“Believe me, sister,” Daisy said darkly, “I’ve had need to defend myself before now.” Oh, what she would have given to have used this power when Craigmore had lived.

“That is true,” Poppy said. “But you’ve a sunny, caring nature, dear, despite your efforts to shock.”

Daisy resisted the urge to squirm, but Poppy continued in her maddeningly pragmatic tone. “Surely there were some signs?”

Daisy thought on it. “Craigmore loved orchids,” she said slowly. “Somehow, they always died, immediately. Shriveled up in their pots. And then there was the ivy.” She bit back an evil smile. “Remember how thickly it grew over our house? It covered Craigmore’s study windows no matter how many times the gardener tried to rein it in.” Daisy laughed lightly. “I remember thinking, ‘Good, grow so thick that he never sees sunlight.’ And it did.”

She sighed. “But nothing like what happened last night.”

“Many elementals do not manifest their powers unless someone they love or care for deeply is in danger,” Poppy said.

Again, two sets of eyes pinned her to the spot with their piercing stares. Her cheeks heated.

“You were defending Northrup,” Miranda said in a hollow voice. “Do you… you couldn’t possibly…”

“Care for him?” Daisy supplied, with a tinge of bitterness. “Would it be so very surprising? He is kind and charming. Never mind that he was being torn apart, his flesh cut to shreds because he was keeping me safe.” Her chin lifted a touch. “Is it so very wrong of me to want to protect him? To feel gratitude?”

Miranda’s eyes remained watchful. “Is it gratitude? Or are you falling in love with the man?”

Daisy crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not see why it would concern you if I was, which I am not.”

“Because he will break your heart. Likely, he is toying with you to—” Her mouth snapped shut, a look of horrified embarrassment widening her lovely eyes.

“To make you jealous,” Daisy finished for her. She hated saying the words aloud, but they were hovering in the air between them regardless. “After all, why would he want me when he’s seen you?”

Miranda paled. “I never said that, or thought it. I only meant that he has a history of dallying with women.”

“No, sister, it was precisely what you meant.” Daisy drew away from the table and stood on weak limbs. Her throat was beginning to hurt most dreadfully. “I cannot fault you for thinking so. You are quite the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Why should Northrup want another?”

Daisy held no illusions as to her own appeal. She was pretty, very pretty. But her attractiveness was, as her husband had constantly reminded her, common, lusty. She’d never told a soul how she’d overheard Craigmore offering for Miranda and being forced to make do with her when her father refused to part with his favored daughter. I wanted the beauty, and I got the barmaid, good for nothing more than being passed around. Why should Northrup think any different?

“Daisy,” Miranda said softly, “don’t say that. I simply do not trust his motives. I never have. He did everything he could to drive a wedge between me and Archer.”

“I cannot speak to Northrup’s actions in regards to you and Archer.” Daisy gathered her parasol and gloves. She needed to leave. The garden was too small, too overladen with damned flora thanks to her. “But I do know this. The man you do not trust saved my life, repeatedly. And suffered for it. Might we give him that small credit?”

Miranda’s lips pursed but she gave Daisy a stiff nod.

Daisy took a breath and stood. “He has been a friend to me.” The word “friend” felt wrong on her tongue but she forged on. “I’m not falling in love. I may act foolish now and again, but I’m not a fool.” A lie, because she knew she was the worst sort of fool.

“All right,” Ian said when he could no longer keep himself from asking the question, “where is she?”

It irked him that he had to ask Talent. It irked him that he’d woken up in his bed alone. He’d had plans. Plans that included sinking into a soft, warm woman blessed with a particularly tart tongue. After returning late in the night to slip back into bed with her, it had been the only thought on his mind, and he’d fancied she would finally be compliant. Ah, well, the best laid schemes and all of that.

