Three nights later, Inspector Ewan McTavish struck a match on the gray stones of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and leaned against the rear of the building while feeding the embers of his well-worn cigar. He scanned the shadows of Duncannon Street thinking that, once he’d concluded his appointment, he might pay a visit to Madame Regina’s down on Fleet Street. As always, after these clandestine meetings, he developed an itch born of the life-affirming feeling of having escaped the reaper. It would take two or three goes with a doxy to feel like himself again.
“Thinking of that new little Parisian skirt at Madame Regina’s?” The voice that had become the stuff of his nightmares caused McTavish to all but jump out of his skin.
“Jesus kilt-lifting Christ, Blackwell!” he wheezed, retrieving his fallen cigar from the soggy ground with a petulant scowl. “How is it a man of yer size can slither through the shadows with nary a sound?”
If McTavish had his way, he’d never again have to see the Blackheart of Ben More crack a smile, for the fine hairs on his body would stand on end for hours after.
“That was all well done of you,” Blackwell remarked. “You executed your orders admirably.”
“Wasna easy,” McTavish groused, finding it difficult to meet the expression of bemused calculation on Blackwell’s cruel features. “Disbanding yer mob and sneaking records into yer cell while trying to hide my actions from my precinct. Ye’re lucky I’m not the only one loyal to ye at Scotland Yard.”
If it was difficult to look Blackwell in the face, it was nigh impossible to meet his eerie, scrutinizing gaze. No one knew just how well the Blackheart of Ben More could see through his blue eye, but when it fixed on you, a man felt like his skin had been flayed open and his darkest sin exposed.
“I am a great many things, Inspector, but lucky has never been one of them.”
McTavish found himself wishing he’d be as unlucky as the impeccably dressed blackguard in front of him. Rich as Midas, they said, powerful as a Caesar, and ruthless as the devil. So he didn’t have a pretty face for the ladies to coo over, but a man such as Dorian Blackwell drew feminine notice wherever he prowled. Fear and fascination proved to be powerful tools of seduction, and women reacted one way or the other toward the dark giant.
“Why’d ye do it, anyway?” McTavish asked. “Why summon yer men for a riot only to send them away?”
Ignoring his question, Blackwell reached into his dark overcoat and produced a gold cylinder. From it, he pulled a brand-new cigar, which he handed to McTavish, who could only stare at it for a moment, hoping he lived long enough to finish it.
“I thank ye, sir,” he said hesitantly, taking it and holding the fragrant treasure to his mustache before biting off the end. Blackwell struck a match with his gloved hand, and McTavish had to fortify himself to lean close enough to light it. His need won out, though, as he was pretty sure he’d never have the occasion for such an expensive smoke again. “Well, I only knew ye’d have to get yer hide in front of Justice Singleton and ye’d be walking the streets free as an alley cat. Morley didn’t have a thing on ye.”
“Indeed.”
The flame of the match illuminated Blackwell’s features and McTavish gave a little sympathetic wince. “He really went to work on yer face.” He noted the healing lip and multiple bruises on Blackwell’s cheekbones. “Whatever grudge he’s holding against ye, it’s powerful.”
“As police beatings go, this was rather minor,” Blackwell said almost genially.
McTavish blanched. “Let me be the first to apologize for—”
Blackwell held up a hand to silence him. “Before I pay you, I require some information.”
Puffing on his own little piece of heaven, McTavish nodded. “Anything.”
The Blackheart leaned down. “Tell me everything you know about Mrs. Farah Mackenzie.”
Pausing mid-puff, McTavish asked, “Mrs. Mackenzie—the clerk?”
Blackwell was still and silent, but his droll stare was easy to interpret, even in the darkness.
Perplexed, McTavish scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of anything interesting to say about the woman. “She’s been around as long as any of us can remember. Before me, even, and I started at Scotland Yard seven or eight years ago. Come to think of it, though, I havena learned much about her in all that time. She’s efficient and well liked, but keeps to herself. Quiet. Which is a rare and commendable female trait, in my experience. She works harder than the other two clerks, but gets paid less.”
“What sort of work does Morley have her do?”
“Oh, the usual sort of clerical business. Bookkeeping, records, paperwork, supply orders, courier bookings, note-taking, filing documents at court, that sort of thing.”
Blackwell remained motionless. Expressionless. But McTavish could feel the hairs rising on his neck again. He was trained to read people, and though the Blackheart of Ben More was an enigma, the inspector in him noted that his gloved hand was clenched just a little too tight.
“Her husband?”
“A Scotsman, if ye’d believe it.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Next to nothing. Story goes she married young and he’s a long time dead…”
“And?” Blackwell prompted, belying more impatience than McTavish had thought him capable.
McTavish shrugged. Intrigued, but knowing better than to show it. “That’s pretty much all we know, come to think of it. Sure, we’ve speculated over the years, but she’s never inclined to talk about it, and it’s not polite to ask a lady about such matters.”
“Is she … romantically involved with any of the men employed at Scotland Yard?”
McTavish found the idea so ludicrous, he laughed aloud. “Were she not such a pretty bird, most of us would forget she’s even a woman.”
