Shadowdance (18 page)

“Tell me,” he said.

Her cheek moved as she licked her lower lip. He nearly groaned but did not waver. “What do you see?”

“Pain.” The word shot from her lips. “Rage, fear.” She gasped. Jack eased his hold but wouldn’t let go. Her back touched his chest as she breathed. “And hurt.” Her voice was so small then. As if she didn’t want him to hear it. But he did. When she spoke again, the sound rang in the pained silence. “But the greatest component, the one that has never changed, is obstinacy.” Her silken hair dragged across his face as she turned her head slightly, not looking at him but making sure she was heard. “Your will is the strongest I’ve ever seen.”

He closed his eyes to fight the burn there. He needed to tell her everything. And then she’d be gone forever. Neither of them moved until he forced himself to speak. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

And then he fled. It wasn’t until later that he even wondered why she’d been spying on him.

C
risp air kissed Jack’s cheeks as he walked down a wide avenue that led into Mayfair. Darkness did not live here, but light. Clean houses lined up in a row, each black iron gate protecting a manicured front garden from unwanted visitors. Walking cleared Jack’s head and slowed his pulse.

Upon reflection, he was grateful that Chase had discovered him
en déshabillé
, as it were, instead of a quarter hour before. Likely she’d never have looked him in the eye again if she’d witnessed him tearing into Mercer Dawn. Jack scowled down at his dusty boots. It wasn’t Chase’s, or anyone else’s, business how he dealt with his pain. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, mate,” he muttered.

“Talking to yourself, Mr. Talent?” Lucien Stone stepped in front of him, blocking the narrow walkway.

Ever the dandy, Stone wore a dove-grey cashmere overcoat trimmed in ermine, and a grey silk top hat that would have better served as evening wear. Not that Jack would tell him so.

“What the devil do you want?” Jack was in no mood to trade quips with the sod.

Stone’s jewel-covered fingers tightened on his walking stick. “Mary Chase was nearly crushed by a freight car last night.”

Tell him something that he didn’t know. “You know, Stone, it occurs to me that you’re privy to everything that goes on in this city.”

Stone gave him a magnanimous nod.

“Which makes me wonder,” Jack went on, “why the bloody hell you don’t help out more? Oh, but I forgot, you let others do the dirty work while you hide away on your little boat.”

A sneer twisted Stone’s perfect features. “Careful, boy. I could kill you as easy as breathing.”

“Then do it,” Jack said. “Or sod off.” He moved to push past when Stone stepped forward.

It was the last straw. He slammed Stone into a garden wall. Stone’s teeth clacked, though he did not fight back, only glared with his glowing jade eyes. Jack pinned him, his forearm crushing the GIM’s windpipe. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

Stone grabbed hold of Jack’s wrist. Instantly, agonizing pain shot through his arm and down his side. Jack gritted his teeth as Stone pushed him off and leaned in close. “No.”

They stared at each other, each breathing hard in agitation. Jack stood a few inches taller, but Stone didn’t back down.

“Now that you are unfortunately partnered with Mary,” Lucien said, as he adjusted his lapels, “do not think to go back on your word.”

Jack clenched his fists to keep from pummeling Stone. “Wouldn’t cast you in a flattering light, would it?”

“Nor you.” Stone smoothed back a lock of his dark hair. “If you have an ounce of care for that woman, you’ll keep your mouth shut. For if she should learn—”

“She’d hate you too,” Jack interjected through his locked jaw.

“Not as much as she’d hate you.” Stone’s pitiless gaze held. “I’ll not have her unnecessarily hurt.”

“You ought to have thought of that before you laid out our little agreement.” Fucking bastard. Blackmail was more like it. Jack had had enough of it. Of everything.

Stone read this well, for he narrowed his gaze. “And should your family learn that you were with the Nex, have been for all these years?”

“Shut your fucking GIM mouth.” Hate coursed through Jack like hellfire. “You have no idea who or what I am—”

“And yet you’ve kept your
fucking
shifter mouth shut all these years, no?” Stone’s smile was tight. “So I’m thinking there is more than a kernel of truth to what I know.”

Jack’s shoulders met the rough wall behind him with a thud. Stone had him. For years he’d had his number. When Jack could speak, the wrong words emerged. “You have her. Always have. What more do you want?”

