“You’ve been following me since the church.”
“Oh?” He made a track through the condensation beading the pewter mug between them.
“Yes, ‘oh.’ ” Her knife sliced the bread cleanly. “I caught your scent not two feet out of the graveyard. Perhaps before.” Her shoulders lifted in a surprisingly Gaelic shrug. “I was distracted until then.”
“Ha! I bid you to prove it.” Though he made a show of smiling, it unnerved him just a bit to think he’d been caught out so soon.
The corners of her eyes tilted upward when she smiled in return. Much like a cat’s, he thought with a sudden qualm.
“Your valet uses champagne in his boot polish mix—very ingenious of him as your boots are like mirrors. He draws your bath with oil of rose hip and sweet orange, which makes me believe you suffer from dry skin. You wear Le Homme Number 12 from Smithe’s, an expensive cologne featuring essences of vetiver, amber, and sandalwood. And though its popularity among nobs might lead me to confuse you with another, one cannot overlook your natural scent, which is a subtle mix of meadow grass, fresh rain, white wine, and well… you.”
Ian stared at her with his mouth surely agape. She did not flinch, though a fetching pink flush colored her cheeks. He snapped his mouth shut. “Fuck me,” he breathed with genuine surprise. So rare that anything truly shocked him these days.
Her flush grew. “Thank you, but no.”
Ian shook his head to clear it. He felt dizzy, as though he’d been running and had come to a sudden stop. Jesus, but this woman kept him on his toes. “I’d say you were bamming me if it weren’t all true.”
The table creaked as she leaned in on her elbows, coming close enough that his insides heated again. He resisted the urge to pull away, if only to clear his reeling head. Her voice came at him in a satisfied purr. “And you had black tea and toast with bitter marmalade for breakfast.”
Heads turned at his shout of laughter. He ignored them in favor of the golden-haired olfactory genius sitting before him. Her sense of scent was as good as his, if not better, as he studiously ignored his for fear of being overwhelmed.
Daisy dropped her gaze and went back to eating with methodical determination.
“I’m a nose,” she said between bites.
“I should say so.”
She glanced up. “It’s an undignified talent for a lady to possess, I’m told.” Her shoulders lifted. “However, quite useful in detecting strange men intent on following my person.”
“I’d say it was bloody brilliant,” he countered. “Strange men or no.”
Her lids lowered as she took a sip of her ale. “Why is it that you are following me?”
Wariness fairly hummed about her, as if she were bracing herself for his retaliation, believing that he would want revenge for the way she’d put him in his place.
Admittedly, the idea had occupied his thoughts, but sitting with her now, retaliation was the furthest thing from his mind; he was enjoying himself too much. The experience was so novel to him now that he wanted to bask in it, the same way his wolf liked to lie out in the moonlight and soak up its strength.
His reply was forestalled as a short, portly fellow stomped up onto one of the center tables and made himself heard. “All right, gents. Now then, it be well known I’m a man of my word.”
A collective groan went through the room, and the man waved another hand. “Aye, I know. But”—he slapped his hands together—“a bet’s a bet. I lost, and it’s me turn to settle accounts.”
“What’s the damage this time then, Gus?” shouted a man to Ian’s right.
“An ode. By yours truly. Public’s choice.”
Instantly, the men and women in the tavern began calling suggestions. “Do Gladstone!”
“The Queen!”
Funny how Ian could feel Daisy’s cunning smile. Foreboding had his shoulders tightening as he turned. Her grin was that of a child at Christmas. “Marquis of Northrup,” she shouted.
Gus, who had been considering offers with a very serious air, jumped at the opening. “There,” he cried. “Now that’s a superior toff what’s worth me song.”
Ian resisted the urge to slide down in his chair. If only they knew that said toff was sitting among them.
Daisy laughed, her eyes resolutely not on him, which only made her notice of his every move all the more obvious.
