Page 26 of A Vocation of Violence
“Ah,” Night Horse intoned, his interest visibly piqued. “I can think of several individuals who would have readily accompanied you.”
“Can you?” I huffed. “Because everyone I can think of has already forbidden me from taking a closer look at Vivienne’s deathbecause it’s too dangerous for a womanor some such codswallop.” I realized I was applying a little too much sarcasm than the situation warranted, but I didn’t care.
“They do not know that to forbid you is to send you in that very direction.” Night Horse wasn’t a man who often smiled, but his dark eyes glinted when he made an observation that pleased him.
For some reason, though it was not strictly a compliment, his remark pleased me, too.
Our exchange hung in the gathering mist, charged with the electric hum of shared purpose. I was aware, then, of an undercurrent that thrummed beneath the surface of our words—a connection wrought not merely from necessity but from an unspoken recognition of each other’s solitary paths.
“You mean to speak with Baroness Morton?” he asked, glancing toward the oak edifice of the door.
“That was my intention.”
“Would you object to my attendance, as well?”
The chill of evening seeped through my woolen cloak as I chewed my lip, the weight of his offer sitting like a crow on my shoulder.
“Would my objection even make a difference? If I closed and locked the door against you, you’d just kick it down.”
“That is not my way,” he replied, that mischievous glint returning to his eye. “If the door is locked, I wait for the house to fall asleep and come in through the window. Via the drainpipeor roof. That is why Jorah is called the Hammer, and I the Blade. He is spectacle. I am shadow.”
It took me three attempts to successfully swallow. “Well, that’s very nice for you, but you’re right that it won’t be easy to get her to talk with you in the room being so…well, tall, with your muscles, and—and you’re menacing.”
His dark brow arched. “I shall assume the guise of your manservant—silent, unobtrusive. So utterly foreign as to not even be considered a human.”
“You cannot pass as aservant,” I insisted before barking out a laugh brought on by the lunacy of the idea.
“My livery not up to snuff?” He motioned to his impeccable shirt, cravat, and trousers beneath the slick black of his overcoat. “Perhaps it is my manner that offends? Or still yet, my color?”
I couldn’t swallow around a tongue dry as the Sahara, feeling a pang of remorse and resentment that his native appearance should be considered sinister. When, indeed, it was the loveliest thing about him.
“I’ll thank you not to tease,” I spat. “You very well know you can’t pass as the sort of man who bows to the whim of others. Not for recompense or any fathomable reason. Your gaze is too direct to be deferential to a master. You’re too braw and broad to be considered a footman or valet. You’re too, I don’t know…regal and well appointed for a stable master but not dandy enough for a solicitor or a clerk, so I don’t see how?—”
It was his hand on my folded forearm that interrupted me before he even opened his mouth to say a word, a ghost of a true smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Trust me. This is a gambit I often apply with Jorah. Tell the baroness I am your manservant. She will draw her own conclusions from there, which you can validate. It will help you to build rapport.”
I blinked up at him, open-mouthed, for several seconds before turning on my heel and marching up the steps.
Upon my ringing the bell, a footman opened the door then led us to the baroness’s private parlor without delay and announced us as “Miss Fiona Mahoney and guest.”
The opulence was immediately suffocating. Gilded mirrors reflected our figures in endless repetition, while lush velvet curtains held the world at bay.
The parlor was bathed in a soft, golden light from the candles flickering on every surface, casting shadows that danced upon the rich tapestries lining the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, their red petals strewn carelessly across the polished wooden sideboard.
The baroness herself was an image of haughty elegance, reclining amidst settee pillows. Her flawless porcelain skin was complemented by her perfectly coiffed raven hair, while her ice-blue eyes seemed to pierce through me as she appraised my entrance.
We weren’t invited to sit. In fact, she said nothing as we approached quietly on lush carpets.
“Good evening, baroness,” I said, my voice steady despite the unease coiling within me. “I don’t know if you remember, but we met briefly at the Velvet Glove the night of Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe’s death. I have been engaged by Mr. Darcy O’Dowd to look into the unfortunate matter of Vivienne’s murder. I thought it prudent to seek a woman’s perspective, as they are often overlooked in such investigations, and since you and Vivienne were acquainted for so long?—”
“You heard that Vivienne and I hated each other for a long time, so you’ve come to see if I’m a viable scapegoat for your countryman’s crimes.” As if to underscore her villainy, she picked up a sleek ginger cat that wound its way into her skirts and settled it on her lap.
Well, I’d give the woman one thing: she was smarter than she looked. “That isn’t?—”
“You’rean investigator? Irish. A woman. My, how times have changed…” the baroness drawled, her gaze drifting over to Night Horse as she stroked the purring predator in her lap. “And what is this? Does it speak English?”
“Heis my manservant,” I explained, bristling on Night Horse’s behalf. He caught my eye and gave a brief nod, complicit in our ruse. “He does not speak English well, but he understands enough to earn his keep.”
“Does he, now?” A glimmer of impishness lit her eyes as she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a tone silkier than the shawl draped across her shoulders. “Does he service you in all the ways a woman might require?”
