Chapter Eight
Though Mina had half expected that the duke wouldn’t let her be after she’d been granted the use of a cabin, he left her alone. She sat on a narrow bed with her boots off, trying not to let her sick worry for Andrew overwhelm her, until the blue skies and white clouds outside the porthole turned to a flat, dull gray.
She went above decks, satisfied that her short coat lay as straight as could be, that she’d scrubbed the smoke from her face and rubbed her boots to a dull shine, that even a hurricane couldn’t loosen the coil of hair at her nape. Without her overcoat, the wind immediately set her to shivering. She’d be damned if she’d let it show, though. She nodded to the duke and the airship captain on the quarterdeck, and joined Newberry, who stood with the cluster of boys near the cargo platform, and who formed a sufficient windbreak.
As always, barges and boats crowded the Thames, and the bridges were in full use. From this vantage point, the Southwark slums were a smoking ruin, with only a few buildings left inhabitable. The Horde’s tower appeared small and broken—and old Westminster Palace not much better off. The Embankment looked an eyesore. Intended as a new roadway along the north bank of the Thames, the revolution had brought a halt to the Horde project before the construction had been half-finished. Visible girders and struts poked through the foundation, and piles of rubble and muck dotted the bank. But it hadn’t been a complete loss. The intended road surface was used as a gravel walk, and trees had been planted along the way to ameliorate the ugliness of it. A few areas had been designated as gardens, featuring lawns and tended flower beds, and provided a pleasant detour whenever Mina had reason to walk in that direction.
The muscles of her neck ached from trying not to shiver, yet she tensed further when Trahaearn drew next to her. The warmth of his breath near her ear only made the rest of her seem colder.
“We’re in luck there’s no fog,” he said. “Yasmeen would be just as likely to dump us in the river as in that garden.”
A garden chock-full of people waited. Unless one of them was Superintendent Hale, Mina would not be staying. She would get through them as quickly as possible.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, and although she felt his gaze upon her, didn’t look at him. On the cargo platform, she didn’t let him maneuver close, but slipped behind Newberry to stand on the constable’s opposite side.
The platform slowly lowered, landing gently on the grass. Young men and parents surged together, blocking easy exit. Sighing, she looked past Newberry to Trahaearn, who did not seem in a hurry to get off—though for once he wasn’t staring at her. Mina glanced up.
Lady Corsair had slid down the platform’s chains, stopping twenty feet above their heads. Braids dangling, she hung almost upside down and blew a kiss to someone on the ground. A man had joined Trahaearn at the edge of the platform, and he stared up at her laughing, his hand over his heart. Scarsdale, Mina recognized.
“I love you, Yasmeen!”
The mercenary grinned. “Will you marry me, then?”
“Will you come down from the sky?”
“For the likes of you? Never.”
Scarsdale laughed again and finally lowered his gaze to the duke’s.
Though Trahaearn’s didn’t speak loudly, his voice carried to Mina well enough. “Hunt has the Terror.”
The expression that flickered over Scarsdale’s face erased the frivolity, left an emotion cold and predatory. It was gone again as he looked up to Lady Corsair. “So we’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning, then? It seems we have a ship to catch.”
“If you have enough gold, we’ll see.” She began climbing back up. “You’d all best be off my platform when I reach my lady’s decks.”
So they would be leaving tomorrow to find the Terror. One bright bit of news, to help Mina through the remainder of a day that would surely be hell. She turned to go.
“You’re not leaving, inspector.”
Unable to ignore that voice, she paused and faced Trahaearn from across the platform. “Yes, Your Grace, I am. I must report to my superior. Thank you for your assistance today. I wish you well on your journey.”
His face darkened. Scarsdale glanced at him, at Mina, and rattled the platform chain with a kick of his booted foot.
“I say, captain, Yasmeen will dump you off soon.”
The duke’s brows came together. He frowned at the other man.
Scarsdale continued with a nod to the crowd. “Look there. That bushy codger in the mustard coat is old Munro, who’s been thumbing his nose at your Australian line and sending his cotton out on Harbor’s boats. Seeing as you’ve just rescued his grandson, I say we let his gratitude make the both of us richer men. Can’t waste an opportunity like this.”