Gus cleared his throat as the crowd went silent in expectation. His voice came out surprisingly clear and fine. “O woe is to be that lofty he. Our fine dandy, the Infamous Lord Northrup. How it pains the dears, this gentle’ man hears, that he can’t get it up for a tup!” Triumphant, Gus held out his empty mug as he sang on: “O have ye sers a dram to spare, so’s he can find his courage in a cup!”
The tavern shook with the roar of laughter. Ian refused to flush. Blast if that damn ode wouldn’t be sung on every street corner by nightfall. Courage in a cup indeed.
Daisy’s eyes sparkled with mirth as she caught his gaze, and the crowd went back to shouting out requests. The corners of her mouth dimpled as she held back a smile and the urge to laugh suddenly bubbled up within him. Either that or punch someone.
“Well,” she said, “at least I know my sister is no danger from, shall we say, an untoward advance due to your virile nature.”
Ian ground his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. Aye, he’d known it was coming. It still didn’t cosh the desire to wipe the grin off her mouth, preferably with the use of his. Perhaps his tongue down her throat would clear up any questions of virility or lack thereof. Because with her, he was getting the sneaking suspicion that it would not be a problem. But he found himself looking away, not liking what he saw in her eyes, the judgment and the pity. “Your sister was safe from me long ago. I’ve no interest in chasing after what doesn’t want to be mine.”
“Hmm.” Slowly, methodically, her nails rapped over the wooden table, playing a rhythm that made his eye twitch. “And yet you seem to favor redheaded women when trolling for whores.”
Mary Mother of… Slowly, methodically, he counted to ten. God save man from curious women. “Been checking up on me?”
Her look was the sort one gave to an ignorant child. “That would imply effort, when one need merely mention your name to learn of it. No wonder Archer wants your head.” A golden curl bounced at her temple as she shook her head.
His fingers twitched. Damn what Archer thought. Damn her too. He wanted to growl, howl his irritation, bare his teeth, and set her in her place. He scowled at the barman watching them instead. The man flinched and quickly turned back to wiping the glass in his hand with a rag. “You assume that your sister is the only ginger-haired woman in the world.”
He forced himself to meet Daisy’s eyes. “That a man cannot have lived as long as I have without the possibility that there might be another woman in his life possessing similar coloring?” Don’t speak of it. His heart was going too fast. The pain was rising.
Daisy paled. “Who was she?”
Ian studied his fingers, unsurprised to find the nails had grown long, lengthening into the beginnings of claws. He relaxed on a breath, and they retracted with a pinch of pain.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “Whores are at the root of my current predicament.”
Predicament. He almost laughed. A fine word for losing heart. He couldn’t look at Daisy and say the words, yet he’d started his mouth running so he had to finish.
“I can’t… Christ. It ought to be more than a financial transaction.” And damn Archer for putting that thought into his head those many months ago. But there it was. He couldn’t pay a woman to swive him anymore. Not when he remembered what he used to have. Companionship as well as passion. The stink of it was, he didn’t want to finesse a woman into his bed either. When had sexual relations become so complicated?
Laughter, the clink of a glass, and the murmur of conversation swelled around them. Daisy moved, a subtle gesture that brought her an inch closer to him. Her eyes, when he made himself look, did not hold pity but the dark pain of personal understanding. “I find it hard,” she said in a voice so low a normal man might have missed it, “to imagine any available woman you set your sights on not offering herself to you freely.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Is that an offer then, Daisy-Meg?”
“I prefer to leave you with bated breath rather than answer,” she said tartly before her expression turned sorrowful. “You were at the funeral. Why?”
He sat a bit straighter. “To pay my respects.”
“You know something.” Her slim throat worked on a hard swallow. “About that night.”
“Aye.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I went to the autopsy.”
“Isn’t that the sort of business best left to the police?”
“Police.” He snorted. “They couldn’t find their cocks to take a piss.”
