Part 7 (1/2)
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 hara.s.s 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 d.o.g.g.i.ng 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 a.s.sumed his post by the gla.s.s-paneled doors, poised and on the alert for the next shopper.
As it was nearly time for tea, the store was empty of shoppers, for which Daisy was thankful as this visit did not promise to be pleasant. Behind the glossy mahogany counter, Mr. Abernathy held court, standing rod straight in his starched suit. The man's watery blue eyes widened upon seeing her, but he kept his expression composed, his mouth turned up with just a hint of a pleasing smile beneath his trimmed, white mustache.
”Madam,” he said in proper tones. ”How may I be of service?”
”While I appreciate your efforts in subtlety, Mr. Abernathy, I have no desire to remain anonymous for the moment.” She set her reticule upon the gla.s.s-topped counter. ”Let us get to the matter directly. I am quite cross with you and I suspect you know why.”
He blinked back at her in the picture of perfect innocence. But she did not miss the way the pulse leaped at his throat. Nor the small twitch of his mustache. ”Mrs. Smith, I could never imagine doing you a wrong that would warrant your censure. Please be a.s.sured that there must be some mistake.”
Her smile was thin. A warning. ”Mr. Abernathy, we've done good business together. Beneficial on both sides, I should think.”
And the man knew it. Daisy, in her role as the enigmatic Mrs. Smith, had provided the shop with numerous perfume formulas, all of which had become highly successful, including the much antic.i.p.ated scent currently in development for the Queen. In return, Daisy received a generous portion of the shop's profits and would never have to go hungry-despite Craigmore's efforts to see her in the gutter. Yes, it was a beneficial relations.h.i.+p, but one in which certain players held more power.
Her finger tapped firmly upon the gla.s.s. ”I would not like to see our relations.h.i.+p end due to pettiness. There are several establishments more than happy to purchase my formulas.”
Abernathy jerked his head as though slapped. ”Here now, madam! You wouldn't dare.”
”Wouldn't I?”
A deep red flush crept up from his high, white collar. ”Have you no sense of loyalty?”
”Have I?” She leaned into his s.p.a.ce, fighting the urge to poke his starched chest. ”It is not I who sold secret formulas to an outside partner. A matter about which I am certain the members of the board would love to learn.”
His large Adam's apple bobbed. ”Now, Mrs. Smith, you cannot possibly believe that I would-”
”I can, and I do.” She gave him her best Poppy glare, as effective on liars as it was on sisters. ”You are the only one who handles the production of my personal perfume. It is not to be created for ma.s.s distribution, and you know it.”
”I cannot presume to understand-”
”Then I will put it to you plainly and use small words so there is no misunderstanding.” Her hand curled around his lapel, and the fabric crackled beneath her fist. ”Another woman was wearing my perfume. You will tell me to whom you sold my formula, and in return, you may keep your position and my services. Or we will proceed by another route. Believe me when I say that such a course will not be to your advantage, Mr. Abernathy.”
Sweat pebbled down his brow as he gave her a stiff nod of agreement. Daisy smiled sweetly.
”The name, if you will, Mr. Abernathy.”
”Oi! You'll wrinkle the silk.”
Ian spared a glance at his valet who was busy brus.h.i.+ng his waistcoat as if Ian had lit it on fire instead of merely b.u.t.toning it in haste. The young man was worse than a nanny. ”Talent, you do realize that I have dozens more?”
Talent scowled. ”Oh, right, which makes caring for one's things such a tiresome exercise.” Carefully, he pulled out Ian's evening coat and helped Ian into it. ”h.e.l.l, you've got forty cravats, as befitting a spoilt marquis, why not burn the one you're wearing now? Save me the trouble of cleaning and ironing.”
Ian closed his eyes and wondered for what must be the hundredth time why he'd agreed to let Talent be his valet. And then remembered that the blasted lad hadn't taken no for an answer. Bruised and battered within an inch of his life, the youth had been found literally on Ian's doorstep ten years ago. And while Ian would have gladly employed young Jack Talent for other tasks, for the lad had the makings of an excellent spy, Talent hadn't wanted what was offered. No, the man simply wanted a home, a place with the others.
It was the one reason Ian could not reject. d.a.m.n if the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't know it, Ian thought irritably as he adjusted the cravat Talent had just tied, earning another growl of disgust. It was a petty little victory in the war that was the state of Ian's wardrobe. The laughable part was that society often touted Ian as a natty dresser, when really it was Talent's insane and exacting standards that had Ian dressed to the nines and a leader of fas.h.i.+on.
”I think you're cracked to go to Lena,” Talent said when Ian strode to his cabinet and pulled out a glossy wooden stake. ”She's just as likely to have your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks for dinner as help you.”
Ian thumbed the point of the stake. Not quite sharp enough. He pulled out the sanding block. ”You think I'm incapable of defending myself?” The idea was laughable.
For once, Talent looked aghast. ”Course not. Only, well, she's unG.o.dly.” With a s.h.i.+ver, Talent crossed himself. Talent's piousness, as it were, had the tendency to rise up when he wanted to dole out a lecture and to go completely missing when it proved inconvenient to his own needs.
Ian laughed then. ”You, my young friend, are the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.” Ignoring Talent's scowl, he blew over the tip of the stake and wood dust swirled golden in the air. ”We creatures are all unG.o.dly in the eyes of humans, and they would likely have your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks on a spit if they knew what you were.”
”They'd have to catch me first,” Talent muttered as Ian slid the stake into his boot. ”Just watch your back, all right?”
It unsettled Ian that someone still cared enough to warn him away from danger. It was that small thing that had Ian giving his staff leave to treat him with undue familiarity; they were all he had. Ian moved to step away from Talent and his concern, but not before giving the man a hard look. ”Watch after her.”
Ian had stalked Daisy for much of the day, following her to such innocuous haunts as Florin and her milliner's. Not that she'd noticed; he'd learned his lesson and stayed far downwind this time. Ian had caught her looking over her shoulder more than once. A smile tugged at his lips. Anxious for his company perhaps?
He came home to change only when his groom, Seamus, had arrived to take over the watch. Seamus was a strong, capable lycan. But Ian preferred Talent's subtlety for the job.
”Do not let her out of your sight for anything. She can protest all she likes, but the la.s.s is coming home with me tonight.” He would see this thing done with Lena and then he was collecting the stubborn Mrs. Craigmore.
”She'll never even see me,” Talent promised.