Page 112 of The Hunter

No tears til the morning…

If her eyes had been dry, if her heart had been free, at that moment everything would have changed. But Millie learned something about her would-be assassin turned mercenary lover that it never would have occurred to her to know,regardlessof the length of time he allowed himself to stay in her life.

Christopher Argent had the voice of an angel.

***

Dorian bade Chief Inspector Carlton Morley to sit before the man fell over. He looked as pale as the late-winter moon filtering in through the windows. Regardless, here he was,again,in Farah’s sitting room in the middle of the night with an emotionally unstable assassin whom the inspector had shot at only hours before.

Morley must have more between his legs than Dorian had given the inspector credit for, he mused.

Farah was busy seeing to Miss LeCour and, without her to mediate, Dorian wondered if he was, indeed, going to get blood on the carpets.

Either way, this ought to be interesting.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Dorian asked in a perfect mockery of his wife’s earlier civility.

The left sleeve of Morley’s gray wool suit coat had been neatly folded and tucked under, as his arm was held immobilized beneath it by a sling around his neck. He sat heavily, then winced. “I came as fast as I could.”

“Yes,” Blackwell acknowledged, lowering himself to the sofa. “But you’ve missed the party.”

Argent remained standing, regarding the chief inspector with his usual aloofness.

“I was pleased to hear that Miss LeCour had been recovered.” Morley glanced up at Argent. “And that Dorshaw was defeated.”

“No thanks to you,” Argent said stonily.

Agitation brought some color back to Morley’s cheeks. “If I’d have been apprised of the situationbeforehand, I would have—” The inspector began to tilt over, and caught himself with his good hand, upon which he leaned heavily.

“You would have what? Fainted?” Argent snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Dorian found himself searching his flawless memory for a time when Christopher Argent had ever laughed. He came up with nothing.

“I’ve seen a lot of blood,” Morley admitted. “But not my own, not like that. I’ve never fain—that’s never happened to me before.”

“An explanation you’ve likely kept to the bedroom up until now.” Blackwell chuckled.

Golden features darkening, a vein in Morley’s neck pulsed, but he remained as cool and composed as Argent, himself. Blackwell had to give the man credit, he was difficult to rile.

“I would have come to finish you off if anything had happened to her,” Argent threatened. “Everything that transpired today is onyourhead. Your useless men had Dorshaw in their custody and managed to lose him. I would have ended him then if you’d not interrupted.”

Dorian could feel the heat building inside of Argent, and it stunned him. For a man he thought was made of ice, the assassin certainly had a fire smoldering beneath it all.

And the intrepid Miss LeCour was the fuel.

“I.Know,” Morley said through clenched teeth.

“Let us speak plainly, Inspector.” Dorian leaned back in his chair, catching his chin in his hand and regarding Morley with abject curiosity. “Why have you come? Surely you didn’t drag yourself from your recovery bed to be castigated by us for the ineptitude of your institution?”

Jaw set, aristocratic features waxy and sweating from pain, Morley closed his eyes for a moment, as though gathering courage. “I’m drowning, Blackwell. Drowning in blood, the streets are awash with it.”

“As they ever have been.”

“Yes, but it is changing. There are machines, and guns, and men like us living on fine streets like this. Self-made men, with no noble blood to speak of. Men who’ve made their money from foreign wars, oppressive mercantilism, and American markets.”

Dorian chuckled. “Men like you perhaps. I’m an earl, or haven’t you heard?”

“A courtesy title afforded by your wife,” Morley argued.