yes, sod off, but Victoria slid from his grasp and out of the room. He grit his teeth in fury. He’d never catch her now; experience had taught him that well. With a glare at Hendren, he pushed past the couple and went out to control the damage wrought.
He tracked Miranda by instinct, feeling the pull of her lead him through the house. No longer distracted by Victoria, his senses filled with his wife, her scent, the desperate sound of her breathing coming to him over the chatter of revelers and the discordant strains of a waltz.
Outside, the air was cool and fresh, the scent of loam and earth rising from well-tended flowerbeds lining the rear garden. Crushed shells crunched beneath his feet as he strode down the center path, alerting her to his presence. She spun from her position under the willow tree, her glorious hair shining penny bright in the moonlight.
“Miranda.” He reached out for her, desperate to hold her, reassure her, and perhaps glean some comfort for himself.
She stopped short at his touch, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…” She bit her lip and looked away ashamed. His heart turned over in his chest. He was at fault here. He’d pulled her into a world of death and depravity. The need to protect her made his arms quake, yet he hesitated. What right had he to hold Miranda when everything Victoria said about him was true?
The wind shifted, pulling strands of red silken hair across her cheek. He could not help but brush them back, his touch lingering on her skin, but something about the breeze gave him pause. He stopped and inhaled. His throat closed tight as the sticky sweet stench of offal flowed over him like sludge. Miranda winced as his hand convulsively clenched on her upper arm.
Clouds scuttled over the moon and then away. Just beyond his bride he saw it, the distorted line of a man sprawled upon the ground, unmoving as dry leaves rustled over him. Miranda read Archer too well and turned to the sight as if called. A scream welled up in her and died as she saw what he did—polished opera slippers tilting drunkenly on the path, thin legs encased in fine trousers, a black stain spread like an oil slick over a white waistcoat, and the throat of Lord Marcus Cheltenham laid open to the night. Archer pulled Miranda hard against his chest, tucking her head into his shoulder as he closed his eyes. But nothing would erase the sight of his friend’s bone-white face, blood pouring from his mouth, and the golden shine of a West Moon Club coin resting gently over one eye.
Chapter Eleven
The bookstore was, as the sign said, closed for lunch. Miranda knocked anyway, rapping her knuckles rather hard upon the scarred green door. Eventually, Archer had needed to go out and visit his man of business. Miranda had acted, absconding with the coach and fleeing as soon as Archer was out of sight. Not a very courageous course, but necessary. Her fingers tightened around the coin in her pocket. She had to understand this. And she feared asking Archer.
Poppy answered on the third knock, her quizzical eyes going from Miranda to the waiting town coach on the road behind. “Well, you’ve managed to arrive at lunch,” Poppy said. A fiery red brow slanted. “I don’t suppose you’d like to partake of the common man’s food?”
“Oh, do shut up, Poppy.” Miranda bit back a smile. “Or I’ll have to bring up your secret yearning for blue satin knickers.”
A brilliant pink flush clashed with Poppy’s copper hair. “You and Daisy with your stolen bottle of port. I was sick for a week.” Her stern expression broke, and she gave Miranda a rare smile. “Come in then, Jezebel.”
“Hello to you, too.” Miranda kissed her proffered cheek.
They did not go up to Poppy’s flat but into the bookstore, which was really her true home. Eight years older than Miranda, Poppy had married young, when Father was flush with funds and inclined to generosity. Thus she had received a nice dowry upon marriage to her poor but quick-minded love, Winston Lane. The first thing the newlyweds had done was purchase the bookshop. When Winston turned to police work, Poppy took over the running of the shop, and it soon became her consuming passion.
They moved farther into the cool, dark place, past rows of crowded mahogany shelves. The smell of book mold mingled