And Trahaearn didn’t waste opportunities, Mina remembered.
“I’ll leave you to it, sir.” With a short nod to them both, Mina turned and slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone who looked the least bit ragged, anyone with the sharp and hungry eye of a news-man. If Trahaearn came after her, no hope of avoiding them . . . but though her heart pounded, the only giant following her was Newberry.
“That old codger’s not one to waste an opportunity, is he?” Scarsdale’s slurred comment didn’t require a response. Well on his way to drunk, he slouched in the steamcoach’s bench, still celebrating—and preparing himself for tomorrow morning. The bounder hadn’t boarded an airship conscious for years, but with Hunt as their prey, Scarsdale might try. Conscious, but he’d still need to be three sheets to the wind. It’d take him a while to get to that point, however . . . whereas Rhys was trying to shake off the effects of one brandy raised to his honor.
And he’d wasted too many hours on Munro. On the Terror, he’d often sailed out of a port on a moment’s notice. But even though Rhys had a capable staff under him, he couldn’t do the same now. He’d have to work through the night to have everything in order for his departure, and this agreement with Munro had just added another item to the list.
He glanced at the traffic out the window as the steamcoach idled again. Not even past the Banqueting House yet. At this rate, driving out to the island would take another two or three hours, too. All right. He could use this time to start making that list, or he could lean his head back, close his eyes, and imagine how his inspector would display her gratitude when he returned with her brother.
She’d only just unbuttoned his breeches when Scarsdale said, “The Admiralty will be out for your blood.”
Rhys sighed and opened his eyes, wishing that the bounder prattled when drunk. Then he could have ignored the man and carried on. But although soused, Scarsdale remained sharp as a cutlass.
“They’ve always been out for it,” Rhys said. With good reason. No matter how bad a captain Adams had been, a mutiny couldn’t be tolerated. Their failure to recapture Marco’s Terror had been another blow, as had every piece of cargo Rhys had taken from English ships while captaining her. No one despised his pardon and title more than the Board of Admiralty.
“But they’ve never had to pretend an alliance with you—and depend on your silence to keep up that pretense.”
Rhys had to grin at that. They’d learned from Munro that even before Lady Corsair had passed into London, the navy had already been spreading the story that the attack on the Dame’s fort had been a joint effort between himself and the Royal Navy. Rhys had led the rescue while they’d bombarded the fort to destroy the weapon.
He hadn’t contradicted the story. Never before had the navy been beholden to him, but he hadn’t yet decided how they would pay for it. For now, he was simply pleased that the opportunity was there if he wanted to take advantage of it.
Scarsdale tipped his bottle up and grimaced at the small amount in the bottom. A look out of the coach made him groan. “I’ll be sober again by the time we—” He broke off, squinting. “I say, isn’t that the inspector’s man?”
Rhys glanced out. By the light of the gas lamps lining the street, he recognized Newberry’s unmistakable bulk seated on the bench of his rattle-trap cart. Parked along the walk not far from police headquarters, but not even idling. No steam wafted from the vents. Waiting then.
For the inspector? It was well past eight o’clock. She ought to have been home. Frowning, Rhys rapped on the ceiling of the coach. Jumping out into traffic was only slightly less harrowing than sprinting through a zombie forest, but Rhys made it to the cart in one piece.
The constable straightened when he saw Rhys’s approach. Hope seemed to brighten his expression.
What the hell did he need to hope for?
Rhys glanced toward the headquarters building. “Is the inspector still in there?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then why are you out here?”
“I’m under orders to go home, sir. But my standing orders are not to let her go home unescorted. And so I’m on my way home. I simply stopped for a bit of air.”
And was waiting for the inspector to walk by, Rhys realized. “Why wasn’t she ordered to go home?”
She’d been bruised, burned. The bugs would heal her, but she’d still be feeling the toll that the escape from the fort had taken on her body. Hell, even Rhys was still feeling it.
“They’re still debating whether to strip her of rank for insubordination and for interfering with a naval operation, sir, or to relieve her of duty.”
Rhys stilled. Rage spiked through him, cold and hard. Slowly, he met the man’s eyes. “Go on home, Newberry. I’ll see that she’s escorted.”
