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—”

“But you always are, Mrs. Hamon. It is one of your best traits,” the komtesse answered with apparent fondness.

Poppy’s severe brows lifted a touch but she forged on. “Well then. We are interested in one of Isley’s possible paramours at that time. Moira Darling. Have you heard of her?”

The komtesse gave a little shocked laugh. “You certainly did not hold back that time, did you?” She sat up on the couch as if she could no longer bear to relax. “There was talk of other women. He was rather… voracious in his appetites, and there is no telling whether he visited certain houses on occasion. Though I would not be surprised if he did.” Her shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug. “However, I’ve never heard of Moira Darling, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“Have you the names of any women he might have visited?” Win asked.

“Often times, he consulted with a Mrs. Noble.” Clear, direct eyes held his. “She is known to have an excellent eye for art. Isley was quite fond of her.”

“Mrs. Amy Noble?” Winston asked. “The widow of Mr. Tobias Noble, the coal magnate?”

“The very one. She hosts a revolving house party at Farleigh, her estate in Richmond that runs from July to November. It is quite lively. One might meet the Prime Minister or some boy she brought in from the streets because she liked the sound of his singing.”

Poppy glanced at Win. “Then it is to Farleigh we go.” She turned to the komtesse. “Brit. Be careful, will you? No new visitors for a few weeks.”

The komtesse’s golden brows knitted. “Am I in danger, Mrs. Hamon?”

Poppy’s skirts rustled as she stood. “At the moment, anyone who had been in contact with Isley is. I shall send word when it is safe. But for now, trust in me and do as I say.”

“I always do.”

Win stared at the clean, strong lines of his wife’s face and form. Here was the leader, the woman who commanded an entire organization. People did as she asked. As always, it made him itch to get her alone and coax out that soft, sensual Poppy that only he had the privilege to see.

Her hand settled on the crook of his arm, and he tucked her close as he nodded to their hostess. “Komtesse.”

She gave him a secretive smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Belenus. Do come back. At any time.”

The devil in him couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction when Poppy’s hand tightened on his arm. If she only knew how little any other woman affected him.

He opened the door and ran directly into another man. Or rather, his crotch collided with a man’s face. Win swallowed a silent curse as he took in the abundance of bare skin and a pair of pink-feathered wings shivering tremulously. They stared at each other, Win gaping down and the man blinking up in surprise. Then Win cleared his throat. “Henri, I presume?”

The man unfurled a slow, pleased smile while Win’s face grew uncomfortably hot. “Why yes. Have we met?”

Chapter Seventeen

They made it out of the house and onto the embankment before Poppy burst out laughing. She did not laugh often, but when she did, she did so with her whole soul. Win watched, half bemused, half transfixed, as her laughter poured out in wave after wave, a gorgeous, husky sound that invited one to join in. Her shoulders shook with it, and tears streamed out of the corners of eyes that sparkled like topaz in the sunlight. Around them, a few strollers passed, and despite Poppy’s unladylike manners, they could not help but be affected. Several smiled, and a chimney sweep just off the job laughed as well, sending bits of blacks and ash tumbling off his shoulders before he strolled away.

When she’d gotten herself reasonably under control, Win took her elbow lightly. “Yes, yes,” he said, guiding them farther away from the komtesse’s residence, for Poppy was still useless with her snorts and chuckles. “It was all very amusing. Have your laugh. I don’t mind.”

With a shaking hand, she wiped her eyes. “Your face, Win.” She snorted again. “For a moment, I thought you would turn and jump into my arms for safety.”

His lips twitched. “It was a very near thing.” And then he laughed too. Which meant they stood like two jack-puddings, making a racket while the sensible people of London scurried past, lest they be infected too.

Their gazes clashed, and his breath hitched, his laughter dying in a half-cough as he realized how close they stood, hunched over each other, her hand clutching his arm for support. Hers ended on a hiccup, and they stared at each other from across their small divide. No one saw him like this. Sheridan would likely faint on the spot should he hear Winston laughing. Only she truly saw him. Only with Poppy did he feel true joy. Just then, he missed her so much that he hurt, a physical pain that urged him to reach out and pull her near so that he could hold her.

She straightened, bringing herself closer, her expression suddenly as lost and as pained as his surely was. “Win…”

Win didn’t know what had changed, perhaps the sound of a footstep that was too determined or the snick of a knife snapping open, but his attention shifted from Poppy’s delectable mouth to their surroundings. She too seemed to have noticed the danger as well, for her eyes narrowed and her frame grew stiff.

“We’ve picked up an interested party,” she said, as if conversing on the weather.

“Indeed we have.” Taking her arm, he guided her down the path. They maintained a casual stroll, but his hand tightened on his walking stick. Win did not turn to see, but instinct told him there were at least three persons following. The foot traffic had thinned out, leaving them vulnerable to attack. Then again, it left him free to fight back without worry of hurting an innocent observer. His back tightened when, from the periphery, he saw four thugs fan out.

He leaned closer to Poppy and smiled as though he were paying her a compliment. “When we get to the overpass just ahead, move to the wall behind me and stay there.”

Her brown eyes flashed in surprise. “And do what? Wait meekly until you have bested them?”

“That is the general idea, yes.”

