Sir Morley erupted, driving his fist into Dorian Blackwell’s face with a force she’d not thought him capable of.
Blackwell’s head snapped to the side, and an angry split tore into the corner of his lower lip. But to Farah’s astonishment, the large, dark man made no sound of pain, not even a grunt. He simply brought his head back around to face the wrathful inspector before him.
Sir Morley glanced over Blackwell’s ebony hair at Farah, a glint of shame touching his gaze.
“Gather your things, Mrs. Mackenzie. You are dismissed.” His blue eyes lit with an anticipatory rage when he looked back down at his prisoner. “You don’t need to see this.”
Farah stood suddenly, her chair scraping with a jarring screech as she protested. “But sir, I—I don’t think—”
“Leave, Farah! Now,” he commanded.
Breathlessly, Farah gathered her paper, pen, and ink, surprised that her cold, shaking hands obeyed her. As she passed Dorian Blackwell, he turned his head toward her and spat a mouthful of blood onto the stones beside him, though it didn’t reach the hem of her skirts.
“Yes, Farah Mackenzie, you should run.” The voice was so savage and cold Farah thought her mind might be playing tricks. That she may have imagined that when he said her name, a note of something like warm recognition thrummed through the words. “We’re going to be here yet a while.”
Turning back to him with a gasp, she was surprised to see that Blackwell wasn’t watching her leave. Instead, his face lifted toward Morley, who stood over him, hands fisted at his sides.
Of all the evil Farah had had a chance to glimpse in this room, Dorian Blackwell’s smile, full of his own blood and teeth and challenge, had to be the most frightening Farah had witnessed in her entire life. His eyes were dead, devoid of any hope or humanity, the milky blue one utterly motionless but for the reflection of the torchlight lending it an unnatural pagan gleam.
Farah turned from the sight and swept out of the room, past the silent inspectors who followed her progress with rapt attention.
It took everything she had, but she kept her trembling hidden until she was alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Three nights later, Inspector Ewan McTavish struck a match on the gray stones of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and leaned against the rear of the building while feeding the embers of his well-worn cigar. He scanned the shadows of Duncannon Street thinking that, once he’d concluded his appointment, he might pay a visit to Madame Regina’s down on Fleet Street. As always, after these clandestine meetings, he developed an itch born of the life-affirming feeling of having escaped the reaper. It would take two or three goes with a doxy to feel like himself again.
“Thinking of that new little Parisian skirt at Madame Regina’s?” The voice that had become the stuff of his nightmares caused McTavish to all but jump out of his skin.
“Jesus kilt-lifting Christ, Blackwell!” he wheezed, retrieving his fallen cigar from the soggy ground with a petulant scowl. “How is it a man of yer size can slither through the shadows with nary a sound?”
If McTavish had his way, he’d never again have to see the Blackheart of Ben More crack a smile, for the fine hairs on his body would stand on end for hours after.
“That was all well done of you,” Blackwell remarked. “You executed your orders admirably.”
“Wasna easy,” McTavish groused, finding it difficult to meet the expression of bemused calculation on Blackwell’s cruel features. “Disbanding yer mob and sneaking records into yer cell while trying to hide my actions from my precinct. Ye’re lucky I’m not the only one loyal to ye at Scotland Yard.”
If it was difficult to look Blackwell in the face, it was nigh impossible to meet his eerie, scrutinizing gaze. No one knew just how well the Blackheart of Ben More could see through his blue eye, but when it fixed on you, a man felt like his skin had been flayed open and his darkest sin exposed.
“I am a great many things, Inspector, but lucky has never been one of them.”
McTavish found himself wishing he’d be as unlucky as the impeccably dressed blackguard in front of him. Rich as Midas, they said, powerful as a Caesar, and ruthless as the devil. So he didn’t have a pretty face for the ladies to coo over, but a man such as Dorian Blackwell drew feminine notice wherever he prowled. Fear and fascination proved to be powerful tools of seduction, and women reacted one way or the other toward the dark giant.
“Why’d ye do it, anyway?” McTavish asked. “Why summon yer men for a riot only to send them away?”
Ignoring his question, Blackwell reached into his dark overcoat and produced a gold cylinder. From it, he pulled a brand-new cigar, which he handed to McTavish, who could only stare at it for a moment, hoping he lived long enough to finish it.
“I thank ye, sir,” he said hesitantly, taking it and holding the fragrant treasure to his mustache before biting off the end. Blackwell struck a match with his gloved hand, and McTavish had to fortify himself to lean close enough to light it. His need won out, though, as he was pretty sure he’d never have the occasion for such an expensive smoke again. “Well, I only knew ye’d have to get yer hide in front of Justice Singleton and ye’d be walking the streets free as an alley cat. Morley didn’t have a thing on ye.”
“Indeed.”
The flame of the match illuminated Blackwell’s features and McTavish gave a little sympathetic wince. “He really went to work on yer face.” He noted the healing lip and multiple bruises on Blackwell’s cheekbones. “Whatever grudge he’s holding against ye, it’s powerful.”