“Shh,” he whispered around her flesh, “I’ll make it better. I’ll make it better…” Words were lost to the luscious nipple filling his mouth, the ragged edges of the nightshirt growing wet against the lave of his tongue. Her cool palms framed his face, holding him there as he sucked her in deep and pressed against her soft body. They moved against each other, her murmuring words of encouragement, pleas. He would give it to her. Anything she needed.
Her thigh was endless, so smooth and strong. His fingers traversed its length as his mouth travelled down her body, lost in the billowing softness of her gown and the subtle flesh hiding beneath. The linen whispered against her skin as he slid it high. Sweet honey greeted him, glistening in the morning light. He nipped her hip, loving the way she squirmed, how her legs glided apart for his touch.
“That’s it, sweet.” His mouth wandered along the hot crease of her upper thigh. “Let me give it a kiss.”
The sweet taste of Poppy. Poppy writhing against the flat of his tongue. Heaven. Another kiss. I’ll make it better. He would make it better.
It was his last thought before a terrorized scream from somewhere down the hall rent through the air.
Lost in the fevered mists of need, Win had almost missed the scream. Whoever the lady was with her inconvenient fit of vapors, she could go to the devil. Only his core maintained a policeman’s soul. It did not matter if he no longer carried a badge, he could not ignore a cry for help. And so he’d untangled himself from his luscious wife, grabbed some clothes as she struggled to find hers, and was now striding down the hall, which was rapidly filling with other guests, most of whom wore dressing gowns and frightened expressions.
“Pardon.” He slipped through the crowd. Oddly, people stepped aside as they always had, never once questioning his right to take charge. Christ, what was he to do without the CID?
The commotion stemmed from a guest room at the end of the hall. Win’s blood chilled when he caught a familiar scent in the air. Death. It was going to be bad.
A gaggle of lords clogged the doorway, but they too parted ranks as he edged closer. He caught the eye of Osmond, who stood guard next to the door. Bloody perfect. “Your Grace, what has happened?”
His brother nodded grimly. “Chambermaid found the body. Looks like strangulation. I’ve called for the local magistrate. However, the butler tells me the man is away on holiday.”
Yes, and where was the lovely Amy Noble, now that her house had fallen into disorder and a guest murdered? One thing at a time.
Win eyed the door again. He itched to get inside. “As my wife said last night, I am an inspector. Let me have a look.”
Oz frowned. He obviously did not like superseding his ducal authority to a mere tradesman, inspector or not. It was all Win could do not to say, get your knickers out of a twist, Oz, and shove off. It might have worked when they were twelve and fourteen, and still brothers, but he rather thought it’d earn him a punch to the nose now.
“We need a guard for the door,” Winston added. Nothing mucked up a crime scene better than well-intentioned “helpers”, be they houseguests or the bobbies who often found the corpses in London. “Mrs. Noble’s guests ought not see this.” He tossed a worried look over his shoulder at the crowd. A look that invited camaraderie between conspirators. “I think they would be more inclined to listen to you, sir.”
Thankfully, Oz took Win’s bait. He straightened in a move that reminded Win of their father. “I will take care of them.”
Oz’s ensuing orders to go back to bed and the shuffle in the hall faded to the background as Win fully entered the room and took in the scene. A man lay in a slump on the floor by the foot of the bed. Colonel Alden. A bluish tinge colored his broad face, growing darker about the eyes and his mouth, from which his tongue hung out blue and thick. His fine linen nightshirt had a rent along the collar and was ruched up about his waist as if he’d been kicking about in a struggle. Win glanced away from his pale, spindly legs and the flaccid fall of his penis. Damned undignified, death was.
He stepped around the drying puddle of urine and offal that had spread about the colonel. He was used to the stench of death, but suddenly that smell and the strange, almost sweet odor of a dying body hit him hard. His pulse raced, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out over his skin. Blackness dotted before his eyes. He saw not the room, but that alleyway, with that scent. The thing coming for him, and the sharp bite of pain on his face. He couldn’t breathe. Run. Run away. Shaking, he lifted an ice-cold hand to his brow. No, not now. Do not fall into it. He forced himself to stare at the body and drew in a lungful of the foul smell. He was here, in a manor house. Not there, in hell.
“Was he strangled?”