The constable nodded, and for an instant Rhys saw the ferocity beneath the friendly, houndlike features.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You allowed a man possessing illegal Horde technology to walk past you and assassinate an admiral of the Royal Navy. You boarded the ship of a known mercenary. You left England’s shores and your jurisdiction without waiting for approval from your superiors. You ignored obvious indications that a naval operation was in progress. You displayed gross insubordination resulting in rampant failure across the board, inspector, and you cannot explain yourself to my satisfaction. Do you admit that you failed to apprehend both Jasper Evans and Marguerite Bonnet, and allowed them to escape in a war machine?”
England, Mina decided, could use fewer damn dukes shoving their faces into hers and demanding answers. And this one had no greater authority over her than Trahaearn did. The Duke of Dorchester was the Lord High Admiral of England, but he was not her superior, and he would not be deciding whether she would be relieved of duty or reprimanded. That decision lay with Superintendent Hale and the police commissioner, Sir John Broyles—both of whom had already heard her report. Repeatedly heard it, now that the Lord High Admiral had arrived at the commissioner’s office and demanded to hear it again.
“Yes, Your Grace. Evans escaped in his tree harvester, and although I did not see her, I believe that Bonnet was inside, as well.”
Beneath his white hair, Dorchester’s dark blue eyes appeared hard as steel. All of him was like steel, thin and sharp-edged as a sword held on end. “Along with the weapon purchased in an Ivory Market auction.”
“He didn’t have the weapon—”
“Did you see the interior of that tank, inspector?”
“No, sir. An exploding firebomb from the nearby ships damaged the chamber ceiling, and I was not able to venture close to the machine.”
She probably shouldn’t have mentioned the ships or the firebombs. Dorchester’s face turned florid, and he began to cough, which seemed to enrage him further.
Broyles’s heavy jowl and bushy dark brows always gave the impression of anger, but Mina recognized the long-suffering expression on the commissioner’s features as he put in, “Your Grace, the inspector had been given leave by this office to investigate the matter to its fullest extent, but we do not encourage our officers to put themselves at unnecessary risk. Even armed, she could not have stopped that machine without incredible danger to her person.”
Dorchester latched onto one phrase. Never taking his eyes from Mina’s face, he said, “You must agree that she took more leave than given, commissioner.”
“No, sir. As had been ordered, she sent regular updates to this office. The Metropolitan Police Force has no argument with the steps she took in the progress of her investigation.”
Dorchester’s gaze narrowed on Mina. “Did you update this office after observing the flotilla headed for Calais?”
“It was impossible to send a gram from the airship, sir—”
“Then you should have turned around and waited for instruction!”
The response from behind Mina came from a voice both familiar and unwelcome. “She wasn’t in charge of the airship. I was.”
Oh, no. When had the Iron Duke come in? Mina wanted to close her eyes. Perhaps Trahaearn wanted to help, but he couldn’t have said anything worse.
Those steely blue eyes flicked away from her face, and registered surprise before hardening again. Trahaearn must have just entered the room if Dorchester was only now noticing him, too.
“Thank you for your input, Anglesey. If you were in command, it clearly demonstrates that she lost control of her investigation.”
She would not stand for that. “No, sir. I believe what Anglesey means is that he paid for the use of Lady Corsair. I was told to use all avenues available to me in order to identify Haynes’s murderers, and apprehending them, if possible. At all times, my objective aligned with the duke’s, and I remained in pursuit of the Dame until pursuit became physically impossible. The investigation was never out of my control.”
Dorchester’s brows rose. “Is this true, Anglesey? You’d have let this inspector order you about?”
Tension gripped her, angry and hot. The bastard. That wasn’t at all what she’d said, and he knew it. And no man as arrogant as the Iron Duke would let it be thought that—
“It’s true.” Amusement filled Trahaearn’s response—and infuriated Dorchester, Mina saw. A muscle began to tick in his jaw. “After observing her investigative talents and the speed with which she identified Haynes, I trusted that Inspector Wentworth knew what she was about. I’d have done anything she asked of me.”
Oh, sweet heavens. To Mina’s ears, that last statement couldn’t have possibly sounded more suggestive. Perhaps only to her, however. Mina didn’t dare glance at Hale.
