Rather pasty and swallowing quite frequently, Lane clearly forced himself to study the marks. “Perhaps a torture device of some sort?”

Ian leaned in, pretending to decipher the nature of wounds so obviously left by a full-fledged werewolf. “I agree. Well done, Lane.” Bracing himself for the hit, he breathed in. Wolf. Sickness. Something inside of him stilled.

Again came the scent of spring, sweetness, and decadence. Delicious. It was Daisy’s perfume, he realized with a hitch in his chest. That maddening woman who’d called him out and left him to hang in his humiliation. Damn if her sass didn’t stir him. He’d thought of little else since, and though it rubbed him raw, he itched for another encounter. At the very least, a chance to best the clever little c**k tease.

Alexis Trent had worn the same perfume. Odd. She was a friend to Daisy. Perhaps they had shared?

He stood back. “The other body, Poole. The poor lass.” The police had found her tossed like rubbish in some dark bowery corner not three days before the attack in the alleyway. According to Poole’s report, they’d only made the connection between the three bodies due to the violent abuse done to each of them.

Gods, this poor girl had died days ago. Days, and his kind had done nothing to stop the mad werewolf or protect the people of London, as was their duty. Anger boiled within his veins. The Ranulf, the bloody king of Clan Ranulf, was supposed to act, not sit with his head stuck up his arse. Even Ian, who’d willingly turned his back on the clan, knew as much. The stink of it was Ian could not even approach them to ask why. He was in exile.

“One Miss Mary Fenn of Camden Town,” Poole said, bringing Ian’s attention back to the fore. “Found her reticule with the body, if you can believe. Seems even the lowest of scavenging thieves hadn’t the stomach to approach her.” Poole shook his head sorrowfully, but then hesitated. “See here, she isn’t…” He glanced at Lane, and the man bristled. “Well, inspector, you usually just read the reports. These men are used to such sights, being surgeons in their own right. This poor girl’s been dead much longer. Given the recent heat and the work of rats, there isn’t much left of her. The rate of decay is quite advanced.”

“Then how do you know she’d been violated?” Lane countered, his skin pebbling with sweat.

“Found her with her skirts tossed up.” Poole flushed crimson. “Legs spread apart.”

Lane nodded. “Of course. It was in the report, was it not?” He touched the side of his head as though pained by his lapse in memory. Ian knew it was the morgue, the specter of rot and death at work on him.

Lane suddenly looked tired. “Same marks? From what you can tell?”

“Yes, sir. We needn’t view her.”

Oh, but it was most certainly needed. Ian had to compare her scent. He glanced at Archer. The man’s eyes narrowed a touch. Ian pressed his lips together. He didn’t know how to insist without it looking odd. And there was the grim fact that the more subtle scents would be overwhelmed in a highly decayed body. Ian would have to all but stick his nose into it, a notion to which his wolf, and his stomach, thoroughly rebelled. Unfortunately, Archer’s expression made it clear that he hadn’t any brilliant ideas either.

Irritation swelled and then a thought hit Ian. “Have you her clothing, Poole?”

Poole’s eyes widened but he went to a storage locker. “Certainly.”

Under the watchful eyes of Lane, Ian accepted the ragged bundle of clothes. Archer stepped back toward the body of Alexis Trent. “If you would, Poole, I’ve a question about the damage done to the greater omentum.”

At Lane’s look of confusion, Ian smiled. “Fancy physician speak for that fatty looking mass in front of her intestines. You know, the lumpy yellow-gray bit hanging before them.” His grin widened as Lane went decidedly green. “If you are feeling faint, you can stay with me. I wouldn’t blame you in the least.”

The man glared at him, but strode off on wobbling limbs to stand by Archer’s side as the men waxed lyrical on many methods of evisceration. Ian shook his head, his smile remaining. Predictable as the sunrise, calling a man’s courage into question to get him to react.

But his smile faded as he studied the gown he set on a working table before him. It was in tatters but once quite respectable. A machine-made, plain cambric dress with wide skirts and a bodice slightly out of date. The clothes of the middle to lower class. And most thoroughly soaked in the same perfume as worn by the other victim—and the luscious Daisy Craigmore. He needn’t even inhale. It was there, just beneath the muck and dried blood crusting the fabric. Dread sucked at him. The were wasn’t attacking at random. It was attracted to the perfume. Daisy’s perfume.

