Moonglow (6 page)

After a moment, he expelled a tired sigh. “You wanted time alone with me, lass. Now, why is that?”

Daisy turned and the springs of the couch groaned in the quiet. Northrup’s mouth parted on a breath, but his eyes held a hint of wariness. And rightfully so. She smiled a little sadly, suddenly wishing she hadn’t started down this road. She hadn’t expected to like him. “I want you to leave my sister alone. She isn’t for you.”

Her words hit him with visible effrontery. A laugh burst from his lips even as they twisted in a snarl of irritation. He let her hand go, but did not retreat into denial as a gentleman might. Instead he lifted a brow in challenge. “And if I do not?”

Northrup closed the small distance between them until she could see the ice-blue striations in his irises. “What shall you do then? Hmm?” His lips almost touched hers as he spoke. “Stomp one of those dainty feet in protest?
Take me over your knee and rap me with one of your little evening fans?”

Daisy shook her head, and the tip of her nose brushed his. Northrup made an odd sound but did not pull back. She hadn’t expected him to. “As much as it would surely disappoint you, no. I don’t have to do any of those things. My sister is safe from you. She loves Archer and always will.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Then why warn me off?”

“As I said before, there is a fine line between persistence and being a pest. You, sir, have crossed it, and it paints you a fool.”

Dull crimson washed over his high cheeks as a growl rumbled low in his throat. Time to go. Daisy calmly gathered up her skirts and brushed against him as she rose. “You did me a kindness this evening, despite your unfortunate behavior toward my sister.” Northrup outright snorted at this, and she let her voice rise a touch. “The least I can do is return the favor and set you to rights before you make an even greater ass of yourself.”

It was rather gratifying the way his mouth hung slightly open, his body seemingly frozen upon the settee. “Good night, Lord Northrup. I thank you for your assistance.”

Her hand closed over the door latch when suddenly he was there, his big hand coming down on hers and holding it. “D’ye think ye can dress me down and simply leave, lass?” His Scots burr thickened with his agitation, rolling so deep and luscious that she shivered. Northrup crowded in, pressing against her hip, and she felt the hard length of him in crude detail. “I’m thinking you’d prefer I’d play with someone else.”

She eyed him over her shoulder. “Me, you mean?” she asked coolly, as if her heart was not bounding like a frightened rabbit within the cage of her ribs.

His square jaw bunched as he gave a sharp nod. Speechless for once. What a thought.

“You’re welcome to try, my lord.” She shoved him with her shoulders, catching him off balance, and he faltered back a pace. Daisy opened the door but stopped to look at him.

Northrup’s broad chest heaved with the rapid breath of a man in a temper, his vivid eyes flashing while his fists clenched at his sides. It ought to have frightened her, but it served only to send an unwelcome bolt of heat straight to her sex.

“However, I doubt that you could handle me. Somehow I think you prefer your women either unavailable or subservient. I am neither.”

B
out time you got here.” Henry Poole shifted on his small feet, looking left and right down the street as though expecting to be set upon by thieves before glaring up at Ian. In the distance, the soft chimes of church bells sounded. “Adele will be wondering where I’ve gone any moment now. We have breakfast together. Usually.”

“I am precisely on time, old boy,” Ian said as he strolled toward Poole. Despite the casual stride, edginess plucked at Ian’s spine. In all these years, he had never made peace with death. And avoided it whenever he could.

He eyed the small, rectangular outbuilding that made up Poole’s surgery. Not even the broad, well-trafficked streets of central London could blot out the subtle, sticky sweet smell of decay wafting from the building’s high crescent windows. He shifted his weight away from the building.

“And the hour was picked by you,” Ian reminded.

“Hmm…” Poole extracted his pocket watch to frown down at it in accusation.

Short, round, and turned out like an Antarctic penguin in his immaculate morning suit, Henry J. Poole was not the image one would picture for London’s foremost forensic surgeon. And though his round eyes and snub nose appeared childlike, the man had a sharp mind and a near vicious tenacity when it came to the study of human anatomy.

