The Iron Duke (9 page)

So they’d tighten their belts again.

“I will do my best, dear. Perhaps we will win more over before the election.”

Her mother sighed and nodded. “And despite my efforts, I do not expect any new ladies at this evening’s League meeting. Mina, please tell us that you were more successful than we proved to be.”

She hadn’t been; she didn’t even know
who
had been murdered. But she was determined to change that.

“I met the Iron Duke and spent several hours at his home,” she told them, and although Mina didn’t look up from her plate, she felt the sudden intensity of their regard. “He knew who you were, Mother. He mentioned your League.”

Her mother gasped, hand flying to cover her heart. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she whispered, “You are not lying.”

Her mother could recognize when someone lied to her, detected through a change of skin temperature and the involuntary movements of facial muscles. Perhaps that was another reason for her melancholy. How many lies had been spoken to her face last night?

Now, a smile warmed her delicate features. Mina’s father said, “Look there, love. You’ve touched more people than you know.”

“It is the letter duplicating machine. I would never have time to write so many if it couldn’t record the movement of my pen.” She laughed suddenly. “If I continue sending the letters every week, perhaps he will join the League just to halt them.”

Mina grinned. Most likely, her mother would do exactly that. Glancing up, she found those silver eyes focused on her.

“And so what was your impression of him?”

“He is a formidable figure—very large, physically—but also intimidating in manner.” And he’d made her burn with both embarrassment and anger. “It is easy to see why so many captains surrendered their ships to him without a single shot fired. I would have.”

“No, Mina,” her father said. “You’d have fired back.”

The Iron Duke had taken a shot with his remark about her mother, but Mina hadn’t returned fire. She’d retreated. His statement had been either thoughtless or cruel, and Trahaearn didn’t strike her as a man who spoke without thinking.

So it had been cruelty, then—and she’d had enough of that in her lifetime. But unleashing her temper on him would have been foolish; retreat had been her smartest option. He’d had his fun, and now that she was out of his sight, he’d forget about her.

“I wouldn’t fire back if I were outgunned,” she said.

Her parents exchanged an odd glance. Her mother’s lips curved. “Yes, I imagine that he possesses a rather large cannon,” she said, spearing her sausage with a fork.

Her father’s cough sounded like a laugh.

Oh, blast.
What had Mina started by mentioning the duke? But she could only blame herself, since she’d been the one to restore her mother’s good humor. “Perhaps. But after he looked at the cargo, I’m certain he’d lose interest.”

Her mother persisted. “Is he as handsome as the caricatures in the newssheets?”

Mina gave up. “Yes. Handsome
and
obliging. He rescued my glove from certain ruin.”

“Thank the blue heavens for him.” Not a trace of sarcasm tinted her mother’s response.

Her father’s mustache twitched. “He is still very much the hero.”

Mina frowned. Yes, he was.

But who didn’t think so?

 

 

The Blacksmith’s property in the Narrow stood as close to
the Thames as possible without falling into it—and pieces of the buildings near the smithy often did. Situated at Limehouse’s south edge, the Narrow had once been a street. Now, it only resembled one, forming a twisting path between deteriorating buildings, with rubble spilling out over the cobblestone walks.

Mina instructed Newberry to drive as close to the Blacksmith’s as the piles of debris allowed, stopping the cart in front of a burned-out brewery and behind a steamcoach whose driver looked rough enough to scare away any thieves . . . if he didn’t steal the cart himself.

While Newberry locked the tires, she climbed out and looked down the Narrow, breathing through her mouth. The scent of the slaughterhouses across the river and the tanneries to the east lay heavy in the air, overwhelming even the smoke and the Thames itself. Small groups of laborers who hadn’t found work at one of the foundries or repairing a ship at the dry docks gathered along the walks, hoping that they’d be hired onto a day crew. A message runner darted past her—probably a child from the Crèche. Clean and bright-cheeked, he looked as out of place as Mina did.

