Moonglow (10 page)

“And this werewolf that attacked Alex”—Daisy’s voice pulled to a thin whisper, her milky skin going the color of whey—“you called him mad, but aren’t they all?”

“Not in this way.” He felt the weight of his words as he spoke them. “His scent is heavy with sickness. I fear that it makes him even more unstable.”

“I smelled the sickness in him as well. A rotten scent.”

She never failed in surprising him.

“Aye,” he said.

Daisy nibbled on her bottom lip. “There is one thing I do not understand. We both smelled illness on the
werewolf. How can that be if you are all immortal? One would think sickness doesn’t affect you.”

Ian reached for her mug and took another drink. “Lycan do not become immortal until we reach physical maturation. Until then, we are as mortal as you. We can get sick…” The mug in his hand rattled as he set it down. “We can die. If one was to contract a degenerative disease beforehand”—Ian shrugged—“our makeup is such that the change into becoming full lycan would not destroy the disease, only slow its tide. The disease would be working on this
were’s
body, slowly breaking him down. Unfortunately, that doesn’t lessen the
were’s
strength, but simply makes the beast’s behavior more erratic.”

She moved to take a hasty sip of ale but set the cup back down when she found it empty. Her hands wrapped around the pewter mug as if to keep them still. “So where do we go from here?”

“As I said before, you will stay with me so that I may protect you.”

Daisy sat back abruptly. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” he said. “Have you not heard a word I’ve been saying?”

“I heard every word, Northrup.”

His mouth was hanging open for he could not fathom her resistance. “Surely you can understand that you need protection.”

“Of course, I understand. Only I don’t see why
you
have to be the one to protect me.”

There were a few tempting oaths he’d like to shout, but he bit them back and went to the heart of the matter. “Are you afraid of me? Is that your worry?”

Daisy was silent for a moment, nibbling at the corner of her lip as she considered, but when she spoke, she looked
directly at him. “Well, you would know I was lying if I denied feeling fear when you told me.”

He gave a short nod and she continued. “But looking at you, and sitting with you now, I don’t feel afraid.” She shook her head slightly, and a small, self-deprecating laugh escaped her. “I suppose I must be daft”—her blue gaze grew sharp“—for annoyance is the most prevalent emotion I feel when I am around you.”

“Annoyance I can live with,” he said, hoping that he wasn’t grinning like a fool. “Come along then, we’ll go and collect your things.”

This time it was Daisy who caught ahold of his sleeve. “That was a lovely attempt, Northrup, but I’ll not be managed by you.”

He sat back with a grunt and ran a hand through his hair. “What is your objection then? What fool notion is it, for I’m sorely tempted to throw you over my shoulder and haul you off without further discussion.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He simply raised a brow, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest as if the action could somehow stop him. “Are you worried about your reputation?” he asked.

“Posh,” she said with a snort. “My reputation had been reduced to tatters long before you came sniffing around. Craigmore made certain of that.” Despite her bravado, her golden brows knitted as if the memory pained her.

Craigmore sounded like an ass.

“Well,” Ian said in satisfaction. “Then we needn’t resort to complicated subterfuge. Society will simply presume you are my mistress for the season.”

Her nose wrinkled as if she’d scented something foul. “Such is man’s logic. Has it not occurred to you that I’d rather not be thought of as your mistress?”

“You could do a lot worse!” Hell, the bloody woman could twist a conversation. Unable to help himself, he caught her hand again, not precisely caring what she thought of his need to touch her. “I would say we are fairly comfortable in the other’s presence. At least enough to spend a couple of weeks together.” She looked so aghast that he smiled grimly. “Maybe less if we’re lucky.”

“Well, that
is
comforting.” She rolled her eyes and pulled at her hand.

“It should be,” he said, not letting go. “Perhaps I need to make a few things clear. I am a lycan. Which means I have a superior sense of smell, hearing, and sight.” He inclined his head toward the bar. “Thus, I can hear your man Clemens over there berating his serving wench for not watering down the gin.”

