Of Silk and Steam (5 page)

Or was this a move against Goethe for some other reason? She couldn’t discount that possibility.

Fact: She and Barrons were both witnesses, but how would they ever prove that the men had been Falcons?

Oh, she knew it, but she had not seen their faces. All she’d caught a glimpse of were shadowy figures in the night, cutting out the duke’s heart. If she dared speak up, would that be
her
next time? Cold spiraled through her. She could almost feel the knife edge beneath her feet.

“At least I have you,” she whispered. Boadicea chose that moment to sink in her claws and try to escape. Mina let the feline drop to the bed with an exasperated sigh. “Cats have no respect for a duchess.” But the thought made her smile sadly as Boadicea started licking her paws.

Hannah returned promptly and helped her to remove the heavy gown. As she dressed, Mina was unable to stop her thoughts from drifting somewhere far away from fact.

Goethe was dead. That alone dealt her a pang of guilt and regret somewhere in her chest. She’d warned him, after all. What else could she have done?

Not
given
in
to
the
queen
and
delivered
the
messages
in
the
first
place.

Queen Alexandra had caught her at a weak moment. “
Please, Your Grace… I should be forever grateful…
”

And Mina had given in, for in truth she knew there was very little pleasure in the queen’s life. The prince consort saw to it that his pretty little human wife was well supplied with the laudanum she desired and otherwise kept her in her chambers, locked away from the world. As the queen’s Mistress of Robes, Mina alone saw his petty cruelties. Pity was not an emotion she should let herself suffer, and yet she had allowed it to dictate actions she knew were dangerous.

Fact: Mina was going to have to tell the queen that the man she had come to care for was murdered.

Mina’s shoulders slumped.

At least she had destroyed the note. Goethe was dead and the prince consort would eye his wife with suspicion, but he wouldn’t know what the letter had contained. Or that Mina had delivered it herself.

“There we are, mum,” Hannah murmured respectfully.

Mina came out of her thoughts and found herself dressed in a tight velvet day dress. It was so dark a blue as to be almost black, and gold epaulets gleamed on her shoulders. A spill of white lace framed the neckline of her jacket, with golden fringe outlining each layer of her bias-cut skirts. Eminently fashionable, but nobody else saw it as armor the way she did.

“Will you be turning in for the day after your meeting, mum?” Hannah asked, fetching Mina’s hat and pinning her hair into a chignon.

“No.” There was too much to do to sleep. The prince consort would know by now that Goethe was dead and that a woman had witnessed it. The theft of the airship would only draw further attention to the entire affair. She had to act quickly to allay the prince consort’s suspicions while most of the Echelon slept the day away.

But first, Gow.

The man was waiting for her in her study, wearing a pair of slim-fitting trousers and a tweed coat. He was such a quiet, unassuming man that the eye practically begged to skip over him. His was a face that would blend into any crowd.

“Your Grace.” He bowed as she locked the door behind her. “To what extent may I be of service?”

The House of Casavian’s man-of-affairs, he’d served her father before he died and now herself. It wasn’t until after her father’s death, however, that she had become fully aware of the extent of Gow’s resources.

First things first.

“I have a task for you,” she said, wasting no time on polite necessities.

“Of course.”

“I want you to find out everything you can about Leo Barrons.”

A slim eyebrow rose. “The Duke of Caine’s heir?”

“Yes.”

“Personal, professional, financial?” he mused.

“Everything,” she replied, her eyes narrowing slightly and the ghostly impression of a pair of lips haunting her own for a moment. Distracting her from the question that had begun to circulate in her mind while she traveled home—the question of why he’d been at the Venetian Gardens so soon after disembarking from the dirigible from Saint Petersburg. Certainly not for her.

“Most importantly…” she continued, “I want to know what his weaknesses are.”

* * *

The Warren lay directly in the heart of Whitechapel, a large house with heavy brick walls lining the accompanying yard and lights gleaming in the top layer of windows. The lower floor of the house was full of cobwebs and dust, the timber floorboards so creaky they threatened to break beneath each step, but upstairs was a gleaming haven of light and warmth, the scent of beeswax, elegant furnishings, and modern conveniences like hot water.

