The very proper footman closed the door behind them, effectively entombing them in the drawing room. Damn it, but he couldn’t breathe in here. The room was too dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn almost closed, a silly practice to protect the furniture and artwork. What good was art when one couldn’t see it?
Chase moved idly about the room, a rustle of satin and crinoline. She’d dressed to perfection for this meeting, the wine-colored satin of her gown stunning yet restrained. The gown offered little in the way of adornment, simply a wide band of pleating around the hem and the edges of her gathered overskirt. A nice trick to convey humility, save that the clean lines of her bodice merely emphasized her graceful curves and made a man long to linger.
The darkness here muted the golden brown of her hair, so prettily coiled at the back of her head, and turned her creamy skin a shade of unnatural white. She appeared a painting just then, only alive by the virtue of her glittering gaze.
In some sick way, he was glad for her presence. It did not make a lick of sense, but when she was near, the world was real. Not some strange play that he viewed from afar. And that gave him a certain strength. If he could face this, he could face anything. Because of her.
“Chase.” He did not know why her name slipped from his lips, or what he would even say now that he’d called for her attention.
He stiffened further when her lazy gaze settled on him. “What is it?”
Yes, Jack, what is so important that you had to call out to her? Furious heat worked over his skin, and he struggled not to squirm like a lad. Clearing his throat, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Would you like to talk about it?”
She stared back at him as though he’d gone mad. She’d be right, he thought bitterly.
“About what?” she asked, her smooth brow wrinkling. “Your vile temper of late? Which is really saying something, I should add.”
Well, he’d walked into that one. “No, I—”
“Your little act of reciprocity by reconnaissance?” One delicate brow lifted a fraction as her golden eyes pinned him. He had wondered what she thought of his watching over her. And whether she’d mention it. The devil had clearly crept into Jack, for he’d been unable to resist going to her home and making sure she was safe and well. Nor had he moved when he’d seen her coming to the window. Madman that he was, he’d wanted her to see him. Wanted to know what she’d do. Nothing, it seemed.
It did not help matters that Chase had cooled on him. She’d retreated straight back into that thick shell of hers where he meant precisely nothing, and anything he said was met with a bland reply.
“Actually,” he ground out, “I was referring to the other night.” Christ, his collar was strangling him. “Look, Chase, the things I said about you and Lucien, I—”
“Here?” she hissed, her eyes suddenly sparking. “You want to discuss that here? Now?”
“I was simply going to—”
“For pity’s sake,” she snapped. “I used him too!” She took a quelling breath, a slow rise of her breast before letting it go. “I used Lucien to keep others away. I don’t know much of men, and what interaction I’ve had… well”—her slim shoulders lifted—“it has not endeared me to them.” The thick bronze fans of her lashes swept down, hiding her eyes, and she said no more.
Ugly, twisting guilt hit Jack straight in his heart. “I’m sorry. That was all I was going to say.” He’d been jealous. And guilty. A bad combination.
Her wide brow wrinkled. “Sorry?”
“For the way I’ve treated you.” His hands clenched. “It was badly done, and I’ve no excuse.” None that he wanted to give, at any rate. “But there are good men, Chase. One day, you shall…” God, would the floor please open up and swallow him? “… You’ll find one who treats you as you deserve.” He wanted it to be him. So badly his chest hurt.
Chase ducked her head, her lips soft and beguiling. “I know there are good men in the world, Talent.” She looked at him then, looked right into him, and he swore he bled inside. “Such as Ian Ranulf.”
Right.
“When I saw how he treated Daisy, I knew it was time for me to leave Lucien and our false front. I knew it was time for me to search for something more.”
It struck him like a stone: Mary Chase was looking for someone to love. The very idea of her linked to another, of seeing them day in and day out, made him perversely cold. He’d leave London when that happened. Leave bloody Europe.
She looked so forlorn just then. Every word he’d ever said crushed down upon him. Regret was his constant companion, but never more so than now.
“Chase.” He hesitated, then said what he must. “You accused me of thinking you’d be better off dead. I have never believed that. Never.” His chest swelled, rising up as if his whole body protested the very idea. Her wide, stunned gaze crashed over him as he finished his thought. “We are partners now. Should it come down to the choice between my life and yours, I will sacrifice mine. Without question.”
Her lips parted, a shocked circle of pink. “But why?”
“Because yours holds all the promise that mine lost long ago.” And because he’d die anyway should she be lost to this world.
Happiness bloomed over her face, so utterly lovely and glowing that he did not know what to do with himself. She looked at him as if he’d just become her knight with banners flying. As if she was seeing him anew, or perhaps for the first time.
Jack was caught in that look, the net drawing tight around him. His whole body answered, boiling with persistent want. It rushed about him, a violent tumult that set his equilibrium rolling. Words filled his head: Yes, yes, thank God you finally see me. And No, no, I am not what you think. I am not that hero.
He could not speak. He could not move, caught as he was. Before he could stop it, two images of her were before him: a lovely woman in the full blush of health and a crushed and bleeding wretch upon a wet pavement. They crashed over him with brutal force. He almost staggered.
She would not forgive him if she really knew what he and his friends had done.
He could not live with her. He could not live without her. Jack knew he was being selfish, but there it was. And so he drove the wedge in deeper, reminding her of all the reasons she should go on seeing him as just a man. One she’d be better off disliking.
He turned away from her, an abrupt cut she’d feel. When he spoke, his voice was decidedly cool. He would have congratulated himself for it, save that self-loathing got in the way. “It was foolish to come here. I know you like to think of yourself as an investigator, Chase. But you really have no notion of what you are doing.”
He could almost feel the joy gust out of her, deflating like the last gasp of an aeronautical balloon.