Ian felt a moment’s qualm when she colored, but her lips twitched. What was it about her that made him forget even basic manners?
“Careful now,” she said as if reading his very thoughts. “My brother-in-law is police, and I shall have to be insulted in his stead.”
“Winston Lane,” Ian confirmed with a nod. “He’s seems capable enough. But there’s no getting around the fact that he cannot help with this particular issue.”
Again came the subtle paling of her cheeks. She was trying mightily to take the notion of werewolves in stride, but it wasn’t quite working. Could he blame her? Hadn’t he blanched when he’d learned that his kind wasn’t the only thing to go bump in the night?
“Does Winston know about… werewolves?” she asked.
“No. He thinks the killer is using a knife. Archer and I were not inclined to dissuade him of the notion.”
“Archer was there?” A little furrow had worked its way between her golden brows. She waved her question away. “Of course he was. What good is one meddling noble when you can have two? Never mind. Tell me what you found.”
As practical as a Scot, she was. “There was another victim,” he said. “Murdered before your attack. A woman. Young lady, actually.”
“Poor dear.” Daisy’s hand trembled as she took a deep drink of her ale. “The same… did she…”
He nodded dully. He’d be damned if he’d tell Daisy about that poor girl being violated. Swallowing down his rage, he told the bare facts of her death.
“God.” Daisy shuddered. “He’s got to be stopped.”
“He will be.” Ian reached out, laying his fingers lightly on her wrist. At any other time, he might be smug about the way her pulse leaped. Now he sought only to keep her there should she bolt. “There is a link between the women.” His grip tightened a fraction. “Daisy, did you let your friend Mrs. Trent borrow your perfume? Or you hers?”
Her eyes darted over his face. “My…” Her breath hitched. “Why do you ask?”
“All three of you wore the same perfume.” He closed his eyes. “Tea rose, ambergris and jasmine, a hint of sandalwood mixed with neroli.” He looked to find her mouth softly open. “A lovely floral perfume. Although your natural scent is sunshine on summer grass, vanilla, and spice, and you, as it were. Which I confess, I much prefer.”
Unfortunately, his light jest did not take the pain from her eyes. “Alex admired my perfume,” Daisy said hoarsely. “Her party. She wanted… to be a smashing success. So I let her…” Tears welled up in her eyes.
Gently, he wiped one away with his thumb. “It is not your fault.”
“No?” She took a shaky breath and looked away.
“No. Never think it, do you hear?”
Staring off into the crowd, she nodded and then began to tap a steady rhythm with her fingers. “My perfume is an original blend, Northrup. I created the formula myself. Why was this girl wearing it?”
“Perhaps it is a coincidence. Perhaps the girl blended something similar on her own.” He didn’t believe the words any more than she, apparently.
Her nose wrinkled. “That would be very great odds indeed,” she said with a sniff, and then turned to him. “Do you need my help then? Is that why you’ve come?”
Something quite like tenderness turned over in his chest, and he fought valiantly not to smile. Though she argued with him at every turn, she clearly understood partnership and how to strategize before going into battle. She was like a wolf that way. Like pack. The realization did strange things to his insides. “No, not that.”
When she scowled, he leaned toward her. “I am here because you are in danger.” His thumb ran over the delicate skin of her fingers. He didn’t know why holding her hand should feel any better than holding another woman’s hand, but it did. “For whatever reason, this wolf is attracted to that scent, and believe me, if a wolf latches on to a particular smell, he won’t easily let it go.”
Her eyes went wide and glimmering as she searched his face, but her voice stayed calm. “If my perfume is what attracts this beast, surely if I cease to wear it, the beast won’t bother.”
“You understand scents,” he said. “You have to know it doesn’t work that way. I could smell that perfume on you the other night, even after your bath. You might cease to use it, have your maids clean your clothing, or order new garments. But it will take time for the scent to fully leave your person, at least to the level at which a were would no longer detect it. Time in which this beast might come for you.”