Unwilling to let Trahaearn steer him off course, Dorchester zeroed in on Mina again. “And so you could have ordered the airship to turn around, inspector.”
On this point, Mina would never back down. “No, sir. I could not. Above and beyond my duty to investigate Haynes’s murder is my duty to protect English citizens. I knew that the Dame was likely holding eight young men at her fort. When we saw the ships and the steelcoats, I formed the opinion that the marines planned to invade the fort in order to retrieve the Dame’s hostages. I received information from the Duke of Anglesey that led me to believe that should an invading force be used, the young men would be murdered by the Dame.”
“You assumed that I had ordered the flotilla to recover the hostages?” Blue eyes narrowed. “I see. You did not assume that after the Admiralty learned Haynes’s nanoagents had been destroyed, that we might have linked it to a weapons auction in the Ivory Market. Or that when the Dame’s ransom demands confirmed that she’d taken Marco’s Terror, we had reason to be concerned that she’d also brought the auctioned weapon from the Ivory Market, to within spitting distance of this nation’s shores. And you did not assume that we had sent the Royal Navy’s ships to protect England. You thought we’d attacked like dogs when the merchants whistled.”
The quiet anger burning in Dorchester’s gaze seemed genuine, and Mina had to admit she’d been wrong. Baxter was not the only admiral who put the interests of England above the merchants.
But although she’d thought exactly what he’d accused her of, sometimes it was prudent to lie.
“No, sir. I assumed that your objective was the same as mine: to protect English citizens. It’s true that I lacked information regarding this weapon, information that the Admiralty was obviously in possession of, and so I misinterpreted the flotilla’s objective. Now that I understand that your orders to the flotilla had not been to rescue the boys, but to destroy the weapon and the fort, I admit that I assumed wrongly. But I cannot regret my decision to continue on to the fort and attempt to save the lives of eight English citizens.”
Dorchester’s face paled with anger, his nostrils pinched and thin. “And your presumptuous actions demonstrate a dangerous lack of restraint and good judgment, inspector. You needlessly risked the life of a peer and of the constable under your authority. Commissioner Broyles, I strongly recommend that the inspector receives the severest disciplinary action.”
Broyles nodded. “Your suggestion will be taken under advisement. Be assured that Detective Inspector Wentworth’s actions will undergo a rigorous review.”
“Very good, sir.” With another hard stare at Mina, Dorchester turned his attention to Trahaearn. “And I will remind you, Anglesey, that Marco’s Terror is His Majesty’s ship. Your interest in her situation is neither warranted nor wanted.”
Mina’s lips parted. Without leave to move from her post in front of Broyles’s desk, she couldn’t look around to see Trahaearn’s reaction—but Hale’s said it well enough. The superintendent’s alarm and indecision was clear, as if two bulls were about to lock horns in front of her, and she wasn’t certain whether to step between them or to get out of their way.
But Trahaearn only said, “I will also take your suggestion under advisement, Dorchester.”
If the Lord High Admiral meant to respond, a cough got the better of him. His hacking coughs continued until Mina heard the door close behind him.
Broyles shook his head. “Imperious bloody bounders.”
Hale’s brows rose. “Sir?”
“No offense to you, Hale.”
The wry, thin-lipped smile Hale gave him said that none had been taken, but still managed to chastise him for the comment. Broyles’s lips twitched before he looked to Mina.
“Inspector Wentworth, your actions will be taken under review, and statements collected from everyone involved. But upon these initial reports already received from Superintendent Hale, the Chatham police, the Admiralty, Constable Newberry, the heads of several prominent families, and the comments from His Grace”—he tipped his head toward Trahaearn—“this office is not dissatisfied with your performance today, inspector.”
Even as Mina’s throat tightened, some of the tension drained from her muscles. “Thank you, sir.”
Leaning back, he steepled his fingers. “And I do not appreciate that the Admiralty is trying to save face at the expense of my officer’s. By your account, you’d have apprehended both Evans and Dame Sawtooth had the fort not begun coming down around your head.”
“By my account, too,” Trahaearn said behind her. “She’d all but convinced Evans that the Dame could be saved with a physician’s attention. Given a few more minutes, she’d have had him carrying Dame Sawtooth to the airship himself.”