A wrinkle formed between Stone’s brows. “I want her safe.”

Jack laughed, hard and ugly. “Too late for that, mate.”

“Because of you.” Stone punched the center of Jack’s chest, where it felt hollow. The hollow feeling spread, and he couldn’t bring himself to punch back. Stone took the advantage. “You want to protect her, as I do? Then stay
away from her as I told you to do.” He took a step, and they were nose to nose. “Before you destroy her just as you do everything around you.”

For Mary, a Sunday roast was a lovely event that she, the only child of a woman who liked nothing better than to sleep away that particular day, would never experience. She wasn’t even certain when or where she’d heard of this mythical moment during which families got together to eat a grand feast and simply enjoy each other’s company. Perhaps she’d followed the scent of roast beef and pudding in the air one crisp autumn day to press her nose against a window. Or perhaps her nanny had espoused its glories. She didn’t remember. It was simply a clear picture left in her mind, one of happiness, warmth, and light.

Whatever the case, when Inspector Lane sought her out after Talent left her, and extended an invitation for Sunday lunch, Mary accepted. More out of shock than anything else.

“Excellent.” Lane’s eyes crinkled kindly at the corners. He touched her arm, a solicitous gesture that spoke of friendship and camaraderie, and yet Mary stiffened. Lane curbed the move but the damage was done. He’d noticed and was clearly chagrined. Mary cursed herself. She hadn’t meant to react; she was very fond of Inspector Lane. But the unexpected touch of a man’s hand had set off the immediate instinct of defense.

The air grew thick and awkward between them. More so when Inspector Lane merely gave her a soft smile. “I consider this visit progress, Mistress Chase.” He spoke so affably that one might never have known she’d insulted him. Mary inwardly cringed as they began to walk down the hall, and he continued speaking as though nothing
odd had occurred. “Soon we shall have you attending every Sunday.”

“Let us not be hasty, Inspector.” She wanted to smile, though, for his desire to include her in his family warmed that small, cold place that always felt like an outsider.

“Now, now, Mistress Chase,” Lane admonished, “I shall not be dissuaded. Mrs. Lane considers you one of us, and quite rightly.” He opened the outer doors for her and ushered her through, careful not to actually touch her. “Without your assistance, I might have lost my family.” Lane’s handsome and scarred face darkened for but a brief moment. He brightened again. “So as you can see,” he went on as if she understood him perfectly, which she did, “your presence is quite important.”

“Inspector, you do not have to feel obliged to—”

“And let us not forget Mrs. Ranulf,” interrupted Lane. “She’s been most vocal in her desire to see you at the family roast.” Lane glanced down at her, and his mouth twitched. “I needn’t tell you how persistent that woman can be once she has a bee in her bonnet.”

“No.” Mary’s own mouth twitched. “I am quite familiar, Inspector.”

Despite her gaffe, they shared a companionable trip to Lane’s home. When little Ellis Lane was born, the Lanes had moved from their small flat above their bookshop and into Mayfair, close to Poppy’s sisters. The house was not a mansion by any means, but cozy and lovely, with well-proportioned rooms and light-filled spaces. The kind of home Mary would pick for herself should she have a family.

Commotion ensued the moment she stepped inside the warm home, with Poppy coming up to buss her husband’s cheek before putting a fond hand upon Mary’s
arm in welcome. Daisy was far more boisterous, kissing all and sundry, and Ian Ranulf much the same, pulling Mary into a quick hug of hello before she could protest. It struck Mary anew how these people did not behave like
ton
, or even new gentry, but more like simple countryfolk. Laughter and affection ruled, as did the free discourse.

Mary bounced along the periphery of it all. The loveliness both repelled and charmed her. How could they be so happy and carefree? How could she not? She knew it wasn’t all roses for them. Only it felt as though it were, and she were the weed infiltrating their garden.

Nonsense really, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of her element. Mary pasted a tight half-smile upon her face as Daisy hooked her arm through hers and led Mary into the family parlor. The tight, queer feeling intensified within her. The house smelled of roasting beef and crackling fires. Everything glowed with golden lamplight, and nothing felt familiar.

A pair of dark-green eyes clashed with hers, and the world about her whooshed to silence.

She would have liked to tell herself she’d forgotten that Jack Talent was part of Lane’s family too. But it would have been a lie.

