Win nodded. He did not imagine the colonel’s interest to be more than abstract.
The colonel’s attention wandered back to Poppy as she strolled along the terrace. “It is strange. Just then, it felt as though I’ve seen that very picture before. Perhaps in a painting. Note the evening light, the way it glows on the soft curve of her cheekbone, how it gleams along the edge of her jaw and the small shadows beneath the pillow of her lower lip. Chiaroscuro, they call that effect.”
“Yes.” Win watched his wife, the sunlight kissing her skin and setting the red in her hair aflame. He gathered he would never see a more beautiful woman in the world. Because she was his. Win lowered his voice confidentially. “The lady happens to be my wife.”
The colonel colored. “Really, man, you ought to have said something. I do apologize for speaking out of turn.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. I found no offense in your admiration, certainly.”
“Good of you,” the colonel grumbled before giving Win a light slap on the shoulder. “Go collect your lovely wife then, my boy. Before someone younger and wilder than I sets his eye upon her.”
It was strange, but when Poppy pictured the sort of woman Isley would be attracted to, she thought of the typical English rose. That paragon of femininity and grace who men fought wars to protect and who never spoke her mind when she could be making a man feel that his opinion was the only one that mattered. Poppy knew of such women in an academic sense, but had never befriended any of them. The closest thing she had to female friends were her sisters, and they were hardly model ladies, thank God. It appeared that Isley had little interest in proper English ladies either. Not if Mrs. Amy Noble was anything to go by.
Surrounded by young men who seemed to hang on her every movement, she held court from a large red velvet divan, her elbow on the arm of it, and her feet propped up on one end in a pose of utter relaxation. That she lounged about as if she were in her boudoir instead of entertaining guests was not so extraordinary. That she dressed as a man was. Her fine black dinner suit did not hide her femininity, but rather was cut to accentuate her curves. Her hair was raven black, save for a swath of white that started at her left temple and was swept back with the rest to fall in a sleek river down her back. She looked utterly foreign and utterly lovely.
Resting her hand upon Win’s forearm, Poppy walked across the room. Smoke grey satin rustled with each step she took, the heavy slide of those yards of fabric against her legs. How would it feel to always walk unfettered, not just when playing the role of spy? More to the point, why did she persist in wearing corsets and proper gowns? It irked her to realize that she had more in common with those English roses than she’d thought. Despite believing herself to be independent, she had tried to please everyone, take care of them all. As a result, she’d lost a bit of herself in the process.
Mrs. Noble looked up as they came before her. She had to be at least fifty but did not look a day past thirty-five with her skin as smooth and unlined as a peach. Her eyes flashed ebony in the candlelight, and Poppy thought for a moment that Mrs. Noble recognized her. But they’d never met before, and the strange look was gone, replaced by one of mild interest.
“Mr. and Mrs. Snow,” she said with a young maiden’s voice, “how delightful to meet you.” She took in Win’s scarred profile with interest. “Now there’s a story waiting to be told. Sit down and perhaps I can manage to entice it out of you.”
Win’s mouth quirked but he accepted the light chair a footman had pulled up, just as Poppy accepted hers. “Madam,” he said, “perhaps we can trade stories. One of mine for one of yours.”
Mrs. Noble leaned in, and the drop crystal beads on her black velvet diadem caught the light. “A barter?” Her trilling laugh had more than a few men smiling. “I like that.”
Win settled more comfortably on his chair, crossing one foot over the other. “Mind you, it’s quite a story. I’ll expect something similar in return.”
Mrs. Noble cut a glance toward Poppy, giving away the fact that she had been constantly aware of Poppy’s presence. The woman appeared to feed off of it, taking a base feminine pleasure in having Poppy watch while Win flirted with her.