Win jumped at the sound of Poppy’s voice. She stood just inside, no longer his panting, blushing temptress, but covered up by sensible brown worsted, respectable attire, unlike his dinner trousers and mismatched day shirt he’d snatched from the chair arm. Her gaze fell on the body with clinical detachment. How many bodies had she seen? He swallowed several times, trying to find his voice. He didn’t want her to see this, didn’t want her to see him like this. She drifted closer and, not really looking at him, handed over a thin flask. Win didn’t ask what was in it but took a deep drink. Fine, warm scotch smoothed down his throat.
“I don’t think I’ll ever become used to you Ellis sisters’ penchant for whisky.”
She waved an idle hand as she surveyed the room. “We’re half Scottish. I think there might be a law against us not liking it.”
He laughed shortly, and the pain in his chest eased enough for him to move again. “Strangulation appears to be the cause.” He didn’t ask how she’d got past Oz—a duke was no match for her—but knelt down to inspect the body. The fingers were soft. “Rigor mortis has passed. Death most likely occurred last night.”
“After dinner?”
“I’d say a few hours later. Decay hasn’t set in very far. I ought to have…” Unable to say more, he met Poppy’s eyes and saw the worry in them. And the anger.
“This is not your fault, Win.”
“Mmm.” It felt very much like it was.
Poppy stood a bit closer to him, as though she were somehow shielding him. “Isley’s doing?”
“Mmm.” Win wasn’t ready to formulate a theory. He bent closer to the swollen neck. Five puncture wounds were evenly spaced in the shape of a hand.
Poppy inspected them too and sucked in a sharp breath. “Colonel Alden’s false arm is missing.”
A quick search found the steel limb on the floor beneath the tangle of sheets. Squatting by the bed, Win studied the artificial limb. It was a solid, cold weight in Win’s palm. A small smear of blood marred the index finger.
“Well, he couldn’t very well have been strangled by his own arm, now could he?” Poppy said. Win glanced up, and her brows snapped together. “I do not mean he choked himself to death. I mean the thing cannot be manipulated in such a manner as to strangulate a grown and fighting male.”
Win stroked the scar at the corner of his mouth. It was no mustache, but it helped him settle. “Perhaps it could.” He turned the hand over, and gravity pulled the loose fingers back a fraction, making it appear as if the hand was opening up to him. “If the colonel was another victim of Isley, perhaps the bloody thing possessed a will of its own.” Given the things he’d seen lately, what was one murderous arm in the scheme of things? “Perhaps Alden too had signed a contract, and his time was up.”
“If this is part of Isley’s machinations, why kill Alden with his own arm? Such a thing is bound to raise questions.”
He sighed and rose to his feet. “I don’t know.” Needing to think more clearly, he paced, tapping the artificial arm against his thigh as he walked. Poppy noted the movement and lifted a brow. With a noise of irritation, Winston passed her the arm and kept pacing. “Damn, but you are correct. Why kill him now? Isley clearly lured him here…”
He stopped before the bed to glare out of the window, and something crinkled beneath his toe. Win stepped back. Just under the bed lay a crumpled piece of vellum. “What do we have here?” Win frowned as he smoothed the paper out and read its contents. “It’s a note from Colonel Alden to me.” His frown grew. “He says he remembered something about Moira Darling. Something I might find enlightening.”
“Whatever that means.” Frustration pulled Poppy’s voice taut.
“Mmm, the script cuts off in a violent slash of ink.” Win glanced down at the sad specter of the colonel. “I gather he was interrupted and killed for his efforts.”
“Typical of Isley. His puppet cut himself free of his strings, and so Isley destroys him.” Her brown eyes darkened. “That is what he does, Win. He makes promises, makes you believe that he is a gentleman. But he is a killer, through and through. And I fear…” her jaw trembled for one moment before tensing, “I fear that regardless of whether we find this Moira Darling or not, he will do the same to you.”
“We’ve no proof that it was Isley.” Win’s gut reaction was that it did not fit with his behavior. “Regardless, we cannot become emotional. Stay on task, sweet. That is all we can do now.”
“How can you be so calm?”
“How can I not? Our child’s life is at stake. I will not muck it up by falling victim to rash behavior.” No matter how badly he wanted to pound on Jones’s face until his hands gave out.
Poppy looked at him for one agonizing moment, then nodded sharply before lowering her gaze. Her brow furrowed as she peered closely at the scrollwork upon the limb. All at once, she flinched as if slapped, and he moved to take it from her, fearful for one moment that it had come alive or hurt her in some manner, but she held up a staying hand. “Bloody hell,” she murmured, glaring at the inner wrist.
“What is it?”
Cold anger rested in her eyes. “I’ve found the maker’s mark.” She pointed to a tiny crescent moon with a star nestled in its curve.