“Been avoiding Inspector Lane for hours,” Poole said, “on account of your little request. That man wants to view the bodies something fierce. Have you any idea the lies I’ve had to tell?”

“I’m certain they were quite inventive, Poole.”

“Bah. I don’t need the hassle. Ought to be concentrating on my practice, getting fifty quid to diagnose Lord Something- or-other’s dizzy spells.” He glared at Ian as if to make sure Ian was following his rant. “I don’t need to be helping the police. Or you either. I’ve got better things to do.”

“By all means,” Ian said, “let me incommode you no longer. I am certain Lord Something- or-other would be happy to pay for your services.”

Poole harrumphed. As well he should. The police needn’t use his services. There were other surgeons who were more than happy to oblige. But like most geniuses, Poole was fiercely competitive and thus protective of his unofficial role as the CID’s pathologist, lest some crack charlatan fill the position. It was a little-known specialty and did not receive the recognition it should. Something that irked Poole to no end.

“Let’s get on with it then,” Poole muttered.

“Not quite yet,” said a deep voice from behind them.

Ian silently cursed as Benjamin Archer strode forward, his gray eyes flashing equal parts amusement and censure. The nosy blighter.

“Planning a bit of fun without me, Northrup?” A smug smile stretched his face.

“As fun and you are generally at odds,” Ian said, “then yes, yes, we were.” He turned to glare at Poole who had made himself appear as small and unnoticeable as possible. “Ratting me out to Archer, are you?”

At this, Poole drew himself up. “So happens I owe him a favor or two as well.”

Ian snorted as Archer drew abreast of him. “Which includes,” said Archer, “letting me know the moment you contacted him to view the victims of this attack.”

Ian’s teeth ground together. Damn but this was work to be done by delegates of the
lycan
clan. And yet, after sending his man Talent to scout, Ian discovered that not a single clan representative had come out of the woodwork. Why? Ian feared he knew the answer, and he did not like it in the least. So now he was here. Where he least wanted to be.

Poole tucked away his watch. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

At the sound of someone clearing his throat, all three men whirled about, and Poole yelped. Inspector First Class Winston Lane of the Criminal Investigations Department leaned against the corner of the building, pipe in hand.

Wreaths of gray smoke encircled his head, obscuring his features but not the sharp gleam of his eyes. “Seems my invitation to the party was lost in the mail.”

Poole’s muttered string of obscenities filled the ensuing silence. Ian agreed with all of them. Having Archer along was an annoyance, but at least the man knew with what they were dealing. Inspector Winston Lane did not. Humans were never to learn of the other world. The
results would be calamitous. Starting with mass panic. It had been Ian’s hope to obscure certain evidence before the CID got to it. He shot Archer a glance, and the man blinked once.
Understood.
At least in this, they were partners.

Lane took a deep draw on his pipe, and the tip burned red hot in the blue light of the morning. He let the smoke out slowly. “Hello, brother,” he said to Archer. Aside from being an annoyance in this matter, Lane was also husband to Miranda and Daisy’s eldest sister, Poppy. Whether that would turn out to be a further nuisance or a boon remained to be seen. “I ought to have expected you here as you do turn up in the oddest of places.” Lane did not wait for a reply from Archer but turned his keen gaze on Ian. “Lord Northrup, I understand you took my sister Daisy to shelter after the attack. I thank you for that.”

Ian inclined his head. Lane was an odd piece, carrying himself with a pride that went far past his station, yet conveying the manners of a man long used to bureaucracy. Had Lane been of higher birth, he would undoubtedly be running for parliament. Regardless of his station, one look from him had Poole squirming.

“I’m certain Lords Northrup and Archer will have a reasonable explanation for their presence here,” Lane went on softly. “As for your colorful evasion of me, Poole, we shall discuss it later.”