Though Poppy detested to admit it, part of her had never understood why Win had pursued her on that long ago day at Victoria Station, nor why he’d immediately begun courting her. She was not beautiful, or charming, and was in possession of rude, red hair. Her manner could at best be described as abrupt, but was often called mannish. And while she rather liked the person she was inside, she did not suffer fools lightly. In a society that revolved around shallow, false behavior, this was not a beneficial tactic. That this handsome, intelligent man, a duke’s son for pity’s sake, seemed to see no other woman than her… At times, she’d wondered if it had all been some grand mistake.
That had not, however, stopped her from claiming him. She was not a fool, and if he wanted to make her his, she would make him hers in return. He’d spoken of choices, and how hers had been taken from her, not understanding that there was a difference between choosing what was best and wanting something with one’s entire soul. She’d always wanted Win. Had she the ability to slap a sign upon him proclaiming “mine!” she would have done so.
With that firmly in mind, she maintained a neutral deportment as Mrs. Noble’s sweet voice addressed her. “What say you, Mrs. Snow? Is his tale worth it?”
“It depends,” Poppy said. “How good a trade do you offer?”
Mrs. Noble threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I do like you two.” With a languid lift of her hand, another footman came over. “Our guests require refreshment,” she said to him, then turned her eyes back on Winston. “There are stories to be told.”
Win planted his feet and rested an elbow on his thigh, moving in that way of his that was at once precise and yet languid. A trick of movement that made one feel comfortable, beguiled into spilling secrets to a man who they were certain would not let them down. She hadn’t fully appreciated it until now. Pride shot through her, and with it, the nearly overwhelming desire to touch him, caress the silky locks of his hair, anything that would proclaim him hers.
Mrs. Noble was no less affected. Her eyes tracked Win’s movement as her bosom swelled on an indrawn breath. As if drawn by a string, she leaned into him, her lips parting in anticipation. His blue-grey eyes twinkled, a shared amusement, another ruse. Win’s smoky voice lowered intimately, and he spoke as if they were the only two in the room. “But you see, madam, I am quite… shall we say, shy about revealing this story to just anyone.” The widow’s lids fluttered at the near purr of Win’s voice. “I would much rather discuss such things in private.”
Their eyes held a beat, and then hers reluctantly slid over to Poppy. About bloody time, too. Poppy returned her look with what she hoped was a secretive smile. Win caught her eye, and he smiled too. “My wife prefers these little intimacies as well.” A cloying shade of wickedness tinted his words, and Mrs. Noble licked her lips.
Poppy valiantly held back from rolling her eyes. Really, who was this man? What had he done with her proper husband?
“Well then,” Mrs. Noble said, “shall we?” However, she paused and affected a moue of disappointment. “But I almost forgot, there is someone I believe would love to hear your tale. I’m sure you will not mind. He is most discreet.” She raised a hand, and a man moved away from his place by the mantel at the far side of the room and headed their way. The handsome younger man stopped by her side and took her hand, placing a light kiss on it.
“You summoned, my dear?” His voice was deep and smooth with the ease of a lover’s.
Mrs. Noble smiled a Cheshire cat’s smile, all teeth and malicious intent. “I did indeed.” She gave the man’s hand a squeeze. “Mr. Snow here claims to have the most interesting story to tell.”
All eyes fell on Win, and a twinge of alarm hit Poppy, for her husband had gone completely white. A fine sweat peppered his brow, and his throat worked as if he’d soon be ill. His gaze was not upon Mrs. Noble but on her companion.
Chapter Twenty-one
Poppy did not know what it was about the man that upset Winston so, but she was going to find out. She turned to Win, and his glazed eyes locked onto hers, wild and confused, as if he could not focus. “Darling,” she said, “come with me to retrieve my shawl? I find myself chilled.” It was hot as Hades.
With a little flicker of her power, an icy draft swirled through the room, causing more than one woman to shiver.
She did not wait for Win to answer but rather tugged him out of the room, down the hall, and onto the terrace where he could get some much needed air. He was shaking, his breath coming out in raw pants. The dark thing had him. She’d seen it before in others. Strong men and women who had faced death and terror and come away with a bit of it still clinging to their minds. Sometimes it never left them, that ugly residue of death. It would catch them unawares and torment them. And each and every one of them believed they were weak because of it. Poppy rather thought the opposite. That they were the brave ones who had been chased by death and escaped to forge onward.
