Page 122 of The Hunter
“Since when?”
“We’ve had mutual interests at times…” Dorian answered cryptically. “Prison reform, for one. Getting the same people off the streets, clearing scum from the gutters and the like. You’d be good at that. With your skills you’d probably be his biggest asset. Then, perhaps you and Miss LeCour…” He let the insinuation trail away, but the idea took root.
“Millie and I…” Christopher’s heart clenched. Hope was a dangerous thing. Once it was taken, regaining it was nigh to impossible.
“You might not have to change who you are so much as why you do what you do,” Dorian continued. “You don’t have to give up your skill set. Even if you don’t take this position with Morley, I’ll still need you. And as my world… changes… perhaps yours might do so as well.”
“Taking his offer, or yours, doesn’t erase what’s already been done, Blackwell.”
“No,” the Blackheart of Ben More agreed. “No, it doesn’t. But she fell for you, for the assassin, didn’t she?”
“How would you know?” Christopher asked bitterly.
“These walls are well built, but not so thick as to block out everything.” Dorian lifted an eyebrow, and a mock salute.
Christopher’s frown deepened and heat that had nothing to do with Ravencroft’s fine Scotch crept from underneath his collar.
“Also, she told us of her feelings for you.” Dorian stood, walking to the window to watch the last of the evening light fade into darkness. “When it comes to women, I know very little,” he admitted. “But I’ve noticed that intention means more than just about anything. If she knows that you’re trying… If she is secure in how you feel—”
“I don’t even know what I feel.” Christopher put his glass down hard. Harder than he’d meant to. “I barely knowhowto feel.”
“Yes, but you’re learning,” Dorian pointed out. “We both are, I suppose. Before Miss LeCour, before Farah, you and I would never have attempted this conversation. Perhaps that’s precisely why you need her.” Dorian’s breath fogged the glass with a long exhale. “Ladies tend to be emotional creatures. It’s one of the many things they’re better at than we are.”
Christopher leaned forward in his chair, studying the dancing fire as though it held the answers to the cosmos. A legitimate hunter? An agent of the crown… Was this possible? Would Millie even consent to see him again, let alone…
Wait, was he actuallyconsideringthis madness?
“What if I can’t—”
“What if?”Dorian snarled, slamming his palm against the wall, startling Christopher to his feet. “Fuckwhat ifs.What ifthey’re our last chance at humanity, Argent?What ifthey’re a gift from the beyond for all of the injustice visited upon us? What if we spend eternity burning for what we’ve done, for who we’ve become, but we have the memory of these precious years spent with a goddess?” Black fire flashed in his eye. “I almost let Farah slip through my fingers and you were witness to the misery it caused me. Why repeat that mistake?What ifyou lose her for good because you’re too busy being afucking idiotto seize your second chance?”
Christopher’s mouth dropped open, but a knock on the study door saved him from having to concoct a reply.
“Mr. Argent, there’s someone in the parlor I think you both need to talk to.” Farah’s sweet voice drifted through the door.
Argent’s heart leaped as he wrenched it open, startling Lady Northwalk. “Millie?” he asked.
She shook her head, silver eyes gleaming with concern. “I’m afraid not. It’s Lady Benchley, Philomena St. Vincent.”
“What the devil is she doing here?” Dorian wondered from behind Argent.
“She said she has some information about those dead women and their boys.”
“But the matter has been closed,” Blackwell stated.
“I thought so as well.” Farah shrugged. “Mr. Argent, do you know what’s going on?”
Christopher stormed past her and into the parlor he was beginning to hate. It had been ages since any good news was delivered in this place.
Hot tea steamed, untouched, on the table in front of where Lady Benchley perched, wringing a damp handkerchief in her hands. The reason for her ridiculous orange hat and veil became immediately apparent when she stood and lifted her head. Tears were not the only cause of the swelling of her eyes. Her nose had been broken fairly recently. Though the resulting mask of bruises had faded to an ugly shade of yellow, the inflammation hadn’t completely disappeared.
“Mr. Argent.” She stood and gasped as Christopher was followed by Dorian and Farah into the room. “I’m relieved to find you here, actually.” Dipping a flawless curtsy with not a small amount of difficulty, she gave a surreptitious sniff and held her handkerchief beneath her nose.
Christopher approached her slowly, and she shrank from him, wincing and holding a hand to her ribs.
“You two are acquainted?” Farah asked, gliding to Lady Benchley and taking her elbow to help her sink down onto the couch.
Lady Benchley lowered herself carefully, holding her breath until she was settled.
