Of Silk and Steam (16 page)

“He has his moments.” Honoria reached up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I never thanked you for that.”

“For not helping you when I should have?” It had plagued him for years.

“For driving me straight into his arms when I was too proud to go there of my own volition.”

“I’ve done horrible things to you over the years.”

“The mechanical spiders in my bed when I was a little girl living at Caine House?” An arch of the brow. “All I can say is that I wouldn’t sleep too deeply, if I were you.”

However, the laugh that she gave him belied the words. Leo sighed, his head lowering in thought.

“Do you know what the problem is, Leo?”

He glanced at her. “What?”

“I forgave you,” she said solemnly. “Years ago.”

The words floored him. “But—”

“You never forgave yourself. I feel it in you every time you’re with me. There’s a door between us that I can’t breach. I see how close you and Lena have become, and I wish… I wish we all shared that. Charlie thinks you’re smashing. You can do no wrong in his eyes.”

Christ.
“But I was the one who infected him.” His own infection with the craving had come from an untested vaccine Todd had used on him as a lad, when he’d been so desperate for a father’s approval that he’d even sought Todd out, mouthing his humanist platitudes. Todd had despised blue bloods, and as soon as signs of infection sprang up, he’d turned his back on Leo—despite the fact Leo’s turning had been Todd’s fault.

Leo had never been a vengeance-minded man, but when he’d learned years later that Todd had perfected the vaccine and planned to use it on himself… Leo’s fist clenched. “I swapped the vial for the one Todd used on me. I didn’t once consider that he might use it on someone else. I-I thought it justice.”

“I know that now.” Her fingers laced through his. “Father has his share of the blame for that. He treated you abominably.” It had to be a bitter confession, considering how much she’d adored her father.

There were no words. Leo stared down at their linked hands. “Thank you,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Honoria gave him a weary smile. “You should go to bed. Tomorrow won’t seem half as grim.”

No, it would be much, much worse, but he didn’t give voice to his thoughts. Kissing the back of her hand, he said his good nights and turned toward the door.

“Need I ask which bed you will be staying in?” There was a deceptive lightness to her tone.

Leo paused by the door. That was finished between him and Mina. “My own,” he said roughly.

* * *

There was no point banging on the door or screaming for help. There were bars over the window; not the first time this room had been used for this purpose. Mina tried to pick the lock on the door, but it turned out to be bolted on the outside too.

“Rot.” Scraping a hand over her mouth, she turned again to survey the room.

She was at the very back of the house on the top floor. Peering through the window, she could see a brick yard below, with strands of ivy choking the walls. If she could get outside, perhaps on the roof, then she had some chance of getting away.

After all, nobody ever expected a duchess to be able to climb, and they would be watching for people entering the rookeries, not exiting it.

Standing on the bed, Mina reached up and tested the ceiling. Plaster. A smile curved over her lips, and then she ripped a large swathe off her skirts and wrapped it around her fist. Built to hold men, she suspected, but not blue bloods.

Plaster dust rained down upon her as she punched a hole through the ceiling. Every couple of seconds she’d pause and listen, but nobody seemed close enough to hear her. By the time she’d cleared a hole large enough to slip through, a fine layer of white dust powdered her shoulders.

Dashing off a note to Barrons, she left the piece of paper in the middle of the bed, then hauled herself up through the hole. The roof above was good solid tile, so easier to go back down rather than through it. Smashing her way through the ceiling, she found herself in the bedroom next to hers. A man’s room, by the look of it. Mina swiftly raided his wardrobe for trousers, a large white shirt made of rough material, and a belt to hold it all together. Knotting her hair into a tight chignon, she quickly searched the room, finding a dagger beneath the mattress.

Never let it be said that the Duchess of Casavian needed a man to do her dirty work.

It was quick work to unlatch the window and slip out onto the ledge. Catching hold of the gutter, she hauled herself onto the tiled roof and lay flat for a moment, scanning the horizon. Houses pressed close on either side of the Warren, built crooked or on a slant, so that it almost seemed as though they leaned upon each other. A thick velvety darkness softened the sky in the west. Night then. She could feel her blood thundering through her veins. Night was a blue blood’s natural habitat. Nothing to fear. Not for her.

