But Ian understood Jack better than he realized and had set him free; rather, he had ejected him from the nest. A blessing, really, for whether or not Jack had wanted to admit it, he had grown restless and bored. His adventure with Inspector Lane had been the start of something that fired his blood and gave him true purpose. Then it had all gone to shit.
Jack’s throat closed, the smoky air smothering him. He stretched his neck, and a series of small pops cracked along his spine.
“You came,” said a feminine voice at his side.
Daisy. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. Jack straightened. “It was either that or become an exhibit in headquarters’ main hall.” He leaned down and gave Daisy a light kiss upon her smooth cheek. “Happy birthday, Madam Ranulf.”
Her cheek plumped. “Poppy got to you, did she?” Daisy’s eyes scanned the dancers and paused upon the woman in question, who was presently dancing with her husband Inspector Lane.
Dressed in grass-green taffeta, Poppy did not appear to be the warrior woman capable of leading an entire organization, but a goddess sprung from the earth. The married couple executed a turn, and Poppy’s sharp gaze clashed with his. She gave Jack a short nod of acknowledgement.
“I believe her words were,” he murmured, returning the nod, “ ‘If I have to suffer, then so do you.’ ”
Beside him Daisy snorted. “I am overwhelmed by the love and affection bestowed upon me by my family.” She sounded more amused than put out.
Jack turned to look down at her. She was lovely tonight, resplendent in a primrose gown and little white hothouse daisies tucked into her golden curls. Her blue eyes glowed with the power of a GIM and the light of a woman content.
His tone softened. “I’d say our grievances are with parties in general, not you.”
“Pish. You and Poppy are peas in a pod, reticent homebodies I have to goad into doing anything remotely carefree.” She glanced at him askance. “Though you are rude to boot. At least my sister has retained a modicum of tact.”
“Speak your mind, why don’t you?”
Her mouth pursed. “My apologies. But I am cross with you.”
“What have I done?” But Jack had a fairly good idea. And he had it coming. His face burned with the truth.
Daisy’s gaze went back to the ballroom, and to her husband. “He misses you.”
The burning rose up to his ears as guilt loomed to the fore. Jack crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the pillar once more. His heart thudded against the cage of his ribs. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
Her skirts hissed over the black marble floor as she turned to fully face him. “Do not play that game with me. You’ve shut him out, all of us out, and…” She drew herself up with a deep breath and, when she spoke again, it was with a forced lightness as if she were trying to spare him pain, despite her ire, which made Jack feel all the worse. Her words skipped over him like stones across a frozen lake. “Do what you must. I will not crowd you. Ian says we mustn’t.”
Perfect. He might as well have been two inches tall then.
“But know that we are here for you, Jack.”
Jack grunted. She ignored him, a wicked and irate gleam turning her eyes crystal blue. “And I had better not hear that you are being rude to Miss Chase. I love that girl, quiet thing though she is.”
Jack wouldn’t have defined Chase as quiet. Though, in retrospect, she was not particularly animated; unless, of course, she was goading him.
Where was Chase anyway? Daisy would have sent her an invitation.
“I have not been rude to her,” he muttered, trying not to chafe at the lie he’d just told.
Daisy harrumphed. “Are you behaving in your usual manner?”
“Don’t see how else I’d behave.” God save him from loose-lipped, well-meaning females.
She made the noise again. “Then you are being rude.”
Jack glared, and she had the temerity to buss his cheek. “Well, of course, we love you as you are.”
“Who loves whom?” Ian strolled up and wrapped himself around his wife like ivy, but his attention locked onto Jack. His expression was wary, as if he expected Jack to bolt and sought a way to prevent it.
Jack cursed. God save him from his whole family. Being near Ian set Jack’s nerves on end. He hated the disconnect between them but nothing seemed to ease it. Jack watched the dancers instead of meeting Ian’s eyes. Piss and shit.
“We are discussing why Jack feels the need to be rude—pardon,” she gave Jack an exaggerated nod of deference, “excessively rude to Miss Chase.”
Ian’s grin was all teeth, and most of them sharp. “That is simple. Because he wants to tup her.”
“Bloody hell,” Jack snapped, “is there a moment in which you do not think of tupping?”
Ian laughed. “And Jack the Prude returns. It might do you well to think of tupping now and then, mo mhac.” He’d spoken with lightness, a typical Ian jest, but the moment the words were out, he paled. Jack froze too, ugly, thick feelings sliding like sludge through his chest. There was too much knowledge in Ian’s eyes.
