In his hand, he twirled one of the long, wicked-looking darts that he had pulled out of his chest before they’d left the cemetery.

“What is that thing?” Daisy asked.

“Lycans use them to hunt down werewolves. The tips are poisoned with a drug that will weaken us.” The twirling dart stilled between his fingers. “Use enough of them and we’ll be knocked into oblivion, only to awaken confused and disoriented.”

Daisy had sucked in a sharp breath. Confused and disoriented. I am not myself. Cold shame filled her, for Northrup had warned her to keep back. And she had ignored it to both of their detriment.

“Lycans did this to you? There are more of you around here then?” He gave her a speaking look, which made her feel foolish. “Precisely who are these lycans?”

Northrup hadn’t met her eyes, but studied the dart. “They are the Clan Ranulf. My people.” The scowl on his face grew fierce then. “Before I chose exile.”

The thought of him in exile made her sad. She ought to not care, but Northrup was such a social being. To be cut off from his people must have hurt him, at least on some level. “Why did you leave?” she asked softly.

The glossy locks of his hair hid his expression, but his voice was low and clear. “Because I no longer wanted to be like them.”

And what could she say to that? An uncomfortable silence filled the coach before she broke it. “Does this mean that your clan captured the werewolf? Is it over?”

Northrup had laughed then, short and humorless. “If it were over, they would not have shot me as well.” He sighed and his blue eyes became as opaque as sea glass. “Instinct tells me that we are in more danger than ever.”

“Why?” It was more of a plaintive cry than question.

Northrup’s scowl returned but this time there was a bite to it, as if he’d gladly tear into a Ranulf clan member should one appear. “Because they now know I’m involved.”

She’d been too tired and battered to say anything further then. Northrup had handed her off to the care of Tuttle as he stalked off with his valet, a young man whom he’d introduced as Jack Talent. Mr. Talent was a suspicious sort, who looked at her askance, as if waiting for her to do something foolish. She refused to be cowed by him, or hurt by Northrup’s curt good-night.

Now, warm and clean after a hot bath, she lay cocooned in a bed he provided, as he stood guard outside her door. A sense of desolation filled her. The memory of his hands so rough and wild upon her made her stomach turn. Had that been Northrup, or the beast within him? Did it matter? Stretching her hand out toward the door, she drifted off to sleep, heartsick yet knowing that he would watch over her.

Chapter Eighteen

Spring had well and truly arrived in London. A soft breeze touched with warmth danced over the new green grass carpeting Hyde Park. Winston closed his eyes to the sensation and felt the sun upon his face. Rare indeed for him to feel the sun. The places his work usually took him were cramped, ugly tenements that light and fresh air forsook.

It was early yet, vendors having just arrived to claim the choice spots near well-trodden paths. Along the streets, drays rumbled past as milkmen and grocers made their deliveries for the day. Maids beat rugs in the small alleys between the grand houses, and here and there, boys swept up horse droppings and rubbish. The pampered gentry, however, were still tucked in their silk-lined beds, no doubt sleeping off their excessive, late-night revelry.

For all the glamour and comfort their world promised, Winston had never wanted to be part of it. A man was not his own keeper when he must kowtow to the mores of a society poised on the edge of their seats to see him fall. One mistake, and you were nothing. A sham. As if a man’s worth could be quantified by etiquette. Hard work, the use of one’s mind, that is what made a man’s life worth measure. Such things gratified him more than the lure of being waited on hand and foot. He knew this with the certainty of a man who had lived on both sides of the velvet curtain.

He tipped his hat to a pretty young girl who loitered near a coffee stall. The smell of chicory and baking bread sent his stomach rumbling. Winston eyed the vendor making a show of cleaning a row of porcelain mugs.

“Top you off, sir?” The vendor lifted a basket top enticingly, releasing a cloud of steamy, scented air. “I’ve currant rolls fresh from the oven. ’Tis me wife’s special recipe.”

“Keep them warm for me,” Winston said. For as much as he wanted one, work came first.

