Mary frowned down at her shoes. “I can hardly imagine him doting.” But she could. He was loyal. And fiercely protective. Mary wondered what sort of defect she had that made him dislike her so.
Daisy’s gentle voice broke the silence. “You must learn to trust him, Mary.”
Accusations rose and clogged in Mary’s throat. Why not tell Daisy the truth? She was a fellow GIM and more of a confidant than Mrs. Lane, who, despite their mutual regard, was her superior. And yet she could not do it. Without true proof of Talent’s guilt, she could not sully his name with suspicion. Not after the trials he’d endured trying to keep those he loved safe. She picked her words carefully. “He is much changed. I fear that what occurred might have altered him irrevocably.”
Daisy’s lively gait slowed, and since she still clutching Mary’s arm, Mary’s did as well. “He’s stopped visiting Ian. Which hurts my husband more than he will admit. I believe Jack merely needs time…” She trailed off with a morose frown.
“If—” Mary pressed her lips together, then tried again. “What would the Ranulf do should Mr. Talent lose himself to darkness?”
Daisy halted and turned to face Mary. The wavering light of a town house lantern sent shadows sliding over Daisy’s plump cheeks, but her eyes glowed with the incandescence of a GIM’s. “What are you saying?” But they both knew. Would Ian be able to put Talent down, should it come to that? The thought seemed to swirl between them, and they both outwardly shivered.
Mary tried to speak, but a feminine screech cut through the quiet. Another scream followed, this one laden with pain and terror. Cold sweat bloomed along Mary’s skin. Her throat closed, the sensation of a cord wrapping around her neck making her gag. For an instant she was not on the street with Daisy, but in a dank back alley, the broken, wet cobbles grinding into her bare back, and foul male flesh slamming down on her. You like that, toffer? Listen to her moan. Bet she’s loving it.
Head spinning, she clutched Daisy’s arm just for a moment before pulling in a draught of cold air. The taste of sulfur and coal grounded her, and she stiffened, her arm snapping down to release the baton hidden up her sleeve. Cool steel filled her palm, and then she ran.
Daisy was at her heels, her parasol clutched in her hand. They both had weapons of preference, and Daisy’s was the small sword tucked into each of her pretty parasols. Miranda had taught Daisy, and Mary could only hope the lessons had stuck as she heard male laughter.
Rounding the corner of an apothecary shop, they clamored into a dark alleyway. Three men crouched over the crumpled form of a woman, her brown dress no more than a stain on the filthy ground. Ice flowed through Mary’s veins. Oh God. It was too similar. Too much. She could not breathe. And yet the sight made her shout.
The men jumped as one and turned. Mary heard their sneers and taunts, but they did not penetrate the fog of rage that had overtaken her. Her baton met with the first man’s head, and he slumped to the pavement. Blows buffeted her, yet she did not feel them. Strike, slash, duck, punish. These were the thoughts that ran through her head. Vaguely she was aware of Daisy dispatching a man in short order, slicing his forearm and jabbing his thigh. He howled and ran off. One left.
The thug looked at the wild women who had no fear of him and then fled as well. Mary clutched her baton, fighting the urge to chase him down. Panting with rage not yet abated, she stood over the fallen woman until Daisy lightly touched her arm. Mary flinched, her hand half lifting in defense, but the fog cleared, and she let Daisy aside.
Thick blood seeped into Daisy’s yellow skirts as she knelt before the woman. Mary’s knees grew weak, and she followed Daisy down.
The woman’s appearance told its own story. Sensible brown homespun dress, clear complexion that was now grey, and wide, unseeing brown eyes that stared up at Mary in supplication. A large pool of dark, glistening blood spread out in front of the woman’s small waist, and yet another at the base of her throat. A gruesome wound that barely trickled now.
Mary swallowed thickly and averted her eyes.
“No pulse,” Daisy murmured, pressing her fingers against the woman’s pale throat. “They gutted her. Poor dear.”
“No!” The silvery form of the woman stood beside them. She glared down in outrage, and her light-blond hair seemed to swirl in the wind. Her dark eyes flashed as she caught them looking. “I cannot be dead. I refuse to go. Not like this. Not from the likes of them.” Again came that flash of ire and need. The need to live.
Daisy glanced at Mary, and hesitation rose high in her eyes. But her voice was calm as she addressed the spirit. “I’m afraid you are dead. I am very sorry we did not arrive sooner.”