Page 21 of A Vocation of Violence
Unease slithered down my spine as I met Croft’s eyes. We were not dealing with merely a jealous lover or common footpad.
“We are hunting a killer driven by hatred and wrath,” I said. “Darcy is neither of those things. I don’t even recall his having a temper as a lad.”
“Yet he punches people for a living,” Croft pointed out, touching his still-swollen lip.
“Out of skill, not temper,” I retorted.
“I don’t disagree with you,” Croft conceded. “I’ve no personal wish to see Darcy behind bars, Miss Mahoney. The man’s prowess in the ring is unmatched. Still, I am bound by duty.”
“Isn’t your duty dictated by truth? There is enough evidence to suggest there are others from Vivienne’s past who warrant scrutiny. People with motives every bit as strong as Darcy’s.”
My mind raced, sorting through the tangled web of secrets and scandal surrounding Vivienne’s life. There were too many suspects with motive enough to wish her harm.
“Darcy is a statistically probable place to begin,” Croft insisted. “He has the possible motive, means, and the opportunity, and he refuses to give me an alibi. But I’ll grant you that half of London society had reason to loathe Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe.”
I didn’t know Darcy hadn’t an alibi, even a flimsy one, for where he was those missing minutes between when he chased Vivienne from the ballroom to when he was seen again after her discovery.
I met Croft’s gaze steadily. “Where would you suggest to start looking, detective?”
Croft studied me for a long moment, eyes hooded. I couldn’t decipher his expression, but something in his regard made me shift uncomfortably.
At last, he said, “Ishall start with those who stood to gain most from Vivienne’s death. Her rival lovers, or those whosesecrets she held as weapons. The baroness comes to mind, given her fixation on elevating her own status by tearing others down. And this mysterious royal connection you mentioned…”
He trailed off, scowling.
“There is always her maid, Claudia,” Croft continued. “She’s a slightly built girl, and her obsession with Vivienne seems to have curdled into a resentful sort of love. She is unbalanced, and may have killed in a fit of madness and jealousy. We should look into her whereabouts at the time of the murder.”
“And Jorah?” I said softly. My pulse quickened at the mere thought of that dangerous man. The memory of his touch, his kiss, still haunted my dreams—and now my waking hours as well.
Croft’s gaze sharpened. “You seem unusually eager to accuse your…friend.” His tone held a biting edge. “Has he given you cause to distrust him in this matter?”
I flushed under the implied censure, lowering my eyes. How could I explain my tangled feelings for Jorah, the seductive thrill of danger he represented and the forbidden passion we shared?
Croft would never understand.
“You seemed happy enough to accuse him the night of. I only wish to consider every possibility,” I said stiffly. “Jorah knew Vivienne, and I’m led to believe their affair ended poorly.”
“As you say.” Croft’s reply was noncommittal. “We shall look into every possibility, no matter how…unpalatable.”
His pointed emphasis made the heat in my cheeks blaze higher. But I refused to be ashamed for following the truth, no matter where it led.
Even if it led me to ruin.
“You’ll be glad to know that we’re releasing O’Dowd until better evidence surfaces, though he’s not to leave London under any circumstances,” he told me.
“Good.” A relieved sigh slipped from my chest, mingling with the chill air of the morgue. The notion that Darcy could languish behind bars for a crime I knew his heart too pure to commit was as unbearable as the frigid steel beneath my fingertips.
“You know, some year or so past there was quite the scandal,” Dr. Phillips muttered, almost to himself, with an uncharacteristic glint in his eye. “Prince Albert Victor was reputed to be a card-carrying member of the Order of the Green Carnation.”
“Order of the what now?” Detective Croft asked, his voice a low rumble.
“An underground society of some infamy,” Phillips recalled. “For men who favor the—er—intimate companionship of other men. One must ponder the implications if Miss Bloomfield-Smythe was privy to such secrets or in possession of the proof.”
“If she used this information for blackmail, it would give the Crown motive to kill her,” Croft replied. “The scandal of that magnitude, alone, might be enough to force his removal from the line of succession.”
“The most powerful motive yet,” I whispered.
“And eminently unprovable,” Croft lamented. “Investigating the royal connection will be…problematic.” His face hardened, etched with the lines of a man bracing for an inevitable storm.
