Shadowdance(18)

Perfect. He might as well have been two inches tall then.

“But know that we are here for you, Jack.”

Jack grunted. She ignored him, a wicked and irate gleam turning her eyes crystal blue. “And I had better not hear that you are being rude to Miss Chase. I love that girl, quiet thing though she is.”

Jack wouldn’t have defined Chase as quiet. Though, in retrospect, she was not particularly animated; unless, of course, she was goading him.

Where was Chase anyway? Daisy would have sent her an invitation.

“I have not been rude to her,” he muttered, trying not to chafe at the lie he’d just told.

Daisy harrumphed. “Are you behaving in your usual manner?”

“Don’t see how else I’d behave.” God save him from loose-lipped, well-meaning females.

She made the noise again. “Then you are being rude.”

Jack glared, and she had the temerity to buss his cheek. “Well, of course, we love you as you are.”

“Who loves whom?” Ian strolled up and wrapped himself around his wife like ivy, but his attention locked onto Jack. His expression was wary, as if he expected Jack to bolt and sought a way to prevent it.

Jack cursed. God save him from his whole family. Being near Ian set Jack’s nerves on end. He hated the disconnect between them but nothing seemed to ease it. Jack watched the dancers instead of meeting Ian’s eyes. Piss and shit.

“We are discussing why Jack feels the need to be rude—pardon,” she gave Jack an exaggerated nod of deference, “excessively rude to Miss Chase.”

Ian’s grin was all teeth, and most of them sharp. “That is simple. Because he wants to tup her.”

“Bloody hell,” Jack snapped, “is there a moment in which you do not think of tupping?”

Ian laughed. “And Jack the Prude returns. It might do you well to think of tupping now and then, mo mhac.” He’d spoken with lightness, a typical Ian jest, but the moment the words were out, he paled. Jack froze too, ugly, thick feelings sliding like sludge through his chest. There was too much knowledge in Ian’s eyes.

Jack whipped about, needing to get away, but not before seeing Ian’s expression fall.

“Jack…” Ian began. His disappointment and regret, and the soft plea in his voice, worked a shaft of pain into Jack’s chest. He knew he was hurting Ian and Daisy by keeping his distance. Especially Ian. But he could not stand to look upon him for too long. Not when it was Ian who first comforted him when he’d been rescued. Not when the man knew what had been done to him. The familiar tight, suffocating feeling stole over him.

“No worries,” he said over his shoulder, even as his abdomen tightened in regret. “I’m late for work.”

It was another lie, and they all knew as much. But they let him flee.





Chapter Six





Book in hand, curled upon the couch with a soft cashmere rug tucked about her, was a delightful way to end the day. Mary did not want to think about Jack Talent, or the case, or anything at all. What she wanted now was to immerse herself in another world until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Yet she found herself not reading but floating from her body. With detached calm she hovered above herself. So still, eyes open wide but glassy. Precisely how she would look in true death. The thought no longer bothered her. If death came, it came.

Not wanting to dwell on morbid thoughts, she let her gaze roam listlessly about her small parlor. She loved her flat. Assembling it for comfort, she’d picked big, padded armchairs and covered the floors in plush carpets. Robin’s-egg blue lacquered the walls, the high gloss reflecting the light of her lamps and candles when it grew dark. Cream-colored velvet drapes kept the chill from creeping through the windows, and her couch was, in truth, a large, wrought iron campaign bed of some long-dead general’s and was piled high with plump pillows for lounging. Quite satisfactory. And nothing like the homes in which she had been raised.

Though the location changed from time to time, her childhood homes had all looked the same within—pink silk damask walls, dainty gilded furniture, and numerous mirrors to reflect Maman. Everything glittering and feminine. And Mary most of all. Always resplendent in frothy petticoats, rich satins, and lacy pinafores. Hateful, really, that Mary still loved to wear high fashion. Back then, however, she had loved it all. Loved playing with the battalion of French dolls provided for her, loved waiting for Maman to grace her with a morning visit. They’d sip rich chocolate and eat buttered crumpets, and Maman would tell her stories of lovely men. It wasn’t until later, when Mary fully understood just who and what those men were and why they provided the riches around her, that a sick, twisted dismay would weigh down her chest upon Maman’s arrival.