Poole grunted and avoided Lane’s gaze. Lane waited for one of the men to confess his sins as it were. Archer merely stared at the man. A good tactic for Archer, as his stare was quite effective. Ian, however, hated keeping quiet. “I do hope you like waiting, Inspector, as you will be doing a fair bit of it.”

Lane smiled blandly. “Patience is a virtue most valuable
to an inspector.” Lane knocked his pipe against the sole of his boot, sending red embers tumbling and the release of fragrant tobacco into the air. “Now that we’re all here, let us proceed.”

“Are we certain?” Ian asked. “No others are forthcoming? No wives? The bootblack boy? Perhaps the muffin man I passed on the way?”

The only answer was Poole’s rather shocking hand gesture, to which Ian would rather not acquiesce.

Poole pulled out a set of large iron keys. The door swung easily and in stepped Poole, his once nervous visage turning instantly to one of cool professionalism.

Ian followed at a pace behind, hating the damp coldness upon his neck. The narrow corridor, painted institutional green and lit by two stingy lamps, made a sharp turn and the cloying smell took on a decidedly sulphuric taint.

“Cost me twenty quid to delay matters.” Poole’s sandy-colored head bobbed along in the greenish gloom. “The Fenn family wanted the burial today. Today. Had to tell the coroner I’d sent the body on to the wrong address to give us more time. Rubbish, and the coroner well knows it. I’ve never misplaced a body in all my life.” He shot a glance at Lane. “And you can well blame these two.” He jerked a thumb toward Archer and Ian. “Tell me, what’s a man to do when a marquis and baron are breathing down his neck?”

“Inform the lead inspector?” Lane offered.

Ian let Poole rant. He knew the man helped him not out of desire for money but from the fact that Ian had stepped between him and the wicked edge of a thief’s knife on one dark night. Loyalty ran deep within Henry Poole. What Archer had on Poole, Ian didn’t know. Nor did he care.

The little surgeon stopped by a massive iron door, and Ian’s insides turned.

“You’ve read the report?” Poole asked him.

Ian forced himself to nod. Behind him, Lane made a sound of disgust. “You sent him an official report?”

Poole pretended not to hear as he led them into the room and closed the door with a ringing clang. “I don’t know what more I can tell you. But it’s best to take a look.”

Compared to the corridor, the examining room was as light as midday and washed clean, the blood having long since flowed down the drain in the tiled floor. The space was Poole’s pride and joy. The men accepted the heavy leather aprons Poole offered and followed him to the row of bodies that lay upon the steel tables lining the room’s center. Bathed in the sunlight slanting down from the overhead windows and the power of four large gas lanterns, the scene appeared oddly peaceful—were it not for the stench.

When Poole was busy laying out the tools of his trade, and Lane watching the process, Archer stepped close to Ian, his strong features still and guarded. The shock of seeing Archer as he was now had yet to wear off. For seventy years, the devil had worn black masks and gloves to hide himself from the world. Transformed by an evil demon, Archer had slowly been turning into a monster of ice and stone, and would have become a demon himself had Miranda not saved him.

Ian swallowed down a bite of regret that he had stepped in between them. The truth was, the greater part of him was relieved to see Archer whole and human again. Even if he’d never admit it to a living soul.

“Ian.” Archer gave only the slightest of nods, his eyes icy. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Miranda says you were the one who found Daisy.” His
eyes narrowed. “A werewolf, was it? It was very… convenient that you were at the scene.”

And there it was, the cold accusation in those gray eyes. Ian had been waiting for it but still his claws itched to break free. “Yes, you would know all about being at crime scenes at the wrong time. Or mistaken identities.”

Archer flinched. As he should, the blighter. Archer himself had been suspected of murder based on mistaken identity. “Fine then, do you know who did it?”

Ian’s annoyed whisper was but a breath. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

A small twitch moved the corner of Archer’s mouth. “Fair enough.” He moved away to join Poole by the examining table.