He sat hunched on a large sofa, his arms resting upon his bent knees. He looked up at her, his expression as impassive as ever, save for that hooded gaze, shining brightly by the light of the fire. Nature had painted him in bold, simple strokes. And he was immense. Simply sitting there, he felt too big for the space he occupied. As though a wrong move might crush the furniture beneath him. And he was glorious. To her.

Mary’s breath left in a shivery hiss. Heat and agitation
stroked the cage of her breast. As if he scented it, his gaze grew hazy, his mouth parting slightly as if to draw in more air, draw in more of her. Mary dug her nails deep into the flesh of her palms to remain still.

The strained silence between them grew, until Daisy let out a little huff. “Jack Talent, don’t just sit there like a clod. Get up and greet Miss Chase like a proper gentleman.”

His gaze flicked to Daisy and then back to Mary. And then he stood, a fluid motion that brought him up, up, up. So tall. And all that spectacular strength hidden beneath staid black suits. She could not take this. She needed to leave.

“You do realize, Daisy Ranulf, that I am only five years younger than you,” he said. “That you are not, in fact, my mother.” Talent turned his attention to Mary, and his smooth cream voice had a soft bite to it. “Roped you into it too, did they, Chase?”

Something within her eased. “I fear so, Talent.”

“Cheer up, angel.” The corners of his eyes creased and then came that grin, the one that made her knees wobble and her heart seize. “Sunday roast only comes once a week.”

As if she’d be there every Sunday. As if he’d accepted that fact. She found herself smiling back even as Daisy nattered on about cheeky ingrates.

It was all right then. It would be all right.

Hours later, filled and sated, the family drifted back into the large parlor to lounge about and talk of this and that. Mary found herself a comfortable chair and was content to simply watch. Better still, they left her to it.

“Ian, darling,” called Daisy, “Archer sends you his
regards.” Curled up on the overstuffed sofa, her feet tucked beneath her skirts, Daisy smiled as she read through the latest letter from Lord and Lady Archer. The couple was in Ireland, visiting a young man they’d learned was the Ellis women’s brother. Miranda had grown particularly close to him, as she and the youth shared the deadly ability to manipulate fire.

Ian strolled over, smiling a bit as he bent down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. “And what does the old stiff say?”

Daisy’s lips curled. “Mmm. Well, he says that Ireland is great sheep country, and that he has rounded up a nice bunch of fatted lambs for you to frolic with should the London fare become too bland.”

Inspector Lane gave out a great laugh. “Perhaps Daisy ought to knit you a fuzzy woolen jumper so that you might hide amongst them.”

“Now, darling,” Poppy said reproachfully, “be kind. You know very well Daisy detests knitting.”

“ ’Tis true,” Daisy agreed with a plump-cheeked grin. “But I am certain we could scrounge up a lambskin for Ian to use.”

“Cheeky arses the lot of you,” Ian muttered, then grinned. “Would serve Archer right if I did hightail it up there and pounce on his flock.”

Smiling, Mary left her cozy chair and wandered out of the room. A flash of dark coat sleeve had caught her eye. She found him sitting alone in the half-darkened conservatory built at the back of the house. Made almost entirely of glass, the room was cooler than the parlor and bathed in the blue light of the full moon. Potted palms graced the corners, leaving the center of the room open for a grouping of lacy white iron tables and chairs.

She wasn’t surprised that he’d drifted off on his own. All through luncheon she’d watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the way he had deliberately distanced himself from the rest. The others had glanced at him as well, their gazes ranging from worried, such as Ian’s, to penetrating, such as Poppy’s. They all wanted to know what thoughts ran through Talent’s head. As for Mary, although what she might discover terrified her, she too wanted inside that thick head of his.

This time, when she entered the room, he stood. “Care to sit?” his voice was soft as he gestured to one of the chairs.

The chair was cold, the iron pressing into the backs of her thighs. Mary was grateful for the discomfort. It took her mind away from the slow burn within her. Talent resumed his seat, and they sat in silence, letting the sounds of the house party drift over the still air.

“You might as well come out with it, Chase.” Weariness weighted his voice, but there was also wry amusement there. She risked a glance, and the corner of his mouth kicked up. “You think I do not know you well enough by now? That you aren’t squirming over there, trying to find a way to broach the subject?”