Page 16 of A Vocation of Violence
“Will you be all right?” I asked, more out of courtesy than concern.
“Always,” he replied, his lips curling into a half-smile that never reached his eyes. “But tell me, Fiona, do you believe Darcy capable of such savagery?”
I hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. “I want to believe in his innocence,” I confessed. “But I?—”
“Say no more.” His expression darkened. “I stand to lose much if he’s guilty—this exhibition match was to be a culmination of no small efforts. Not just for Darcy, but for me as well. For men even more brutal than I.”
A silence fell between us, filled only by the distant murmur of the party, unaware or uncaring of the death that lingered in our midst. Then, with a nod that seemed final, Jorah strode away, leaving me to confront the remnants of the night’s horror in order to empty the Velvet Glove of revelers.
“Miss Fiona,” came the low drawl of Hao Long, his silk-clad form materializing from the gloom. His aged face bore the marks of one who had seen much yet spoke little of it.
“Mr. Long,” I greeted him, offering a weak smile as I approached the cart laden with bottles and cloths, each a silent testament to the nature of our work. “We have a task before us.”
Hao nodded, his movements precise as he handed me gloves. Together, we began the somber ritual of erasing death’s handiwork. As I scrubbed at the crimson pool, I wondered if it was possible to cleanse the stain from my soul as easily as from the floor.
“Thank you,” I whispered to Hao, who merely inclined his head and continued his meticulous work. In this world of secrets and lies, of violence woven into the fabric of our lives, there were few people I trusted. Hao Long, with his quiet strength and unspoken understanding, was one of them.
And as the scent of hypochlorite rose to mingle with the lingering traces of perfume and metal, I felt the familiar pull of the darkness that lurked within the heart of the city—and within me. My thoughts churned like the stormy London skies overhead, heavy with doubt and suspicion. Each swipe of my cloth seemed to peel away another layer of deception, revealing a deeper, darker truth beneath.
“Miss Mahoney,” Hao called softly, drawing my attention to an object he’d found wedged beneath the armor’s decorative platform. It was a delicate lace handkerchief, stained crimson with Vivienne’s blood. But what truly caught my eye was the embroidered initials in one corner—C.F.
“Clarissa Fairchild, the Baroness Morton,” I whispered, my heart quickening at the implication. The baroness had motive, her social standing threatened by Vivienne, yet this single clue did little to exonerate Darcy. In fact, it only served to thicken the web of intrigue that surrounded us all.
“Keep this hidden for now, Hao Long,” I instructed him, my voice barely audible above the unsettling silence that had fallen over the Velvet Glove. He nodded solemnly, tucking the handkerchief into an envelope that I slid into my pocket.
My mind raced as we finished cleaning the alcove, the ghosts of those who may have wanted Vivienne dead swirling around me. The baron, whose reputation was tarnished by her antics; the baroness, whose very position in society was jeopardized by Vivienne’s presence; Drumft, embittered and resentful of her; Tunstall, harboring ill will toward her closeness to Darcy. And then there was Darcy himself, the childhood friend whose innocence I desperately yearned to prove.
But who hated her enough to kill her?
I set to work, every scrub a strike against the chaos that threatened to engulf us all.
I was glad Jorah had left, his charm and poise a mask that would see him safely home with no legal ramifications, I was sure.
I knew too well the monster that lurked beneath that suave exterior—the same monster that had almost lured me into its web.
“Almost” being the operative word.
As the last of the blood washed away, I felt a twinge of satisfaction. Tonight, I had escaped the clutches of one monster, only to clean up after another.
Chapter Five
The chill of the Scotland Yard holding cells crept beneath my shawl, a spectral whisper against my skin as I navigated the dim corridors. A sense of foreboding hung like cobwebs in the damp air, adding weight to each step I took toward Darcy’s cell.
I paused at the threshold, finding Tunstall’s imposing form hovering over Darcy like a raven circling carrion. His voice was a murmur, conspiratorial and urgent, and it scraped against my nerves like a blade. I was not meant to overhear their dialogue; that much was certain.
Darcy rose from the cot, his stature diminished by the confines but not his spirit. His eyes brightened when they met mine, a spark of life amidst the gloom. “Fiona,” he said, and even through the bars, his presence enveloped me, comforting and familiar. “I didn’t think to see you here, so close to the devil’s frigid arse.”
“Miss Mahoney.” Tunstall’s greeting was as sharp and unwelcome as a splinter. His eyes, the color of tarnished silver, flicked toward me, betraying his discontent before his lips curled into a semblance of courtesy.
“Mr. Tunstall,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. The cramped cell seemed to shrink further at my intrusion, the walls resonating with the tension that hummed between the two men.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Fiona, I can’t believe this is real.” Darcy began to pace like a ship in a storm, erratic and directionless. “Flynn would have known what to do,” he said, his voice catching as he invoked my brother’s name, wrapping his fingers around the bars as his eyes pleaded with mine. “We had grand times, the lot of us, didn’t we? Finn, Flynn, Aidan, and me. You and Mary. Running wild on the moors, chasing secrets…”
“Those were different days,” I whispered, the memories bittersweet on my tongue.
“Flynn… God rest him,” Darcy said, bowing his head with a reverence that spoke of shared grief. “He and I, we were thick as thieves. And when they… When he was taken from us, strung up like an animal for England’s cruel spectacle—it was a wrong that can never be set right.”
A sorrowful silence stretched between us, the echo of our past losses binding us tighter than any conspiracy could. I fought back the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm me, the raw ache for my brothers and the life we could never reclaim.
