Muscles tight with the thrill of the hunt, Poppy surveyed the room. The cloying scent of bath salts clogged the air. Too much. It stabbed at her nostrils and pierced her skull. Horrid smell, violets. She’d always hated it. A quick look at the glass shelves lining one wall confirmed that there were not enough salts to cause such a stench. Poppy held her gun secure as she crept toward the wall, the perfume of violets growing headier. Carefully, she ran her fingers along the edges of the wood paneling. It appeared solid. Look for the wear. Finger oils will eventually wear down a varnish. Win had taught her that, a lesson gleaned from listening to him wax on about his work. At the time, she felt guilty about learning tricks of the trade from him without telling her own, but now, as her eye caught the slight fading of varnish along the second panel, gratitude filled her instead.
Whipping her knife open, Poppy held it at the ready. Now that she knew what to look for, the hidden thumb notch in the panel gave easily under her hand. With a small clink and a smooth glide, the panel slid open. Poppy braced herself against the cloud of perfume that assaulted her nose. Vile as the scent was, the large, rough wooden box resting within the shadows of the small closet had her complete attention. Quickly, quietly, she exchanged her knife for a small stake tucked along the back ribbing of her bodice. True to her word, Miss Chase had outfitted all of Poppy’s clothes with the essentials. Blessed girl.
Every sense snapped to full alert as she approached the box. She had the upper hand, for whatever might lurk within would have to spring up, while Poppy need only strike down. Even so, sweat trickled along her neck, and her breath grew short. There was always fear on the job. One simply had to respect it and keep going. The lid gave easily. She paused, not yet lifting, adjusted her grip on the lid and the stake, and then wrenched it open. Nothing moved.
Past the eye-watering smell of the bath salts that partially covered the body, Poppy made out the shape of the former Mrs. Noble, her eyes open and her mouth wide in supplication. Her soul had departed, but there was still enough blood in her to sustain a host demon.
“Fucking hell.” The lid banged shut as Poppy turned and raced from the room, toward Win and whatever demon was cozying up to him.
Win stepped into Mrs. Noble’s parlor and found the room was inordinately dark. Heavy brocade curtains barred the morning sun, leaving only the light from the fire snapping in the hearth and one silver candelabra for illumination.
Mrs. Noble sat in repose along the length of a scarlet satin fainting couch. No longer attired in men’s clothing, she now wore a provocative black silk dress that was not at all proper day wear. Cinched tight and thrusting her br**sts up high, the bodice did not have sleeves but was held up by a webbing of sparkling strands composed of diamonds.
“Mr. Snow.” She undulated in a forward move, and a coil of black hair fell over her shoulder. “But where is Mrs. Snow? I thought I was to be entertained by both of you this morning.”
Innocently put words that managed to sound illicit. He walked into the room. “She has developed a migraine, I’m afraid.”
“Wives are known to do so. We simply shall have to forge on without her.” She curled her legs under her. “Sit, Mr. Snow, and let us get better acquainted.”
She patted the space next to her, and basic manners demanded that he comply. As an inspector, he’d had his fair share of dealing with forward women. Most of his colleagues did as well. Lonely widows, bored wives, the guilty, the curious—there were many reasons to find an inspector fair game. Some men took advantage. Win found those situations to be a lit fuse of danger. Pull away too quickly and the insulted lady wouldn’t tell you a thing. Let it go too far and you had an unwanted tongue down your throat, and the lady wouldn’t tell you a thing either.
On reluctant limbs he moved to sit, inwardly cursing Poppy as he did. Despite their discussion, he had no intention of seducing answers out of Mrs. Noble.
Satisfied, Mrs. Noble smiled prettily as her fingers danced along the wood filigree just behind his neck. “Now then, Mr. Snow, you promised me a story.” The tip of her finger touched his collar. “How did you acquire such magnificent scars?”
He eased away. “First, we must discuss the murder that has occurred under your roof, madam.”
She appeared remarkably unconcerned about the fact, but composed herself accordingly, lacing her hands in her lap and looking at him with wide, almost solemn eyes. A façade that might have worked had he not spied the mockery beneath it all.
“Tell me what you know of Colonel Alden,” he said.
“Ah, Charles.” With a sigh, she rested against the couch, arching her back just so. “The poor dear. I shall miss him. Though he’d always been a bit of a disappointment to me.” The diamond webbing on her shoulders glittered as she shrugged. “He was a bit of a bore.” She traced the scar closest to his jaw, and he managed not to flinch. “Such lovely wounds. They intrigue me.”
