Garrett appeared, surprised to find her in the doorway so suddenly. He offered his arm in reflex, that insincere smile edging over his lips. A dangerously handsome man but far too pretty for her tastes. No her tastes ran darker, or so it seemed.
Rosalind ignored his arm and stepped down, pleased to be free of the carriage. The lack of its constraint lightened her soul. Her skirts spilled around her and she straightened them.
Garrett looked down beneath his lashes, as if considering his arm. He’d made it clear he considered this a hunt and she the prey. Every affront only seemed to heighten his intensity, though it merely frustrated her.
“She doesn’t like being touched.” Lynch alighted with dangerous grace. “On the hands anyway.”
Their eyes met. Was it her imagination, or was there actually a play of amusement around the hard line of his lips? A softening perhaps or hint of smoldering warmth in those glacial eyes?
“Of course.” Garrett stepped aside with a smile that almost gleamed.
One punch with her metal hand and all those pretty white teeth would be scattered across the cobbles. Rosalind smiled at the thought and he smiled back, no doubt thinking he was winning her over.
The warmth faded out of Lynch as if it had never been there.
“Come.” Lynch snapped his fingers and strode toward the house. “Stop trying to seduce my secretary, Garrett, and get your mind on the job. Mrs. Marberry, if you would kindly do what I’m paying you to do. Feminine wiles are almost as teeth-grating as the vapors.”
No softening there.
Rosalind stared after him with narrowed eyes, then grabbed her skirts in her fist and scurried after him. “You haven’t paid me anything yet. And believe me, I have no interest in plying my ‘feminine wiles.’”
He stopped abruptly at the front door of a large mansion, well lit from within. Rosalind nearly ran into him. Turning, he said, “Garrett likes women, Mrs. Marberry. Don’t think you’ll be the only one.”
“Why thank you, Sir Jasper.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, goaded into sarcasm. “I hadn’t figured that out at all.”
Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.”
“You’re mistaking me for a fool.”
Another hot glare that unnerved her. “I dislike women who think they’re smarter than I am.”
“I don’t think I’m smarter.” To her own credit she didn’t emphasize the word “think.” “And it seems you dislike women in general.”
“That’s not true. I simply find little use for them.”
This time she could feel her cheeks heating. “Beyond the obvious.”
His gaze traced her mouth. “Mrs. Marberry. This is precisely what I wished to avoid with my men.”
“I thought it was Rosa? Now I am Mrs. Marberry?”
A long, steady look. “You are always Mrs. Marberry. To me. For convenience sake, you are Rosa.”
She looked around. “And we’re alone, Sir Jasper.” On the stoop of a Georgian town house, the wind whipping his great cloak around her in a cocoon of intimacy. Rosalind took a shallow breath. But this was what she wanted, she decided—to discover the man’s weakness. And it seemed, from the way he was looking at her, that he did find some use for women. Or perhaps for redheads in particular.
It was easy to smile, to play at being Rosa Marberry, now she was out of that carriage. She slipped into the role as if it were a second skin. All of the disquieting thoughts she simply shoved aside. “I don’t believe my supposed wicked tendencies are bothering your men at all.”
But bothering him. Ah, yes. She smiled, let her gaze drop beneath her heavy lashes. It helped to think of him as a man, not a blue blood, to pretend that he was only human.
If she pretended he was only a man, then she could admit that he was quite a fine figure of one. It was no wonder she felt this odd attraction. The thought eased her nervousness. It meant nothing. Lynch’s silence was troubling. Expression flickered over his face when she looked up, but so minutely that she could not decipher it. He was an observer, she realized. Always watching, always thinking. She wondered what conclusions he drew as he examined her. Wondered if he could see right through her.
“I’ll say this once,” he said quietly. “If I suspect you are having inappropriate relations with any of my men, the position will be forfeit immediately.”
“So I’m not allowed to smile at any of them?”
Stillness. Then: “Of course you are.”
“For that is all it was,” she replied tersely. “Garrett holds no interest for me as a man. He laughs too much and he wears far too much cologne.” She gathered her skirts. “Now, if that is settled, shall we?”
Lynch’s lips thinned. “Follow me then, Rosa. If you feel the urge to cast up your accounts, please don’t do it on the bodies.”
With that he strode past her, his broad shoulders framed by the elegant chandelier in the entry. Rosalind licked her lips and gave a frustrated sigh as she hurried after him. The man was infuriating.
Four
“Bloody hell,” Garrett muttered, standing in the middle of the foyer and turning in circles as he examined the scene.
Lynch moved slowly, cataloging each inch of room and analyzing it. One of the servants lay on the grand staircase. She’d obviously tried to flee before Lord Falcone got to her. The woman lay sprawled across the carpeted stairs in her mobcap and apron, blood dripping from the torn gash in her throat. It was messy—made with blunt teeth and not a blade.
The butler had almost made it to the door before he too was cut down. A spreading pool of blood beneath his crumpled body soaked into the carpet. Lynch’s brows drew together. “It’s the same as the Haversham case,” he murmured. “Falcone was more interested in killing them by this stage. No doubt he glutted himself upstairs.” Kneeling down, he touched the sticky pool beneath the butler. His vision blurred momentarily, his sense of smell heightening even as his mouth watered. He wanted to touch his fingertip to his tongue but years of control had taught him better.
Behind him, Rosa scribbled furiously in her notepad, taking down his words. Her skin was pale, her lips compressed, but she gave no other sign that this scene bothered her—or she was determined not to.
Rubbing his fingertips together, he looked up the stairs. Golden lamplight bathed the walls. Falcone had not bothered to update to modern conveniences like gaslight. Some of the older blue bloods were like that.
Perry slipped silently into the room, her dark hair slicked back beneath a cap. “A bloodbath,” she murmured, exchanging an uneasy glance with Garrett. Her nostrils flared, scenting the air, the blood. As one of the five who made up Lynch’s Hand—his best—she needed to be on scene. Perry had gifts of her own, beyond driving a steam carriage through hairpin turns at breakneck speed. With one sniff she could place a man to the London borough he came from.
“Find Falcone,” Lynch commanded. “I want a full CV count by morning.” If Falcone had been close to the Fade, Lynch needed to know.
Barrons appeared at the top of the stairs, lean and moving with a swordsman’s grace. Dressed in black velvet, the only sign of color was a ruby stickpin in the stark white cravat at his throat.
“Barrons.” Lynch nodded, a sign of respect to the young lord. Barrons was often involved in matters requiring an inquisitive mind. Their paths crossed regularly at these events; no doubt the prince consort wished to be kept apprised.
“Falcone’s up here,” Barrons called, his voice carrying the inflection of the well bred. “He’s still alive.”
“Still alive?” Lynch hurried up the stairs. Behind him came the swish of skirts and the lemon-and-linen smell he couldn’t quite escape.