Mina peered toward the city and the enormous Ivory Tower that kept guard over all of London, clearly visible even from here.

Time to keep her promise to her queen.

“What do you think?” The prince consort sipped his blud-wein, staring out over the entire city of London beneath him. His city. “Do you think it collaboration?”

“I doubt it, Your Highness.” A voice from the shadows as Balfour stepped forward. “My man in her employ specifically stated that she asked for information on how to destroy Barrons.”

The curtains flipped closed. “Unfortunately, then, the duchess seems due for a disappointment. The Crown does not deal with ransoms or threats. He can have her. Saves me the need to bury her when the time comes.”

A bow. “As you wish.”

—A conversation between co-conspirators

He tried to stay away. Truly he did.

Leo unlatched the heavy bolt guarding the duchess’s door and rapped on it with his knuckles. “Your Grace?”

Leaning closer, he listened to the echoing silence. Suspicion bloomed.

Leo shoved the door open. There was a duchess-sized hole in the ceiling, and the bedding was littered with straw, plaster, and the ragged remains of her skirts. A note was tucked neatly on the top of the pile, mocking him. He swore under his breath and flicked it open.

I did ask you nicely to let me go. Give my regards to the Devil of Whitechapel, and tell him to send my man-of-affairs the bill for any damage.

Regards

Lady Aramina Duvall

Leo shoved his head through the hole in the roof. Barely three feet in front of him was another hole.

“Honoria!” he called, striding out into the hallway and into the next bedroom.

It had clearly been ransacked. While he’d been sipping blood with his sister and trying to gather his thoughts, the duchess had been plotting her escape like a seasoned criminal.

The swish of skirts caught his ear and Honoria paused in the doorway, trying to catch her breath. “Good heavens, what are you—” She looked up at the gaping hole in the ceiling and then the not-quite-closed window. “What in blazes…?”

Leo jerked the window open and peered out. Twilight limned the rookery, washing away the harsh stains of the day. Warm flickering candlelight sputtered in several nearby windows; no cool gaslight here. “She’s gone.”

It was almost a twenty-foot drop. Entirely possible for a blue blood, and he had to start thinking of her as such now, not merely a woman. Baring his teeth, he looked up at the roof. A single strand of cotton was caught on the edge of the slate tiles.
There
. She’d gone over the rooftops.

A distant shout caught his ear, followed by several more. What the hell was she thinking? Of all nights, this would be the worst to be out on the streets. She’d be lucky if she were only accosted by Coldrush Guards.

“Where are you going?” Honoria asked.

“After her,” he replied, slinging a leg over the windowsill.

“Perhaps you should leave her be. There’s more than enough excitement for everybody to handle at the moment, and she’s…she’s a duchess, Leo.”

Leave her be?
No
. She was the only damned variable he could control at the moment. He could no sooner let her go than he could change the weather.

“A duchess who knows entirely too much about our plans.” He crouched on the windowsill. “Stay here with Esme. I’ll bring her back.”

“Leo?”

He paused.

“Are you certain that’s the true reason?”

“Of course I’m certain,” he lied.

* * *

Fires burned in barrels past the wall that circled Whitechapel. In the distance Mina could hear the roar of a gathering mob and see the gleam of steel as several makeshift weapons were thrust in the air.

Crouching low on the roof, she surveyed the wall. It was more heavily patrolled than she’d expected. The mob might be unruly, their armor and weapons crafted out of whatever they could lay to hand, but Blade’s men moved ruthlessly through the night, alert to the faintest hint of noise.

If the Devil of Whitechapel got his hands on her, she was quite certain he’d act swiftly to remove any perceived threat.

The ring of iron-shod feet echoed on distant cobbles. Metaljacket legions by the sound of it, the ground forces of the Echelon’s automaton army. No doubt some of the models would be spitfires, capable of burning half the rookery to the ground with the flamethrower cannons strapped to their arms. She had to get out of here before this entire mess degenerated into a massacre.

Timing the guards along the walls, she leaned forward on her hands and the balls of her feet. A shadow slipped past in the night and Mina wasted no time, running up the tiled slope of a roof and leaping up to catch hold of the edge of the wall. She hung there for a moment, her shoulders straining, listening as the guards kept walking.