“Oh?” He made a track through the condensation beading the pewter mug between them.
“Yes, ‘oh.’ ” Her knife sliced the bread cleanly. “I caught your scent not two feet out of the graveyard. Perhaps before.” Her shoulders lifted in a surprisingly Gaelic shrug. “I was distracted until then.”
“Ha! I bid you to prove it.” Though he made a show of smiling, it unnerved him just a bit to think he’d been caught out so soon.
The corners of her eyes tilted upward when she smiled in return. Much like a cat’s, he thought with a sudden qualm.
“Your valet uses champagne in his boot polish mix—very ingenious of him as your boots are like mirrors. He draws your bath with oil of rose hip and sweet orange, which makes me believe you suffer from dry skin. You wear Le Homme Number 12 from Smithe’s, an expensive cologne featuring essences of vetiver, amber, and sandalwood. And though its popularity among nobs might lead me to confuse you with another, one cannot overlook your natural scent, which is a subtle mix of meadow grass, fresh rain, white wine, and well… you.”
Ian stared at her with his mouth surely agape. She did not flinch, though a fetching pink flush colored her cheeks. He snapped his mouth shut. “Fuck me,” he breathed with genuine surprise. So rare that anything truly shocked him these days.
Her flush grew. “Thank you, but no.”
Ian shook his head to clear it. He felt dizzy, as though he’d been running and had come to a sudden stop. Jesus, but this woman kept him on his toes. “I’d say you were bamming me if it weren’t all true.”
The table creaked as she leaned in on her elbows, coming close enough that his insides heated again. He resisted the urge to pull away, if only to clear his reeling head. Her voice came at him in a satisfied purr. “And you had black tea and toast with bitter marmalade for breakfast.”
Heads turned at his shout of laughter. He ignored them in favor of the golden-haired olfactory genius sitting before him. Her sense of scent was as good as his, if not better, as he studiously ignored his for fear of being overwhelmed.
Daisy dropped her gaze and went back to eating with methodical determination.
“I’m a nose,” she said between bites.
“I should say so.”
She glanced up. “It’s an undignified talent for a lady to possess, I’m told.” Her shoulders lifted. “However, quite useful in detecting strange men intent on following my person.”
“I’d say it was bloody brilliant,” he countered. “Strange men or no.”
Her lids lowered as she took a sip of her ale. “Why is it that you are following me?”
Wariness fairly hummed about her, as if she were bracing herself for his retaliation, believing that he would want revenge for the way she’d put him in his place.
Admittedly, the idea had occupied his thoughts, but sitting with her now, retaliation was the furthest thing from his mind; he was enjoying himself too much. The experience was so novel to him now that he wanted to bask in it, the same way his wolf liked to lie out in the moonlight and soak up its strength.
His reply was forestalled as a short, portly fellow stomped up onto one of the center tables and made himself heard. “All right, gents. Now then, it be well known I’m a man of my word.”
A collective groan went through the room, and the man waved another hand. “Aye, I know. But”—he slapped his hands together—“a bet’s a bet. I lost, and it’s me turn to settle accounts.”
“What’s the damage this time then, Gus?” shouted a man to Ian’s right.
“An ode. By yours truly. Public’s choice.”
Instantly, the men and women in the tavern began calling suggestions. “Do Gladstone!”
“The Queen!”
Funny how Ian could feel Daisy’s cunning smile. Foreboding had his shoulders tightening as he turned. Her grin was that of a child at Christmas. “Marquis of Northrup,” she shouted.
Gus, who had been considering offers with a very serious air, jumped at the opening. “There,” he cried. “Now that’s a superior toff what’s worth me song.”
Ian resisted the urge to slide down in his chair. If only they knew that said toff was sitting among them.
Daisy laughed, her eyes resolutely not on him, which only made her notice of his every move all the more obvious.
