“I’m sorry?”
“We weren’t speaking. I gather Isley did not plan on that all those years ago. Do you not see? We took the wind from his sails. He had no idea how we might respond once he placed his cards on the table.”
“Surely he would figure that we’d protect our child.”
“No, he needed that extra incentive. Whatever Moira Darling stole must be something that requires both of us working together to find. Isley is a gambler, but not a foolish one.”
“Let us drop this search and go and kill the bastard.”
Win’s mouth canted on a smile, but his voice grew soft yet resolute. “No, sweet. First off, the bargain is still in play. Kill him and he still gets our child. No, we are going to find this Moira Darling, because when we do, I’m going to discover just what it is he truly expects to get out of this game, and I’m going to beat him at it.”
By the time Winston and Poppy had returned, guests were wandering in to dinner. Thus they were forced to do so as well. Those around Winston appeared to be enjoying themselves, drinking wine, eating their food with appreciation. As for Win, he might as well have been eating mud. Food stuck to the roof of his mouth and clung at his throat when he tried to swallow. He could do little more than ignore his dinner companions and steal pain-inducing glances at his brother.
Dear God, how could he have forgotten Oz? Certainly, the knowledge that he had a brother hadn’t gone, but Win simply had forgotten to think about him. The very notion now shamed and saddened him. Though they were only two years apart in age, they’d never been close brothers. Oz had been forever at Father’s side, learning all things ducal, while Win had been his mother’s pet, chafing under her clinging nature. Oz had chosen Cambridge and Win Oxford. After that, there had been only Poppy, the CID, and his deuced bargain. Had Oz a wife? Was this a weekend fling? Had he too bargained away his soul like a fool? Somehow, Win thought not. Or perhaps he simply hoped.
“I’ve heard to expect the unconventional here, but that man is a sight to destroy one’s appetite.” The man across the way made no attempt to lower his voice. Winston wasn’t surprised; not really. He had received enough remarks by now to expect it. His years as an inspector had taught him how deep the capacity for human cruelty could go. He told himself this as he placed his linen in his lap and accepted the second course brought in by the waiters in liveried white. However, it did not stop him from feeling multiple eyes upon him or from biting back the urge to snarl at the people gaping at him. Perhaps if Poppy weren’t visibly bristling on his behalf, or the fact that the boorish man’s remark had caught Oz’s attention as well, humiliation wouldn’t be filling his throat this very moment.
“So Snow,” said Colonel Alden next to him, “I suspect you worked on some interesting cases in your time.” He deliberately raised his steel hand into the air to wave over the waiter pouring out the wine. “Any you are able to discuss?”
As attempts to divert attention went, it wasn’t all bad. It might have even been welcome if it wasn’t so bloody obvious. Winston took a sip of wine, forcing it past the lump in his throat. “I cannot name names, Colonel. However, no detective is without a good anecdote to share.”
Again came the loud man’s voice, more forceful this time. “Looks like a butcher’s been at him. What did he say was his work?”
Winston set his wineglass down with care. The ruined side of his face burned, which made his hands ache to curl into fists. Archer once said he’d made up songs and sung them in his head to get him past the fury.
“Songs?” Winston had repeated, incredulous. “Such as ‘Row Your Boat’ and the like?”
Archer had given him a tight smile that acknowledged Winston’s goading for the easy shot that it had been. “More like, ‘Fuck you, f**k you, and your miserable mother too.’ ”
“I’m impressed,” Winston had said. “It is at once utterly vulgar and completely puerile.”
Archer had flashed a rare grin then. “But quite effective.”
Winston glanced up at the man who’d done his best to annoy him, and Archer’s song played in his head. Surprisingly it did help. Enough to allow the corners of his eyes to crinkle with evil glee. “I didn’t.”
The man blinked, actually shocked to be addressed by Winston. “Didn’t what?”
“I did not give my profession, Mr…?” The man was a new arrival, and Win wondered offhand what the bastard would have made of the nude swim party.