“My, but you like to flog the dead horse, Talent.” Her voice was once more that cold, crisp sliver of ice that had defined their arguments of old.
Jack let the frost of her ire numb him further. “And you are a dog with a bone.”
“What is it about this meeting that has you so out of sorts?”
“Out of sorts,” he muttered. Now that he’d picked a fight with Chase, his fear returned tenfold. “I merely protest the waste of time.”
Jack thrust his fists deep within the wells of his pockets. The shaking within him grew, his heart thrumming against his throat. He reminded himself that he’d gained a foot and a half of height and nearly five stone of weight since that black day. He’d gone from ignorant boy to bitter man. Perhaps he wouldn’t be recognized.
Mary watched Talent’s shoulders hunch and the wall he erected against the world come back up. Her mind had gone foggy. Die? For her. Was there anyone she’d be willing to die for? When she’d fought so hard for the right to live?
Damn him.
No matter where she looked, where she went, Jack Talent was lurking in the shadows of her mind. There was something about him that made her want to learn more, pry open his protective casing and see what made him tick. Mary feared she would never understand him. He set her world upside down and inside out. And he made her ashamed. She’d been looking for signs of his guilt, wanting to find them at some points. The man who would die for her.
Mary turned from the sight of him and glanced at the ornate porcelain wall clock, depicting Adam’s downfall in the Garden of Eden. The minute hand pointed between Eve’s pale breast and the golden apple resting on her outstretched palm. “Nearly a quarter hour has passed,” she murmured, annoyed at waiting. Annoyed at Talent.
“They’ll keep us waiting for twenty minutes at the least.” Tension coiled about Talent like a snake, but his tone was subdued, almost resigned now on the heels of his former snappishness.
“How do you know?” Mary did not want to stay in this place any longer than necessary. Gilt furnishings and silk-lined walls spoke of luxury. The rough-hewn floorboards beneath the priceless Holbein carpet spoke of humility. But past all the declaratives so carefully orchestrated throughout the room, an air of quiet menace lurked. Or perhaps she was simply being fanciful.
Talent glanced at her, his features stark. “Standard procedure.” His lip curled in an ugly smile. “My guess would be that it forces one to think on their sins.”
As soon as the words had left his lips the dark humor in his expression deflated, and he abruptly turned to inspect the drawn curtains. “No doubt we are to fall upon our knees and beg for forgiveness the moment he enters.”
“I’ve yet to encounter a soul capable of casting that first stone,” she said smartly.
He gave a snort of dry amusement, so soft she almost missed it. His fluctuating mood disturbed Mary. Strangely, she felt as though she needed to remain here for Talent’s sake, as if he needed that small protection.
They stood apart, each lost in thoughts as time dragged along with a loud tick, tick, tick that had Mary’s neck tensing further and further.
“How is it that you know the standard procedure for the palace?” she blurted out when she could take no more.
Talent pivoted on one heel. His thick brows slowly lifted, as if he found her slightly daft. Or perhaps he merely searched for a reasonable response when there was none. She wouldn’t get to know, for his hand came up in the age-old gesture for silence, though she hadn’t said a word.
“He’s coming.” Talent’s expression went utterly devoid of emotion.
A moment later she heard the footsteps. And Talent grew even more withdrawn, his skin the color of death. The massive double doors opened, and Mr. Antony Goring, Archbishop of Canterbury, walked in.
Mary wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but the man who entered was not it. Tall and lean, he walked with command. A thick shock of snow-white hair swept back from a high brow. There was something about his large, square jaw and strong blunt nose, and when he set his eyes on her, that sense of having seen him before grew. While his hair was white, his brows remained brown and framed dark eyes that snapped with cunning intelligence.
It was only when he drew near and took her hand did she realize that his eyes were not brown but a deep forest green, surrounded by thick lashes. “Oh,” she exclaimed, struck by their singular hue.
He smiled kindly. “That is not the usual response I receive when meeting guests, but quite lovely all the same.”
Mary flushed to her toes. She hadn’t meant to say a thing. But those eyes struck a chord within her, and her instincts clamored for her to think clearly and stop fiddling about with niceties.
The archbishop straightened, a smile still hovering about his lips. “Ah, but it is far too dark in this room, is it not?” He reached out to a small lamp resting upon a side table. With a click, bright white light illuminated the space around them. The archbishop beamed. “An incandescent lamp. Isn’t it glorious? I do so love modern advancements. It is my mission to see the whole of the palace wired for electricity within the year.”
A surprising and extravagant expense to say the least. But Mary merely murmured her agreement and let him guide her to a seat. She glanced at Talent, who stood hovering in the shadows, his face white and his teeth bared. The archbishop noticed her attention straying and followed it.
The archbishop’s benign expression crashed, revealing one of disgusted horror. Another second and it shifted to icy cold disdain. It happened within a blink of the eye, yet Mary took it all in and noted a similar change overcome Talent. Only his expression went from careful blankness to utter rage.
His green eyes glowed with it, the square hinge of his jaw bulging as if he ground his teeth together.
A terrible tension thickened the air as the two men glared at each other. Talent was bigger, pure brawn, and topped the other man by five inches, but facing off, she could see the similarities in their features, cut from the same model, only Talent’s was harder, his life experience having given him a rough edge.
“You dare return here.” The archbishop’s tone was pure frost.
Talent cocked his head and regarded him. It was almost indolent the way he took his time, but there was no mistaking the way he held his body in tight readiness. “I did not think you’d recognize me.”
The archbishop’s lip curled. “You’ve the look of her.” The coldness in his eyes grew frigid. “Her male counterpart. A grotesque version of all that was good and true.”
Talent took a hard step in his direction before halting. His fists curled, the corner of one eye twitching. “You ought to know depravity when you see it.” His voice was almost controlled, almost normal. “Having practiced it before.”