Page 13 of A Vocation of Violence
“Where could she be?” a dowager muttered behind a feathered fan, eyes darting like a caged bird. “It isn’t like her to miss her own…spectacle.”
The laughter had died, the music now a haunting lament as couples ceased their waltzing, their gazes turning toward the grand staircase where Vivienne had last been seen with a dismayed Darcy in her wake.
A cold prickle danced up my spine as I made my way through the sea of finery, each rustle of lace and pop of a champagne cork sounding a knell in the somber silence.
A hand closed like a vise around my arm. “Miss Mahoney.” Jorah’s voice held none of the languorous sensuality it often did when he spoke so close. The cold steel beneath his usual warmth lit a fire of warning in my belly. “We have a dire situation that demands your expertise.”
I nodded in response, allowing Jorah to lead me through the curious crowd. My heart raced as we slipped into a dark and shadowy corridor, hidden from prying eyes. I trusted Jorah to protect me, but my instincts were screaming with caution.
I only had one expertise to speak of.
If it was required…then someone was dead.
Chapter Four
The chill of the alcove seeped into my bones as I stared down at who was once Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe.
She lay stretched out like a macabre offering, her eyes glassy and fixed upon some eternal secret. A great sword had been thrust through her sternum with such force it pinned her, supine, to the floor. A lake of darkness pooled around her, warm and viscous, mingling with the crimson silk of her gown. A stark contrast to the pallor of her bloodless skin.
“Night Horse found her like this,” Jorah informed me, his voice devoid of emotion, as if discussing the weather rather than a gruesome murder. “He’s off looking for Darcy and Tunstall. They’re nowhere to be found.”
My gaze shifted from Vivienne’s body to the platform where an antique knight’s armor should have been complete. It stood sentinel outside the alcove, a hollow metal ghost missing its sword. At another time, I might have admired the craftsmanship of a bygone era, but now it only served as a grim visual respite from the tableau made of Vivienne’s violent death.
I did my best not to think of the heavy sword piercing my middle. The heft and weight of it. The blade blunted by years of disuse.
“Where are Darcy and Tunstall? Do you think they’re hurt as well?” I asked, my throat tight, as much from fear for my childhood friend as from the stench of iron and death.
“Missing,” he replied succinctly. “Nary a trace of either man.” His gaze cut to me, sharp and hard. “You should change back into your gray work attire,” he ordered me. “You’ll clean. I’ll return to the party and control any damage a scandal could cause. Whatever happens tonight, her body mustnotbe found on the premises.” His words were cold, callous, and the reminder of what kind of man he truly was made me bleakly glad we weren’t able to finish what we’d started in the Shiloh room.
“Send for my assistant Hao Long,” I told him with a gusty sigh, preparing myself for the grim task ahead.
The thought of anyone knowing I was here when this had happened sent a shiver down my spine.
“Of course,” he agreed, his tone betraying none of the urgency or dread that thrummed through me like a second pulse.
The silence of the alcove was barely stirred by the arrival of Night Horse, his voice a dark omen amidst the shadows. “Neither Darcy nor Tunstall are on this floor or in the ballroom,” he announced, the words hanging in the air like a death knell. “I will search further. Do you want me to send?—”
“Later,” Jorah commanded in clipped tones, his gaze fixed on Vivienne’s lifeless form. “We deal with the body first.” He nodded toward Vivienne, and for an instant, there was a crack in his steely façade—a glimmer of sorrow?
Of regret?
“Jorah,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “did you know her well?”
“I knew her…once,” he replied, his eyes distant, evading the truth as deftly as a shadow flees the light.
A new voice turned my blood to ice. “The Hammer stands over another dead woman… When will they ever learn better than to seek his company?”
Detective Grayson Croft filled the alcove doorway, large and imposing, his rugged visage etched with disgust and something akin to wrath.
With dark hair that culminated in a widow’s peak, square features, and fists the size of sledgehammers, he was more striking than traditionally handsome. The scent of winter rain clung to his coat, mingling with the familiar aroma of his signature fragrant tobacco.
His Yorkshire accent wrapped around me like the winter rain and my pulse quickened, not solely out of fear. His gaze lingered on me just long enough to stir a warmth in my belly before it flared into indignation.
“Fiona Mahoney,” he intoned with a sneer. “You’re here dancing with danger? Or just enjoying being a gem amongst the muck?”
I usually thought of a swift retort for Detective Croft, but my wits were muddled trying to discern if he’d just criticized or complimented me.
“Detective,” Jorah said smoothly, stepping between us, his eyes glinting with a danger that yearned to do more than dance. “We’ve only just discovered poor Miss Bloomfield-Smythe’s unfortunate demise. How is it you’ve arrived so prematurely when there has been barely enough time to send for the authorities?”
