Page 14 of A Vocation of Violence
“If you meant to send for me at all,” Croft correctly muttered. “Scotland Yard received an anonymous note saying someone had been attacked at the Velvet Glove.”
“Curious,” I murmured, unable to suppress the bite in my tone in the presence of Croft. “How very expedient of them.”
“Indeed,” Jorah concurred, eyeing Croft with unveiled suspicion. “The only conclusion to make is that the killer sent the note.”
Croft snorted his disdain with a dark glance at Night Horse.
One the assassin returned, unblinking.
“Conclusions are reached through evidence,” Croft said.
“You’ll find none to implicate me or mine,” Jorah retorted.
The tension between the men crackled like electricity, and I couldn’t quite understand the depth of their animosity. There was a history I didn’t know. Things said and unsaid between them I couldn’t discern.
As Croft stepped away to examine the scene, Jorah leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “I’ll ask you this once, Fiona. Was it you who summoned Croft?”
“Of course not,” I replied, feeling the weight of their enmity. It dawned on me then: “He’s right, you know,” I said to Croft, mindful for the first time that I was wearing a dead woman’s gown. “She left the ballroom shortly before she was found. Only the murderer could have known, could have penned that damnable note, because for it to reach you and for you to respond with such alacrity…”
Croft turned from Vivienne to tower over me, verdant eyes blazing like the Green Man’s punishing glare. “Want to tell me what you’re doing in this infernal den of shite? With him?” The distaste rolled off his tongue like thunder as he jammed a finger in Jorah’s direction, and I bristled at his audacity.
“What we all were doing,” I answered, holding his gaze with more difficulty than I’d wished. “I was dancing.”
Croft looked at me, his eyes holding a storm of emotions I dared not decipher. And as I stood there, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, I realized that the night’s events had only just begun to unfurl their twisted skein. His voice was like steel wrapped in velvet, and I could feel the weight of his gazeupon me as if it were a physical touch. “When last did you see Miss Bloomfield-Smythe alive?”
I swallowed hard and glanced at her body. Arched slightly, as if to receive a lover.
Lovely, even in death.
“She caused quite the scene,” I began, my voice steady despite the tumult within. “There she was, all fire and fury, flinging accusations like they cost nothing at all.” The memories unfurled like dark ribbons as the night’s events tripped artlessly from my tongue; Vivienne had been a storm, leaving embarrassment and shock in her wake. Baron and Baroness Morton, Darcy, Tunstall, Claudia, Drumft—even Jorah—all targets of her inebriated wrath.
“She stormed off after her outburst, and Darcy went after her—Tunstall followed shortly after, presumably to help,” I finished.
“And the Hammer?” Croft pressed, his eyes narrowing just so.
“As far as I knew, Jor—Mr. Roth—remained in the ballroom when she stormed off.” There it was—an alibi for the man whose intentions I could never truly discern.
“Yet he led you to the body,” Croft countered, a calculated edge to his tone.
“True, but…” My words faltered, and Jorah stepped in with the grace of a predator.
“Vivienne wasn’t short on enemies tonight,” he interjected smoothly, his gaze arrested by her cooling corpse. “She makes them as easily as she breathes.”
Their eyes locked, and I sensed the coiled animosity ready to spring forth, a battle of wills that neither would concede.
The tension shattered as the door burst open, and Darcy, followed by Tunstall, stumbled into the room. Darcy’s eyes skittered over each of us until he found Vivienne.
A guttural cry tore from his throat. A primal agony was etched across his features—a man beholding his world undone.
“Vivienne!” His voice cracked with despair, and he surged forward, only for Croft to intercept him with an iron grip. “Get away from her!”
“Stay back!” Croft barked.
As if fueled by pure instinct, Darcy swung at Croft, the sound of the impact like a gunshot in the tense room. Blood bloomed on Croft’s lip, but he recovered with a roar and dove like a bull into Darcy’s middle.
They fell to the ground, a tangle of limbs and fury, until Croft emerged on top, his hand snapping shut the irons on Darcy’s thick wrists with a chilling finality.
“You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law,” Croft spat, his face a mask of righteous anger. “And on suspicion of the murder of Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe.”