Daisy’s gaze shot past his shoulder, no doubt seeing Clemens leaning over some woman named Alice as he grumbled on about lost revenue. Daisy’s lips compressed in stubborn refusal.

“I heal quickly and have the strength and agility equivalent to five men.” Ten when he was in top form, though he was getting closer to that once more. Every day that he let his wolf have more freedom, his strength grew.

At this, however, Daisy did scoff. With his free hand, he clasped the pewter mug between them and crumpled it. The ball of metal wobbled about as he let it go. Ian but took a small bit of pleasure in seeing the way her eyes went wide and her pretty mouth fell open.

“It is my duty to protect those under threat of my own kind. You, my dear, are under threat. It is that simple.”

She made what sounded suspiciously like a snort. “I shall hire guards until you hunt the beast down.” Her expression went wry. “I assume with all your boasting,
you can do that, yes?” Her gaze strayed to her wrist where he held her tight. She tugged again, harder. “Now, let me go, Northrup.”

The devil. “No.”

She glared daggers at him. “This is your revenge isn’t it? Systematic torture disguised as good intentions.”

“Torture is it?” He made a sound of annoyance. “To see you carry on… Do you think it is my driving ambition to play nanny to an unwilling woman? To one who thinks so poorly of me?”

She had the grace to blush and lower her lids, but she did not protest his claim.

“Let me get this clear. You’d rather cling to that stubborn resistance and get your fool head murdered than listen to reason and stay with me. Is that it? Well, hell, why don’t I wring your neck now and save us all a great deal of time and trouble?”

“Why you… you… ass!”

It was too easy to deflect her kick under the table. He grinned wide. “Temper, temper. You wouldn’t want to hurt your protector.”

Daisy Craigmore, while having a most angelic countenance, could glare bloody murder quite well. “I don’t like you.”

He pulled her close, forcing her to lean into him. “Like has nothing to do with it. I’m watching over you until this thing is done, Daisy-Meg. You’ll not fight me on this, or you’ll see how great a pest I can be.”

W
inston Lane was accustomed to being lied to. Even the innocent tended to shrink away from his direct gaze, as if they felt the need to protect secrets he truly had no care to uncover. Lies, evasion, distrust, such was the environment in which a police inspector dwelled. Lies he understood and recognized immediately.

The Lords Northrup and Archer were lying to him. They knew things about this case that he did not. He could feel it in his bones. And the female victims were the key. Lord Northrup had been particularly keen to study the females. Most especially Miss Mary Fenn’s clothing. Northrup had smelled them; Winston was sure of it. He’d seen the man’s nostrils flare, as an animal scents for danger. Most curious. Why had he done so? What had he discovered?

With a suppressed sigh, Winston eyed the hostile woman before him, a birdlike creature who likely held onto every farthing that passed her way. “Mrs. Marple, would you say Mary Fenn was a proficient worker?”
According to Mary Fenn’s mother, the proprietress of Marple’s Millinery worked her daughter to exhaustion. Not a surprise, really. However, it was an easy enough question to establish if Mrs. Marple was going to lie.

“Fair enough.” She scratched at her sleeve. “Showed up on time, did her work, though her bonnets tended to be overdone on the flowers.” She gestured to the rows of bonnets lying in a profusion of color on the shelves behind her. “Costly, silk flowers. Better to fill in with wax fruit and the like.”

Beside him, his partner Sheridan made a sound of basic male annoyance, the rudiments of female fashion being beyond his ken or interest. Winston cut him a glance before forging on. “And you found her character beyond reproach?”

Mrs. Marple’s eyes darted between Sheridan and himself, figuring out the angles, wondering what he wanted of her. A dicey thing, questioning the witness. Phrase it the wrong way and you led them to answer with information that sought to please, which wasn’t necessarily the truth. Put the thing too bluntly and they might turn on you and close up like a lockbox. Step, turn, guide, release, one danced through an interrogation.