“If the colonel was a disappointment, why invite him here?”
Her finger moved to his neck. “I did not invite him. He showed up unexpectedly.”
Gods, but he itched to smack that finger away. “I was under the impression that you had invited him.” Someone was lying, and he did not think it had been the colonel.
She laughed, but the sound came off as affronted. “Really, Mr. Snow, you are beginning to sound accusatory.”
“Merely curious.” He turned toward her, sliding his thigh a bit onto the couch. Her eyes went to the movement. Damn him, he should have sent Poppy to question this viper. “The magistrate will likely ask you the same questions.”
Her lids lifted slowly. “You know, Mr. Snow, I really cannot recall the specific reason why I invited Colonel Alden. It was a simple, sudden urge.” She eased over an inch closer. “You know urges, Mr. Snow. They cannot be denied.”
He refrained from snorting. Subtlety was not her forte. “Have you met a woman named Moira Darling?”
As he hoped, the question threw her off balance. It was a moment before she answered. “I am beginning to suspect that your only interest in me is to ask questions.”
“The asking of questions implies interest, does it not, Mrs. Noble?”
“Do not think that fetching smile will deter me, Mr. Snow.” Unfailingly, she found the one white coil of her hair and toyed with it. “Now then, by your logic, you would not object to a question or two yourself?”
Win objected to many things about this interview, and this place, but he kept his benign social smile in place. “I can hardly do so.”
Her teeth flashed in the candlelight, not white but an unnerving grey color, as if she was decaying from the inside. “Excellent.” Her bosom swelled as she leaned close. “Do you regret the choices you’ve made in your life, Mr. Snow?”
He sat back against the settee, away from her. “Pardon?”
Round and round the white coil twisted, her finger nearly swallowed up by the act. “Do you regret having not lived a fuller life?” Ebony eyes held his. “Bedded more women? Taken more risks?”
“Moira Darling,” he snapped back. “Do you know her?”
“Yes. A sad woman who never lived life to the fullest. And all she was left with were pain and loneliness.”
He nearly jumped in his excitement, but she slid closer, placing a pale hand upon his arm. Blood rubies glittered on her fingers. “The risks, Mr. Snow.”
“Where is she?” He wasn’t going to play this game. He’d already given up his soul. He would not give anything more.
She ignored his question as neatly as he’d ignored hers. Her fingers tiptoed along his sleeve. “I’ve quite a number of most excellent talents, Mr. Snow. And one of them is reading a man.” The tip of her finger touched the thick scar on his cheek. He steeled himself not to retreat, and she smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. “You, sir, have played your hand entirely too safe.”
Had he? Had he wasted his opportunity to live a larger life? The edge of the armrest bit into his side with each breath he took. Lord Winston Hamon Belenus Lane might have had numerous women lined up to bed him, simply because he was a duke’s son. He might have lived in utter opulence, traveled the world over, gone to a different party every night. Inspector Winston Lane had bedded only one woman, put numerous criminals in jail, and been slashed within an inch of his life for his efforts.
The smile upon Mrs. Noble’s face grew, stretching and coiling at the ends. He looked back at her and what she so blatantly offered, but in her place another woman sprang up in his mind, her vermilion hair spread out like a satin banner upon his pillow and her brown eyes alight with keen intelligence.
Mrs. Noble’s simpering voice brought him back. “You see it now, don’t you? How you might have lived in glory.”
Win detached Mrs. Noble’s creeping hand from his arm. “Risk doesn’t signify a life well lived. It is what you risk your life for.”
In the wavering light, her eyes appeared to go pure black, but she blinked, and the illusion was gone. “Then let us risk some more.”
Before he could question, she moved onto him, her arm sliding around his neck. His hand shot to her shoulder, staying her progress. “I believe you have misunderstood the situation, Mrs. Noble. I am not interested in bedsport.”
Her breath gusted over his cheek, bringing forth a strange scent of smoke and iron. “Come now, Lane. All men are interested.”
“That depends on the partner.” He leaned in, giving her a smile with bite. “I prefer my wife.”
A mistake to get closer. Her palm cupped him warmly. “That is because you haven’t yet tasted the meal I offer.”
He locked his hand about her wrist, wrenched her hand away, and pushed her against the arm of the settee. “You called me Lane. Which means you know why I am here.”
The simpering look did not leave her face. “Did you enjoy meeting your brother?” Her h*ps lifted against his. “I’m desperate to see how you two compare.”