Page 25 of A Vocation of Violence
I eyed him with rank suspicion. “Are you following me?”
“I am not.”
I should have known better than to wait for subsequent information, but I did it, more out of habit than courtesy, I’d like to think. “I refuse to believe you’re merely lurking on a random corner of Belgravia and we happened upon each other.”
Coincidences just didn’t getthatstrange, at least not in my life.
“Jorah sent me to keep an eye on the baron and baroness,” he replied, his voice low and smooth. “The question is, what bringsyouto this den of serpents?”
“Vivienne’s murder, what else?”
An odd and thoroughly unexpected expression etched his features into a semblance of the man he’d once claimed to be. Husband. New father. Hunter and provider for his people.
“I knew that her ghost would stay with you after you disposed of her remains.”
I regarded him carefully, noting the way the lamplight danced across the planes of his face, casting half of it in obscurity.
“How did you know that?” In truth, I’d all but forgotten he’d been present the night of Vivienne’s death. As much as a man his height, breadth, and hue might draw attention, he was excellent at obfuscation and subterfuge.
“Information is the currency of our trade, is it not?” He didn’t answer my question, though there was a glimmer in his eye, a flicker of intrigue? “Might we barter here in the dark, Fiona?”
As we stood there in the dim light cast by the flickering gas lamps, I felt the ghost of something feral and intimate passbetween us. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air, like a whisper of silk sliding across bare skin.
A thrill, perhaps, at the notion of two lone wolves circling a common prey.
I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on relaying the information I had collected from Dr. Phillips and Detective Croft.
“The coroner mentioned that Vivienne’s cause of death was a blow to the back of her head,” I said, noting how Night Horse’s eyes seemed to gleam with fascination. “That the sword was used postmortem to pin her to the ground. He also said the angle of the blow suggested the assailant might not be very tall. Perhaps closer to my height.”
“Intriguing,” Night Horse mused, his brow furrowing in thought as he looked down a good six inches to me. “In the interest of fairness, I’ll tell you the maid, Claudia, mentioned to Jorah that Vivienne had been furious with the baroness as recently as last week. The lady had blocked Vivienne’s acting company from debuting at the West End theater they initially wanted.”
“Poor Claudia.” I sighed heavily, feeling the weight of her circumstances melding our shared suspicions regarding the baroness. “Do you trust her as a source of information?”
“I trust no one.”
I gulped at the gravitas in his tone before replying, “I meant, do you think she could have done the violence to her mistress? Or been involved? I’ve learned she was a rather…ardent admirer of Vivienne’s, and we’ve all learned that sometimes obsession can blur the lines between love and hate.”
Our gazes locked and we stared at each other for several breaths, each of us reliving our worst shared moment.
My former fiancé, Aidan Fitzpatrick, had renounced our engagement and devoted himself to the church upon his returnto Ireland from America. However, his decision to become a priest did not absolve him of the guilt he carried for his role in the horrific extermination of Native Americans during the age of Manifest Destiny. In fact, it only drove him into madness. Night Horse had reaped a bloody vengeance against Aidan for his actions.
But revenge always came far too late, after countless innocent lives had already been lost and forgotten in mass graves.
It was something we rarely discussed, though it always hung in the air between us.
Blunted, I think, by this strange fascination we felt for each other.
“Maybe we should combine our efforts on this,” Night Horse suggested, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made my heart race. “For the sake of expediency.”
“That would be most welcome,” I replied, unable to deny the sense of camaraderie flowering between us. “It seems the baroness and Vivienne were once rivals for the baron’s affections.”
“Jealousy is a potent motive,” he murmured, leaning in as if drawn by the gravity of our discourse. “And what of Darcy? You do not believe him a suspect at all?”
“My goal is to clear his name—to cast suspicion where it rightfully belongs.” The words felt heavy on my tongue, laden with an urgency that brooked no argument. “If the evidence points to Darcy, then, well…”
Then I’d have to come to terms with the fact that another of my childhood heroes had grown into a murderer.
I shook the thought away, latching on to another. “The baroness, with her stature and cunning, could well have struck the fatal blow to Vivienne’s head. It was why I hesitated whenyou found me here on her walk. I was wondering how foolish it was of me to come here alone.”