Chapter Five

Ian tracked her easily through the crowded streets. Though her mourning gown blended well within the sea of working-class worsted, the widow Daisy Craigmore stood out. Her pace was steady and serene as a lady’s ought to be and yet that stride of hers was pure eroticism, hypnotic in its bump and sway. The elaborate gathering of fabric over her bustle only served to highlight the motion, enough to glue more than one man’s gaze to her rear as she walked. And though his hackles rose with each covetous glance, she paid the men no notice. Beneath the black taffeta, her shoulders were set and tight, and he wondered if she thought of that night when death brushed its hand too close to her cheek.

That Daisy had chosen to walk after the funeral of Alex Trent wasn’t so strange. He understood the need to clear one’s head. Only he’d expected her to find a pretty park in which to take her promenade. Instead, she moved farther away from the safety of Mayfair. The neighborhood they entered was working class, but not so poor as to be dangerous. Simply a place decent men lived, worked, and played. Ian stuck out like a brass tack in old leather.

Not breaking stride, he took off his ruby stickpin and stuffed it into his pocket, along with his gold watch. He didn’t fear theft. Pity the man who tried it. But he’d rather not shout out his presence; the cut of his suit and the cost of the cloth already did that enough.

At the corner, a paperboy stood, his little voice a mighty shout as he waved the latest edition over his head. “Mad killer stalks the fair people of London! Victims’ livers eaten for his supper!”

Daisy’s pace faltered, a small bobble of her feet that had Ian wanting to stride ahead and take hold of her arm for support. He needn’t see her face to know she was as white as milk.

“When will he strike again?” cried the paperboy. “Who among us is safe? Read all about it!”

Daisy moved past the boy without a glance. With the ease of a frequent patron, she walked up to a tavern, the Plough and Harrow, and entered. He gave her a moment before following.

The taproom was dim and smelled of ale, men, and roasted meat. Filled with the midday-meal crowd, shouts of laughter and genial conversation rumbled in the air. It was a comforting sound that invited a man to join in.

Ian slid the brim of his hat down low and followed her movements with a sideways glance as he tucked himself into a shadowed corner of the bar. She’d gone directly to a giant old gent dressed in homespun and sporting a stained apron. The man’s bushy brows rose in happy surprise as he caught her in a fond embrace.

“Meggy-girl! Now there’s a sight for sore old eyes.” He kissed her proffered cheek lightly. “What ye been up to, darling lass?”

Her laughter brightened up the room. “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, Clemens.” She drew away and tucked her hand into the crook of the old man’s arm. “Have you a seat in which an old friend might rest her weary bones?”

“Tosh, ye have to ask?”

Clemens led Daisy to a table by the window in the back, where a man sat nursing a pint. “ ’Tis the best seat in the house for my Meg.”

Without ado, Clemens grabbed the idling man by his scruff and tossed him aside. “Out with ye, Tibbs. Go prop up the bar if ye’ve a mind to stay. Miss Meggy needs the seat.”

Tibbs grumbled something incoherent as he stumbled to the bar.

Miss Meggy’s protests of Tibbs’s ill treatment were ignored.

“He’ll be there day an’ night if I let him,” Clemens said as he swept away all proof of the unfortunate Tibbs before holding out her seat as proper as any Belgravia footman might.

“Will it be your favorite for luncheon then, lass?”

Daisy took off her mourning bonnet, revealing hair of gleaming gold and silver moonbeams parted demurely down the center and gathered in the back in a riot of curls. “Yes, Clemens, thank you.”

Ian waited until Clemens departed to pounce. His tread was undetectable in the din of the room, his movements easy and at one with those around him. In short, nothing about him drawing near should have alerted her, yet the moment he pulled away from the bar, her head lifted and her summer-sky eyes pinned him.

He let his stride slow to a leisurely stroll, watching her watch him approach, and damn if heat didn’t flash down his groin, his balls drawing up tight with anticipation and the pleasure of having her eyes upon him.

