“Inspector, you do not have to feel obliged to—”

“And let us not forget Mrs. Ranulf,” interrupted Lane. “She’s been most vocal in her desire to see you at the family roast.” Lane glanced down at her, and his mouth twitched. “I needn’t tell you how persistent that woman can be once she has a bee in her bonnet.”

“No.” Mary’s own mouth twitched. “I am quite familiar, Inspector.”

Despite her gaffe, they shared a companionable trip to Lane’s home. When little Ellis Lane was born, the Lanes had moved from their small flat above their bookshop and into Mayfair, close to Poppy’s sisters. The house was not a mansion by any means, but cozy and lovely, with well-proportioned rooms and light-filled spaces. The kind of home Mary would pick for herself should she have a family.

Commotion ensued the moment she stepped inside the warm home, with Poppy coming up to buss her husband’s cheek before putting a fond hand upon Mary’s arm in welcome. Daisy was far more boisterous, kissing all and sundry, and Ian Ranulf much the same, pulling Mary into a quick hug of hello before she could protest. It struck Mary anew how these people did not behave like ton, or even new gentry, but more like simple countryfolk. Laughter and affection ruled, as did the free discourse.

Mary bounced along the periphery of it all. The loveliness both repelled and charmed her. How could they be so happy and carefree? How could she not? She knew it wasn’t all roses for them. Only it felt as though it were, and she were the weed infiltrating their garden.

Nonsense really, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of her element. Mary pasted a tight half-smile upon her face as Daisy hooked her arm through hers and led Mary into the family parlor. The tight, queer feeling intensified within her. The house smelled of roasting beef and crackling fires. Everything glowed with golden lamplight, and nothing felt familiar.

A pair of dark-green eyes clashed with hers, and the world about her whooshed to silence.

She would have liked to tell herself she’d forgotten that Jack Talent was part of Lane’s family too. But it would have been a lie.

He sat hunched on a large sofa, his arms resting upon his bent knees. He looked up at her, his expression as impassive as ever, save for that hooded gaze, shining brightly by the light of the fire. Nature had painted him in bold, simple strokes. And he was immense. Simply sitting there, he felt too big for the space he occupied. As though a wrong move might crush the furniture beneath him. And he was glorious. To her.

Mary’s breath left in a shivery hiss. Heat and agitation stroked the cage of her breast. As if he scented it, his gaze grew hazy, his mouth parting slightly as if to draw in more air, draw in more of her. Mary dug her nails deep into the flesh of her palms to remain still.

The strained silence between them grew, until Daisy let out a little huff. “Jack Talent, don’t just sit there like a clod. Get up and greet Miss Chase like a proper gentleman.”

His gaze flicked to Daisy and then back to Mary. And then he stood, a fluid motion that brought him up, up, up. So tall. And all that spectacular strength hidden beneath staid black suits. She could not take this. She needed to leave.

“You do realize, Daisy Ranulf, that I am only five years younger than you,” he said. “That you are not, in fact, my mother.” Talent turned his attention to Mary, and his smooth cream voice had a soft bite to it. “Roped you into it too, did they, Chase?”

Something within her eased. “I fear so, Talent.”

“Cheer up, angel.” The corners of his eyes creased and then came that grin, the one that made her knees wobble and her heart seize. “Sunday roast only comes once a week.”

As if she’d be there every Sunday. As if he’d accepted that fact. She found herself smiling back even as Daisy nattered on about cheeky ingrates.

It was all right then. It would be all right.

Hours later, filled and sated, the family drifted back into the large parlor to lounge about and talk of this and that. Mary found herself a comfortable chair and was content to simply watch. Better still, they left her to it.

“Ian, darling,” called Daisy, “Archer sends you his regards.” Curled up on the overstuffed sofa, her feet tucked beneath her skirts, Daisy smiled as she read through the latest letter from Lord and Lady Archer. The couple was in Ireland, visiting a young man they’d learned was the Ellis women’s brother. Miranda had grown particularly close to him, as she and the youth shared the deadly ability to manipulate fire.

