Page 8 of A Vocation of Violence
“Is in the past,” I cut in quickly, a sharpness in my tone that belied my usual calm. The ache for them was a constant companion, an old wound that refused to heal. “Let’s keep our ghosts locked back there tonight, shall we?”
“Of course, Fiona,” he acquiesced, his smile returning, though it did not reach his eyes.
Before I could breathe again, Vivienne Bloomfield-Smythe sashayed into our shared remembrance, her presence a sudden burst of color against the room’s muted hues. She was an opulent bloom amongst wilting petals, her every movement deliberate and captivating.
“Darlings, forgive my intrusion of your heart-melting nostalgia,” she cooed, her voice a melody that danced through the air with practiced grace. Her eyes, bright and unyielding, landed on me. “But I can’t let another moment go by before demanding if that is what you planned to wear to the Midnight Bacchanalia? I mean, the shawl is lovely, and the—we’ll call it a frock, dear—is well made, but woefully dreary for such an occasion as Darcy’s exhibition and my London debut, if you don’t mind my saying so!”
I did mind her saying so but was brought up too well to mention so.
Instead, a blush stained my cheeks, an unwelcome guest revealing emotion I was otherwise good at hiding. “I’m—I had no plans to attend an event tonight, Miss Bloomfield-Smythe, bacchanalia or otherwise.” I left out that I hadn’t been aware of such a fete, let alone invited.
“Just swept by for a bit of slap ’n’ tickle with our Mr. Roth?” Vivienne purred, her gaze flickering between Jorah and me with unabashed curiosity. “You have the look of a woman who has just tasted the forbidden fruit.”
OurMr. Roth? I lifted an eyebrow at Vivienne. Was she implying what I thought she was implying?
“Vivienne!” Jorah chided gently, but not before a knowing smirk had crept onto his face.
“Everyone knows to call me Viv,” she insisted, looping her arm through mine with the familiarity of a longtime confidante. “And do promise you’ll share with me the details later. For inspiration, you understand.”
I understood next to nothing.
“Perhaps,” I said noncommittally, my thoughts already racing ahead. The weight of my shawl was suddenly oppressive, heavy with implications and the scent of clandestine affairs. I felt exposed under the scrutiny of the company, my secrets threadbare beneath the guise of finery.
Apparently having had enough, Jorah stepped between us all. “You’ve arrived two hours early to an event for which you planned to be an hour or two late should you want to make an entrance. Am I to understand there is a problem?” Even when speaking like a gentleman, Jorah could sound as ominous as an undertaker.
Lamplight danced like phantoms across the Shiloh room, glinting off the sheen of sweat on Darcy’s brow. He leaned forward, his voice a low growl brimming with antipathy. “Georgie and me, we checked in at the warehouse to see how preparations are coming along, and we met an inspector keen on revoking the permits. I told him this exhibition fight is likely to be a spectacle London hasn’t seen since Her Majesty’s Golden Jubilee.”
“I imagine that went over well,” Jorah muttered.
Darcy’s eyes darkened, but he shrugged. “Must have been a fan of t’other local fella I’m meeting in the ring.”
“Bastard said he’d take the word of the devil himself over that of an Irishman. I told him we’d send him to the devil to ask.” Tunstall startled everyone by vehemently stating the fact in his perfect, highborn British tongue. Not a pleasant fellow, but he did seem to take the right side of the Irish War.
At least in my view.
Jorah, his eyes reflecting the gleam of a predator in the half-light, nodded with a knowing smirk. “Every now and again a new hire at some bureaucratic office will get a wild hair before his peers let him know how these things work in my city. If there isa permit issue, I’m certain it will be fixed before it even reaches my ears. That is how my organization is run, Mr. O’Dowd. But I will find out before the party tonight, so you may join the revelry with an unburdened mind.”
“I believe it,” Darcy replied, his fists clenching as if he could already feel the crush of the crowd, the roar of the masses. “Me mind is never burdened with much, but that’s why me fists make me money. This bout will give me enough to retire on and grow old. Every penny wagered will sing a siren’s song to the chance takers and rabble-rousers of this city.” He clapped his palms and danced a little celebratory jig with a barely willing Vivienne.
My heart should have been racing at the talk of fights and fortunes, but it sat heavy in my chest, an anchor dragging me down into the dark depths of disappointment.
I had envisioned an evening tangled in bedsheets with Jorah…
And he’d scheduled deflowering me for the two hours before a party?
“What could you possibly have to do more entertaining than a Midnight Bacchanalia with dear Darcy and I as the guests of honor? Especially after such a sweet reuniting,” Vivienne said, her voice a silken caress that seemed to make the very air around us shiver with delight. “The Velvet Glove has promised an affair more decadent than Saturnalia itself. I don’t think Darcy nor I would be able to enjoy it if you weren’t there.”
I doubted that very much as I searched my muddled mind for an excuse.
“Perhaps another time? As you’ve said, I’m not—er—dressed for the occasion.” My voice cracked as I spoke, betraying my dismay. The words were a cold splash of reality against the warm embers of my recent almost-tryst.
“Indeed,” Jorah said, turning his gaze upon me. His eyes bored into mine, enigmatic and deep as an abyss. “I did promise a celebration befitting a champion. Youmustattend, Fiona.”
“Must I?” It was meant to be a defiance, a reclamation of the night I had planned, but it emerged as little more than a whisper lost amid the intrigue.
“Of course.” Darcy’s insistence was earnestly hopeful, brooking no argument. “After all, who better to grace the occasion than the girl I loved like me own sister? I can think of nothing happier.”
A part of me yearned to be there. The part that was friends with a flighty Mary Kelly upon a day. I wanted to don a ball gown and waltz until dawn drove me home.