“Lord Butherwell,” the man corrected with a sniff.
At the word “profession”, Butherwell’s long nose had wrinkled in disgust. Win returned his look with one of bland disinterest. He made it his business to know the names and station of London’s ton. Butherwell was a second generation baron with little money and even less influence. Exactly the sort insecure enough to throw stones at glass houses. “However, Butherwell, I am happy to assuage your rampant curiosity.”
He did not have a chance to, for Poppy suddenly leaned forward, her brown eyes promising bedlam beneath those slanted brows of hers. “He is an Inspector First Class with the Criminal Investigation Division of Scotland Yard. It is men like my husband who keep your soft hide protected from London’s criminal element.”
A pinch of pain took him in the gut upon hearing his old title. He was finished as an inspector. But damned if he was going to rectify Poppy’s error here and now. Not that it mattered. Butherwell’s disgust grew into a sneer.
“A tradesman, in our midst,” he said to the populace of the table, most of whom were looking on in avid interest. It wasn’t every day a squabble broke out over dinner. “This is what so called ‘progress’ has brought us, being forced to share a meal with a man who—” he gave Poppy a condescending look—“consorts with London’s criminal element.” He turned to Winston and raised his voice as if he feared Winston had trouble hearing. “I say, oughtn’t you be slumming in some back alley down in London?”
Winston neatly sliced his roast. “Do I give the impression of being lost, sir?”
Butherwell’s grey mustache quivered with a snort. “You give the impression of a man who does not know his place.”
“Come now, my lord,” tittered Mrs. Noble. “We are all friends here, are we not?”
God, but Oz’s gaze was a palpable weight on Win’s neck. They shared the same blood, bluer than any person sitting at the table, or in the district, for that matter. Even if he could admit the truth of his birth, Win would rather be hung by his balls than admit it to this lot. Tossing out pedigree was not the way he wanted to earn respect, nor did he need theirs.
“My dear Mrs. Noble,” said Butherwell, “I merely fear for your reputation. There are curiosities, and there are riffraff. It is best you know the difference.”
Win’s hand clenched his knife. He did not look up. Should he do so, he’d be planting Butherwell a facer. Past the buzzing in his ears came Oz’s deep voice. “I do not believe our hostess needs assistance in discerning the difference, Butherwell.”
Poppy’s voice followed shortly after Oz’s. “A true gentleman does not feel the need to make his station known.”
“And a true lady does not voice her opinion in the presence of a man,” snapped Butherwell. “However, as you are not a lady, I shall forgive your blunder.”
A tremor went through Winston’s arm. “Enough.” The entire table hushed as Winston set his silver down and let his gaze lift to Butherwell. “I remind you that there are ladies present. Including my wife.”
Butherwell’s complexion ran to florid. It became magenta now and again his overlong mustache moved as he snapped, “I do not believe I understand your point, man.”
Winston held his gaze and spoke in measured tones so as not to further confuse the buffoon. “It is simple. I shall strive to keep that fact in mind in order to refrain from exercising my brute, working class strength upon your flaccid, gentleman’s face.” He let his lip curl enough to highlight the sneer of his scar. “But it shall be a very near thing. Pray you remember likewise before you utter another word.”
There was a gasp, and Butherwell went pale. His nostrils flared, his hand holding the knife clenching. Winston stared back, waiting. It would take two seconds to disarm the man, one more to shove his face into the pudding. Beneath the table, a slim hand fell to his thigh and gave him a squeeze, not in warning, but in solidarity.
Winston lifted one brow, and Butherwell’s mouth snapped shut. The man promptly turned his attention to the waiter hovering just beyond the table. “The beef is dry. Take this back and bring me another. Bloody.”
By Winston’s side, Poppy leaned in a touch, and her clean scent tickled his nose. “Do you know,” she murmured, low enough that no one else could hear, “I could make him disappear with one missive.”