She did not stop until they were beneath the arbor, now dark with shadows and thick with the scent of roses in the warm, moonlit night. Win sat with a thud upon the stone bench, and she followed him down, placing a hand on his fevered brow. Her touch grew chilled, cooling him. “Win,” she whispered, looking into his unseeing eyes, “come back to me.”
He struggled for breath and she pulled him close, stroking his ravaged cheek. “Win, who was that man?”
His hands clutched her upper arms hard. “My brother.”
Her heart stilled. Win’s family had always been rather a closed subject. Which Poppy hadn’t fought, as she was likely to work herself into an indignant state when she thought of their treatment of him, of how they had abandoned him without a backward glance, solely because he had chosen to become a detective. She cringed now. All of that had been a lie. A bloody trick.
She thought of the man they’d just encountered. He was younger than Mrs. Noble but perhaps a bit older than them. He didn’t look anything like Winston but had raven hair and coal black eyes. His features were more Gallic than Anglo-Saxon. “He looked right at you. How could he not recognize you?”
Win’s head jerked up. “Why should he? He’s been led to think his brother is dead. It’s Isley’s bloody bargain at play, after all.” His features twisted. “Never mind that I hardly look as I did before.”
Her stomach dipped. “But to not have even experienced a glimmer of recognition? To not even feel… something?”
Win laughed, a dark, unhinged sound. “You of all people ought to understand with whom we are dealing. He altered our lives, Poppy. He can twist things until up is down. How are we to know what is real and what is not?”
In her heart of hearts, she did not like to give Isley credit for the power he wielded. Certainly not now. Not when it was her life he’d toyed with, violated. She lurched up and began to pace, needing to feel her limbs move over solid ground. “Why is your brother here? And with Mrs. Noble? It cannot be a coincidence. She knew you would be affected. Her little grin was downright nasty.” The bitch. “She knows who we are, Win. She must.”
Win rose as well and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Isley is playing with us. Enjoying our pain and frantic searching. I do not want to believe that Osmond too is ensnared by Isley, but he may well be.”
“Osmond?”
“My brother.” He lowered his hand. “I’m sure I told you his name.”
“I would have remembered that. You always referred to him simply as your brother.” Poppy’s lips twitched. “Your parents certainly were creative with their name giving.”
Winston leveled a glare at her, but she could tell he was trying not to smile. He had never liked his name and had grumbled about it when they’d first met. “Father fancied old English names. Undoubtedly he sought to shout to the world our Englishness through and through. My brother goes by Oz, or Marchland now, I suppose. Jesus.”
He rounded on her. “I believe you are correct, however. Mrs. Noble looked at you as though she knew you.”
“You noticed that as well? I did not like that look. It was as if she was seeing straight into me.” She rolled her shoulders as if the movement could dispel the sticky feeling that crept along her skin.
“Damn it.” He started to pace along the path she’d beaten down. “None of Isley’s victims ought to remember him, and yet they do. I have to believe it is because Isley has allowed it, that he wants us to find Moira Darling.”
“Well of course, he wants us to find her. Why else would he make the bargain with you?”
“No,” he stopped. “You misunderstand. I think he knows exactly where Moira Darling is. If you remember, he asked me to find what Moira Darling stole from him. Not necessarily to find her.”
Poppy’s blasted corset held her too tight to draw a proper breath. “He would hardly need you for that. If he knew where she was, he could easily force her to give whatever it is back to him.”
Standing half in shadow, the ruined side of Win’s face glowed in the moonlight. “Something is not right.”
“I’d say, presently, just about everything is ‘not right.’ ”
Win waved this off, his countenance fierce with concentration. “It is Isley.” He halted and pinned Poppy with the intensity of his gaze. “He needed us to be together.”