“Thank you, sir.” Broyles nodded before looking to Mina again. “And had it not been for your presence at the admiral’s residence in Chatham, I believe that his murderer would not only remain unidentified, but would have fled rather than commit suicide. Frankly, inspector, a dead murderer that no one can identify is better than one who remains unidentified and continues walking English streets.”
“The credit for that belongs to the duke, sir.”
“Take it if you can, inspector, because it is all that you will get. You haven’t yet heard, but the official story from the Board of Admiralty is that you were under the command of the Iron Duke, who acted in conjunction with the navy.” Now Broyles was angry. His jowls shook when his jaw tightened. “And this office has decided it is not worth the bad blood between our agencies if we insist on the truth.”
Sickened, Mina looked to Hale for confirmation. The superintendent nodded.
All right, then. She didn’t relish the thought of public recognition, anyway. All that mattered was that her superiors knew the truth of it. “Very well, sir.”
Broyles leaned forward. “Those within the force will know who brought those boys home, inspector. They’ll know why the Dame and Evans aren’t in a cell at Newgate. We won’t make an issue of it. But we’ll know.”
“Thank you, sir.” She swallowed, then said, “Sir, regarding Baxter’s assassin, I must put forth that ‘unidentified and dead’ is not enough. The device he used suggests that he acted under orders, and so although he pulled the trigger, he was not the admiral’s murderer. If the case is stamped closed, I fear that person—or group—will continue to go about unidentified and walking English streets.”
“I share your concern, inspector. But without concrete evidence linking Baxter’s murder to Haynes’s, we don’t have justification to take the case out of Chatham’s hands. Now that we have evidence of a freezing device, however, we will look more closely at rumors of the Black Guard.”
As he spoke, Broyles looked squarely toward the Iron Duke, but whether Trahaearn felt the commissioner’s unspoken admonition for having had one of the devices and not bringing it to police attention, Mina didn’t know.
After a moment, Broyles’s attention returned to Mina. “Your brother is serving on Marco’s Terror, isn’t he? The young one. Not Henry.”
This time, the tightening of her throat almost choked her. “Andrew. Yes, sir.”
“Then I suppose facing Dorchester was easier than the task before you.” With a heavy sigh, he sank a little deeper into his seat. “Go home and tell your parents, inspector.”
When the Iron Duke caught up with her on the main floor, Mina was formulating how best to thank him and then dismiss him. He stopped her with, “I promised Newberry that I would escort you home.”
And so she was well and trapped. She might as well make the best of it, and discover whether he still planned to pursue the Terror. “Has the Lord High Admiral’s warning dissuaded you from leaving tomorrow?”
His deep laugh was the only answer he gave—and the one she’d hoped to hear. It continued as they left the building. Across the crush of traffic on Whitehall, light still shone from several windows in the Admiralty building. They were usually all darkened by this time.
Mina started for the familiar steamcoach waiting by the walk. “Dorchester was furious with me,” she said, “but it was only aimed at my investigation. His anger toward you was personal. Do you have a history?”
“I’ve never met him before, but the mutiny is reason enough. And I’ve deserted countless naval officers, taken gold and cargo, made fools of them as they escorted merchant ships—”
“Killed them?”
“When a navy ship came up on me looking to sink the Terror or to take my crew to hang, I fired back. Men died on both sides.” He paused as the driver hopped down from his bench and opened the carriage door. His gaze met hers. “Unlike Broyles, I’m not hobbled by fear of bad blood—there’s already plenty of it between me and the Admiralty. And if you want recognition, I’ll stir it up.”
And probably enjoy stirring it, too. “I’d prefer not to be at the center of it, in truth.”
Smiling slightly, he nodded. “Then I’ll trade my silence for the Terror.”
He intended to strong-arm the Admiralty? And he probably could, she realized. The navy’s story hinged on the Iron Duke not contradicting them, giving him the perfect opportunity to reclaim his ship.
And yet he’d had given up that opportunity if she’d wanted recognition.
A queer little ache formed in her chest. Not knowing how to respond, she moved out from under that dark gaze, turning to board the steamcoach. As she stepped up, Scarsdale leaned forward from his bench and took Mina’s hand, guiding her to the rear-facing seat across from him.
“My apologies for not giving up the prime spot, inspector. If I sit backward, I’ll puke.”
