Shadowdance(20)

Mary gave herself a mental shake and focused on the situation at hand. “How did you find my home?”

The flat was located on the top floor of the building. Only three persons knew of its location: Lucien, Poppy, and Daisy. And she doubted any of them would tell Talent. Or that he would ask them.

Talent’s gaze grew hooded. “Followed your scent.”

“What?” Gods, but she did not want to know what her scent entailed. Nor did she like the idea of Talent knowing it so well that he could track her down by it.

That grin of his flashed bright. “Don’t fancy that either, do you?”

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Talent, that through the whole miasma of London, you were able to track me down based on scent alone?”

Talent’s hard mouth slanted as he looked her over in a way that she felt to her bones. “We’re in each other’s pocket now, Chase. Most hours, you’re all I smell.”

Gracious. Heat flooded in unfortunate places, and to her horror, Talent’s gaze narrowed, his nostrils flaring as if he scented that reaction too.

An uncomfortable, stifling silence fell over the room. Mary swallowed down the urge to twitch.

“What are you doing here—”

“Do you want to work—”

They paused, their clashing questions falling into an awkward silence. Then Talent set down his half-eaten apple and sprang to his feet, a graceful move so fast she almost missed it. Her heart jumped but he merely regarded her with his usual scowl.

“Well? Shall we go out?” His hard features were once again implacable.

Mary cleared her throat. “Let me get my cloak.”

They did not speak as they headed into the frigid night. Londoners fought back against the cold by heaping on the coals. Great billows of smoke rose from a profusion of chimney pots. What was too heavy to dissipate fell in black flecks that danced about them like the devil’s snow.

Due to the late hour, few were out, most human traffic being shepherded by coach now. A hack rattled past, horse hooves clipping over the cobbles.

Walking next to Talent, she felt the singular, cozy comfort that steals upon one who is with a good friend. That Talent gave rise to such equanimity instantly shattered it, and her stomach clenched. She ought not trust him any further than she could toss him. Perhaps it was not his presence, but the predictability of all his actions that she took comfort in. Well, one could hope. “Where are we going?” she asked to break her muddled thoughts.

His attention stayed on the walk before them, but his pace, which he had slowed to match hers, faltered for just a step. A wry grimace twisted his mouth. “You know, Chase, I don’t believe I thought that far ahead.”

“And you are admitting this?” She made a noise of astonishment. “I shall have to make note of the day.”

He looked at her sidelong, and the brackets framing his mouth deepened. “You better. It doesn’t happen often.”

Mary ducked her head to hide her smile. “Well,” she said after a step, “we might consider going to Trafalgar Square. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”

Talent grunted. “Perhaps.”

Taking that as an agreement, Mary headed down Charing Cross road. They soon entered the square, a wide-open public space that featured tranquil fountains and a Corinthian column rising 170 feet into the air. The monument was in honor of Admiral Nelson and was guarded by four large bronze lions, one at each corner of the massive base. Half walls flanked three sides of the square, creating a sense of place despite the openness of the area.

Far off, keeping to the edge of the square, a group of women idled about. A lone man, wearing a horrid lime-green bowler—its color so vivid that it was discernible even in the low light—lounged against the wall, close enough to keep an eye on the women but not so close as to interfere should they be approached.

And approached they were. Two fellows strolled by, eyeing the flesh for sale, before one broke away. An agreement was clearly reached, and the man guided two women off to a shadowed corner.

“Perhaps the fellow in the hideous hat might have seen something. It appears as if he might be here nightly.”

“And if he had, you’d be the last person he’d tell,” Talent retorted. “He might be a sinner but he isn’t stupid. The ones who stay alive never are.”

Mary caught Talent’s expression. “My, the way you are sneering, Talent, one would think you’ve never partaken in that particular exchange.” Most males she knew had at one time or another.

Talent’s brows lifted just a touch. “Once, when I was too young and ignorant to know any better.”

It was her fault for broaching the subject, but the sudden image of Talent bedding a strange woman was entirely unpalatable. “And you do not approve of it now?” she asked, as if untroubled. “Odd, seeing as your former master used to be quite infamous in regards to his bedding of prostitutes.” She would not call them whores. Despite what society thought, she knew too well how human they were beneath their protective veneer.