“I’d say, presently, just about everything is ‘not right.’ ”
Win waved this off, his countenance fierce with concentration. “It is Isley.” He halted and pinned Poppy with the intensity of his gaze. “He needed us to be together.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We weren’t speaking. I gather Isley did not plan on that all those years ago. Do you not see? We took the wind from his sails. He had no idea how we might respond once he placed his cards on the table.”
“Surely he would figure that we’d protect our child.”
“No, he needed that extra incentive. Whatever Moira Darling stole must be something that requires both of us working together to find. Isley is a gambler, but not a foolish one.”
“Let us drop this search and go and kill the bastard.”
Win’s mouth canted on a smile, but his voice grew soft yet resolute. “No, sweet. First off, the bargain is still in play. Kill him and he still gets our child. No, we are going to find this Moira Darling, because when we do, I’m going to discover just what it is he truly expects to get out of this game, and I’m going to beat him at it.”
By the time Winston and Poppy had returned, guests were wandering in to dinner. Thus they were forced to do so as well. Those around Winston appeared to be enjoying themselves, drinking wine, eating their food with appreciation. As for Win, he might as well have been eating mud. Food stuck to the roof of his mouth and clung at his throat when he tried to swallow. He could do little more than ignore his dinner companions and steal pain-inducing glances at his brother.
Dear God, how could he have forgotten Oz? Certainly, the knowledge that he had a brother hadn’t gone, but Win simply had forgotten to think about him. The very notion now shamed and saddened him. Though they were only two years apart in age, they’d never been close brothers. Oz had been forever at Father’s side, learning all things ducal, while Win had been his mother’s pet, chafing under her clinging nature. Oz had chosen Cambridge and Win Oxford. After that, there had been only Poppy, the CID, and his deuced bargain. Had Oz a wife? Was this a weekend fling? Had he too bargained away his soul like a fool? Somehow, Win thought not. Or perhaps he simply hoped.
“I’ve heard to expect the unconventional here, but that man is a sight to destroy one’s appetite.” The man across the way made no attempt to lower his voice. Winston wasn’t surprised; not really. He had received enough remarks by now to expect it. His years as an inspector had taught him how deep the capacity for human cruelty could go. He told himself this as he placed his linen in his lap and accepted the second course brought in by the waiters in liveried white. However, it did not stop him from feeling multiple eyes upon him or from biting back the urge to snarl at the people gaping at him. Perhaps if Poppy weren’t visibly bristling on his behalf, or the fact that the boorish man’s remark had caught Oz’s attention as well, humiliation wouldn’t be filling his throat this very moment.
“So Snow,” said Colonel Alden next to him, “I suspect you worked on some interesting cases in your time.” He deliberately raised his steel hand into the air to wave over the waiter pouring out the wine. “Any you are able to discuss?”
As attempts to divert attention went, it wasn’t all bad. It might have even been welcome if it wasn’t so bloody obvious. Winston took a sip of wine, forcing it past the lump in his throat. “I cannot name names, Colonel. However, no detective is without a good anecdote to share.”
Again came the loud man’s voice, more forceful this time. “Looks like a butcher’s been at him. What did he say was his work?”
Winston set his wineglass down with care. The ruined side of his face burned, which made his hands ache to curl into fists. Archer once said he’d made up songs and sung them in his head to get him past the fury.
“Songs?” Winston had repeated, incredulous. “Such as ‘Row Your Boat’ and the like?”
Archer had given him a tight smile that acknowledged Winston’s goading for the easy shot that it had been. “More like, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, and your miserable mother too.’ ”
“I’m impressed,” Winston had said. “It is at once utterly vulgar