Gus cleared his throat as the crowd went silent in expectation. His voice came out surprisingly clear and fine. “O woe is to be that lofty he. Our fine dandy, the Infamous Lord Northrup. How it pains the dears, this gentle’ man hears, that he can’t get it up for a tup!” Triumphant, Gus held out his empty mug as he sang on: “O have ye sers a dram to spare, so’s he can find his courage in a cup!”
The tavern shook with the roar of laughter. Ian refused to flush. Blast if that damn ode wouldn’t be sung on every street corner by nightfall. Courage in a cup indeed.
Daisy’s eyes sparkled with mirth as she caught his gaze, and the crowd went back to shouting out requests. The corners of her mouth dimpled as she held back a smile and the urge to laugh suddenly bubbled up within him. Either that or punch someone.
“Well,” she said, “at least I know my sister is no danger from, shall we say, an untoward advance due to your virile nature.”
Ian ground his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. Aye, he’d known it was coming. It still didn’t cosh the desire to wipe the grin off her mouth, preferably with the use of his. Perhaps his tongue down her throat would clear up any questions of virility or lack thereof. Because with her, he was getting the sneaking suspicion that it would not be a problem. But he found himself looking away, not liking what he saw in her eyes, the judgment and the pity. “Your sister was safe from me long ago. I’ve no interest in chasing after what doesn’t want to be mine.”
“Hmm.” Slowly, methodically, her nails rapped over the wooden table, playing a rhythm that made his eye twitch. “And yet you seem to favor redheaded women when trolling for whores.”
Mary Mother of… Slowly, methodically, he counted to ten. God save man from curious women. “Been checking up on me?”
Her look was the sort one gave to an ignorant child. “That would imply effort, when one need merely mention your name to learn of it. No wonder Archer wants your head.” A golden curl bounced at her temple as she shook her head.
His fingers twitched. Damn what Archer thought. Damn her too. He wanted to growl, howl his irritation, bare his teeth, and set her in her place. He scowled at the barman watching them instead. The man flinched and quickly turned back to wiping the glass in his hand with a rag. “You assume that your sister is the only ginger-haired woman in the world.”
He forced himself to meet Daisy’s eyes. “That a man cannot have lived as long as I have without the possibility that there might be another woman in his life possessing similar coloring?” Don’t speak of it. His heart was going too fast. The pain was rising.
Daisy paled. “Who was she?”
Ian studied his fingers, unsurprised to find the nails had grown long, lengthening into the beginnings of claws. He relaxed on a breath, and they retracted with a pinch of pain.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “Whores are at the root of my current predicament.”
Predicament. He almost laughed. A fine word for losing heart. He couldn’t look at Daisy and say the words, yet he’d started his mouth running so he had to finish.
“I can’t… Christ. It ought to be more than a financial transaction.” And damn Archer for putting that thought into his head those many months ago. But there it was. He couldn’t pay a woman to swive him anymore. Not when he remembered what he used to have. Companionship as well as passion. The stink of it was, he didn’t want to finesse a woman into his bed either. When had sexual relations become so complicated?
Laughter, the clink of a glass, and the murmur of conversation swelled around them. Daisy moved, a subtle gesture that brought her an inch closer to him. Her eyes, when he made himself look, did not hold pity but the dark pain of personal understanding. “I find it hard,” she said in a voice so low a normal man might have missed it, “to imagine any available woman you set your sights on not offering herself to you freely.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Is that an offer then, Daisy-Meg?”
“I prefer to leave you with bated breath rather than answer,” she said tartly before her expression turned sorrowful. “You were at the funeral. Why?”
He sat a bit straighter. “To pay my respects.”
“You know something.” Her slim throat worked on a hard swallow. “About that night.”
“Aye.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I went to the autopsy.”
“Isn’t that the sort of business best left to the police?”
“Police.” He snorted. “They couldn’t find their cocks to take a piss.”
