His compliment seemed to startle her just as intensely as it did himself. Her eyes, turned an intriguing shade of sage by the room’s décor, became positively owlish and unblinking.
It was Cole who ultimately looked away, searching for safer ground. “I’ll admit to having had very few women in my society with any amount of employment experience,” he said conversationally. “What was it like, being a nurse?”
Imogen withdrew her hand from inside his cuff, as if barely realizing the improper amount of time she’d spent with her hand against his skin. After a thoughtful silence, she answered softly, “Messy. Difficult. Sad … Infuriating and utterly fulfilling.”
“Do you miss it?” he asked, before he could think of a reason not to.
“Sometimes. Though I think I am more suited to what I am doing now,” she said carefully. “I believe I was always meant to help those in need. I want to do everything in my power to alleviate pain.”
He nodded as he silently watched her deft, elegant fingers secure his cufflink. He had to admit that, despite his protestations, there was nobility in her cause. Her intentions were ceaselessly honorable, he knew that now. Finished with his cufflink, she laid her hand over the one with which Cole braced himself on the cushion beside her knee.
“What was it like being a sp—a soldier?” she corrected herself before calling him a spy.
He searched her gaze, waiting for the familiar savage, chaotic emotions to well within him when he thought of his military career these days.
They didn’t. In fact, a strange sort of half-smile tugged at his lips. “Messy. Difficult. Sad … Infuriating and utterly fulfilling.”
She smiled without parting her lips, an expression as sad as it was genuine. “It seems that we’ve both waged our share of battles. Mine against time and disease, and yours against the enemies of the empire.”
“It’s a wonder either of us have any fight left,” he agreed.
“I only seem to in your presence.” She made a gesture of exasperated amusement. “I’m glad we’ve called a sort of ceasefire for the moment.”
“I imagine we’ve both seen enough blood to last a lifetime,” Cole murmured. He’d not meant for his statement to bring them back to the grim happenings in her garden, but it did. They both glanced toward the window, and a bleak vulnerability seized Imogen’s features with such sorrow, Cole fought the sudden and disquieting urge to pull her close.
“Your Grace.” Morley beckoned from the door. “A moment.”
“Excuse me.” It disturbed Cole, how little he wanted to leave the room. How strange and solitary he felt at the prospect of losing Imogen’s proximity.
“I’ll go check on Isobel.” Lady Anstruther stood and reatreated, and Cole watched her go, grappling with stunning regret.
Resolutely, he followed the chief inspector back into the garden.
Morley glanced back toward the window of the solarium. “She doesn’t seem to like you, overmuch.”
Cole made a wry sound. “The feeling is mutual. Or, it was. We seem to have … reconciled our differences for the moment.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Morley nodded. “You see, I know that you were in Her Majesty’s Special Operations Corps. I understand that surveillance and … assassination were your particular specialties.”
Even from across the path, Argent’s head perked at the word assassination. They’d known this was something they’d had in common ages ago; it was why they now sparred together. It was difficult in a world like theirs to find a man with a similar competency for killing.
“The worst kept secret in all of London, apparently,” Cole lamented. “I’m the spy everyone recognizes.”
“In this case, that might be a boon.” Morley studied him in that quiet way he had, the one that made a man feel more like a target than a companion.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“It’s possible that Lady Anstruther has a dangerous enemy. One that might be dissuaded if it were known she were under your protection.” The volumes of expectation in Morley’s words were unmistakable.
Cole grimaced as he considered it. Half the London elite had witnessed her embarrassment at his treatment of her the night before. No one would believe her to be defended by him.
“What did you do or say that made her comfortable enough to all but accuse you of this?” Morley motioned to the strangled woman.
Trenwyth remembered the delicate feel of Imogen’s throat beneath his hand the night before. The captured thrum of her pulse, the soft press of her sinuous body. The incomparable taste of her.
She must have been terrified.
He watched silently as Lady Broadmore was covered and moved to a stretcher, suddenly weak with gladness that it wasn’t Imogen or her sister. “I’ve been an ass,” he admitted to both Morley and himself. Looking up into the unsettling, perceptive eyes of the chief inspector, he asked, “Do you have any clear idea of who could have done this? Any suspects of initial interest?”
Morley sighed and lifted a paper in his hand. “This list certainly helps, but no. I’ll have to look deeper into Lady Broadmore’s personal life, but I believe that this is connected to Lady Anstruther. Though—” He broke off, his gaze becoming remote.
“Yes?” Cole demanded sharply.
“There are some very strange similarities to another unsolved murder case that’s nearly two years old. A prostitute was found strangled, which, unfortunately, is an omnipresent crime in this city. But the parallels to Lady Broadmore’s case are salient. The fact that her eyes were closed is unique, though not unprecedented, as though the killer wanted to pretend she was sleeping rather than dead.”
Argent lifted a dubious russet brow. “That isn’t much to go on.”
“That and her … undergarments are completely ripped away,” Morley continued with an uncomfortable gesture. “As I’m certain you’re aware, lady’s underthings are sewn with an opening between the legs. Rather makes the entire—er—area accessible, doesn’t it? So why strip only that article away, and not the rest of her garments?”
With a perplexed frown, he stepped to the stretcher and lifted the white sheet. “Also, the utter lack of previous or subsequent violence is worth noting. She hasn’t a bruise anywhere on her body but her neck. Rape is generally a violent affair, more violent than sexual if you ask me. But in this case, and the one I referenced, dominance doesn’t seem to be the motivation. It’s almost as though the perpetrator would be a lover.” Covering Lady Broadmore’s visage, he stood and faced them. “Though … what a murder of a viscountess in Belgravia and that of a kitten of St. James’s Street have to do with each other is rather baffling.”
Something inside Cole snapped, and he stalked to Morley, seizing his arm. “Kitten? Two years ago? Who was the victim?”
Morley tensed; the muscle bunching beneath his hand was thicker than Cole had expected. He stared at Cole as though he’d sprouted horns, but he answered the question after a moment of frank consideration. “Can’t say I remember the name just now. Florence or Fiona or something … though that was her given name on her birth record. These prostitutes are generally in the habit of ascribing themselves, and each other, clever pseudonyms and the like.”