Page 36 of The Hunter
Argent was silent. Still as a reflective pool on a windless day.
Dorian had tried to make ripples in this particular pool before, without success. But something told him that he was close. That the pool wasn’t as serene as usual.
“Argent, if I find out otherwise, I’ll have to put you down…” Like a dog who’d turned on his master.
Auburn hair glinted in the late-afternoon sunset as Argent turned his chin to his shoulder, but didn’t look back at Dorian. “You could try, Blackwell,” he challenged.
The moment darkened, suffused with masculine challenge. This had always been an unanswered question between them. Something they’d danced around since puberty. Who would survive a clash of the two? Once violence erupted, would it be Blackwell’s fire, or Argent’s ice that won the day?
Though they were surrounded by plush carpets and expensive furnishings, draped in tailored suits of the most expensive wool and cotton and silk, they both knew what lay beneath.
Animals, both of them. Predators. With the capability to rend flesh and rip at the throat with the precision born of experience and the lack of conscience that was required for survival in the wild. It was what kept them at the top of the food chain. What protected them from becoming prey. But if lines were drawn, and both of them bared their teeth at each other, striking for the jugular, the collateral damage would be astronomical. And the outcome uncertain. The difference between their lethality could starve a mouse.
The moment that had always shimmered in the air between them turned into a vibration. Dorian again sensed that weakness in Argent, a tension or a battle. A deliberation that split his focus. If he was ever vulnerable to attack, it would be now.
The question remained, was such an action warranted? Was Argent telling the truth?
“Dorian, my love.” Farah’s soft rap against the study door dispelled the moment with flawless timing. “I’m taking Faye in the pram about the park to watch the sunset. I thought I saw Lady Harrington, and would like to say hello. Are you interested in joining us?”
That was exactly what Dorian wanted to do. He’d like nothing more than to see the sun glint off his wife’s lovely pale hair as it dipped below London’s singular skyline. Tossing a perturbed look at Argent, he called through the door.
“I have some business to attend to here for a moment. Please take Murdoch with you and I’ll join you when I can, darling.” As honest as Dorian was with his wife, he didn’t necessarily want her to know Argent was here until he’d gotten to the bottom of this strange visit.
She paused. “Very well. Would you like me to send Gemma in with some tea?”
“Don’t bother yourself, dear. I won’t be long enough for tea.”
“But Dorian, did you offer your guest any tea?” Farah asked sweetly, a smile coloring her voice. “If I recall correctly, Mr. Argent is fond of oolong.”
Dorian grunted and pinched his forehead. It was damned difficult loving an intelligent, observant woman sometimes.
Argent shook his head.
“No, thank you. No one is in need of any tea at the moment. Enjoy your outing.” He turned from the door, then paused and called out. “Make sure you’re both warm enough. I’ll be along.”
“Good evening, Mr. Argent,” Farah called before her steps retreated down the hall, as she knew generally not to expect a response.
Dorian joined Argent at the window and they both looked out onto the corner on which Blackwell resided whilst in town. From one side of the house, white rows of opulent Mayfair homes lined the clean, cobbled street, buttressed by columns and lorded over by stalwart, titled society matrons. From the study, only Park Lane separated the Blackwell home from the perfectly manicured Hyde Park.
These days, more and more merchants and wealthy, self-made men like Blackwell acquired property here in the West End of London. Though a title certainly made the generations-long occupants more comfortable.
For an extended, silent moment, the men observed Farah and her middle-aged escort, Murdoch, another former guest of Her Majesty’s at Newgate, stroll through the neighborhood of well-dressed people in their furs and capes. It was a particular point of pride to Dorian that his wife was not only the loveliest, but also the most elegantly attired. His tiny daughter was wrapped in the softest furs to match her mother’s extravagant golden pelisse.
A strange anxiety rose within him. His entire life was taking in another beautiful evening, and he wanted to be with them. Now.
“What are you doing here, Argent?” he asked shortly, surreptitiously checking Argent’s transparent reflection in the glass. “Is this about the delay in fulfilling your contract?” A rather expensive one had crossed his desk today, this one calling for the blood of a rather famous actress. Dorian had only noted it because he’d heard days ago that Argent had taken that very job. A delay in Argent’s work was not only out of the realm of normalcy, it was unheard of.
“I killed a man today,” Argent murmured.
“Only one? I take it business is slow?” Dorian smirked.
Argent’s reflection frowned and undid the top button of his coat. Then the next. “I killed a man because I wanted to. Because he deserved it. Because… he made me angry.” Apparently changing his mind, he redid the second button.
Dorian watched Argent fidget with a growing sense of alarm. “If you’ve suddenly developed a conscience and are inclined to make a confession, you’ve come to the wrong man.”
Argent made an irate sound so completely out of character that Dorian’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, as the assassin swung away from the window. Stalking to the sideboard, he poured a liberal splash of Ravencroft’s finest Scotch and downed it in one gigantic swallow. “I know who is killing those mothers.”
Dorian blinked, bemused by the abrupt change of subject. “And who is that?”