Judging by the empty bottle next to him, it would be a good amount of liquor that came up. Trahaearn climbed in. He looked to the space next to his friend before prudently choosing the seat beside Mina.
“Leicester Square, Fitzhop!” Scarsdale called through the carriage door, then glanced at Mina. “Number Eight?”
Mina’s brows rose. “Yes.” When he finished giving the direction to the driver, she said, “You’re well-informed, Lord Scarsdale.”
“It gives me a purpose, now that the captain has no other use for me.” He looked from Mina to Trahaearn, then to Mina again. “So are you coming with us to find the Terror, then?”
To see Andrew safe with her own eyes? Yearning speared through her, but Mina shook her head. “It’s impossible. And even if it was not, I know nothing of the Ivory Market or locating a ship on the high seas. I wouldn’t be of any help to you.”
“Of help, no. But it would prove wildly entertaining.”
Perhaps, but her family couldn’t live on entertainment. And although Hale might give Mina temporary leave to pursue her brother, a salary wouldn’t accompany it.
But if money had been no object, she’d have gone. Quietly, Mina said, “I imagine it would be.”
Scarsdale frowned at her, then down at his bottle. With a pained expression, he closed his eyes. Aware that the duke watched her again, Mina looked out the window. They’d begun to drive faster, traffic lightening past Anglesey Square. Soon they’d have her home, and each street they crossed wound her stomach into sick knots.
How to tell them? She’d imparted terrible news to so many mothers and fathers. Never before had it been to her own.
“I don’t know anything about parents,” Trahaearn said abruptly. “But if this will be worse than facing Dorchester, do you want me to tell them with you?”
Mina didn’t know who his offer startled more—Scarsdale or her. As she looked round, she saw the other man’s widened eyes and an expression that bordered on dismay. And although she fully intended to refuse Trahaearn, realization stopped her.
His presence wouldn’t make Mina’s task easier. Nothing could. But if Trahaearn confirmed that he was pursuing the Terror, her parents might find it easier to believe that Andrew would be returning home.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
Trahaearn nodded. Her throat tight, Mina faced the window again. The coach made its way up Dorset Street now. Two hundred years ago, the residences here had been fashionable. Now many of the town houses had been divided into cheap tenements, or stripped and abandoned to the street urchins and the slinking glint of steel and reddened eyes—
A ratcatcher.
Smoking hells. Mina leapt for the carriage door. “Stop! Driver, stop!”
Fitzhop must have, but Mina didn’t wait—she jumped out and began running. She heard the squeal of brakes behind her, the heavy pounding of boots that had to be the Iron Duke’s. But the shrieks and screams ahead drew her on, through the gaping window of an abandoned town house. Rotted floorboards threatened to crack beneath her as she landed in a crouch. The screams came from deeper inside the house. Mina shouted as she ran past the sagging stairs, praying that the noise would frighten the ratcatcher off, but it never did.
Fifty years before, when a plague had nearly wiped out the Horde, they’d modified common alley cats into large, vicious ratcatchers. After the plague ended, the hound-sized cats were supposed to die off. Now, Mina didn’t know what terrified people more—that the ratcatchers would attack anyone with little provocation, or that they’d been able to breed. Unlike the first generation, the teeth and claws hadn’t been implanted; the ratcatchers had been born with them. Somehow, the cats’ nanoagents replaced bone with steel, and armored plates protected their lithe, quick forms.
An explosion of rotted boards sounded behind her, as if a bull had rammed into the side of the house. Mina didn’t dare look back. Through the gutted kitchen wall she could see them, the two writhing bodies on the floor, one screaming child trying to protect his face and belly, the other hissing and growling. Five urchins scrambled around them, attacking the ratcatcher with anything at hand—pipes, broken planks, their fists.
Her opium darts did little good against the ratcatcher’s armored body, and she had no shot with her gun. Mina gripped her dagger and jumped in. Pain burst through her arm as one of the urchins aimed for the ratcatcher and pummeled Mina with a pipe instead. She tried to get a grip on the hissing thing, to tear him away from the boy. A big one, its shoulders came to her knees and easily outweighed her. Warm metal slipped through her hands. She couldn’t find flesh with her dagger. She kicked its flanks, its legs. The damn thing wouldn’t let go of the boy and turn on her.
