“He thought the moon was watching him,” Alice said flatly. “Anyway,thisone—this brooding inspector with a tragic childhood and barely suppressed desire?That’sher match.”
Celeste made a long-suffering sound and slumped onto her own grave. “You’re unhinged.”
“I’minvested,” said Alice cheerfully.
Chapter Six
Blackwood Townhouse, Highgate Hill
The present…
Alaric hadn’t beenthis tired since the Hanging Bridge stakeout of ’43, when the Revivalists imitation turned out to be three disgruntled butchers and one drunk goose. And yet here he was, dawn curling over London like a half-remembered dream, breath misting in the air, cravat askew, and coat streaked with Highgate muck as he descended the steps from the Blackwood townhouse.
The door had just closed behind her. Thea Blackwood. His fiancée.
Bloody hell.
He was a grown man. A respected officer. A bloody detective inspector with fifteen commendations, one war medal, and a reputation for handling chaos with the calm precision of a surgeon.
And yet… and yet he was stomping. Down the fog-laced street, coat flaring behind him like the wings of some avenging bat, jaw locked tighter than the armory safe, and eyes full of murder—and longing, God help him.
He grunted and continued his long march back to Highgate Cemetery to retrieve her damn camera tripod and whatever spiritual nonsense she’d left behind, probably with grave dirtstill clinging to the brass. He’d dropped her off at home with a tight jaw and a stricter warning about trespassing laws than his mother used to give about Sunday mass.
But, gods help him, he hadn’t wanted to let her go. Not after she’d looked up at him with those blasted storm-soaked eyes and whispered,“Thank you.”Not after she’d bit her lip like it washisthumb. Not after he’d watched her disappear inside and swore he could hear Alice Blackwood giggling somewhere in the mist like she’d already picked out curtains for the afterlife.
He was not all right.
He hadn’t been all right since she’d kissed him back in the cemetery like he was the answer to every wild ache in her chest. He hadn’t been all right since she’d made that soft, startled sound when he palmed her breast. Since she’d moaned his name into the fog.
His fingers twitched at his side. Cuffs still clipped to his belt. Still warm from where she’d tested his restraint.
Christ.
The sound of footsteps ahead made him lift his head. The mist peeled back just enough to reveal the stern face of Chief Inspector Castlebury, striding in from the opposite direction like a man with no time for sentiment—and even less for another incident.
“Ward.”
Alaric exhaled slowly. “Sir.”
Castlebury stopped him with a single look. “Tell me I’m not about to find you knee-deep in tombstone rubble chasing your fiancée across Highgate again.”
“I’m not,” Alaric said stiffly. “She’s home.”
Castlebury’s eyes narrowed. “On your way to the scene of the crime, then?”
Alaric braced. “To retrieve her things. She left… all of it. Tripod. Plates. Half her coat, I think.”
“Did she leave her bloody morals too?”
Alaric didn’t answer. Which, in itself, was an answer.
Castlebury sighed long and low. “Ward, I’ve seen things. Before, as captain of the Bow Street Runners, and these past years as the chief at Scotland Yard. I’ve got three sisters, one wife, and two daughters. I know the signs. That look you’ve got? That’s a man undone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re besotted. Hornswoggled. Bewitched by a walking misdemeanor with a waistline.”
Alaric’s ears went red.