Ian felt a moment’s qualm when she colored, but her lips twitched. What was it about her that made him forget even basic manners?
“Careful now,” she said as if reading his very thoughts. “My brother-in-law is police, and I shall have to be insulted in his stead.”
“Winston Lane,” Ian confirmed with a nod. “He’s seems capable enough. But there’s no getting around the fact that he cannot help with this particular issue.”
Again came the subtle paling of her cheeks. She was trying mightily to take the notion of werewolves in stride, but it wasn’t quite working. Could he blame her? Hadn’t he blanched when he’d learned that his kind wasn’t the only thing to go bump in the night?
“Does Winston know about… werewolves?” she asked.
“No. He thinks the killer is using a knife. Archer and I were not inclined to dissuade him of the notion.”
“Archer was there?” A little furrow had worked its way between her golden brows. She waved her question away. “Of course he was. What good is one meddling noble when you can have two? Never mind. Tell me what you found.”
As practical as a Scot, she was. “There was another victim,” he said. “Murdered before your attack. A woman. Young lady, actually.”
“Poor dear.” Daisy’s hand trembled as she took a deep drink of her ale. “The same… did she…”
He nodded dully. He’d be damned if he’d tell Daisy about that poor girl being violated. Swallowing down his rage, he told the bare facts of her death.
“God.” Daisy shuddered. “He’s got to be stopped.”
“He will be.” Ian reached out, laying his fingers lightly on her wrist. At any other time, he might be smug about the way her pulse leaped. Now he sought only to keep her there should she bolt. “There is a link between the women.” His grip tightened a fraction. “Daisy, did you let your friend Mrs. Trent borrow your perfume? Or you hers?”
Her eyes darted over his face. “My…” Her breath hitched. “Why do you ask?”
“All three of you wore the same perfume.” He closed his eyes. “Tea rose, ambergris and jasmine, a hint of sandalwood mixed with neroli.” He looked to find her mouth softly open. “A lovely floral perfume. Although your natural scent is sunshine on summer grass, vanilla, and spice, and you, as it were. Which I confess, I much prefer.”
Unfortunately, his light jest did not take the pain from her eyes. “Alex admired my perfume,” Daisy said hoarsely. “Her party. She wanted… to be a smashing success. So I let her…” Tears welled up in her eyes.
Gently, he wiped one away with his thumb. “It is not your fault.”
“No?” She took a shaky breath and looked away.
“No. Never think it, do you hear?”
Staring off into the crowd, she nodded and then began to tap a steady rhythm with her fingers. “My perfume is an original blend, Northrup. I created the formula myself. Why was this girl wearing it?”
“Perhaps it is a coincidence. Perhaps the girl blended something similar on her own.” He didn’t believe the words any more than she, apparently.
Her nose wrinkled. “That would be very great odds indeed,” she said with a sniff, and then turned to him. “Do you need my help then? Is that why you’ve come?”
Something quite like tenderness turned over in his chest, and he fought valiantly not to smile. Though she argued with him at every turn, she clearly understood partnership and how to strategize before going into battle. She was like a wolf that way. Like pack. The realization did strange things to his insides. “No, not that.”
When she scowled, he leaned toward her. “I am here because you are in danger.” His thumb ran over the delicate skin of her fingers. He didn’t know why holding her hand should feel any better than holding another woman’s hand, but it did. “For whatever reason, this wolf is attracted to that scent, and believe me, if a wolf latches on to a particular smell, he won’t easily let it go.”
Her eyes went wide and glimmering as she searched his face, but her voice stayed calm. “If my perfume is what attracts this beast, surely if I cease to wear it, the beast won’t bother.”
“You understand scents,” he said. “You have to know it doesn’t work that way. I could smell that perfume on you the other night, even after your bath. You might cease to use it, have your maids clean your clothing, or order new garments. But it will take time for the scent to fully leave your person, at least to the level at which a were would no longer detect it. Time in which this beast might come for you.”
