The Poisoner's Game

Chapter 14

A.

Damn her beautiful eyes and damn my own. My mind hopped back and forth between wanting to kiss her again and following my own better judgement. Danger like black pitch—sticky, odious, and inextricable—had ensconced Margaret more than I could have imagined. The Poisoner hunted her, prowling on the very edges of proper society with the audacity, and willingness to cross the line even at so public a place as a ball. I needed to find something, anything before he made his next move. If he hadn't already.

She stood off to the side, clutching her green cape around her shoulders like a shield. My gaze sought her gloved hands, fastening to them as my chest tightened. Whether or not I laid the lattice of bruising along her flesh, I held the blame for putting her in danger. If I hadn't grabbed her hand, I might have never known.

"Alexander?" she asked, her eyes widening. "I mean, Number Three, will you—I must know."

"Please call me, Alexander." I wished to call her Margaret.

She nodded haltingly, eyes narrowing, and I regretted my push forward into familiarity. Her grey eyes held me, and I had to fight myself to let her mind remain at ease, even as mine tumbled.

My family-crested carriage pulled to the front of the townhouse, and I extended assistance to Margaret. I followed behind her, making sure that no eyes followed us.

"Why haven't you tried to contact your grandfather?"

"How do you know that?" I didn't benefit her with a response as I had come to know she disliked uncomfortable silences, I waited. She rewarded me shortly. "I thought he was dead. Finding out he was alive... I didn't know what to believe. It's too late anyway."

How had both grandfather and granddaughter been led to believe the other had died? And why? I wanted to tell her the truth but telling her the truth would also reveal that she'd never get the chance to know him. I didn't know if I could wait.

I went back to the conversation held by two men in the corridor, imagining that the Poisoner had orchestrated Margaret's entrapment. "Who told you he died?"

"Aunt Emily. She's little more than a drunkard." Margaret rolled her eyes skyward and flexed her hands. With a steady breath, she looked me in the eyes for the first time since leaving the ballroom. "I am not involved with the Poisoner by any choice of my own. Still, I doubt that Aunt Emily, excuse my lack of a better word, knows bollocks."

The repetition of lies that shrouded Margaret's every move created a tension in my own shoulders and, yet again, I could not shake the feeling I was three steps behind. A part of me was relieved I didn't need to tell her the truth nor my involvement in it. Mostly my involvement.

"It might not be your choice, but the Poisoner has singled you out. I need your assistance in finding out why," I swallowed, "and then we can go our separate ways."

I should return her to her home. Find the answers and leave her uninvolved from danger, including me. I couldn't believe what my father said about her collusion with the Poisoner. Again, my suspicion that the letters didn't exist settled in my gut.

She nodded, her eyes glistening like silver bullets in the night. "Then let us begin, my lord. Who is the Poisoner?"

"I don't know or rather no one knows his true identity."

She narrowed her eyes. "Fine. What is my connection to the Poisoner? If he really isn't just a Spring-heeled Jack."

"He is real, my lady. I did not create him to scare children on Lavender Lane. He's connected to your grandfather and thus you. We don't yet know if he killed your parents, but it wouldn't be outside of the realm of possibility."