. He supposed that was rather the point of the couches. The twinkle in the komtesse’s eyes confirmed it, and that she knew all too well the effect Poppy had on him. But her voice was even and gentle as she pointed toward the far wall. “That is what I wanted to show you.”
When he looked, his blood stilled. It was a large portrait, dominating the wall and encased in a heavy, gold frame. Done in tones of black and grey, the pale countenance of Lord Isley smiled down at them. It was a smug smile, full of knowing and trickery, as if even then, he was planning mischief. Isley wore the very same suit and scarlet cravat that he’d donned when meeting Winston, and Winston wondered for a moment if Isley ever changed, if the suit was even real but yet another illusion.
“Lord Isley as I knew him in eighteen sixty-five,” said the komtesse.
By the pale tinge of Poppy’s skin, Win realized that she recognized this man as well. Her eyes narrowed upon the painting with such hatred and determination that his skin prickled. The komtesse’s gaze, however, was serene, perhaps a touch wistful.
Win walked closer. Nestled in the elaborate folds of Isley’s cravat was a golden cartouche. Win did not know hieroglyphics but he made note of the symbols. “If I may, Komtesse,” he asked, turning back to her, “how well did you know Lord Isley?”
Her lips curled a touch. “Given that I have his portrait hanging upon my wall, you mean? We were lovers as I gather you already suspected.” She sighed, letting her chin fall into her cupped palm as she smiled up at the portrait. “He was lovely though. Always made me feel a queen even when I was close to rags.” Deep-lidded eyes returned to study him and Poppy with equal measure. “I was on the verge of ruin before he came into my life. My protector had left me alone in Paris, and I’d not found another.” She fiddled with the tasseled end of a vermilion pillow. “In truth, I was quite desperate, wishing for a quick death or a miracle, which at that point might have been one and the same. And, as if called, Isley found me. He brought me here to London.” She grinned then, the act lighting up her face as if the sun suddenly shone upon her. “I’ve never had want of money again.”
Ice swam through Win’s gut. A miracle indeed. And just what had the komtesse given up to see her fortunes reversed? All the cold within him turned to burning bile, and he swallowed down the taste of acrid bitterness, for he knew she was as ignorant as the rest of Isley’s victims.
Poppy glared up at the painted Isley before turning back to the komtesse with a neutral expression. “Forgive me for being blunt, Brit—”