Page 6 of A Vocation of Violence
“Viv!” Darcy’s brogue, rich and warm, was a stark contrast to the brisk London air that had seeped into the bones of the place. He curled a braw arm around her barely there waist, even as his eyes never left me. “You’ll never believe this, me pet. You remember me blatherin’ on about me old mates when we were lads in Limerick? The two most troublemaking twins south of the River Shannon, Finn and Flynn Mahoney—not even poor Aidan could keep us all in line.” If he was thrown by his companion’s astute observation of just what they’d interrupted between Jorah and me, he gave zero indication. “This was their wee little sister, Fiona Mahoney!”
Was.
Though I tried to summon a smile, my guts twisted at the mention of my brothers.
Of Aidan. He had been many things to me. My first love. My fiancé. My soldier on a distant shore.
My greatest disappointment.
One of my worst recent memories.
Closing off the ill-timed use of that name and the emotions it evoked, I forced myself to find words.
“Charmed,” I managed, my voice nearly catching in my throat as I tore my gaze from Darcy to address the alluringintruder that was quite obviously his…paramour? Fiancée? Friend? Spouse?
My cheeks flushed with heat, more embarrassment, now, than arousal.
“Likewise,” she replied, her smile as effervescent as champagne bubbles. Surprisingly, she seemed not to care about the undercurrents she’d waded into, her whiskey eyes twinkling with mischief.
“From Limerick, you say?” Vivienne arched a brow, her interest piqued as she looked back toward Darcy. “Well, Miss Mahoney, is it? Allow me to do what this thickheaded cretin never learned the manners to, and introduce myself.” She elbowed past Darcy, who stepped aside with an affable gesture so she and I could shake hands. “I happen to be Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe of the Dorset Smythes. What brings you to this sordid corner of London?”
“Business,” I responded, reaching out from beneath the shawl to awkwardly press her hand and perform the ghost of a curtsy.
I could scarcely fathom the turn of fate that had brought Darcy, someone so integral to my childhood, here to the Shiloh room. The very room where secrets whispered along the walls and shadows held their breath.
It was no place for past lives to resurrect, nor for fond memories to find new life.
But there he was.
Darcy O’Dowd… And with him, the ghost of innocence that I’d long since buried beneath mossy stones stained with the blood of everyone I ever loved.
“Business?” Vivienne echoed, her lips curling around the word as though it were a delectable secret. “How very cryptic of you, Miss Mahoney. Am I to assume, Darcy darling, that she is employed here at the Velvet Glove?” She did a not-so-surreptitious sweep of my person, noting my more uniform attire and chignon arranged by my own hand rather than that of a lady’s maid.
“Perhaps,” Darcy agreed, though it was clear his mind was still half entangled in the web of our unexpected reunion. He blinked several times, his brow furrowing beneath russet hair, slicked back with pomade, shades darker than his impressive ginger mustache. “I hear from back home that you followed poor Mary out here to do the—uh—the business. I says to me manager, Georgie here, I says, ‘Pray to St. Brigid that it i’nn’t so! Pretty little Fiona Mahoney was fed to the London wolves after life already done her so dirty.’ Didn’t I say that, old boy? When we heard what happened to Mary?”
The room, a tapestry of shocked shadows, seemed suddenly to shrink as George Tunstall made himself known. Unlike the vibrant display that Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe had offered upon her arrival, Tunstall’s presence cast a pall over the Shiloh room, his dour countenance like a storm cloud on an otherwise unblemished horizon. His eyes, cold chips of flint, surveyed the assembly with an air of distaste, as if he could barely tolerate the company he was forced to keep.
“Indeed,” he said, though his waspish voice held none of the warmth required by such a validation.
“Right!” Darcy said. “As my girl here has pointed out, I’m shite at introductions.”
“Your girl?” I couldn’t help but beam at the beauty beside him. “Are you engaged to Miss Bloomfield-Smythe, Darcy? Good on you for finding such a gem.”
It was Vivienne’s high, almost hysterical laugh that threw me off my axis once again, especially when she gripped my wrist as if she needed my help to process the lunacy of my question. “Lord but you’re charming, Fiona—I can call you Fiona, can I not? The answer to your question is categoricallynot.Two marriages wereenough for me, though you’d have to be Goliath to tear me away from this brute. I just adore every little thing about him.” She nuzzled her nose against Darcy’s, and I couldn’t help but rub at a hollow pang in my chest.
He shot me a sheepish look from beneath a blush as he rubbed at a rouge stain on his cheek from her kiss. “I hope that doesn’t shock you, Fi, me living in sin and all.”
I didn’t even know if I was capable of being shocked anymore. Not in the way he meant.
“I’m in no position to judge,” I murmured, flicking a look at Jorah from beneath lowered lashes.
Darcy’s toothy gold grin reminded me so much of the past that it hurt to breathe for a moment. “Good on us both, eh?” He nodded toward Jorah. “Two dowdy Catholics from a mud bog ending up with two?—”
“You aren’t finished with your introductions, Darcy,” Vivienne cut in, her fingers on his coat turning into talons.
Darcy shook himself and glanced back over his shoulder to the storm cloud in the corner lurking like a ghoul. “This is George Tunstall, my brilliant manager and shadow.”
We nodded to each other, though he made no move to take my hand, and I had no need to offer it.
