As her face heated, she ducked it down and retrieved her own cards. “Just a point of curiosity, were you responsible for the deaths of those three Newgate prison guards Morley accused you of?”
Her husband didn’t lift his head from his work, his pen never pausing in its relentless scratch across the page. “No, I wasn’t responsible for their deaths,” he said darkly.
Farah blew a quiet but relieved sigh.
“I killed them each, myself.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London certainly looked different when one knew their life was in danger. Though street mobs obeyed and shadows parted for her influential new husband, Farah still found herself shrinking from dark alleys and checking around corners for a murderer, or for Warrington, himself, to seize upon her.
“Stop that,” Dorian ordered from the shadowed corner where he watched Madame Sandrine turn her into a human pincushion.
“I haven’t moved one iota in nearly three hours’ time. I’d first have to be doing something in order to cease doing it.” The endless standing had made Farah irritable, and after this fourth garment, the novelty of such fine apparel was beginning to wear off.
“You keep checking out the window for danger,” he accused.
Drat, she had been doing just that. Eyeing the richly attired citizens of the West End in a ridiculous search for a would-be assassin. Gritting her teeth against an itch on her collarbone, she fought the overwhelming urge to scratch at it. How would she even know what an assassin might look like? “Can you blame me under the circumstances? Perhaps being a target for powerful enemies is all very typical for you, but I’ve still yet to adjust to it.”
“And you won’t have to,” he said casually. “It won’t be long before we have Warrington’s head displayed on a spike from the London Bridge.”
“Not—literally?” Though the image didn’t disgust her as much as it should.
He cast her a look of droll exasperation.
“Well, one can never tell with you, can they?”
Her infuriating husband looked pleased with himself, and Madame Sandrine chuckled. “You picked a good wife, Monsieur Blackwell. She is, as we say, a femme forte.”
Farah inwardly felt guilty for all the discourteous thoughts she’d been having about the woman whilst submitting to her ministrations. “You are too kind, Madame Sandrine.”
“Hah! Your husband knows better than that, n’est-ce pas?”
Farah’s smile disappeared at the sly look the lovely brunette slid toward Blackwell. A few extra discourteous thoughts stunned her as Dorian awarded the dressmaker a civil nod, which was akin to an all-out declaration of affection for him.
Farah’s eyes narrowed at the woman, who didn’t notice because she was calculating the remarkable breadth of Blackwell’s shoulders. Just how well did they know each other? Had the lady put her hands on him? Had he allowed her to take his measurements and dress his impressive physique? It seemed oddly galling that, though she’d coupled with her husband, whoever tailored his clothing would still be more intimately acquainted with his body.
He was regarding Farah with the queerest expression when she couldn’t stop herself from lifting her disapproving gaze toward him. Could he read the odd mixture of curiosity and suspicion on her face? The knave’s own look hovered between disbelief and satisfaction.
He almost seemed contented. Most men wouldn’t dare think of accompanying their wives to a dress fitting, let alone refuse the distractions of a paper or book.
But not Dorian Blackwell. True to form, he watched, looking on with mild interest as Madame Sandrine tucked, pinned, measured, wrapped, and hemmed. Sometimes it seemed he couldn’t stop himself from staring, as if he drank her in with his gaze. Savored her. The intensity of it left her more than a little discomfited.
Her husband. A thief, a highwayman, a criminal.
A coldhearted killer.
But she’d known that, hadn’t she? Somehow, it seemed excusable for him to take down the dregs of society. To disappear men more villainous than himself; monsters, crime lords, and pimps. But officers of the law? Men she might have known and maybe even befriended.
She remembered their first conversation back in his study at Ben More. His devastating description of the hellish tortures he and Dougan had endured as boys.
And that was just what the guards did to me.
Swallowing strong emotion, Farah locked eyes with him. The wounded one glimmered with blue fire from the shadows. Swirling with things he would never say out loud. He couldn’t bear to be touched. Couldn’t relinquish a modicum of composure or control.
It was difficult to imagine the strong, lethal predator in front of her as a small boy, let alone a victimized one. Somehow, with a man such as Blackwell, it would be easy to assume that he’d always been the force of nature he currently was. That maybe, through some Olympian feat, he’d appeared on this earth in his mature, powerful body, birthed by a potent, mystical darkness.
But that wasn’t the case, Farah thought, her chest clenching for him. He was as much a product of the past as she, more so even, and he’d spent many of his formative years helpless, wounded, and afraid.
In a clever strategy, he’d crafted his vengeance around hers, so that she couldn’t separate herself from him if she wanted to achieve it. Dorian Blackwell wasn’t the sort of man to kill needlessly. Those guards whom he’d confessed to killing, if they’d mistreated Blackwell, they’d also likely victimized Dougan and countless other incarcerated boys. How many of those children had been innocent, as Dougan was? If that was the case, then Farah not only understood his lethal actions, she fought back a dark sort of approval. It was surely wrong, but she couldn’t bring herself to condemn him for it.