Cursing inwardly once more, Mary resumed studying their mark. Lord Darby was a well-made piece, glossy and fine-featured, save for the bump along the thin blade of his nose. A flaw that only served to enhance his devil-may-care facade. Brightly handsome in the way of Lucien Stone, he seemed to reflect the light about him, drawing ladies and gentlemen toward him to flutter like moths about his luminescence. The man turned to greet yet another coyly smiling lady, and the candlelight caught the bronze highlights in his hair.

In some ways the Earl of Darby made an ideal mark. Wealthy and known for his libidinous ways, he was constantly in the public eye and was thus easy to follow without drawing much notice. Should he be cut down, however, it would cause an uproar in London.

Without warning, Talent’s low voice was at her ear, a pleasant, flinty vibration along her bones. “Do you find him pretty, Chase? Perhaps we ought to consider a close-contact assignment.” She needn’t look to know he studied Darby as she did. His voice grew colder, harder. “A willing bed partner who could watch him day and night.”

Anger coursed along her spine like a bolt of electricity, but she merely turned her head slightly, causing her hair to brush along Talent’s face. But she smiled—her pretty, false, party smile—and set her eyes on the room while she set him down. “Do not attempt to whore me, Talent. That would make you a panderer. Roles that give neither of us the credit we deserve.”

She expected a harsh rebuttal, but he lowered his lashes, his cheeks going ruddy. “You are correct. I apologize.” His fingers pressed into her back, a light touch but one that she felt far too keenly for comfort. “I shall rephrase,” he said, as he guided them around the perimeter of the room. “Perhaps a dance with Darby might bring us some clue as to what he does or does not know.” For Darby could be either prey or the predator they sought.

“A good plan,” she admitted, “but I am not the one to entice Darby.” Years of watching her mother work had given Mary insight into men’s preferences. She’d been taught to calculate them at a glance.

Talent snorted. “Then you must suffer delusions, madam.”

The absolute certainty of his tone had her nearly bumbling a step. “A woman is not going to charm secrets from him.” She focused her attention back to the spectacle of Darby and his women. “He’s surrounded by them all the time. Thus he is accustomed to their wiles.”

Talent frowned slightly as he looked to her and then Darby. “I think you’re blind to your charms, Chase. Perhaps you are correct, but Darby just might be fickle enough if you gave him a good challenge.”

She laughed shortly and kept her gaze resolutely just beyond Talent’s broad shoulder. “All men want a challenge, Talent. That much I do know.”

They executed a sweeping turn, Talent’s wide palm pressing firmly against the small of her back, guiding her, supporting her, and a tingle of warmth spread along that spot. “Perhaps they do. But I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned infinitesimally closer. “We also need to know that there is some hope of getting what we want.”

She glanced at his face. He hadn’t expected her to look up at him—it was clear in the way he flinched slightly, as though caught—and she realized he’d been staring. At her. She was not foolish enough to think he wanted her, not when anger and resentment colored nearly all of their encounters. But she found herself wondering, what was it Jack Talent wanted and could not have? She looked away, unaccountably flustered.

They grew silent, deferring to the music and the light sounds of their not-so-steady breathing. It was far too easy to let her thoughts slip to the fact that he was holding her, not in anger or strife, but carefully and with skill. Too easy to soak in the warmth of his mouth near her temple and the crisp scent of his skin. A heavy stillness fell between them, as if he too became overly aware. His movements grew more deliberate, a gentle glide, an arcing turn that seemed to hang in time, forcing her to feel the strength in his large body and what it was capable of doing.

“You dance well,” she murmured, desperate for something to say, if only to break the spell he wove.

Talent let the words drift off before answering, his voice sun-warmed slate now. “There are many things I do well.”

He could not possibly be flirting. Mary turned her head toward him. A mistake, for his blunt chin brushed against her temple, and a sizzle of sensation licked along her skin. His warm breath touched her ear, a teasing lilt in his voice. “A four-in-hand knot, the one-punch knockout, ham-and-mustard sandwiches…”

Mary found herself smiling, and the crest of her cheek grazed his lower lip. A hitch caught in her chest. “I do not believe that last one can be counted. How difficult can it be for one to excel at sandwich-making?”