Not quite as easy as she’d imagined it would be. Gritting her teeth, she dug her toes into the wall and hauled herself up, inch by inch. Determination was her ally; there were so many times people—men—had told her she wouldn’t be able to do something in her life. She’d proved them all wrong.

A horn screamed through the night and Mina crouched low. She wasn’t the cause. The stamping metal feet had fallen silent, evidently reaching their destination, leaving the racket of a dozen dogs howling as the noise echoed through the cold night.

No houses leaned up against the wall on the outside. Mina eyed the distance to the ground, then slung her legs over the edge of the wall. Twisting, she let her body lower until she hung, prepared to drop into the alley below.

Free.

A hand snagged her wrist. Mina gasped and looked up into eyes black as Hades. The flickering firelight was unforgiving, casting a pall over his lean features and highlighting the stark cut of his jaw.

“Going somewhere?” Barrons gave her a tight, frigid smile.

The fierce intensity of his regard burned through her as she dangled against the wall. “Just out for a stroll,” she replied.

Mina leaned into his grip, forcing him closer to the edge, then ran her legs up the wall, smashing her heel into his chest. It jerked her wrist from his grasp and she flipped backward, tumbling through the air. The ground flashed into view and she twisted her hips, landing lightly on her feet like a cat, her hands slapping the ground.

Looking up, she met those startled eyes and a certain reckless urge overtook her.
Stir
the
devil.
Pressing her stinging fingertips to her lips, she blew him a kiss, then darted back down a shadowy street.

The second she was out of sight, Mina grimaced and let herself favor her right ankle. Blue blood she might be, but invincible she was not.

There was no doubt he’d follow. Mina hauled herself over a wall and up onto the rooftops. A swift glance behind showed a shadow rippling after her and she ran faster, sprinting up the gable on a roof.

Leaping across onto the next rooftop, she caught a glimpse of light flickering nearby. The legion. And the only place Barrons wouldn’t dare follow her.

Sliding down a roof on her bottom and feet, she could hear her pursuer hot on her heels. Faster than she was and far more sure-footed on the rooftops. Mina accelerated, scrambling for the edge of the roof. Barrons slipped and slid after her, nearly on her heels.

“Damn you.” A hand snatched at her shirt.

Mina judged the edge of the gutter and, catching a foot in it, slowed her descent just enough to twist as she dropped. Instead of landing in the street below, she caught the gutter and hung for a moment before hauling herself back up. Barrons landed below with a muffled curse, thinking that her destination.

The devilish part of her couldn’t resist shooting him a smile, and then she was gone again. Four streets and she’d make the legion. She could hear them now, the roar of the mob in Whitechapel swelling. The streets and houses nearby were almost deserted.

Mina darted across a rooftop—

And a blur of shadow came out of nowhere, smashing into her and sending them both tumbling down the sharp incline of the roof.

Barrons flung a hand out, shoving it into the gutter. Mina smashed into him, but his other arm curled around her, tucking her in tight against his heavier body as she lay half on top of him. The world didn’t stop spinning. Slowly she looked up, breathing hard, the air driven out of her in the fall.

“Not a good night for a stroll,” he growled, glancing below. A torch gleamed as a gilded carriage rolled around the corner of the street below, dozens of metaljackets trotting along beside it. Two handlers sat on the top of the carriage, wielding the small spike-topped control boxes that signaled the automatons to move.

Barrons drove her face into his chest. “If you make a sound, Duchess…”

No threat. There was none needed. Strong fingers cupped the back of her head, while his other arm curled around her. Beneath her his body was hard steel, each muscle molding the softness of her curves. His heartbeat thundered beneath her ear, reminding her that he was alive. That she held the resolution of that in her hands.

Looking up, she saw the gleaming blackness of his eyes. “If I wanted you dead,” she whispered, “all I’d have to do is scream.”

He could have slammed a hand over her mouth. Instead the silence stretched out between them and she knew he was giving her the chance, testing her for the truth of what had happened in the Ivory Tower.

Mina let her shoulders slump. The chance of escape vanished like a fluttering moth. For the only way to do so now was to betray him to the very men who wanted his head.