The laborers didn’t eye him with the same suspicion and hatred. Mina gave them hardly a second glance as she passed their groups. They wouldn’t bother her—though not out of respect for her uniform or fear of Newberry trailing in her wake. The Blacksmith held the only authority here. But anyone coming to the Narrow likely had business with the Blacksmith, and no one dared interfere with that.

She looked back at the constable, recognizing his tension as he realized that his presence wasn’t what held the laborers back. Anticipating his unease, she’d made certain his hands would be occupied carrying the wooden chest full of ice, a mechanical arm, and a brain. If a Manhattan City constable walked into the Narrow with his hands on his guns, he might not even have the protection of the Blacksmith.

Newberry’s gaze searched the buildings. “Which one is it, sir?”

Mina pointed to a three-storied brick warehouse. Though weathered and dingy, the structure was well kept, the window glass intact. Tall chimneys released steam and smoke in a steady cloud.

“There’s no sign over the entrance. How do people find it?”

Mina assumed that by “people,” Newberry meant bounders. Everyone else knew where to go. The smithy had once housed the Horde’s modification shops, the only location in London more terrifying than the tower. “If they want what the Blacksmith offers badly enough, they’ll find it.”

Though some who found it weren’t always ready to go in. For those, the Hammer & Chain lay only thirty paces down the street, and they often found their courage at the bottom of a pint. Others went for the cheap food—or a fight. No matter what its patrons were looking for when they went into the Hammer & Chain, they were as likely to be tossed out as walk out.

But no one would have dared toss out the dark-haired giant who pushed through the doors and stepped into her path.

Mina’s gut clenched with the same split-second punch of fear that hit her when she glimpsed the tower. She forced her step not to falter, her hands not to fly to her weapons.

By the starry sky, she would
not
feel this.

She breathed deep, gathering her calm. Surely what she’d felt wasn’t fear, no matter how imposing he was, and despite her certainty that to have timed his exit so perfectly, he must have been lying in wait for her.

Surely
it wasn’t fear. Dislike seemed far more probable.

As Mina halted, the bright-cheeked boy she’d seen earlier ducked from behind Trahaearn’s long overcoat, gold winking in his small fingers before disappearing into his pocket. Not a message runner, then, but a little spy. And the duke
had
been waiting for her. Now he stared down from his great height, his dark gaze searching her face. She didn’t give him anything to find but an enquiring arch of her right brow.

His eyes narrowed, as if she’d displeased him. Had he expected her to curtsy? To faint? His silence continued. Perhaps he’d forgotten that his rank and his actions demanded that he speak first. Almost amused now, she arched her left brow.

“Inspector Wentworth,” he finally said, and although his deep voice didn’t seem loud, it carried. Heads turned in his direction. Every laborer in a nearby group looked toward him, their expressions both wary and hopeful, as if they thought he might be here with work for the day. But they didn’t appear surprised, which told Mina that Trahaearn’s was a familiar face in the Narrow.

She inclined her head. “Your Grace.”

“You haven’t yet identified him.”

It wasn’t a question, and she had no doubt that he’d been updated with everyone else—and would continue to be updated. After Trahaearn learned the man’s identity, staying a step ahead of him would pose a problem. Perhaps it was best that he was here, then, so that Mina could see where he stepped.

“I have not,” she said. “Have you?”

“No.”

“And do you intend to dog my steps until we determine who he is?”

He smiled briefly, and she was reminded not of a dog, but the drawing of a timber wolf she’d seen in one of her father’s books, lean and hungry.

“Yes,” he said.

Sudden frustration ate at her amusement. “You know I can’t stop you.”

“Yes.” No gloating. Just fact.

“Then I ask that you don’t interfere.”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the Blacksmith’s. “My interference will keep you from waiting—and from overpaying.”

Did he know the Blacksmith? Or did Trahaearn assume his reputation would earn him special treatment?

Not that it mattered. That hadn’t been what she’d meant. She shook her head. “If I discover something that you don’t like—”

“You’re asking me not to kill him. I won’t promise that.”