He turned the corner, and the grand mansion he wanted came into view. A colonnade in the classic Greek style fronted the mansion. Massive pillars of polished black marble ran along its length. At both ends, triumphal arches held up pediments of limestone carved with the crest of Ranulf and surrounded by a frieze of fearsome wolves.

It rankled Winston that he knew virtually nothing of this Lord Ranulf, who was listed as the Duke of Ranulf in Debrett’s Peerage book, and apparently owned a great deal of Scotland. In all his years, Winston had never come across the man. When he’d asked his superiors for permission to speak to Ranulf, they’d been adamantly against the idea, almost fearfully. Ranulf, they warned, was an intensely private man and a favorite of the queen. He also happened to share a name with Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Which might be a coincidence, given that every Scot whom Winston met seemed to be related to one another in some fashion. But Winston did not like coincidences and intended to call upon Northrup as soon as he could.

Winston’s steps slowed as he spied a man walking down the front walk of Ranulf House.

The cut and cloth of his suit claimed the visitor as a gentleman. Indeed, the man walked with a bearing that spoke of pride and utter confidence. However, it was unfashionably early to pay a call, which had Winston on alert. As did the way the man watched the world about him, fierce eyes scanning the street for possible trouble as he walked.

They drew abreast of each other, and the man’s cold eyes met Winston’s. For all the fine attire and regal posture, this man did not look like an English aristocrat. For one thing, he was too dark, with nearly black eyes, thick black hair that curled at the temples, and olive-toned skin. The man’s features were too boldly carved to be British. Deep-set eyes over a strong brow, a nose that would look too big were it not for his square jaw. An Italian, if Winston had to guess.

Winston took it all in a glance, as he was trained to do, and then lowered his eyes. The sunlight touched upon the man’s wine silk waistcoat and his watch fob glinted bright, catching Winston’s eye. It was a pretty piece of work, intricately wrought silver shaped into an angel perhaps. The man moved away before Winston could be sure, having only discerned the shape of outstretched wings and a woman’s figure.

Something chilled Winston’s gut. Defying basic manners, Winston turned to watch the man depart. An unexpected jolt hit him as he met those dark eyes once more. Caught out, he could only stare back as the man touched the brim of his hat before turning to stroll away.

The feeling of being judged, cataloged, and dismissed by the man, while ironic enough to warrant a smile, left Winston distinctly edgy instead. Shaking the feeling off, he made his way to the servants’ entrance of Ranulf House and found a maid in the midst of descending the back stairs, probably hurrying to fetch coal from the chute.

“Good morning, miss,” he said, making himself appear as harmless as he could under her wary gaze, “I am Inspector Lane of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

Beneath the heavy fringe of her dark hair, her eyes went wide. He stepped in closer. “I need to ask a few questions to a parlor maid employed here. A Miss Lucy Montgomery.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” The young woman made a furtive curtsy. “But as I said before, Lucy don’t work here anymore.”

Winston paused in the process of pulling out his notebook. “What had she done to warrant dismissal?”

“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that. She’s been let go on account of illness. I hear tell she’s living with her brother now.” The young lady frowned. “An’ she wasn’t a parlor maid. Not when she left, anyhow. She was personal nurse to one of Lord Ranulf’s guests.”

The telltale tinge of pink on the maid’s cheeks and the way she avoided Winston’s eyes set the cogs in his mind turning. So Miss Montgomery’s rise from lowly maid to nurse had the servants talking.

“And do you know whom this guest might be?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “We don’t ask such questions.”

So they were afraid of this Ranulf as well.

“At the risk of being indelicate, Miss…?”

“Lauren.” She gave a quick curtsy.

“Miss Lauren, do you happen to know the nature of this illness?”

The maid’s cheeks burned bright, and she glanced over her shoulder. But the yard was quiet and still.

“I shall be the soul of discretion,” he promised.

“Well”—she nibbled her bottom lip—“Mrs. Armitage, the housekeeper, says it’s consumption, but Hanna, the one maid let into his rooms, says he suffers from the French Pox. An’ something terribly at that.” A little shudder wracked her frame. “Him being twisted and crippled beyond recognition.”

