Page 80 of A Treacherous Trade

When I did, I was struck by how preternatural he was. His eyes some impossible, unidentified color, his skin something between pale and dusky, and his hair a light shade of dark.

Sometimes it felt as if I were in the presence of someone—something—else pretending to be human. Something not of this world but sent to observe it before they claimed it for their own.

Men like him are the reason all women are afraid.

Beatrice’s words echoed in my head as we sat in silence, swaying softly on the well-oiled hinges of his private, luxurious coach.

His legs were so long, he had to tuck them to the side to avoid my skirts. And he did so, as if he were a man who respected the rules of decorum.

When he opened his mouth to speak, I felt a slight swell of victory, as I’d outlasted him in this aloof game he sometimes played.

“This friend of yours, the one you mentioned you were helping when you came to The Velvet Glove, does she happen to be Beatrice Chamberlain?”

“She does.”

“????? ????!” he cursed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t seem bothered by what Sophia and I needed to speak of,” I answered testily. “Besides, the identity of my clients is none of your business.”

“I make it my business, becauseyou and Iare in business.”

“Not by choice, as we’ve already discussed.” I glared at him, wishing I’d not capitulated to his order to get in the coach. What would he have done if I’d defied him, run me down in the street?

Doubtful.

“What do you have against Bea—Mrs. Chamberlain? I rather admire her.”

“Why does that not surprise me in the least?” he scoffed, before his gaze sharpened like a viper’s, waiting to strike. “She took something from me.”

“What did she take?”

“A client.”

I made a noncommittal sound. Must have been a royal client to rile the Hammer.

“Have you told her about any of our dealings together?” he pressed. “About how we are acquainted and what you do for me?”

“Why would I—”

He leaned forward, visibly vexed. “What did Sophia inform you that you reiterated to Beatrice Chamberlain?”

“Nothing but a bit of gossip from the past, that’s all. It had to do with these two murdered women who worked at The Orchard, Alys Hywell and Jane Sheffield.” I watched him closely for a flicker of recognition and found none. “Now that my investigation has led me to your carriage, I have a few questions for you, as well.”

“Yourinvestigation,” he echoed with a derisive snort. “I’ll tell you this once, Fiona Mahoney. You stay away from Beatrice Chamberlain.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m warning you to.”

“Are you afraid of her?” I was beginning to learn that a challenge often made him say more than he meant to.

He lifted a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Are you acting like this because she is a threat to you?”

“You think Ifearher?”

“Why else would it matter if I speak to her or not?” I examined my nails, so I wouldn’t have to watch the rage gather in his tensing muscles. I might have lost my nerve. “It sounds like you are concerned. Dare I say anxious?”