The only people who saw the upstairs were those Blade allowed within his refuge. He didn’t think it wise to advertise precisely how well he lived to those that were potential enemies.

Dawn spilled through the polished windows of the small parlor as Blade ushered Leo inside. A young woman sprawled asleep on the daybed in front of the fireplace. Blade crossed to her side. Her eyelashes fluttered as Honoria slowly woke.

She was heavy with child now, her cheeks and upper arms fuller than Leo had ever seen them. The last few times he’d visited, she’d been in confinement. Leo crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, nodding at her when she noticed him. “You look well.”

Honoria struggled to sit upright. “It’s ghastly,” she said. “I cannot believe I fell asleep again.” Her face softened as she smiled at Blade. “I was waiting for you to return.”

Blade curled onto the daybed at her side, sliding a protective hand around her shoulders. He was often given to improper displays within the sanctity of the house, regardless of whether it was just Leo in attendance or all of his men. “I tol’ you not to wait up.”

“I told you I would,” Honoria replied, a hint of stubbornness entering her voice.

An old argument, no doubt. Leo crossed slowly to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the warmth and ignoring the pair of them as much as he could. He never felt so much an outsider as he did when he was at the Warren.

“What was the problem?” Honoria asked.

Blade swiftly told her the details and Honoria made a small, distressed sound. “Not Goethe. He was such a gentleman.”

There was a sharp rap at the door. Rip’s wife, Esme, the housekeeper, popped her head inside. “Excuse me.” Her gaze slid over Leo and she nodded a greeting. “But there are a pair of Nighthawks at the door.”

“Which ones?” The Nighthawks served the Echelon as thief-takers. The group was comprised of rogue blue bloods, those whose infection with the craving hadn’t been sanctioned by law. A rogue was offered only two choices: join the Nighthawks or the Coldrush Guards and serve, or be executed.

“Guild Master Garrett Reed and his wife, Lady Peregrine,” Esme replied.

“Rather quick on yer ’eels, ain’t they, Barrons?” Blade nodded to Esme. “See ’em in.”

She disappeared and Honoria shared a concerned glance with Blade. “At least Garrett’s our ally.”

“Aye.” Blade’s eyes met Leo’s. “Could become awkward for ’im, were this to be an official visit.”

“Let’s not make it official, then,” Leo replied, leaning against the mantel. “There’s nothing for him to see.”

Blade usually liked playing games, but not at the moment. His hand curled over Honoria’s knee, a frown darkening his brow. Anything that brought Nighthawks—or bodies—into his territory when his wife was in such a sensitive condition roused the darker side of his nature.

Garrett strode inside, handing his hat and coat to Esme. She took them, though a dry glance at Blade showed what she thought of this duty. Esme’s role of housekeeper seemed to be more of an honorific than the actual role of a servant. It had taken Leo months to understand her precise position here.

On Garrett’s heels came Lady Peregrine. Her hair was clipped at her chin, but it was a soft pale blond now, where once she’d dyed it a harsh black. Not the only change about her. She wore knee-high boots and tight black breeches. A lush lace bustle with a hint of skirt covered the indecent curves of her bottom, and her buttoned-up coat no doubt hid her armored corset. It was a feminine version of the harsh Nighthawk armor she’d once worn.

Leo glanced toward the window, schooling his features. Perry was hardly the sort to draw praise in a world where the Echelon was populated with diamond-bright beauties, but what he found attractive was that sense of strength. It was something all the fluff-buttoned debutantes in the world couldn’t own.

Something that the Duchess of Casavian did, however. He was wise enough to realize that he appreciated a woman with a headstrong nature and a high intellect.

He frowned, tapping his fingers on the mantel. Last night came to mind again. He’d thought he’d finally slipped through Mina’s barriers to the woman within, but in the end she had been able to resurrect those barriers with ease, leaving him to catch a bare glimpse of the heat within her. The kiss…the kiss had almost driven him out of his mind, and some part of her had liked submitting to him, but not altogether. The moment she’d stood up in the bath, with bubbles dripping down that glorious body, she’d disappeared again, like a valve closing.

