“They’re for you.” She pushed them aside. “Salem found them on your porch about a half hour ago. No card, but we know who it’s from, don’t we?” “Yeah, we do.” “She’s his wife, by the way. Of a couple hundred years. Torque traced Baron—previously known as John Schmidt, Baron Seagrave in his mortal life—back to the Regency period, when he married Lady Francesca Harlow.” “Torque’s the man.” “Yes, he is. And you’re dealing with a woman who just lost the love of her life.” Vash’s fingers drummed on the table. “Take it from a woman who knows what that feels like: She wants your head on a pike and your nuts roasting on an open fire. She won’t let this go until one of you is dead.” “I’m ready and waiting.” He glanced out the window at the gradually lightening dawn sky, then over at the closed bedroom door. “But I might be waiting in the wrong place if she’s gone to Raceport.” “Torque traced the roses back to a florist in Chicago. If she did her homework at all, she’ll know you’re hanging around there.