Syphilis. A lover’s disease. Winston would bet his next week’s pay that Miss Lucy Montgomery now suffered from the same illness.

The girl leaned closer. “In truth, sir, the staff has taken to wonderin’ if he’s even alive any longer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“A few nights ago, just before Lord Ranulf returned from Scotland, a large state coach pulls up and they made to bundle the guest into it. So he could rusticate, says Mrs. Armitage and Mr. Timms, the butler. Only the fellow got into a rare state of rage. He tore out of the coach and ran off into the night. No one saw him return.”

Winston handed the maid his card. “Give this to Mr. Timms. I shall talk to him and Mrs. Armitage now, if they have a moment.” And if they didn’t, he’d talk to them anyway.

The maid eyed the card as if it were poisoned. She licked her dry lips quickly. “Sir…” A noise from within the house made her jump and her breath shorten. When she spoke again, it was a rush of words. “They won’t answer you. Not truthfully. It isn’t allowed.”

“Even to the CID?”

A sheen of perspiration was apparent on her brow. “Most especially to them.” She glanced over her shoulder and tensed. “I’ve got to go now.”

He wanted to push but knew it would be futile. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, as his superiors liked to say. He started to put his notebook back in his pocket but stilled, a cold realization washing over him as his mind played back what the maid had told him. “I’m sorry, but you say you’ve repeated this all before?”

“Aye.” She nodded vigorously, her mobcap in danger of falling down. “To the gentleman who was just here.” Her brown eyes narrowed. “Come to think on it, he said he was a Yard man as well.” She shook her head as if pitying. “You fellows really ought to get your chores straight now, hadn’t you?”

Chapter Nineteen

When the light of the sun crested over the sharp edges of London’s horizon, Ian went down to breakfast. The slight quickening of Daisy’s breathing told him she would soon wake, and he didn’t want her to find him sitting outside of her door, guarding as he had done for the remainder of the night. Already, she was withdrawing from him. He did not blame her, but given the fact that a werewolf had nearly killed them both, he had to find a way to keep her with him. Blasted, hardheaded woman would probably fight him at every step.

Try as he might, he could not block out the memories of Daisy’s eyes when he had come to his senses last night. On a groan, Ian sank his head into his hands and shuddered. Christ, he had lost control. He could not blame the drug entirely. He’d scented her fear. Mixed with the luscious perfume of her flesh, it had been irresistible.

“Jesus.” He swallowed several times, fearing he would be ill. His hands were steady as he looked at them, but inside he shook. He’d seen his hands changing during his fight with the were. Too far. Nails had turned to claws, long and deadly, bones had distorted, fur taking over skin.

Control. It was a lycan’s curse. All that inner power, and yet the constant struggle to keep the wolf in check. He had failed last night, too driven by rage over the werewolf and too desperate to touch what he should not.

Daisy. She’d looked at him as if he were a monster. And she would be right. In his youth, he had reveled in his wolf, drawing it out until they were nearly one. A deadly dance to be sure. Such power and wildness. Ian blinked down at his hands. The longer he remained in Daisy’s presence, the more he felt.

Inside, his wolf whined, a placating sound, as if to remind Ian of what they once were and how good it felt to have that strength pushed to the limit. A helpless laugh left him. Aye, but he loved the beast, and that was the stink of it. Love and hate. Two sides of the same coin.

He caught her fragrance, warm, clean, and lush, just before he heard the slight swish of her skirts on the stairs. A ghost of a smile haunted his lips. She would never be able to catch him unaware. He had her scent now, as surely as if he owned it. The smile faltered when she entered the room, because while he might have her scent, he would never have her. Manners and honor demanded that he rise and greet her, and yet he could barely make his limbs obey. He did not want to see the disgust and fear in her eyes again.

“Good morning.” His words sounded thick, as though filtered through water, and he fought for a lighter tone. “Would you care for breakfast?”