He’d left her to sleep in his bloody bed alone, taking himself off to pace the rooftops as he waited for the sun to rise. He’d thought perhaps the cold air would do him some good. Not so. The fire was in his blood now.

A good thing he was a persistent bastard.

“Reed,” Blade called, clasping hands with the guild master and tipping a nod toward Lady Peregrine. “An unexpected surprise.”

Holding out a chair for his wife, Garrett then claimed the basket seat directly opposite Blade, his fingers curling over the cane arms. He’d grown into the position of guild master that he’d undertaken six months ago. Not many men would stare so directly at the Devil of Whitechapel like that.

“An unfortunate one,” Perry replied.

“I have a witness claiming she saw the Duke of Goethe murdered on the edges of Whitechapel earlier this morning,” Garrett said, adding, “By you, no less.”

“I see.” Blade leaned back into the seat, his eyes growing steely. “I trust you’ve got ’em in protective custody?”

“Of course,” Garrett replied. “Somewhere nobody will be able to get to her, including you.”

“Have you checked her for a Falcon’s tattoo?” Leo asked.

A breath. Then Garrett asked softly, “Should I?”

“Most likely in her hair,” Leo suggested. “Or if she doesn’t have one, then I’m certain she’s recently come into contact with someone who does.”

Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Garrett sighed. After years of being used, the Nighthawks had no love for the prince consort. “Bloody hell. So this is a plot. Do I even wish to know?”

“The prince consort sees Blade as a threat, so this is obviously a ploy against him,” Leo murmured, circling the room to the decanter by the window. It was definitely time for some blood. For all of them. “You knew what we were setting out to do six months ago.”

Nine men and women had made a decision one foggy morning to bring down the prince consort and restore peace to the city. Leo and Blade had been the instigators of that meeting, but Garrett and his wife had their own reasons for wanting to remove the madman from power.

Since that day, repeating rifles and supplies had been smuggled into the rookery, even cannons mounted on the walls, though those remained out of sight. Whitechapel was the base of operations, the heart of the effort to bring down the prince consort. Both Blade’s ranks and the Nighthawks’ rosters had swelled, men coming in by the dozens.

“Knowing isn’t quite the same as being trapped between a rock and a hard place,” Garrett replied, accepting the glass of blood that Leo offered him. “I’ve been summoned to the Tower to make a report to the prince consort as soon as I’m done here.”

“Then go to the Tower,” Leo said, crossing back toward Blade. “Make your report. There’s nothing to find.”

“
Was
there something to find?” At his short nod, Garrett swore under his breath again. “So Goethe’s dead?”

“Missin’,” Blade corrected.

“The prince consort will insist there’s a case to build.” Garrett downed his blood in one swallow.

“Without a body you have nothing but a witness. Start searching for Goethe, but stay close to Goethe’s house and his relations. The prince consort can’t press you too closely on Whitechapel without going out of his way, and that’s suspicious. You’re simply following leads, questioning everyone—trying to find a link between Blade and Goethe when there really isn’t one,” Leo said.

“Keep us up-to-date,” Blade insisted.

“We will,” Garrett said, standing and offering Perry a hand. He locked eyes with Leo. “How goes that other matter you were dealing with?”

Leo grimaced. “I managed to meet with some of Wetherby’s mechs last night at the Venetian Gardens. Wetherby wanted something public. I’m going to send him that three-pounder Hotchkiss cannon I got my hands on. Wetherby’s certain he can create something similar for us to mount on the walls of the rookery, just in case.” When revolution started fires in the city, they needed a stronghold where they could fall back if matters went badly.

A grim silence settled over the room. “So this is it,” Perry said, letting go of a breath.

“This is it,” Blade murmured, staring at nothing. “Or the start of it, anyway. Once we got the guns, we can start movin’ them to other parts of the city through Undertown.”

“We’ll try to make this as bloodless as possible,” Leo said grimly. “A quiet coup, if I can get us into the Ivory Tower where we can take the prince consort prisoner and see him executed…but I’m not about to do this unprepared. If we don’t need to use any of the weapons we’re stockpiling, then I shall consider us lucky as all hell. He won’t go quietly.”