Moonglow (37 page)

Mary Chase’s luminous eyes took in his struggle, and she lowered her lids as if in sympathy. “I believe so.”
Her rosebud mouth opened to continue but she suddenly stiffened.

Ian turned to watch Talent walk onto the terrace. He’d been aware of Talent drawing near but hadn’t thought that Mary Chase would realize it so quickly as well. GIMs did not possess the lycan’s superior sense of smell. His curiosity grew as Talent skidded to a stop upon seeing her.

His valet’s face twisted in an ill-disguised sneer of disgust. “You.”

Mary Chase’s expression remained serene. “Yes, me. How observant you are, Mr. Talent.”

Dark clouds gathered over Talent’s countenance. Any moment now the lad would go off. Ian didn’t understand the animosity between them. As far as he knew, they’d met only twice before, and on both occasions hadn’t exchanged more than two words, but Ian needed to hear information, not play nanny to bickering children. “Your news, if you please, Miss Chase.”

Mary inclined her head in that floating manner of hers. “Last night, Lyall and Conall talked about the werewolf and Ian Ranulf. I could not get too close, but I heard them say they were going to address the problem tonight.”

“How?” Talent asked.

She flicked him an irritated glance but looked to Ian when she answered. “I don’t know what they plan to do, but they are going to Buckingham Palace.”

Ian straightened. “That little bugger.”

The palace was abandoned and so large and isolated by its massive grounds that the howls of a werewolf might go unnoticed.

“They are set to go at midnight,” Mary said.

“Then we will go there before they can move him.”

“You can’t be thinking about trusting her.” Talent’s scowl twisted. “She’s an unholy body thief.”

Mary Chase bristled. “And you? Whose identity do you steal when you think no one is looking?”

Talent went as white as paper and then five shades of red, but he got ahold of himself and turned his back on her. “Sir,” he said to Ian, “let me take you in. If it is a trap, at least I’ll be there to help you.”

“I need you to watch over Daisy.” Talent frowned, and Ian placed a hand upon the lad’s shoulder, for he knew the tenderness of a man’s pride. “I’m leaving you to watch my heart, Jack.”

The lad appeared a bit mollified but Mary Chase’s expression made it clear what she thought of Talent’s assignment, and the color was soon rising once more up Talent’s neck. Ian stepped between them before any more squabbles broke out.

“The
were
dies tonight.” A surge of adrenaline lit over him at the idea. “When we are done there, I am going for Conall.”

“As you wish, Ranulf.” Mary Chase left the terrace in a delicate swirl of skirts and flowing hair.

“I don’t trust her,” Talent muttered as he watched her go.

But Ian’s mind was on other things. Such as how the hell he was going to take down the
were.
And what he was going to do with Daisy.

Back in his cage. The wolf cowered in the corner of it, as far away as he could get from the stink of his waste that spilled across the floor. They didn’t clean the cage anymore. Didn’t give him drugs to numb the pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. A chant that went through his head as he slammed his aching skull against the walls.

“Stop.”

The wolf lunged at the bars, his teeth snapping, claws raking against the thick iron in an effort to get to the lycan. But the man danced back with a laugh. Taunting fuck.

“Temper, lad.”

Lad. The lycan called him that when the wolf had been a man. The man inside the wolf surged to the skin for a moment, screaming his hate and rage as well. He hated the lycan, too.

The lycan’s grin widened. “Ah, your rage is a glorious thing. Yet you aim it at the wrong man. Have you not been kept safe all these years? Safe from execution? Hell, you’ve even had a woman, as deformed as you are.”

His woman. The man inside the wolf cried out in sorrow.

“Your clan cared for you.” The lycan stepped near, his eyes flashing. “When he was the one that put you in the grave!”

The wolf whined, his legs wobbling beneath him. Buried in the dark. Hardwood coffin above his head. His fingers worn to the bone as he clawed his way out, through the wood and earth. Agony knifed into his skull, and he howled.

