Winterblaze - By Kristen Callihan Page 0,43

that bad. I’ve started a breadcrumb trail for you to follow. See here? Upon arrival in London, you are to visit the Komtesse Krogstad of Chelsea. Call it a gift, if you will.”

Hardly. “And who is this Moira Darling you want me to find?”

“Many things. But above all, she is a woman who has stolen from me.”

“You have not even listed what it is she stole from you.”

“The man can read!” Jones tilted his head. “Are you certain you’ve done this before? I must say, my faith is wavering.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you ought to go with another detective and leave me be.” Winston crossed one leg over the other as he sat back. He itched for a meditative smoke and eyed the cigarette case between them with longing.

Jones tossed the gold case to Winston. “Have one. You are entirely too twitchy.”

Winston didn’t bother to thank him, but took a cigarette. He lit it, and something in him calmed. It wasn’t his pipe but the ritual was nearly the same. “Let me see if I understand this. You have the power to irrevocably alter lives, take souls, and yet you cannot find this one woman on your own?”

Jones stilled, and something mad flared in his white eyes. Win felt the force of the demon’s rage deep in his gut. It took all he had not to cower beneath it. Jones’s jaw twitched, then he spoke, his words oddly flat. “As I said, there are rules which govern me. Moira Darling is out of my reach.”

It might have given Win some satisfaction to see Jones struggle with the confession, but Win was too sick at heart to feel anything other than fear and rage. Yet he affected professionalism, in part because he knew it would irritate Jones.

“Are you telling me this is all you know about the case?”

“No. I’m telling you this is all I’m willing to reveal about the case.” When Winston stared at him, Jones smirked. “Perhaps I don’t want you to succeed.”

“Perhaps you simply like toying with me.”

“That is a given.” Jones laughed then leaned forward, bringing with him the scent of smoke and darkness. “I made you the detective you are today. Now use those skills. You have four days.”

“Now wait just a moment! Four days is hardly enough—”

“Four days to find what Moira Darling stole from me and return it, or I will take your child.”

Chapter Twelve

Poppy was wide awake and doing a horrible attempt at reading in bed when Winston finally returned. He walked on cat feet lately, thus she didn’t hear him coming until the door was opening and he was facing her, his expression grim but careful, as though he expected a fight. But she didn’t have it in her. It had been a mistake to push him. And humiliating to think that she’d believed if he just touched her again, had sex with her, that it would break down the wall between them. If anything, the wall was higher now. Watching him, she set down her book and remained silent.

Broad shoulders squared, he moved farther into the room. Red rimmed his blue-grey eyes, and water clung in crystalline drops to the ends of his hair, turning it the color of old brass. “I took a walk. It’s raining.”

“It usually is.” Her voice was as rough as his in the awkward silence.

Win ducked his head and, frowning, began to pull off his sodden coat. His cravat, waistcoat, and boots followed, all of them carefully placed upon the back of a chair. When he got to his shirt, he stopped and looked back up at her. Poppy couldn’t know what he was thinking. Before, she’d always known his moods and what to expect. Now, she felt unbalanced. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she covered her legs with the billowing folds of her nightgown.

“I think it best that you sleep in Talent’s quarters tonight.” She couldn’t look at him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, but he came closer anyway. When he stopped before the bed, she forced herself to face him, only to find his expression solemn. “If you wish,” he said in a low voice, then his hands went to his shirt.

“If you are thinking of getting in this bed with me, think again.” If he did, she’d lose all sense of herself. Sometime between crying and curling up in a lonely ball upon the bed, she realized that if he could not accept who and what she was,

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