She gritted her teeth. Should she try to convince a pirate of the importance of law and order? She might as well beat her head against the cobblestones.

“Very well.” She stepped around him, continuing on toward the Blacksmith’s. “Then we will race to see who will reach him first: me to arrest him, or you to carry out your brand of justice.”

“Not justice. I’ve no interest in that.” Trahaearn fell into step beside her, leaving Newberry to trail behind. “But I always protect what’s mine.”

And didn’t hesitate to destroy what wasn’t. “And if this man isn’t yours?”

“Then he’ll still be yours.”

Though his reply was exactly what she’d wanted to hear, Mina frowned. The determination in his tone bothered her—as if Trahaearn intended to follow this investigation through to the end, even if the dead man had no connection to him. Warily, she glanced over and found the duke watching her again.

“But I haven’t come just to learn his identity, inspector. Scarsdale told me that my final comment to you last night was . . . ill-considered.” His pause said that
ill-considered
was indeed Scarsdale’s word. “It pained you. I apologize.”

Perhaps
all
of that statement had been at Scarsdale’s prompting. Trahaearn didn’t strike her as a man who apologized often. She looked at him with suspicion. “You’re sorry?”

His jaw clenched before he said, “Yes.”

That had come with effort. Mina didn’t intend to make it any easier.

“You trampled on my mother’s honor, not mine. Her response when I was born was not about me, but what the Horde had done to her. If you are truly sorry, you will make it up to her—and you’ll give your support to her Reformation League.”

He frowned. “Her League will solve few problems.”

“I agree,” Mina said, and saw his surprise. “But it doesn’t hurt anyone, either. She advocates for responsibility and stability, and those who find it through marriage probably
want
to marry.”

“And you don’t?”

“My situation has never been the same as theirs.” Mina’s gaze sought out a group of laborers, a good portion of them women. Chances were, several of them lived together—and at their home, another woman watched over the children they’d borne. Women rarely left their babies at the crèches now, but few could work to support a family
and
raise it alone. Fewer even considered matrimony—the Horde had all but destroyed the institution among the lower classes by forbidding them to marry for two centuries. In the years since the Horde had left, communal families consisting mostly of females had become more common than a man and woman living together.

“My mother wants to reintroduce an option that the Horde took away, but unlike the Horde, she won’t force it upon anyone. If you simply mention the League to the right people—your Scarsdale will know who they are—your support will go further than a thousand letters. Or you could attend one of her meetings. She’s holding one tonight, if you wish to come.”

Perhaps she only imagined the fleeting expression that suggested the wolf had his foot caught in a trap, but having sat through more of her mother’s meetings than she cared to count, it buoyed her spirits immeasurably.

They reached the Blacksmith’s warehouse. Mina passed by the storefront entrance, where clerks sold automata to those who could afford it. Few in the Narrow could. The Blacksmith’s shop on the Strand was much larger, and one of the most popular destinations for bounders in the city. Curious, Mina slowed, watching the duke. He didn’t pause at the shop, but continued smoothly on toward the smithy entrance, out of sight around the corner.

All right.
She would assume that he was familiar with the Blacksmith—which begged the question of why he’d waited.

“Why did you bother?”

He glanced down at her, brows drawing together. “With what?”

“Apologizing,” she said. “Have you apologized to the families of men you’ve killed, the women you’ve violated? To every merchant and government you’ve ever stolen from? Yet now you are sorry for a mere insult. To what purpose? You can obtain the information you want without it.”

The Iron Duke pivoted into her path and faced her. Mina spun toward the brick wall to avoid crashing into him, stumbling over debris.
What in blue blazes?
Her temper leapt. She opened her mouth, looked up—and froze with her back against the building, her eyes locked on his, certain that if she glanced away, he’d cross the distance between them.

He didn’t appear angry. His expression remained detached, unreadable. Yet she could almost
feel
the control he wielded over himself—and over her, under threat of it being unleashed.