Another great crash warned her even before Trahaearn shouted, “Move aside!”
Mina grabbed the two urchins beside her and yanked them away. Trahaearn’s boot slammed into the ratcatcher’s armored side. Yelping, it flew across the room and crashed into the wall—unharmed. It scrambled to its feet, hissing and fixing its eyes on the Iron Duke.
Trahaearn started for it. “Take the boy, inspector.”
She’d already scooped up the bleeding boy, his screams quieting into sobs against her neck. She recognized him—Trowel. Not more than twelve years old, he’d been leading this little group of wick-peddlers for half of his life. His forearms had been shredded, and deep tears along his back and shoulders bled faster than his bugs could heal. Holding him against her chest, she ran through the house.
Scarsdale was climbing through the window, Fitzhop just behind him. They both paused when they saw Mina. She sprinted toward them, and almost fell into the gaping hole in the floor that hadn’t been there moments before. Recovering, she shoved the boy into Scarsdale’s arms.
“To my father!” she panted. “Take him to my father, and hurry!”
Scarsdale nodded. And for a drunk, he could run astonishingly fast. Mina watched through the window just long enough to drag in a breath. The sounds of the urchins cheering, of cursing and hissing told her that the ratcatcher hadn’t fled yet.
Then a loud shriek and thud was followed by sudden silence, and she came into the kitchen to see young faces with jaws hanging open. Near the wall, Trahaearn lifted his foot from the remains of the ratcatcher’s head.
Mina stared. He’d stomped on the ratcatcher’s steel skull and flattened it. Her head seemed to spin, bringing her flashes of an uncrowded lift at full capacity, of a rackety tilting steamcoach, of the unexpected hole in rotting floorboards . . . and iron where there should have been bone. She suddenly suspected that all of him had iron in place of bone.
Swallowing to moisten a throat gone dry, she met his eyes. “How much, exactly, do you weigh?”
“More than enough.” His grin caught at something in her chest and turned it about. “But don’t worry that I’ll crush you.”
Oh. Well, she hadn’t been—No.
Shaking her head, Mina looked to the oldest of the wick-peddlers. Molly, she remembered. With feet wrapped in rags and the rest of her dressed in whatever could be patched or stolen, Molly looked younger than she probably was. All of these children did.
“A friend took Trowel to my father’s. You know where that is?” When they nodded, she said, “His physician’s parlor is in the rear of our house. Go in through the mews. I’ll see if Cook has something leftover while you wait.”
And with the promise of food, they’d be less likely to steal her family’s chickens. She watched them hurry off before facing the duke—who stood closer than she’d thought, glowering down at her.
Instinctively, she stepped back. “What is it?”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
And this was why she preferred driving home with Newberry. She probably gave him an apoplexy every time she leapt from the cart, but he never challenged her.
“Don’t do what? Save a child’s life?”
Anger sharpened the angles of his face. “You send me in. I’ll do it.”
“You refused to ransom eight boys. Why would I believe you’d risk your skin for a child?”
His jaw clenched. No, he couldn’t argue that . . . but Mina had to admit it wasn’t fair. Unlike Trowel, those boys would’ve been safe if the Iron Duke hadn’t paid their ransom. And as soon as it had become clear that the navy’s presence endangered them, he hadn’t said a word against rescuing them from the Dame—even if their rescue came out of his pocket. She sighed.
“It won’t matter, anyway. There will be no reason for us to ride together again.” She glanced toward the ratcatcher before looking up at Trahaearn. “I sent Scarsdale on. We have a bit of a walk.”
“No.” He started for her. “What I have is you. Alone.”
Oh, no. Her heart thumping, Mina scrambled back and hit a wall. He kept coming.
“Your Grace, don’t—”
His big hands caught her hips—and her guns. Too slow, Mina reached for her weapons and grabbed his fingers instead.
Blast. Damn and blast. Wary, she looked up at him.
His gaze settled on her mouth. “Have you been kissed before, inspector?”
“Why?” If he wanted virgin lips, she’d claim to have serviced an army.
“If it’s your first, I’ll do it differently.”
“You won’t do it at all.”
“Yes, I will.”