Ian strolled over, smiling a bit as he bent down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. “And what does the old stiff say?”

Daisy’s lips curled. “Mmm. Well, he says that Ireland is great sheep country, and that he has rounded up a nice bunch of fatted lambs for you to frolic with should the London fare become too bland.”

Inspector Lane gave out a great laugh. “Perhaps Daisy ought to knit you a fuzzy woolen jumper so that you might hide amongst them.”

“Now, darling,” Poppy said reproachfully, “be kind. You know very well Daisy detests knitting.”

“ ’Tis true,” Daisy agreed with a plump-cheeked grin. “But I am certain we could scrounge up a lambskin for Ian to use.”

“Cheeky arses the lot of you,” Ian muttered, then grinned. “Would serve Archer right if I did hightail it up there and pounce on his flock.”

Smiling, Mary left her cozy chair and wandered out of the room. A flash of dark coat sleeve had caught her eye. She found him sitting alone in the half-darkened conservatory built at the back of the house. Made almost entirely of glass, the room was cooler than the parlor and bathed in the blue light of the full moon. Potted palms graced the corners, leaving the center of the room open for a grouping of lacy white iron tables and chairs.

She wasn’t surprised that he’d drifted off on his own. All through luncheon she’d watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the way he had deliberately distanced himself from the rest. The others had glanced at him as well, their gazes ranging from worried, such as Ian’s, to penetrating, such as Poppy’s. They all wanted to know what thoughts ran through Talent’s head. As for Mary, although what she might discover terrified her, she too wanted inside that thick head of his.

This time, when she entered the room, he stood. “Care to sit?” his voice was soft as he gestured to one of the chairs.

The chair was cold, the iron pressing into the backs of her thighs. Mary was grateful for the discomfort. It took her mind away from the slow burn within her. Talent resumed his seat, and they sat in silence, letting the sounds of the house party drift over the still air.

“You might as well come out with it, Chase.” Weariness weighted his voice, but there was also wry amusement there. She risked a glance, and the corner of his mouth kicked up. “You think I do not know you well enough by now? That you aren’t squirming over there, trying to find a way to broach the subject?”

“I do not squirm.” That he knew what she was about annoyed her. That he knew precisely what she wanted to discuss made her want to hit him.

Talent merely stared at her, his brows winging up in that way of his that appeared at once expectant yet reproachful.

“Very well,” she snapped. “You asked me how I found you…” Mary licked her dry lips and pressed her palms closer together. “I should like to know how you saw me.” Pray God the heat in her cheeks did not show.

His body was unmoving, his rough-hewn face expressionless. Only his eyes were alive, glittering with dark intent as his gaze roved. The air about them seemed to still and grow heavy, as they both relived those moments. And though her skin scorched now with that heat and her dress became oppressive, she refused to lower her eyes in deference.

The moment swelled, then he moved. A simple adjustment in his seat, but enough to make her heart stutter. “It appears,” he said in a bland tone, “that this connection you forged works both ways.” Again, his unwavering attention bore into her. “You can see my soul, and I can see yours.”

Mary swallowed thickly before nodding once. “It happens at times.” When the connection was deep, or the ties between persons were binding. She had suspected but didn’t want it to be true. Rubbing a finger along the brocade of her overskirt, Mary aimed for a bit of levity. “So then you knew—”

Talent leaned forward then, the movement of his powerful body setting off little frissons throughout hers. The deep glide of his voice crept along her skin, licking over sensitive spots and making her twitch. “The entire time, Chase.”

God. The admission horrified her. And it twisted something dark and aching deep within her. She fidgeted, her hands running along the hidden throwing knives strapped to her thighs.

“If you knew I was there, then why did you…” Her words died on a flush. Bloody Talent.

“Pleasure myself?” he offered helpfully.

She was not amused, but deserved his teasing. “Yes, that.”