His lips twitched, but he kept his eyes on his dinner. He could not face her. Not yet. “It is a very good thing I’m no longer with CID or I’d have to do something about that information.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see her wicked grin. It was that grin, conspiratorial in nature and one of thousands that they’d exchanged over the years, that made him forget where he was, who he was, and grin right back.
Thankfully, the dinner ended. Win was one of the first to rise. He needed fresh air, Poppy, a drink—and Poppy. Her dark gaze collided with his, and he wondered if he’d have to sell his soul again to bed her without regret. For right now, it felt essential that he get her alone and sink into her tight embrace. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel as if he were flying apart if those endless, smooth legs of hers were wrapped around him and held him close.
Shouldering past slower, carefree guests, he was following her out when a man stepped into his path. Deep-set eyes of near black bore into him, and Win’s heart slammed against his ribs. That face, that blade of a nose that was almost aquiline, that slightly put-out expression, was so like his father’s that Win could almost believe he faced a ghost instead of his brother.
Oz’s intense gaze eased first. “Marchland,” he said by way of introduction. “Mr. Snow, was it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Years of training held him back from brushing his brother aside and getting the hell out of there. But he was unable to say anything more. If he were lucky, Oz might think him overwhelmed by standing face to face with a duke. One could hope. Oz nodded. He was too well-bred to mention Butherwell’s remarks, but speaking to Winston showed a mark of his favor. Were Win simply an inspector, and not his brother, he might feel gratitude. As it was, however, an old tightness banded about his chest. This was the world he’d been desperate to get away from, where rank and title superseded character. Oz might keep a dozen mistresses, beat his children until their bones broke, destroy lives on a whim, and if he did, not one soul would lift a finger to stop him, much less utter a word of reproach. Win did not want to go back to that. And he most certainly needed to get away from Oz. Now.
Unfortunately Oz’s study of him returned. This time, his brother’s lips turned down at one corner. Yet another painfully familiar gesture. “Do I know you?”
Shit.
Oz’s dark brows met in the center. “I do not know why, but I cannot shake the feeling that we’ve met before…”
It was on the tip of Win’s tongue to deny it and flee, save his brother was here and he could not believe it a coincidence. “Perhaps at an earlier party? Are you old friends with Mrs. Noble?”
“Mrs. Noble was a very dear friend to the former duke.” His expression tightened. “She was a great comfort to him when my younger brother died unexpectedly.”
Oz’s words slammed into Winston, hard and brutal, and it was all he could do not to react. Oz nodded to a man who passed by before turning his attention back to Win. “My father was a great lover of art, as is Mrs. Noble.”
Yes. He almost said it aloud and cleared his throat to cover the gaffe. “Did they perchance meet through a Lord Isley?”
“You know him as well?”
He was going to be ill all over Oz’s polished leather shoes. “In passing. You?”
Thank Christ, Oz shook his head. “Never met the man. Only know the story of how my father and Amy met. Father became one of her greatest financial backers, and Amy has always been grateful.”
Win forced a bland smile. “Well then, sir, I am uncertain how or where we might have met. A face such as mine is hard to forget.”
Making mention of his maimed appearance had the reaction Win expected. Oz very deliberately did not look at his scars. “Likely you are correct. Pardon my mistake.” He began to ease back as most people did upon being forced to address his maiming.
“No pardon necessary, Your Grace.” Win gave him a tight nod and then slipped away. He did not give a damn if it wasn’t done. Or if the room fell in a dead faint because he’d left before a duke. Isley had found consolation for his father, had he? Forget being ill; Win was going to punch something in a moment.
Poppy caught up to him, her lemon-linen scent soothing him even as she searched his eyes in gentle concern.
“He thought he knew me,” he said. “But he couldn’t make the connection.” With terse words, he told her the rest of the conversation.
“Jesus, Win.” Her lips went pale, and she angled her body as if to block out the rest of the room. That she still sought to protect him made his chest go tight. He did not need it, but the better part of him wanted to be worthy of her devotion.