Bit of a difference with this one. The man was found in his home, one Mr. Arthur Pierce. He’s got the brand upon his chest, an’ all the usual hallmarks of the Bishop’s work. Wilde’s directed the cozzers to secure the scene for your study.

“Lovely.” The idea of seeing that horror turned Mary’s stomach.

“Damn it, Chase—”

“There’s been another murder,” Mary said to Talent, lest he keep shouting.

The house is two blocks over, Tottie said, and Mary relayed it directly to Talent as the GIM continued. Wilde wants you two there now.

Chapter Four

Mr. Pierce had lived in the center of a respectable middle-class suburb of London. Well-clipped lawns led to smart black doors, each graced with the same simple brass door knocker. White lace hung across every shining window.

Talent was ahead of her, his brusque stride so confident that it implied the very air ought to part for him. The rakish tilt of his hat had her longing to knock it off, if only to ruffle his composure and force him to acknowledge her presence.

As if feeling her displeasure, he stopped and turned. “Right then,” he said. “You wait here.… What the devil are you doing?”

Mary brushed a gloved hand over his lapel once more. “Clearing a disturbing number of crumbs off your coat. Is that egg?” She flicked a dried crust of his morning meal from his tie. “My, but you look a fright.”

Talent swatted her away. “Good God, woman, stop mothering me.”

She scoffed. “I am trying to maintain the dignity of our office. You’re stomping about as unkempt as a vagabond.” In truth his gold SOS pin, depicting the goddess Isis, was the only part of his attire that he appeared to care for. Pinned neatly on his overcoat lapel, it gleamed bright against the dull, unbrushed wool. “The Talent I know and detest would never let his appearance fall into such disrepair.”

He showed his teeth in a reaper’s grin. “And the Chase I know and detest would not care.”

“Of course I care. You represent the SOS, which, by extension, includes me. At the very least, do keep your hat on. Your hair looks as though you’ve let a goat have a go at it.”

Talent’s brows nearly met in the center with the ferocity of his scowl. “Are you quite finished?”

Mary looked him over and smoothed one last wrinkle along his shoulder, biting back a smile when a growl rumbled low in his throat. “There.”

His cheeks went dull red. “As I was saying, take a look around the grounds. Perhaps you can discover something useful while you wait outside for me.”

Mary drew up tight. “Now just a moment, you. I am not waiting out here. I’m your partner, not some lackey.” Nor was she letting him out of her sight while they were on this case.

Talent’s mouth tilted into a lopsided sneer. “Are you bamming me, Chase? You cannot go with me.” He leaned forward, managing to loom even though he was a few feet away. “You go into that house, and you’ll have every human there in a snit. Women are not fit to handle death, much less view a murder site. You know that as well as I.”

“Not fit to handle death?” she ground out, her arms twitching to do him violence.

But he waved an annoyed hand. “Do not start quoting Wollstonecraft on me. I’m repeating pure social fact. That is what they believe. And that is what they will do, should you”—he pointed at her for emphasis—“waltz in there and expect to be treated like a man.”

Mary barely refrained from huffing. He was right. Moreover, it was something every female regulator had to face in the field, always losing out on more interesting cases because of society’s ridiculous notions. Confined to playing the spy, the watcher, pushed to the fringes, her female brethren did what they could. It was not enough. Worse, if she waited out here now, not only would she be unsure as to his culpability in this, Talent would assume the role of lead. And he would use it to his advantage at every turn.

Mary steeled her spine and gazed back at him coolly, calmly. “I am going in.”

With a curse he dragged a hand over his face. “You are being illogical.”

She was. She didn’t care. On the other hand, Talent had apparently forgotten about one of her more potent abilities. She gave him a level look. “I’ll play the part of your assistant.” It hurt to say that, but if he was going to assume she was useless, then she wasn’t about to let him in on her plans.

“Investigators do not have female assistants, Chase.”