Talent’s green eyes grew darker, wicked. “Because I knew you were there.” The pink tip of his tongue peeked out from between his teeth, taunting her. The gesture was perverse, a little flickering come-hither.

Her heart pounded against her throat, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her disquiet. She set her attention on the wall of windows, and the ghostly reflections of them sitting close wavered back at her. “Fine. Don’t answer me.”

“But I just did.” He sounded so reasonable, save for the laughter tickling the edges of his voice.

Mary pressed her lips together, her grip upon her skirts tightening. “You’re being evasive.”

“And apparently, you are being obtuse.”

“Bother.” Her skirts rustled as she stood.

He struck like an asp, catching her wrist with his long fingers. Instantly she froze. It wasn’t a hard grip, but his warm touch rendered her unable to move.

“Don’t go.” His eyes, framed by thick lashes, looked up at her. Talent’s calm voice coiled along her body. “I confess, I don’t understand you at times, Chase.” The blunt tip of his thumb brushed her sensitive skin, and the contact licked over her flesh. “You open a line of conversation, then become angry with me when I oblige by answering truthfully.”

“I admit,” she said, “it baffles me that you didn’t fly into a rage the moment you realized I was there. You were unclothed, for pity’s sake.” Fierce heat filled her cheeks. She needed to stop talking altogether.

Talent’s mouth trembled at the corner, his eyes alight with utter glee. “Chase, the idea of a woman watching is in no way a deterrent for a man. It adds a level of excitement.”

She would die now. Surely fate could be kind to her for once.

He looked her over, shaking his head as if in disgust. “And to think you lived with Lucien Stone, debaucher of innocents, and didn’t know as much.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint?” His voice turned smoky then, surrounding and obscuring her mental clarity. “On the contrary, I find myself wholly enlightened. I hadn’t thought you’d be so virtuous.” The soft touch of his thumb returned, agitating and seductive. “In the future, I shall endeavor to subdue my frankness.”

Mary tensed, her gaze searching his and finding no hint of guile. Gods, he was being truthful. Which meant he’d been having a laugh at her when he took himself in hand. The smarmy, rutting bastard. She couldn’t speak past the lump of rage gathering in her throat. When she looked away, his thumb swept across her inner arm once again, so whisper-quick and soft she wondered if he was aware of doing it. More curious still, regardless of her ire, she didn’t want him to stop.

“What is it, then?” he asked. “What’s got your skirts in a twist?” A smile lightened his eyes. “Other than my usual charm, that is.”

I want to kill you. I want you to pull me down into your lap so that I might feel those long hard muscles I’ve seen flex and thrust. “You have yet to ask me the most damning question, Master Talent.” Gods, but this was rash. Stupid to wave a red flag in front of a bull, but she needed the distance between them to return. If only for her sanity. She leaned in, close enough to feel his rumbling energy. “Why was I spying on you?”

A pulse of tension traveled down his arm and into his fingers, where they tightened on her wrist. He could snap her bones in a second, yet he immediately lessened his hold, but still did not let go. Hooded dark eyes studied her. “Why were you spying on me, Mistress Chase?”

The evenness of his tone sent a skein of warning over her skin. She ignored it. “Because I do not trust you.”

She might as well have slapped him. His lips parted, soft on a breathy exhalation, even as his brows snapped together. It was a look of hurt, horror, and then growing anger. Only there was a flash of guilt that made her grow colder still.

His words came out clipped and controlled. “And you thought watching me stroke my c**k would disabuse you of this distrust?”

Heat flared along her cheeks. “A joke instead of an answer, is it?”

The grip on her wrist tightened. Enough to make her fingers thrum. His jaw bunched, and his gaze burned her.

Answer me. Tell me I am wrong. Her fingertips throbbed in time with her pumping heart. Tell me you are innocent.

But she knew he would never protest his innocence. Even if he was innocent. Jack Talent would never beg for understanding.

“Holly Evernight was abducted outside of headquarters last night,” she said.

His nostrils flared as he took a harsh breath. “You believe I would harm Evernight?”