Talent slanted him a glance as he helped Ian into his morning coat. Despite the growing craze for the sack suit, neither man found the cut appealing. The shapeless style had no elegance about it. In that, at least, they were of an accord. On other things, however…

“She has ensnared Tuttle in her little web,” said Talent shortly. “They set out at daybreak. To where I cannot say.” Or care. The rest of the sentiment was clearly written over his expressive face.

Ian craned his head around. “With Tuttle?” Two women out alone with that beast on the loose. He tensed, ready to stalk out of the house and hunt the blasted woman down. Perhaps take Daisy over his knee. The thought held appeal in more ways than one. The woman had the most lusciously round arse…

“Hold your water.” Talent adjusted the line of the suit shoulders. “They took Seamus with them.”

Ian grunted. Seamus was a strong lad. All right, a brute. Easily six and a half feet of pure muscle and speed, the lycan stable master was as good protection, if not better, than Talent. Tension eased a bit in Ian’s gut. They’d be safe with Seamus.

But the scowl remained as Talent fussed about with his cravat. Ian’s skin itched and felt too tight for his frame. He couldn’t credit it entirely to the healing. She was out of his sight and he…

He didn’t like it.

“Did they say when they would return?”

At this, Talent’s open features pulled into a sneer of disgust. “Henpecked already, are we?”

Ian could only grin. What did a boy know of it? Only a boy would view anticipation as a trap. Despite various aches and pains that lingered, Ian felt a certain lightness in his chest. So she hadn’t been there in the morning. There was always later. Always that taut pang that hit him the moment they set their eyes on each other. Always that catch of his breath right before he took her in his arms.

Ought a man ignore such pleasures simply because the rest of the world was falling down around him? After nearly a century of being numb, he rather thought not. He deserved a bit of pleasure, damn it all.

Talent gave Ian’s sleeve a tug that was a tad too efficient, and Ian turned his attention back to him.

“You don’t like her.”

Talent’s shoulders hunched as he kept about his business.

Ian laughed and inspected the sets of cufflinks lined up in their case like good little soldiers. “Admit it. You’ll be no use to me until you do.” A set of garnet studs winked in the sunlight. Perfect. “I won’t have you brooding when there’s work to be done.”

Talent swatted Ian’s hand away from the studs and plucked up a pair of gold- and-black-enamel links, stylized into small skulls. “Gems for night. Gold for day.” Deftly he took hold of Ian’s cuff and pinned a skull in place. “She’s a distraction.”

“Of course she is,” Ian said. “The best sort.”

“Look what trouble that’s given you so far,” his valet muttered. Ian knew that Talent liked his life set up in well-ordered categories, and one should never bleed into the other.

Ian’s hand dropped, and the other was grabbed. “You don’t like anyone who takes attention away from you,” Ian countered. “Had you your way, the whole household would revolve around your dramas. I’ve never seen a vainer man pretend to be so humble.”

Talent snorted. “You possess a mirror, eh?” Ian had to concede the point as Talent brusquely began brushing his coat.

“Be one thing if you’d tup her and have done with it.” The brush whacked his shoulder. “Instead, you’re having conversations.” Talent drew the word out as if tasting something foul. “An’ walking around like a barmy nabob with your head in the clouds and a grin on your face.”

Another whack found him between the shoulder blades. “What’s it done but bring trouble to our door. You could have taken all four of those wolves without breaking a sweat, were it not for worrying over her. Let’s be done with her, I say. Get her out of the house and—”

Ian caught Talent’s wrist midstrike. “I believe we can both concede that my propensity for picking up strays has yet to be regrettable.” He let his gaze bore into the lad’s. “Pray, do not give me cause to think different.”

The young man’s eyes narrowed into green slits, and Ian leaned in a touch. “Whatever your feelings for Daisy may be, put them away. You will watch over her as instructed.” He did not bother to add a consequence for failure. There was no need. The thing was either done or it was not.

Talent held his gaze for a second more and then broke it. “Talking like a proper gent again, are we?” When Ian let him go, Talent straightened his own cuffs with care.

Ian grabbed his walking stick and headed for the door.