“Fine. I’ll be your blind sister who cannot be left on her own.” She merely needed to get in the door.

He blinked back at her for a good five seconds. Then a shocked, harsh laugh burst from him. “You object to being my lackey, but you’ll be my sister? You, madam, are barmy.”

“Lovely to know we’ve rolled around to the name-calling stage of the conversation,” she said sedately.

A string of blue curses filled the air, and then Talent took a deep breath. “Fine. Do not blame me if your stubbornness gets us nowhere in a hurry. And you shall follow my lead. Do not speak until I give you leave.”

An unladylike snort left her lips. “Tell me, Talent, do you honestly expect me to listen to the drivel that comes from your mouth? Or do you suffer bouts of delusion?”

His answering grin was serpentine, a viper about to strike. “Hark! She lives.” He ambled forward, his head cocked to the side as he studied her. “That’s probably the most impassioned tone I’ve heard from you yet, Chase.” Before she could give him another, his expression hardened. “I have seniority, thus I am the lead on this team. You do as I say.”

She gave him a false smile guaranteed to annoy him. “I believe I was accepted into the SOS before you were, thus I am the one with seniority.”

He stepped closer, surrounding her with the vibrant energy of his body and the appealing scent of him. By rights he ought to have an irritating scent, like lye soap. But no, Jack Talent’s scent was instantly recognizable, yet drifting off before she could properly dissect it. Which made her want to lean closer and inhale deeply. Most annoying. And quite dangerous.

Mary tilted her head back and met his gaze. They glared at each other for a long moment before Talent’s clipped response broke their standoff. “You joined as Poppy Lane’s assistant. Should we be in need of secretarial work, Mistress Chase, I’ll be happy to let you lead.”

The dirty rotter.

He nodded as if she’d finally come to her senses. “Know your place, Chase, and we will not have a problem.”

Mary set her fists on her hips. “I am not doing as you say.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.”

“Oh, yes, you are—” Talent broke off with a curse. Close as they were, the dark stubble around his mouth was visible in the morning sun. “Christ almighty, we are not in the nursery.”

“I agree. Kindly desist in behaving like an infant.”

His jaw clenched, red washing over his cheekbones. “So help me, Chase—”

Mary turned away from him, loving the way he snarled at her departure. “We have interviews to conduct, and the day is waning with all this posturing.” Her skirts swished about her ankles as she put a bit more sway into her walk. “Come along, Master Talent.” This time she used his title as a headmaster might and was rewarded with another blue curse from behind her.

Confident that he’d stomp along after her, she jumped only a little when his voice suddenly buzzed at her ear, the heat of his breath raising gooseflesh upon her skin. “It will take more than the sway of your arse to distract me, Chase.” Then he was ahead of her, once more leading the way and whistling a familiar tune.

Mary halted in the act of following him. “Are you whistling ‘Row Your Boat’?” Incredulity had her choking out the question. She detested the nickname he pinned on her, because he thought of her as a “merry bit of fluff.”

Talent’s happy little tune broke off mid-note, and his sly gaze slid over her for a moment. “Why, I do believe I am.” He turned his head back around, and his step grew lively. His pitch-perfect baritone lilted over the quiet street. “ ‘Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

Mary was contemplating murder by cranial bludgeoning when Talent gave her a look over his shoulder. A strange gleam sparkled in his eyes, but before she could question it, the light around him distorted, and his features blurred. Quick as a blink, he shifted.

“What do you think?” His voice was more gravelly now, an older man’s. “Am I the picture of a non-threatening yet authoritative inspector?”

Longer of face, wrinkled, bushy-browed, and sporting an impressive handlebar mustache of grizzled brown, Talent appeared a man of fifty years. He’d kept his height and basic form, for he could not alter his clothing, but a bit of a paunch stretched out his grey waistcoat.

“To the letter,” she admitted. “But why?”