“Ah, yes, you’re remembering a bit of it, aren’t you?” The lycan’s voice turned soothing. “Remembering how he left you behind. How he went on with his life, let your mother rot, as if she was nothing, until she too faded away.”

Dizziness threatened. He remembered the lycan with the blue eyes. A calm voice. Safety. Comfort. Home. The man inside wanted to remember. But the wolf did not. The wolf ground his head into the stone wall, letting the pain lance him and take away the memories, as the man raged and rattled about within the wolf’s brain.

“And now he has your woman. Likely he’s fucking her right now.”

Man and wolf went wild, slamming as one into the bars. The wolf’s bones cracked. Blood flowed, his fangs scraping iron and tasting it on his tongue. And the lycan just laughed.

“Soon, Maccon. Soon ye can have yer revenge.”

Daisy made her visit when she knew Miranda was out consoling Poppy, who was distraught over Winston’s withdrawal. Otherwise, Daisy would not be able to face this.

Although she wasn’t expected, her brother-in-law received her immediately.

“Daisy.” Archer’s silvery eyes traveled over her face in concerned assessment. “Are you well?”

Nerves swarmed like angry bees within Daisy’s belly as she clutched the ends of her cloak. “That is the problem, Archer. I’m not sure.”

His handsome face darkened. “Is it Northrup? Has he done something to upset you?”

She rather thought Ian would be in for another thrashing should she answer yes. A wobbling smile touched her lips, for despite his taciturn demeanor, Archer cared for her like a brother. “No, nothing like that. Ian is… He is good to me, Archer.”

Some of the tension left Archer as he nodded, sending a thick, black curl falling over his brow. “I never thought I’d say this, but I am glad.” The edges of his mouth pinched as though he fought to keep from speaking. “He was my closest friend, you know. Once upon a time.”

Archer scowled down at his hand, and she wondered if he was remembering when he’d been altered, half man, half demon. Miranda had loved him regardless, and
Daisy could see why. He was loyal and honest. A good man.

“Ian has changed,” he said. “I see in him the man he was before.”

“If he ever lets himself swallow his pride,” she said, suppressing her sad smile, “I think he would ask to be your friend once more.” God, she hoped it was true.

Archer made a masculine noise of ambivalence, designed, she supposed, to make her think he didn’t care. Unfortunately, she needed him to care, for Ian’s sake. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe past the pain and terror that clutched her heart.

“He’ll need you, Archer,” she said when she could speak. “Even if he won’t admit it, he will.”

His head shot up, his eyes alert and worried. “Tell me why you are here, sister.”

With a shaking breath, she unclasped her cloak. Daisy swallowed hard. “I need you to look at something. In a professional capacity,” she added when Archer’s eyes widened.

His expression turned to stone, and she knew he was hardening his heart, much as she prepared to do. When he spoke, his voice was calm, authoritative. “Let us go to my library.”

W
hat are you reading?” Daisy asked a silent, dour Northrup, who thumbed through a small leather notebook as they sat in a small corner table at the Plough and Harrow, where they had stopped to take supper.

She could not think of him as Ian when he was like this. Not when he brooded like a stranger. Soon after she’d returned from Archer’s house, Ian’s manner had changed. Just as thoroughly as his donning of new clothes. So thoroughly, in fact, she had not been able to summon the courage to tell him what she must.

Although polite and attentive when need be, Ian was distant now, avoiding her gaze and fidgeting as though his skin were too tight for his frame. It was he who had suggested they dine out. “Out” being among people and away from the threat of privacy, and the bedroom, she supposed bitterly.

She swallowed down the ball of hurt that seemed lodged in her throat. Had he regretted proposing to her? Perhaps it was for the best. She needed to tell him…
Terror rushed over her so quick and cold that her breath hitched. Her fists bore down on the scarred wood of the table.

“Well?” she pressed, if only to speak and not cry. Later. She would think about the future later. “Are you going to respond? What do you have there?”

Northrup’s wide shoulders hunched as far as his perfectly cut coat would let them. “Winston Lane’s notebook.”

“Ian! You can’t steal Winston’s notebook.”