Her lips thinned in a parody of a smile. “How about this? You take two, and I take two.” Her arm moved slightly, and she clutched her fan at the ready. A bloody fan? He almost laughed, only he wanted to strangle her more.

“Might I remind you,” he said through his clenched teeth, “that you are with child.”

“Which makes it imperative that we end this scuffle quickly.”

Her logic appalled him. He was on the verge of pulling her to the side when she spun round to face their stalkers.

“Gentlemen,” she said as the men halted. Four big brutes who looked spoiling for a fight. “I believe you have lost your way. I advise you to turn around before you regret it.”

Win had to give her credit. She was as fearsome as the worst schoolmarm. Only these weren’t boys. And he was certainly going to kill her when they got out of this. He stepped shoulder to shoulder with her, before easing her back. Or tried to; she wouldn’t budge. Grunting in annoyance, he pulled his coat open enough to show the gun he wore beneath it. “You heard my lady. Go on and find easier sport.”

Even as he spoke, the oddness of the men poked at his awareness. They hadn’t said a word, but simply stood, weaving slightly on their feet as though foxed, their eyes unblinking. Beside him, Poppy appeared to notice the same, for she went pale.

“Shit,” she said.

He risked a glance at her as he moved to pull his gun free. Her hand on his arm halted him. “No,” she said. “Won’t do any good. They’re undead.”

“What?” A breeze swept over them, and he caught the scent of rotting flesh.

Poppy backed them up, her hand like a vise on his forearm. “Undead. As in corpses called up from the grave to do their master’s bidding.”

Hell. One day, he’d wake up and it would all be a dream.

“Win, tell me that walking stick has a sword.”

“Of course.” He tensed, his hand going to the head of the swordstick. Now that they were closer, he could see the grey cast to their skin and the bluish rips where flesh had begun to cleave from bone.

“Saber or rapier?”

“Saber. Archer gave it to me.”

Poppy gave a tight smile. “I think I love that man.”

He’d have to address that remark later, for the thugs chose that moment to attack. He pulled his sword free with a ring of steel as Poppy shouted, “Aim for the throat. Decapitation is the only way to stop them.” And then she was stepping in front of him to engage.

For a taut moment, he could only gape at his wife. She was poetry in motion, moving in a way he’d never before seen. One thug made a grab for her, and she struck the crook of his elbow with the blunt end of her fan. Two more moves, and his arm was broken. The fan snapped open, and Win realized that the slats were actually steel blades. With a whirl of red hair and blue skirts, the silver fan sliced through the thug’s neck, and his head hit the ground with a thunk.

It happened in the blink of an eye, and then Win had his hands full. Bloody hell but these things were fast, and strong. One struck him on the side of the head, and he saw stars. Win reacted, his training setting in. Then it was a blur. His body moved through the macabre dance without forethought. Kick, swing, duck, step, swing. He decapitated an undead, and then there were two.

Poppy moved behind him, working in tandem with her back to his so that they were a singular force. A blow to his guts had Win tasting bile. He punched back, his fist connecting with cold, dead flesh. Behind him, Poppy staggered as one thug smashed his massive hand into her. She did not make a sound, but black rage took hold of Winston. With a roar, he swung around, moving Poppy out of the way as his sword cleaved the undead’s head from its neck in one clean swipe.

He might have roared again in victory were it not for the shadow bearing down behind him. A knife headed straight for his heart. He had no time to move or block the blow. Win braced himself, but the hit never came. His wife snarled like an enraged cat and lashed out. Her slim arm deflected the hit. Another blow and she decapitated the thug with her clever fan.

And then it was over. Winston was battered. Every inch of him ached as he took in the carnage. Four undead lay sprawled on the ground. All were missing their heads.

His chest heaved as he straightened and looked at his wife. She was panting as well, her hair in a red tangle about her slim shoulders. A smear of blood marred her cheek, but the cut was shallow. She was glorious. He glanced about one more time, making certain they were well and truly alone. Nothing stirred.

“Are you harmed?” he asked. “Did they hit…”

“The child is fine.” She smoothed hair back from her face. “You?”

“Not yet.” His sword clattered to the ground. He took the two steps to close the distance between them and hauled her against him. Lust slammed into him at the touch of his lips to hers. Hard enough to make him stagger, taking her with him. He fell against the brick wall of the overpass as he cupped her cheeks with his hands and devoured her mouth, needing to touch her, taste her, more than he needed to breathe. This was what he’d been missing. This was what made him feel whole. Her fingers tangled in his hair and tugged hard as she kissed him back, biting his lower lip.

His head spun with want, and he took a shuddering breath to ease the tightness in his chest. He had to stop. He knew this. But for the moment, he closed his eyes and simply reveled in her. His tongue played with hers, a slow, torturous slip-slide, and he groaned. Then he let her go. And it was painful.

They panted for a moment, and her eyes were wide with surprise and wonder as he tenderly caressed her bloodied cheek.

“What was that for?” she said after a moment.

He rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip and told her the truth. “For being alive.”

With the heat of battle still running riot through her veins, Poppy’s hands were unsteady as she started to go through the undeads’ pockets. Win had kissed her. She knew enough of combat to understand that the need for physical contact, or a sexual release, went hand in hand with the aftermath of getting one’s blood up. She ought not make anything of it. Only her heart pounded, and she couldn’t think straight.