dark-haired beauties, it seemed, and that fact had threatened to drive him mad.
One night, when he’d been unable to stand his longing, when his body had screamed for release and his every sense was overwhelmed by the memory of her, he’d gone to Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies, and had lurked near the fountain.
If only to prove to himself it had actually happened.
He’d touched the smooth stone of the fountain ledge where she’d perched and lifted her skirts and the mere sight of her shapely calves had driven him past all reason.
He swore he could still taste her, summer berries and female desire. He’d waited for her, his raven-haired miracle, and she’d not come.
Not that he was surprised. He’d told her she wouldn’t find him again.
And he’d meant it.
Morley rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at a smooth jaw where she’d once found it stubbled, wanting to wipe her from memory.
The Commissioner had disappeared into the church as he’d dawdled in reverie, and he’d missed the entire reason he’d attended this blasted wedding to begin with. To be seen by Goode, and thereby make his excuses to leave.
This had to fucking stop, this…obsession with her.
The entire affair had been a mistake. He’d never in his adult life done anything so ridiculous. So dangerous.
So…marvelous.
He hadn’t been himself that night. He’d been stretched at the end of a long-frayed rope. His will weakened by exhaustion and a seemingly futile struggle between him and the entire world. Between the two parts of himself. He’d been weak, there was no gentler word for it. Weakness wasn’t something he allowed, in himself or those who worked for him.
This had to stop. He whispered a solemn vow then and there to never look another dark-haired maiden in the eye. Never search for her sharp jaw and arched brows, or her delicate ears with elfin tips.
What would he do if he found her, anyway? She thought him a prostitute or, if she were a clever woman, she’d have worked out that he was the so-called Knight of Shadows because of his mask. Because he hadn’t taken her money. Because if she’d asked at Miss Henrietta’s or approached any of the Stags of St. James, they’d tell her he wasn’t among their ranks.
Either way, she’d a secret that could crush him in the telling of it—not that she’d come out smelling of roses.
Even so.
It was better to stuff the entire misadventure into the past and forget it. Forget her.
The church bells tolled the hour, or maybe the event, as Morley stepped into the already uncomfortably warm church. The organ music ground at his nerves, and he hoped to sit next to a large woman with a very busy fan, so he might not expire from the heat. How long was this bloody thing supposed to last? Did he have to go to the soirée after? If he made certain Commissioner Goode saw him at the ceremony, he could pretend he was lost in the crowd later.
“Sir. Sir.” Someone clutched at his jacket, and he whirled to find a white-faced reverend at his elbow. “Sir Morley? Chief Inspector Carlton Morley?” the short, rotund old man whispered his name and title as if it were an illicit secret.
“Yes?”
“You must come with me. Oh God in heaven. Never in my life…” The Vicar’s words trailed away as he furtively skipped his gaze over the guests now trying to step around them since they’d stopped in the middle of the aisle.
Instantly on alert, Morley glanced over at Argent, who made a baffled gesture.
“Please.” The Vicar’s pallor was alarming. “Don’t make a scene.”
Argent stepped forward. “Should I accompany—?”
“No! Only Sir Morley.” The reverend was tugging on his jacket now, dragging him toward the back of the chapel like a recalcitrant child might his dawdling nanny.
“We’ll find our seat and save you one,” Millie offered, tugging her husband in the opposite direction.
Morley followed the frantic priest down an empty stone hall with vibrant purple carpets. “Lord Goode and the Viscount Woodhaven sent me to find you right away. There’s been a— Well, the groom. The bride. Oh my God, of all the nightmares. So much blood.”
When Morley entered the sitting room, he froze.
Not because of the blood, though it was everywhere. Soaking into the floral carpet, spreading past it onto the grey stone floor. Coloring the bodice of the bride’s cream dress in a dappled spray. Saturating her hem and train where she stood, paralyzed, in the puddle draining from a