His brows furrowed as he read. “It appears that I can and did, luv.” His fingers tapped an idle beat as the scowl on his face grew.

“It’s amoral to steal from an invalid.”

He made a noise but did not look up. “It’s amoral to let a man’s attacker go free, too. I should think the ends justify the means here.”

“Bosh.” Daisy sat back, her chair scraping a bit on the wood floor from the force. Around her was the happy laughter of men drinking at the bar and the warm scent of good food. Usually, the familiar pub was a balm when her nerves were frayed. Tonight, it served only to exacerbate her upset. She pointed to the battered notebook.

“What is in there that has caught your undivided attention? May we start with that?”

Daisy did not believe for one moment whatever it was had him in this mood. It was her. A war of emotions played over his face as they stared at each other from across the divide of the table. Fear, yearning, and frustration flickered in his gaze. His knuckles stood out bone white against the worn wood, and as much as she longed to cover his hand with hers, she did not. Not when she knew in her belly that she was the cause of his current torment.

Finally, he blinked and let go of a breath with a long sigh. “Lane was attacked at the perfumer’s shack. They found Lane’s assistant, John Sheridan, at the scene. According to these notes, Lane discovered that the perfumer was a Mr. Ned Montgomery, who, incidentally, was secretly engaged to Miss Mary Fenn, the first known victim of the werewolf.”

“Ah, so the perfumer is our killer.”

“No. The perfumer is most likely the chap we found in the shack.”

Daisy repressed a huff of annoyance. “You’re not making very much sense, you know.”

“If you’d let me explain, I might.” Northrup ignored her glare, but she saw the wry humor in his expression as he thumbed the edge of the notebook. “The perfumer had a sister, Miss Lucy Montgomery.” Northrup’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Aside from being Ned’s sister, Miss Lucy was also employed as a nursemaid at Ranulf House. It isn’t a far stretch to assume that she had been nursing a lycan plagued with syphilis.” The gleam grew deadly. “My bastard brother has been lying to me.”

“It might be a coincidence. Perhaps Conall isn’t involved at all.” Daisy knew that no matter what Ian said, the notion of killing his brother ate at his heart.

“And what of the stickpin?” Northrup countered.

“Perhaps someone nicked that stickpin from him.”

“Nicked?” Northrup repeated with a repressed smile. For a breath-stealing moment, his blue eyes warmed and her insides fluttered, but he shook his head as if to clear it, and the connection was broken. “A nice thought,” he said with his silk- and-gravel voice.

“Well, could it be yours? Maybe someone
nicked
it from you.”

He didn’t laugh at her tease. “No, lass. My stickpin is long gone.” A shadow of grief fell across his face. “I buried it with my son.”

She touched him then, because she couldn’t bear not to any longer. His hand was warm beneath her palm. “Maybe it isn’t that stickpin at all, but one that resembles it. Victoria was crowned forty-six years ago,” she added when he shook his head. “It was so long ago, you can’t expect your memory to hold so well.”

His smile was wide and wolfish. “So you blame my faulty, old-man memory, do you?”

“You are not old.”

An amused snort filled the air between them. “I am going on one hundred and thirty-one.”

“That is different,” she said tartly.

“Oh?” His brows slanted upward, his smile shrewd. “How so?”

“You have the vigor and appearance of a man in his prime, as you well know, you arrogant bastard.” She tried to sound annoyed, but for the first time in the day, he was acting himself. She hadn’t realized how much she need his teasing, his joy,
him
.

Northrup’s white teeth flashed. “Yes, vigor is quite important, is it not?”

“Do be serious, Northrup.”

“Ian.”

“Ian,” she corrected, something inside of her squeezing tight.

His expression softened at the name, and she leaned closer, noting the way his nostrils flared and how the look in his eyes grew heated. She swallowed, her mouth dry. But the moment died when he spoke again. “Stickpin or not, have you an explanation for Miss Montgomery’s both
working at Ranulf House and being intimately associated with not only a victim but the perfumer?”