Blackwell nodded, donning an ebony felt hat that shadowed his eyes from any light, before turning toward the Strand. “Good evening, Inspector. Give Madame Regina my regards.”
It was like the man had read his bloody thoughts. Foolishly, McTavish had assumed his habits too low on Blackwell’s list of importance for the man to take any notice. When you’re blackmailing dukes and bribing justices, how did one remember the proclivities of one in a hundred coppers in Blackwell’s pocket?
Before he could stop himself, McTavish was seized by a fit of conscience. “Ye’re not going to hurt her, are ye?” he called. “Mrs. Mackenzie, I mean.”
Slowly, Blackwell turned, presenting him with his unnatural blue eye. “You know better than to ask me questions, Inspector.”
Swallowing, McTavish took his bowler cap off, crushing the rim in his hands. “Forgive me … It’s only that—well—she’s a real gentle, kindhearted sort of bird. I couldn’t live with meself knowing I had a hand in any … unpleasantness toward her.”
The air around Blackwell seemed to darken, as though the shadows gathered to protect him. “If your conscience bothers you too much, McTavish, there are alternatives to living…” The Blackheart took a threatening step toward him, and McTavish jumped back.
“Nay! Nay, sir. I’ll not get in yer way. I meant no disrespect.”
“Very good.”
“I—I didn’t mean to question ye. It’s just … not all of us are capable of such a black heart as yers.”
Blackwell advanced further, and McTavish squeezed his eyes shut, certain this was the end for him. Instead of killing him, only that calm, cold whisper washed over him like the breath of damnation. “That’s where you’re wrong, Inspector. Every man is capable of a heart such as mine. They just need to be given the right … incentive.”
Trembling, McTavish crushed the hat back on his head. “Y-yes sir. Though I’d not wish for such an incentive, if that be yer aim.”
A callous, predatory enjoyment lit within Blackwell’s eyes, and in that moment, McTavish hated the bastard for unmanning him like this.
“Come close, McTavish, and I’ll tell you a secret. Something about me that few men know.”
There wasn’t a man alive who wanted to be privy to Dorian Blackwell’s secrets. They were the kind that got one killed.
He stepped toward the dark, hulking man. “Y-yes?”
“No one wants that kind of incentive, Inspector. Not even me.”
Blinking rapidly, McTavish nodded as he watched Dorian Blackwell melt into the mist and shadows of the London evening, certain that he’d not only escaped death, but the devil, himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
Farah enjoyed London at night. Mingling with the beau monde at Covent Garden, or attending lectures, concerts, and after-parties with the rather transitory crowd of novelists who came to England just long enough to get depressed and move back to Paris to write about it.
Today she’d worn her new finest sea-green silk polonaise over particularly ruffled and beribboned petticoats in deference to her plans to see the latest Tom Taylor production with Carlton Morley as her escort. Seized by a whim of recklessness, she’d pulled the puffed and filmy sleeves of her bodice wide to expose an extra expanse of clavicle and shoulder.
The moment the clock struck six, she rose from her desk and shrugged out of her professionally cut jacket which she replaced with a soft fringed shawl and white silk gloves.
Cartwright, the newest clerk, at least five years her junior, watched her with unabashed fascination. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you wear that color before, Mrs. Mackenzie. It complements your eyes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright.” She smiled, unable to help a small tingle of pleasure at the attractive young man’s approval.
“Looking like that, you’ll have Sir Morley down on one knee before the night is over,” he continued, smoothing the thin golden mustache that teased his lip as though still delighted he could finally grow one. “If Morley doesn’t, seek me out and I might be persuaded to give up my coveted bachelor status.”
Farah’s pleasure dimmed, so she brightened her smile. “I’d never dream of perpetrating such a tragedy, Mr. Cartwright, on either accord. I, for one, have no wish to be any man’s trouble and strife.” She used the cockney term for wife while she fiddled with the edge of her glove. It bothered her increasingly that almost everyone she knew seemed to think that her status as a longtime widow was so pitiable. Over the past decade, a multitude of men had offered to make her their wife if only because their conscience couldn’t bear to think of her living, and sleeping, alone.
She’d deflected that behavior by wearing mourning dresses for nearly four years, until she’d reached an age where she was considered to be quite firmly on the shelf. It had abated after a while, and she was lucky enough to be employed in an environment where most of the men were either married or permanently disinclined to the institution. Which was just fine with her, as she felt similarly disillusioned toward the idea of a husband.
Her fortunes, modest as they were, remained her own. As did her time, her pleasures, her opinions, and, most importantly, her will. Being a middle-class widow of an ever-increasingly respectable age, she was afforded societal freedoms of which most women could only dream. She never required a chaperone, was allowed the most indelicate company, and could even take a lover if she liked, and no one but a vicar would so much as bat an eye.