A soft rumble vibrated along his frame and into hers. Talent chuckling. She could barely fathom it, and then his lips were a hairsbreadth away from the sensitive spot just before her earlobe. “Shows what you know, Chase. A multitude of catastrophes can occur when constructing a sandwich. Too much mustard”—he spun her around, making her dizzy—“uneven bread. Not enough ham. No, Chase, you cannot approach the task willy-nilly.”

Despite the confusing heat that thrummed through her limbs, a light laugh left her. “Willy-nilly, shilly-shally, your vocabulary veers toward shocking frivolity, Master Talent.”

He paused a beat, and then she could feel him smile. “Mmm,” he murmured warmly, “and yet why do I suspect that pleases you, Mistress Chase?”

His hand upon her back eased up an inch, a smooth, subtle move, and her lids fluttered closed, her fingertips sliding just beneath his silk lapel. And all the delicious muscles along his shoulders tensed.

“Does it?” she whispered. Her voice betrayed her, for God help her, she did like this version of Jack Talent.

And as if he’d realized this startling fact as well, he drew back, just enough to look down at her. “Does it?”

Heartbeat thundering in her breast, she slowly raised her gaze to his face. He’d said it lightly, a quip, and yet a certain wistfulness tainted his words. The moment drew close. Long enough for her to count the light scattering of freckles at the edges of his bottle-green eyes. Four on the left. Six on the right. A honey dust that was only noticeable up close. As if unable to bear her study, he lowered his lids, and his gaze settled on her mouth. A mistake too, for now she felt the throb inside her lips, as though they needed to be touched.

“Chase…” The rough, almost awkward intensity of his voice had her breath stopping altogether, but then his gaze flickered up as if some movement beyond caught his eye, and his expression hardened, even as he slowed and took a step back. Then he let go.

A man stepped before them, his pale jade eyes gleaming in amusement. Lucien.

“Ah, chère”—Lucien caught up Mary’s limp hand and kissed it—“you shine like the sun in the night sky of this room.” His gaze wandered over her, warm and melancholy, and guilt expanded within her belly and had her lavender silk gown feeling too tight. His smile grew. “You humble me as always, my dove.”

Unfortunately aware of the man glowering at her side, Mary answered Lucien pleasantly nevertheless. “Hello, Lucien.” She gave each of his cheeks a buss. “And what are you doing here?” She had missed him, even if she’d rather have seen him without Talent.

“Charming the knickers off unsuspecting ladies, one hopes.” Lucien’s grin was unrepentant until he let his attention slide to Talent, then all humor fled. “If it isn’t the happy-go-lucky Mr. Talent. You know, I could all but feel you sucking the joy out of the room from across the way.”

Mary cringed. Lucien was well aware of Talent’s attitude toward her, and he’d often offered to “kick the young pup’s arse.” Not that she hadn’t appreciated his concern now and then. But at the moment, she would really rather kick Lucien.

Next to Lucien, Talent’s form was so large and muscular that he appeared a dockhand. One quite ready to take a swing. His mouth drew in a tight smile. “Mr. Stone. Out prowling for new prey? Odd. I didn’t think you could catch any flies without your particular brand of honey.” The smile grew into a sneer. “Or do you carry your drugs in one of those gaudy baubles you’re wearing?”

Ice crept over Lucien’s eyes but he answered easily. “Admire my rings, do you?” He ran a thumb over the enormous ruby he wore on his middle finger. “Play nice, and perhaps we can come to an arrangement. You know, I’m open to all sorts of experiences.”

Mary fought not to close her eyes and wish herself elsewhere. There would be no living with Talent now.

“I’m certain you are.” Talent did not look at her, but she felt his judgment all the same. His square jaw bunched as he glared at Lucien. “I’m tempted to offer a rejoinder about you experiencing my foot up your arse, but you aren’t worth the bother.” He walked away, never looking back.

“Such a pleasant fellow,” Lucien mused. “I envy you working with him.”