“So … no one?”
“Well, the rumor is she’s been spending an increasing number of evenings out with Sir Morley.”
They simultaneously spat on the stones at the mention of the chief inspector, and Dorian’s split lip curled with disgust.
McTavish froze. Something about the increasing intensity of Blackwell’s demeanor caused his heart to kick. “I think he’s sniffing around the wrong skirts for what he wants,” he hurried to say, waving his hand as though it was of no consequence.
Blackwell’s one good eye sharpened. “How do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s a right proper widow, and I don’t much know a man who’s into that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Oh, you know. The bluestocking sort. Cold. Straitlaced. Er—frigid, some might say. Besides, she’s closer to thirty than twenty, and though she’s the face of an angel, she’s about as bedable as a hedgehog, if ye want my opinion.”
“If I wanted your opinion, McTavish, I’d promptly inform you as to what it was.”
“Fair enough.” Heart really hammering now, McTavish puffed on his cigar, hoping with each breath that it wouldn’t be his last. What did Blackwell want with Mrs. Mackenzie? Records access? Documents? Bribery? Couldn’t be he was sweet on her. Men like Dorian Blackwell didn’t go for upright ladies like Farah Mackenzie. Word about town was, he employed scores of foreign, exotic courtesans and set them up in his mansion like a private harem. What would a spinsterish widow like Mackenzie have to offer a man like him?
“Where does she live?” Blackwell demanded.
McTavish shrugged. “Couldn’t say exactly. Somewhere off Fleet Street in the Bohemian sector, I think I heard.”
Blackwell’s nostrils flared with increased breath, remaining silent for a moment too long before McTavish thought he heard him whisper. “All this time…”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” The Blackheart of Ben More seemed—shaken, for lack of a better word. McTavish couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Here is for your services, and continued discretion.” A note was pressed against his palm.
McTavish looked down and almost lost another cigar to shock. “But—this is half a year’s salary!”
“I know.”
“I—I couldn’t take this.” McTavish shoved it back toward him. “I havena done anything to earn it.”
Dorian Blackwell stepped back, avoiding the money and any physical contact. “Let me give you some free advice along with that note, McTavish.” It was amazing how the inflection of that cruel, cold voice never once changed, and yet the menace palpably intensified. “Scruples are a dangerous thing for men like you to have. If I can’t trust your greed, then I can’t trust anything about you. And if I can’t trust you, your life is worthless to me.”
McTavish snatched the note to his chest. “Right ye are, Blackwell, I’ll be thanking ye for yer generosity, then, and be on my way.” If his legs weren’t shaking too much to carry him.
Blackwell nodded, donning an ebony felt hat that shadowed his eyes from any light, before turning toward the Strand. “Good evening, Inspector. Give Madame Regina my regards.”
It was like the man had read his bloody thoughts. Foolishly, McTavish had assumed his habits too low on Blackwell’s list of importance for the man to take any notice. When you’re blackmailing dukes and bribing justices, how did one remember the proclivities of one in a hundred coppers in Blackwell’s pocket?
Before he could stop himself, McTavish was seized by a fit of conscience. “Ye’re not going to hurt her, are ye?” he called. “Mrs. Mackenzie, I mean.”
Slowly, Blackwell turned, presenting him with his unnatural blue eye. “You know better than to ask me questions, Inspector.”
Swallowing, McTavish took his bowler cap off, crushing the rim in his hands. “Forgive me … It’s only that—well—she’s a real gentle, kindhearted sort of bird. I couldn’t live with meself knowing I had a hand in any … unpleasantness toward her.”
The air around Blackwell seemed to darken, as though the shadows gathered to protect him. “If your conscience bothers you too much, McTavish, there are alternatives to living…” The Blackheart took a threatening step toward him, and McTavish jumped back.
“Nay! Nay, sir. I’ll not get in yer way. I meant no disrespect.”
“Very good.”
“I—I didn’t mean to question ye. It’s just … not all of us are capable of such a black heart as yers.”
Blackwell advanced further, and McTavish squeezed his eyes shut, certain this was the end for him. Instead of killing him, only that calm, cold whisper washed over him like the breath of damnation. “That’s where you’re wrong, Inspector. Every man is capable of a heart such as mine. They just need to be given the right … incentive.”
Trembling, McTavish crushed the hat back on his head. “Y-yes sir. Though I’d not wish for such an incentive, if that be yer aim.”
A callous, predatory enjoyment lit within Blackwell’s eyes, and in that moment, McTavish hated the bastard for unmanning him like this.
“Come close, McTavish, and I’ll tell you a secret. Something about me that few men know.”
There wasn’t a man alive who wanted to be privy to Dorian Blackwell’s secrets. They were the kind that got one killed.
He stepped toward the dark, hulking man. “Y-yes?”
“No one wants that kind of incentive, Inspector. Not even me.”
Blinking rapidly, McTavish nodded as he watched Dorian Blackwell melt into the mist and shadows of the London evening, certain that he’d not only escaped death, but the devil, himself.