Jack whipped about, needing to get away, but not before seeing Ian’s expression fall.
“Jack…” Ian began. His disappointment and regret, and the soft plea in his voice, worked a shaft of pain into Jack’s chest. He knew he was hurting Ian and Daisy by keeping his distance. Especially Ian. But he could not stand to look upon him for too long. Not when it was Ian who first comforted him when he’d been rescued. Not when the man knew what had been done to him. The familiar tight, suffocating feeling stole over him.
“No worries,” he said over his shoulder, even as his abdomen tightened in regret. “I’m late for work.”
It was another lie, and they all knew as much. But they let him flee.
Chapter Six
Book in hand, curled upon the couch with a soft cashmere rug tucked about her, was a delightful way to end the day. Mary did not want to think about Jack Talent, or the case, or anything at all. What she wanted now was to immerse herself in another world until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Yet she found herself not reading but floating from her body. With detached calm she hovered above herself. So still, eyes open wide but glassy. Precisely how she would look in true death. The thought no longer bothered her. If death came, it came.
Not wanting to dwell on morbid thoughts, she let her gaze roam listlessly about her small parlor. She loved her flat. Assembling it for comfort, she’d picked big, padded armchairs and covered the floors in plush carpets. Robin’s-egg blue lacquered the walls, the high gloss reflecting the light of her lamps and candles when it grew dark. Cream-colored velvet drapes kept the chill from creeping through the windows, and her couch was, in truth, a large, wrought iron campaign bed of some long-dead general’s and was piled high with plump pillows for lounging. Quite satisfactory. And nothing like the homes in which she had been raised.
Though the location changed from time to time, her childhood homes had all looked the same within—pink silk damask walls, dainty gilded furniture, and numerous mirrors to reflect Maman. Everything glittering and feminine. And Mary most of all. Always resplendent in frothy petticoats, rich satins, and lacy pinafores. Hateful, really, that Mary still loved to wear high fashion. Back then, however, she had loved it all. Loved playing with the battalion of French dolls provided for her, loved waiting for Maman to grace her with a morning visit. They’d sip rich chocolate and eat buttered crumpets, and Maman would tell her stories of lovely men. It wasn’t until later, when Mary fully understood just who and what those men were and why they provided the riches around her, that a sick, twisted dismay would weigh down her chest upon Maman’s arrival.
Maman. Ha. They weren’t even French. It had taken Mary ridiculously long to figure that out as well. But Maman was long dead, and that part of Mary’s life over.
She had friends. Tonight she might have gone out, might have danced and laughed. Yet she had stayed home. For she did not know how to be at ease with others. She’d never learned, growing up as that girl in the ivory tower. Mary sighed and sank back into her body. The sensation was akin to slipping under a warm blanket. It took her but a moment to orient, pick up her book, and turn toward the warmth of her heating stove. The cream enamel Swedish stove was more efficient and used fragrant wood instead of muddy coal. Behind the grate the flames danced. Self-pity never helped a thing. And she was better off than most. Being alone was perfectly fine. Perfectly.
A creak sounded upon her landing. Tensing, she glanced over the high back of her couch. Her hall was dark, only the small reading lamp at her side hissing away. Which made the sliver of light shining along the base of her front door perfectly visible, as was the shadow of someone standing behind the door. Mary’s hand slid to the revolver she kept by her side. Even in her home, she never let herself be without a weapon.
When she wanted to, Mary could move with speed and silence. In a blink she lightly vaulted over the couch, ripped open the door, and had her gun cocked and aimed. At Jack Talent’s broad chest.
“Put it away,” he said in a bored tone.
She allowed herself the pleasure of ignoring his request for a long moment. Then she lowered the gun and took stock of him. He stood, feet braced, hands at his side, in a manner that ought to have conveyed trust, but with his rippling strength, he appeared ready to pounce. Mist glittered at the tips of his cropped hair and on the weave of his black wool overcoat. He towered over her, all bunching muscle and boiling energy, and he had to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.
“I thought you were at Daisy’s birthday ball,” she said.
A deep furrow ran between his brows, brows that, when he smiled, tilted upward at the tips like the leaves of a bascule bridge. The feature ought to have given him an open, almost boyish look of expectancy, but his sour nature fought that appearance, twisting it into a near-permanent glower of disappointment. Even so, the very idea that nature had given him a face more inclined to joy made her fight a smile. Served him right for being so prickly.