“Oh, yes,” Mary said lightly. “And it shall be a delight now.” She snapped open her fan and waved it hard, as if that might somehow blow him away too. “Why do you needle him so?”

Lucien’s flawless face glowed beneath the lights. “Because I can.”

With a flick of her wrist, she let the fan snap shut. “I knew the answer, Lucien. I merely wondered if you might think for once on how your selfishness reflects upon me.”

High color stained his cheeks. “I do not like you partnering with that man.”

“Lucien, I am not, nor was I ever, your property. I thought myself your friend, but perhaps I was wrong.”

His mouth fell open, the color draining from his cheeks. “Chère—”

“Do not bother. I am working and would appreciate it if you stayed out of my and Talent’s way.” She left, annoyed at him for starting up, at Talent for taking the bait, and at herself for feeling guilty about all of it. Men, she thought, could go bugger themselves.

Jack hated losing his temper. Which was hilarious, really, given how often he lost it now. Piss and shit, but he ought to have kept his damn mouth shut. The last thing in the bloody world he wanted was to give Chase and Stone the satisfaction of letting them know how much it bothered him to see them together. Stone he simply wanted to kill every time he saw the man. The smug triumph that lit Stone’s eyes, and the knowledge that he’d had Jack by the bollocks all these years, made Jack want to punch something.

Jack ground his teeth. He’d kept his word to Stone. And done a thorough job of it. Hell, Chase had detested him for the past four years. The fact that the bloody man felt the need to taunt Jack regardless was the last straw. But his anger deflated with his next breath. It was for the best. He’d been outright flirting with Chase. Shocking. And stupid. He could not get close to her. Because he’d continue to maintain his pact with Stone, and with himself. Even if it killed Jack.

Hell, this whole night was an exercise in futility. Jack’s gut told him this wasn’t about shifters, not with the murder mirroring the Bishop’s earlier kills of demons. Whatever the motive, Jack feared he was being set up and it would lead directly back to him. But he couldn’t very well tell Poppy and Chase, “Sorry, loves, you’re both barking up the wrong tree.”

The crowd tightened around him. Laughter flowed, raking over his skin. And the scent of ripe bodies, doused in flowery perfumes, plucked at his nostrils. Humans in silks and satins. Worm threads. The odd visual stuck until all he could see was bodies wrapped in colorful, wriggling cocoons.

Devil take all, he needed air.

He wasn’t going to get it, though. Not when Lord Darby stepped in front of him, the shine of his golden hair almost blinding in the light of a thousand candles. Jack repressed the urge to squint. Another bloody peacock.

“Master Talent.” White teeth flashed. “I gathered the SOS would come crawling about soon enough.”

“I expect Director Wilde’s note explaining the situation would have been your first clue.” It had been delivered to Darby posthaste, and an invitation to this accursed ball had arrived at headquarters soon thereafter.

Jack gleaned some small enjoyment from watching Darby’s simper fall to irritation. With a clipped toss of his chin, the earl bade him to follow. As it was his duty to discuss certain things with Darby, Jack acquiesced.

Darby led him to a small parlor where lamps had been lit and a merry fire crackled in the grate. The ready room, far from the ball, led Jack to believe that Darby had words for him as well.

“I’m so glad they sent one of my kind,” Darby said as he closed the door. “It makes me feel quite protected.”

Etiquette was a bizarre business. Supernaturals’ warren of rules was no exception. In general, one did not discuss one’s genus upon first meeting. It was akin to asking what color knickers someone wore. Or, as in this case, it was an attempt to put Jack in his place by conveying that he was unworthy of basic privacy. Unfortunately, Jack had long ago ceased to care about manners.

“Good,” Jack deadpanned. “Then I needn’t worry about explaining how you ought not do anything foolish like running about on your own.”

“I see you are working with Lucien’s little bird,” Darby said lightly. “Lovely creature.” The mockery in Darby’s eyes made it clear he’d aimed to hit Jack’s underbelly with that volley. And while it irked, what bothered Jack more was the way Darby spoke of Chase. She’d left Stone two years ago, and still all of London’s underworld thought of her as his property. As though she hadn’t ownership of her own life.