And Barrons knew it.

* * *

Leo’s head dropped back onto the tiles and he let out a shaky breath. Somehow his hand had entwined in the knot of her chignon and he kept her pinned atop him, her head resting on his chest.

The duchess had been only seconds away from escaping. A part of him knew she wouldn’t scream for help, but another smaller part was filled with doubt. He’d never felt so bloody uncertain in his life. About everything.

So he gave her the chance. He could get back behind the safety of the walls of Whitechapel before any of those nodcocks below caught him, though he’d have to sacrifice the duchess to do it.

And damn her, but she didn’t say a word.

What the hell did that mean?

The press of her soft body caught his attention. Leo’s mouth firmed, but he kept his head cocked, listening to the sounds coming from below.

They were close enough to Ratcatcher Gate to hear what was being said. If he tilted his head to the right, he could actually see Blade standing on top of the wall. Blade held one arm up and the mob’s restless cries stilled to a murmur, then nothing at all. Silence ruled the rookeries, proving beyond a doubt who owned it.

“Looks like some fancy coach got turned ’bout and made its way to the ’Chapel,” Blade called, to the laughter of his men. Then his voice grew flat and hard. “State your name and your business ’ere.”

The tramp of metal feet slammed to a halt, then a ringing voice cried out, “Morioch.”

Leo tensed. No friend of his. The cadaverous old duke was firmly in the prince consort’s pocket.

The duchess gave a little wiggle as she shifted to look, her hip pressing hard against his cock. The treacherous thing hardened.

Any other woman would have taken instant advantage. Not the duchess. Her head was tilted to the side, listening too. Then her eyes widened and her head jerked up as she realized his predicament.

Their faces were a bare inch from each other. The startled look in her eyes was almost comical until she began to relax, one inch at a time, her body softening over his. “Men,” she murmured, “are entirely predictable.”

“Not all men, Your Grace,” he shot back. “That thing, however, has a mind of its own.”

“Morioch.” Blade laughed in the distance, but it sounded more like a threat. “Me old friend Morioch.”

The carriage door opened and footmen darted forward with a stool. One held Morioch’s hand as he alighted from the carriage, wearing burnished gold armor and a white, Georgian-style wig. He’d been born in that era, after all.

“You have something the prince consort wants.”

Blade rested one foot on the wall, leaning on his thigh. “Do I? And you thought you’d bring a legion o’ metaljackets ’ere to politely ask for it back?”

“To take custody of the criminal.”

“Criminal, eh? ’Fraid Your Grace’ll ’ave to be more specific than that.”

Another round of laughter behind the wall. Half the men here had earned that title.

Leo could almost picture the tight smile Morioch would be wearing right now. The duke despised rogue blue bloods.

“I’m well aware—as are you—that Leo Barrons entered Whitechapel earlier today. He is to be tried for treason and executed. I would encourage you to hand over the criminal with as little ceremony as necessary.”

Leo held his breath. He knew what Blade had said to him earlier, but a small part of him—still raw from Caine’s defection—wondered if the same would apply now.

“What’d ’e do?”

“That’s strictly Council business.”

“And now we got ourselves a little problem.” Blade’s voice carried in the night. He had the skills of a showman at times, modulating both voice and appearance to suit the moment. “You ain’t ’avin’ ’im.”

The breath went out of Leo.

“You weren’t certain, were you?” the duchess whispered in his arms.

“Shut the hell up.”

And she did. But he could feel her watching him, the trace of her gaze lighting up every nerve in his body until he felt raw.

“Don’t be a fool,” Morioch called.

“Oh, I ain’t,” Blade replied. “Gave me word o’ safe passage to Barrons earlier. You don’t want me to break me word.”

“What you need to remember, you little cur, is that you have a wife now. Don’t make me cut her throat in front of you, for I shall make that my priority if I’m forced to take the rookery.”

“Hell.” Morioch was insane to make a statement like that. Firelight danced over Blade’s grim expression. If one didn’t know him, one would think him entirely capable of anything in that moment.

“Did you just threaten my wife?” A knife couldn’t have been sharper than Blade’s voice. The murmur of the rookery lads behind him lifted to a dull roar, sensing the sudden predatory intensity of their leader.