“Terrifying,” he replied with his distinct brand of prosaic nonchalance. He didn’t spare the paper a glance, but he tilted his head to inhale the very nearness of Millie before pressing a careful kiss into her coiffed dark hair.
Morley’s grim mood darkened to thunderous. “Bloody journalists,” he muttered, hoping his companions would believe the papers solely responsible for his ire.
And not their nuzzling nonsense.
It’d never much bothered him before that night with— No. No, he didn’t allow himself to dwell on that. To transpose sylphlike features over Millie’s bold ones, if only because she shared the slight build and black hair of the woman who haunted his dreams.
Because he’d almost convinced himself the most memorable night of his life had been exactly that. A dream. A strange fabrication of fancy. A hallucination induced by exhaustion, an overtaxed psyche, and vacuous lack of sex.
“Oh, I realize you two men are of the opinion it’s sensational and absurd,” Millie continued. “But if you think about it, a villain setting out to commit a crime might think twice if he’s worried about running afoul of the Knight of Shadows.” Reaching up, the celebrated actress smoothed an errant auburn forelock away from Argent’s soulless eyes. She touched him with the absent fondness of a longtime lover and Morley had to look away from them both. He sought refuge out the window in the bustle and unaccountable brightness of a late-summer London morning.
“And don’t be too sore at the writers,” she prodded Morley. “Anyone in my profession would commit murder for that sort of free press.”
He’d committed murder for it too…
The Knight of Shadows. Another farce. Another mantle he’d thrown over his own shoulders almost purely on accident. One night, ages ago, Chief Inspector Carlton Morley had been denied legal entrance to a brothel where he knew evil men sold young, desperate foundlings to disgusting clientele.
He’d a suspicion the Justice involved in his denial was a customer.
The voices of every victimized child he’d ever known had torn through him. Dorian, Ash, Argent, Lorelai, Farah…
Caroline.
He could not abide it. Would not allow it. Not anymore. Not in his city and especially not within his own departments of Justice.
His questionable decision fortified by more brandy than he’d like to admit, he’d tied a mask over his eyes, and broke out the tools of a trade he’d long since deserted.
And a boy he’d long since buried.
He thought he’d left Cutter Morley in the grave he’d dug, but neither was it Sir Carlton Morley who’d shot every pimp in the brothel dead before sending the youths to refuge at St. Dismas Church in Whitechapel.
That night something had eased within him. A sense of helplessness he knew every police officer carried around with him.
The shackles the law locked upon its enforcers were both right and necessary. And yet, they created certain loopholes that became leashes whereby a lawman might be forced to watch an atrocity happen without being able to take recourse.
After years of fighting, of watching the system of which he was a part of, fail so many, mainly those unfortunates believed by most to reside beneath notice, he could stand by no longer.
He was the knighted war hero Chief Inspector because he had to be, and he’d become the Knight of Shadows because London had needed him to be.
How many bodies were there now? The pedophile watchmaker on Drury Lane. The murdering rapist in Knightsbridge. A maniacal doctor who performed gruesome experiments on his immigrant patients, often resulting in disfigurement or death. Two brothers who’d taken everything from their infirmed aunt and moved into her house, effectively keeping her prisoner whilst they spent her meager income.
He’d meant to merely evict them, but one of the men had pulled a pistol on him. And well…Morley’s dead-eye had done the job for him.
Then there’d been—
“The public so loves a memorable sobriquet.” Millie interrupted his thoughts.
“The public are idiots,” Argent reminded her.
“A public you both protect, I might remind you.” Millie smacked him square in the chest, and Argent smirked down at her.
“If you ever hit me and I find out about it…” He tonelessly poked fun at her petite stature and feeble strength.
Though, Morley supposed, most anyone seemed diminutive next to the ginger giant.
“Think of everyone we know with anointed designations they never thought to give themselves,” Millie ticked their connections off on her fingers. “The Rook, The Demon Highlander. The Blackheart of Ben More, The King of the London Underworld, though I suppose those two only count as one…” She trailed off and turned to her husband. “How did you escape without a moniker?”
Argent gave a rather Gallic shift of his shoulder. “If an assassin becomes famous enough to be recognized, it’s time for him to retire.”
“I’m glad you did,” Millie said with feeling. Though the man hadn’t retired because of any sort of infamy, but because he’d met his match. Her. The woman he’d been hired to kill, and instead fell in love with.
Morley supposed he should be concerned about how many people were privy to his nocturnal identity by now. Argent had guessed that Morley had begun to spend his nights as a vigilante before he admitted it, only because he and the former assassin were once after the same villain on the same night.
And what Argent knew, Millie knew also.
Morley had confided it to his childhood best mate, now known as the Rook, which meant his wife, Lorelai, knew. And probably also the Blackwells, Dorian and Farah.
The press had begun to follow his exploits but, as Morley had predicted, the descriptions of him scraped from the recollections of villains and survivors were notoriously unreliable, lost in the miasma of misinformation that was the London press.
They all remembered a mask covering the upper quadrant of his face and the fact that he often wore a hat.
He wore many hats. Both figuratively and literally.
Morley sighed before admonishing Millie. “You of all people know better than to believe what you read in the papers. I don’t do half the good they credit me. Or, rather, this bollocks Knight of Shadows doesn’t.”
“The fact they’ve guessed you’re a knight means it is possibly getting dangerous out there for you,” Argent warned.
“I think the title is a coincidence.” Millie waved a dismissive hand. “With that mask on, he could be anyone. The public has merely distinguished him by merit of his service on their behalf. Though everyone’s dying to know. I saw an advert for him in the lonely-hearts column just yesterday.” She turned to Morley, pursing her lips playfully. “If you’re interested, a Miss Matilda Westernra is just nineteen and wants you to know you’ve touched her virtuous heart. I dare say stolen it.”
“That’s disgusting, I’m twice her age.” Morley shifted in his seat. “Besides, I’ve no interest in touching or stealing hearts, lonely or otherwise.”
“If you don’t wish to touch her heart, I’d wager she’d let you touch her—”
Millie scowled at her husband. “Christopher, if you finish that sentence, so help me.”
“What? I was going to say virtue.”