The crow’s feet around his now-blue eyes deepened. “I have a suspicion that this household will be more accommodating to respectable old John Talent than scowling, yet undeniably charming, young Jack Talent.” His true grin on another’s face was a strange sight indeed. “With a blind niece in tow. God help me.”

Charming, was he? Mary barely refrained from rolling her eyes, but then paused. “Is your given name truly John?”

He touched the brim of his hat with a deferential nod to her, but the humor had dimmed in his eyes. “John Michael Talent, at your service, miss.” He glanced back at the door they were to knock on. “For all of one hour. Then back into the shadows he goes.”

Something dark and ugly rode in the undercurrents of his tone.

“Do you not like your given name?” She really ought to curb her curiosity in regard to him, but could not seem to do so.

“I hate it.” Then he stalked forward, leaving her to catch up.

The housekeeper answered the door. “The house is not receiving visitors at this time.” She moved to close the door when Talent stuck his boot in.

“We are not visitors, madam. We are investigators here to discuss the crime.”

The housekeeper’s thin face paled. “The both of you?” Her gaze landed flat on Mary, and she balked again.

Hubris was the damnedest thing, Mary reflected bitterly while refusing to look at Talent.

To his credit, he leveled the housekeeper with a stern, unyielding look. “The crime scene, if you please, madam.”

Her gaze darted about the empty street, then back to Talent. “Come.”

She led them into the front parlor. When Mrs. White had left, a man entered the room and frowned. “I am Mr. Rush, a longtime friend of Mr. Pierce. I am here to assist in closing up the house.” Rush was a man of about thirty, well groomed and so stiff-backed that it was a wonder he did not have a poker stuffed up his arse. “How may I help you?”

“I am Inspector John Talent, and my partner Miss Chase.” He flashed his credentials. Official-looking documents designed to impress and quell inquiry.

Rush’s gaze flicked to Mary, and his expression darkened. “Partner?”

Frankly, Mary was now as surprised as Rush. What had happened to “blind niece”?

“I’d rather you had not arrived so close to calling hours,” Rush said. “It is most indelicate. But I suppose there is no help for it now.”

“You plan to receive callers on such a day?” Talent asked.

“Well, no.” Rush frowned. “It is merely the principle of you being here during an hour in which callers might be driving past the house.”

“Can’t see how they’d know we are here,” Talent muttered as he pulled out a small notebook and pencil. Likely he didn’t need them, but he’d clearly decided to act the part of a proper investigator. “Who discovered Mr. Pierce?”

Rush clearly wanted acknowledgment for his little chastisement, but he answered. “That would be Mrs. White.”

Talent scribbled something down, and Mary glanced at his pad, stifling a laugh as she read the words: Look into the prat’s background—Mrs. White’s too. He pocketed the notebook. “We’ll need to speak with her, then. And view the crime scene.”

Again, Rush’s gaze darted to Mary. “Of course, Inspector.” Then he gave her the condescending look one employs with an ignorant child. “If you’ll wait here, miss. I’ll have tea sent in.”

“Miss Chase shall be accompanying me.”

Rush’s thin nostrils flared, then pinched. “A crime scene is no place for a lady.”

“Try not to view me as such at the moment, Mr. Rush.” She moved nearer and caught his gaze. Only a moment more, and he’d be hers. But he broke the connection.

“Believe me, miss”—cool grey eyes traveled up and down her form in a way that made her skin prickle—“that shall not be hard. Regardless—”

And that is when Talent’s temper broke. He stepped closer to her, his body not quite shielding, but aligning itself as if he would, given further provocation. Dark clouds of irritation twisted his features, a gesture familiar to her, even though he wore the face of another man.

“Here is what shall happen.” Talent’s tone was iron. “You shall turn around, walk out of this room, and collect Mrs. White, who shall answer any and all of our questions. And then we shall view the body.” His gaze bore into Rush. Though he was now older and softer about the middle, Talent’s physical presence was undeniable. “Or I shall haul your arse down to the magistrate so that you can explain why you have interfered with an official investigation.”