“Daisy.” He stopped in front of her and, doffing his hat, gave her a bow. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

She sat back against her chair, letting one arm drape over the back of it. The pose was indolent, relaxed, and not at all ladylike. Thank the devil for frock coats or she’d see how it affected him. “Yes, quite, Lord Northrup. One would never presume to find you in such a plebeian establishment.”

He didn’t wait for her to bid him to sit, for he gathered he’d be waiting a long time. “It seems I like slumming as much as you.” He had to stretch his legs out under the table or risk knocking his knees against the tabletop. “Well, perhaps not as much. You appear to be quite the regular.”

Daisy’s soft mouth pursed. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but I’ll tell you for fear of suffering constant prodding.”

“The prodding is my favorite part.”

“This was my father’s local pub,” she said in an overloud voice, all her creamy skin turning rosy. “When he could afford it. I frequent it as well when I can. It’s clean, and Clemens keeps the riffraff away… ah, Clemens!” She looked up with a smile as the scowling Clemens stomped over with a tray in hand.

Clemens set down a tankard of peaty ale with a thud. His small eyes narrowed on Ian. “This nabob botherin’ you, lass?” A meaty fist curled near the vicinity of Ian’s head. “Shall I toss him for ye?”

Ian lifted one brow a touch. “Am I, Meggy?” he asked Daisy as he stared down the barman. Ian wouldn’t hurt the man, as he admired those willing to protect women from unknown threats. But there was no reason to let anyone else realize that.

Daisy gave a small sigh. “No need, Clemens.” She inclined her head toward Ian. “Mr. Smith won’t be staying long.”

“If you’re sure, lass. You can’t be too careful these days, what with a killer on the loose.” The man didn’t notice Daisy blanch.

“It is good of you to worry, Clemens. But I am all right.”

“So long as you are certain.” Though his eyes were hard on Ian, he gently placed a plate of Welsh rabbit before Daisy. “If ye be needing anything. I’m just there.” He kept his eyes on Ian as he jerked his head toward the bar. “Right. There.”

“And not a step farther,” Ian added genially.

With another glare, Clemens thundered off, making a point not to wait for Ian’s order. Just as well since he didn’t fancy drinking anything offered by good old Clemens as it’d likely be spit in, or worse.

“Mr. Smith?” Ian asked when Daisy ignored him and set about eating her meal. He did not miss the way her hands shook just a fraction, but she seemed determined to let her worries go. “Why not simply call me Northrup?”

“Perhaps it is best to keep your anonymity,” she said.

He leaned on one elbow and watched as she daintily cut her cheese on toast into neat little pieces. “Perhaps I don’t want my anonymity.”

“Mmm.” She took a bite, savoring it for a brief moment. “Who says I was referring to your sensibilities? Perhaps I’d rather not be associated with you.”

He found himself grinning. “Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. You make my head spin, Meggy-girl, with your round-robin talk.” She scowled, and he swallowed down a laugh. “It is Meggy? Or Daisy? I wouldn’t want to be confused.”

“It is my name. Daisy Margaret Ellis.” She took another bite, eating her food with a strange combination of pleasure and economy. “Father called me Meggy before he settled on Daisy. Clemens took to it rather too fondly, I’m afraid. Frankly, I find both names deplorable. Why not Margaret or Meg?” She waved her fork in emphasis before catching his eye and seeing his broad grin. Instantly, she resumed her disinterested air. “You are a pest, you know that? Go away, will you? I’m not in the mood to play.”

The pain and sorrow creasing her eyes made him ache in sympathy. He knew that feeling of loss too well. Which was precisely why he would stay. “Ah now, I can’t be too terrible. After all, you are letting me share your table.”

“Better to do that than make a scene.” She patted her rosebud mouth with her table linen, and Ian shifted in his seat. A woman should not be allowed to possess such a mouth. “Besides,” she said, seemingly oblivious to his interest, “I wanted to know why you were following me.”

“Cannot this be a happy coincidence?” he asked lightly. He liked toying with her. When he batted, she always batted back.