a slim hand fell to his thigh and gave him a squeeze, not in warning, but in solidarity.
Winston lifted one brow, and Butherwell’s mouth snapped shut. The man promptly turned his attention to the waiter hovering just beyond the table. “The beef is dry. Take this back and bring me another. Bloody.”
By Winston’s side, Poppy leaned in a touch, and her clean scent tickled his nose. “Do you know,” she murmured, low enough that no one else could hear, “I could make him disappear with one missive.”
His lips twitched, but he kept his eyes on his dinner. He could not face her. Not yet. “It is a very good thing I’m no longer with CID or I’d have to do something about that information.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see her wicked grin. It was that grin, conspiratorial in nature and one of thousands that they’d exchanged over the years, that made him forget where he was, who he was, and grin right back.
Thankfully, the dinner ended. Win was one of the first to rise. He needed fresh air, Poppy, a drink—and Poppy. Her dark gaze collided with his, and he wondered if he’d have to sell his soul again to bed her without regret. For right now, it felt essential that he get her alone and sink into her tight embrace. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel as if he were flying apart if those endless, smooth legs of hers were wrapped around him and held him close.
Shouldering past slower, carefree guests, he was following her out when a man stepped into his path. Deep-set eyes of near black bore into him, and Win’s heart slammed against his ribs. That face, that blade of a nose that was almost aquiline, that slightly put-out expression, was so like his father’s that Win could almost believe he faced a ghost instead of his brother.
Oz’s intense gaze eased first. “Marchland,” he said by way of introduction. “Mr. Snow, was it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Years of training held him back from brushing his brother aside and getting the hell out of there. But he was unable to say anything more. If he were lucky, Oz might think him overwhelmed by standing face to face with a duke. One could hope. Oz nodded. He was too well-bred to mention Butherwell’s remarks, but speaking to Winston showed a mark of his favor. Were Win simply an inspector, and not his brother, he might feel gratitude. As it was, however, an old tightness banded about his chest. This was the world he’d been desperate to get away from, where rank and title superseded character. Oz might keep a dozen mistresses, beat his children until their bones broke, destroy lives on a whim, and if he did, not one soul would lift a finger to stop him, much less utter a word of reproach. Win did not want to go back to that. And he most certainly needed to get away from Oz. Now.
Unfortunately Oz’s study of him returned. This time, his brother’s lips turned down at one corner. Yet another painfully familiar gesture. “Do I know you?”
Shit.
Oz’s dark brows met in the center. “I do not know why, but I cannot shake the feeling that we’ve met before…”
It was on the tip of Win’s tongue to deny it and flee, save his brother was here and he could not believe it a coincidence. “Perhaps at an earlier party? Are you old friends with Mrs. Noble?”
“Mrs. Noble was a very dear friend to the former duke.” His expression tightened. “She was a great comfort to him when my younger brother died unexpectedly.”
Oz’s words slammed into Winston, hard and brutal, and it was all he could do not to react. Oz nodded to a man who passed by before turning his attention back to Win. “My father was a great lover of art, as is Mrs. Noble.”
Yes. He almost said it aloud and cleared his throat to cover the gaffe. “Did they perchance meet through a Lord Isley?”
“You know him as well?”
He was going to be ill all over Oz’s polished leather shoes. “In passing. You?”
Thank Christ, Oz shook his head. “Never met the man. Only know the story of how my father and Amy met. Father became one of her greatest financial backers, and Amy has always been grateful.”
Win forced a bland smile. “Well then, sir, I am uncertain how or where we might have met. A face such as mine is hard to forget.”