“Least you’re thinking clearly now,” Talent said. At that he trailed off with more mutterings under his breath.

Pausing to inspect his form in the mirror, Ian remarked more from idleness than true curiosity, “Hmm?”

“I said she’s right about one thing,” Talent answered in an overloud voice. “You get your c**k up and your Scots goes hanging out in the wind. Pretty soon, all one’ll have to do is look for The Saltire flapping over your daft head, and your brother will know when to strike!”

Ian gave the boy a warning glare before striding out of the room. But Talent’s irritating voice chased him down.

“She makes you weak, Ian!”

Chapter Twenty-six

Death lived in this dark alley. Winston could smell it long before he approached. A London Particular had drummed up early in the morning, and now the fog was thick as pudding and just as murky, despite the noonday sun that must be burning overhead. Their lamps did little more than reflect the light back into their eyes, turning the fog around them into a living, writhing thing. So they turned them down low and stumbled along.

They ought to have turned back, or perhaps have waited until the fog lifted, but the chase was upon them, and Winston sensed its end. He needed to see this done.

Even so, he pulled out his revolver and had it at the ready as they drew closer.

Sheridan’s voice was a thin echo in the murk. “We ought to have brought backup.”

“Mmm.”

The dark outline of a building emerged, its windows and door shut tight against visitors. From there came the foul, overwhelming stench of rot, of death.

“I know that smell, sir.”

Unfortunately, Winston did too.

“A body’s in there.” The younger man moved closer to Winston’s side.

“Mmm.”

Was it Ned Montgomery’s, a man otherwise known as the perfumer? Word on the street had it that the perfumer hadn’t been seen in at least a week. Was it he inside? Or one of his victims?

Backtracking, prodding, and pondering had finally brought to light that the man had a personal connection with both the victim Mary Fenn and the missing Lucy Montgomery.

The scuffle of Winston’s shoes sounded overloud in the quiet. Somewhere beyond came the steady drip of water and the discordant strains of a violin perhaps. Sheridan’s breath chuffed at his ear.

“Doesn’t feel right, sir. Feels like a trap, it does.”

Cold danced up Winston’s spine at the words, and the feeling of being watched oiled over him. His fingers tensed around the gun.

“Mmm.”

“ ‘Mmm’?” Sheridan glowered at him, no more than a bit of eyes and a flattened mouth in the swirling stew of fog that danced over them. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

Winston held up a hand for silence, his eyes searching the alleyway from whence they’d come. Mud-brown fog seemed to part and close as though breathing them in. His ears filled with the sound of his pounding heart and each labored breath he took.

Slowly, he cocked his gun, the click like a thunderclap in the quiet. Beside him, Sheridan moved to do the same when a figure burst through the fog, a snarl of rage igniting sheer terror in Winston’s gut even as the thing slammed into them.

Sheridan’s shout was cut short, his copper-bright head snapping back as he flew into the side of the old shack. The wall cracked on impact. Winston went tumbling, a shot going off wild and wide.

Scrambling back on his ass, he lifted his gun to aim. A blur came at him, dark and hulking, and then white-hot pain sliced through his cheek with one blow. The gun clattered to the ground. Blood poured into his mouth, filling his nose. He retched, his arm coming up in defense as another blow fell, cutting him to the bone.

Screams. He heard his own. His world slowed to jerks and thumps upon his body as the thing came at him. Through the blood, he saw it: the long jaws, flashing fangs, hands half human, half beast. A wolf. And a man.

Werewolf.

The word popped into Winston’s head like a nightmare as he slammed down against the wet, packed mud of the alley. The beast lunged. A killing blow, its mouth open wide with fangs and fetid breath, ready to tear his throat out.

And then there was only air.

The form of a man was before him, grasping hold of the beast with inhuman strength. In a haze of red blood, Winston saw the man lift the beast high and toss it. A yelp rang out and another as the man moved off, the sound of him beating back the beast clear, despite the ringing in Winston’s ears.