“Wouldn’t hire a girl with poor character, now would I?”

“Certainly not.”

“However,” interjected Sheridan, “if you had without knowing, what is a gentlewoman to do?”

Mrs. Marple bristled at that. “Why, turn her out, of course!”

“Even if it meant losing a highly proficient employee?” Winston asked, pushing just a bit.

“See here.” She took a step closer, her bony hand raised in ire. “Having a suitor doesn’t make a girl untoward.”

“Miss Fenn had a suitor?” Winston already knew this from interviewing the mother. A Mr. Thomas James, mild-mannered accounting clerk.

Mrs. Marple blinked. “Only saw him the once. He came by to say a word of hello last week during luncheon. Mary said they were engaged to be married. I heard he dealt in perfumes. Created them, I believe. Mary was quite proud of the scent he’d last given her.”

Sheridan stood straighter as did he. Mr. Thomas had not been a perfumer. “Could you describe the man you saw?”

Again her eyes darted between them. “Why?”

Winston’s gaze didn’t waver. “The description, if you please, Mrs. Marple.”

“He didn’t come in the shop. I only saw the back of him from afar as she met him on the corner.” Mrs. Marple pointed to the shadowy corner that turned into an alley.

Winston could not quite keep the surprise out of his expression, and the woman flushed. “What harm was it to let them meet alone? She was a good Christian, Mary was.” The woman went back to scratching her arm. “Why, to accept the suit of a cripple, she’d nearly been a saint.”

Crippled? Mr. Thomas was certainly not crippled. Winston gave a nod of encouragement as if it were all old news to him. He prayed Sheridan would do the same. Thankfully, the lad was learning. “Heard it was true love,” Sheridan chimed in.

“What else could it be?” Mrs. Marple’s worn face eased, a dreamy expression coming into her eyes that made Sheridan cringe. “To overlook such a twisted and hunched figure, it had to be true love.”

“Indeed,” Winston said. Frustration pulled this way
and that within his belly. The damage done to the victims was the work of a man with incredible strength. He couldn’t imagine a cripple capable of doing the deed.

He gave the woman a tight smile and thanked her for her time. He and Sheridan were halfway out the door when her voice stopped them.

“You might try talking to Miss Lucy Montgomery,” she said. “She was Mary’s closest friend. Thick as thieves, they were. She works as a maid in some great lord’s household. Ranulf House if I remember correctly.”

A lead was a lead. Winston touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you, madam.”

Her face was tight. “Just find the mad man who did this. No girl deserves to die that way.”

Winston thought of his sister-in-law Daisy. Resolve tightened in his chest. Nothing would stop him from finding the fiend.

Despite Northrup’s rather dire claim that he would harass her into compliance, Daisy saw neither hide nor hair of him the following morning. True, there had been a moment last night in which she thought she saw his shadow lurking under the street lamp by her townhome, but the figure was gone as soon as she leaned closer to her window, and she couldn’t be sure it was him. She supposed she ought to have been alarmed at that sight, but it had brought a reluctant smile to her lips. Now, however, she felt mildly irritated that he was absent, and
that
irritated her as well. The blasted man. Had he played up the danger in an attempt to frighten her? Revenge, perhaps, for being treated as a fool by her the other night? Surely if it were truly dangerous, he’d be dogging her every step?

Whatever the case, she wasn’t one to sit around and
wait for this beast to be caught. She ordered the coach brought round.

Number 98 James Street housed Florin, one the most famous perfumers in the world. For a time, Daisy’s father had provided Florin with the exotic oils and essences used to create their heavenly concoctions. This trade brought about her love of perfume. However, it was her special talent that made her intimately acquainted with the shop.

A crisply dressed shop clerk hurried out to greet her, offering a hand down from her coach. After gently ushering her inside, he assumed his post by the glass-paneled doors, poised and on the alert for the next shopper.