He leaned forward. His left knee pressed into the wall beside her thigh. He braced his right hand beside her shoulder, caging her in between his broad chest and iron limbs.
His hand beside her shoulder . . . Mina’s flew to her weapon, found the holster empty. He blocked her grab to his cods by shoving against her, his solid body pushing hers up against the wall. Mina ground her teeth, fingers digging into the heavy muscles of his shoulders. His warmth seemed to burn through her clothing, her armor, forming a layer of fire over her skin and a tight ball of heat in her lower belly.
He cupped her jaw in his left hand, tilting her face to his. Mina stilled. His callused thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and he seemed pleased when her breath shuddered over his skin.
“So you’ll try a cigarillo, but won’t try a taste of me?” His dark gaze searched her face. “Aren’t you curious, inspector? A kiss—and only a kiss.”
Only a kiss . . . from someone who wanted her. Longing slipped through her, tugging at hopes best kept buried. Yes, Mina wanted to know. But she couldn’t afford it.
“No,” she said.
He smiled. “Liar.”
“You’ll take everything from me. You’ll ruin me.” Frustration boiled up. She tried to twist free, and couldn’t budge him. Anger made her voice hard, loud. “You’ve seen how it is! Jade whore, spit on her, don’t let her hire your steamcoach. And you’ll make it worse—”
“No one would dare touch you!” Eyebrows snapping together, he put his face to hers. Between clenched teeth, he repeated fiercely, “No one!”
Mina closed her eyes. He couldn’t understand. And how could she explain? Anywhere he went, people only saw him. The Iron Duke. With Mina, they only saw the Horde.
In a voice suddenly gentle, he said against her mouth, “And I won’t just take. I’d give everything you asked of me.”
“Trahaearn—”
His lips covered hers—that hard mouth, surprisingly soft. Shock held Mina frozen. For an instant, she absorbed the feel of his kiss, his rough hand cupping her jaw, the heavy weight pressing her into the wall, his tense stomach against hers.
Sense returned. Her eyes flew open.
“Don’t.” Panic thinned her breath, made the protest weak. She tried again. “Please. Someone might see.”
His fingers tightened in her hair. “And know you’re mine.”
His mouth opened over hers. He tasted the seam of her lips, as if coaxing her open. Mina shut her eyes again, tried not to feel the heat, the gentle pressure, and the unexpected, curling pleasure.
He hadn’t understood. He thought that someone seeing them was her only objection, something to be swept away with a wave of his mighty hand—but it was the objection.
He lifted his head. Mina opened her mouth to protest, and he dipped low again, so quick—and she tasted him, a flavor that she didn’t know but that felt right, and hit her like a fist to her chest that didn’t pull back after striking but held on, squeezing.
Damn him. Damn him. She couldn’t have this. And it was nothing like the cigarillo, where the taste hadn’t matched the price. This taste—this feeling—was worth more.
But she couldn’t pay it. She didn’t dare try to pay it. If she did, both Mina and her family would pay and pay and pay.
Pain rose up, pain and fear—she could force those away. And so she did, with everything else.
As if sensing her withdrawal, Trahaearn lifted his mouth from hers. “Why—”
“Let me go,” she said hoarsely.
He stared down at her for a long second before stepping back.
Throat aching, Mina turned to go. “Are you done with that, then?”
The answer that came after her was everything she feared.
“No.”
If she’d just been angry, Rhys wouldn’t have let her walk away. But she was afraid. And Rhys needed to take that fear from her, but he couldn’t force it away. Right now, she didn’t believe he could—or maybe that he would—protect her. He’d have to change that.
But hell if he knew when he’d get the chance. A short walk through London streets wouldn’t prove anything, not tonight. And she didn’t need him for that any other time. She had Newberry.
So he was second to a red giant. No, not second. Rhys didn’t even make a showing on her list. For short moments, she seemed to appreciate him, would offer a laugh or a smile. And he’d felt her sexual response before the fear had swallowed it.
And by God, she fascinated him. He admired the hell out of her. But he knew that admiration wasn’t returned. Whatever she saw in him, it wasn’t enough to overcome her fear. The only thing she needed him for, the only thing she was interested in, and the only thing he had to offer her was the Terror, and the possibility of finding her brother.
She had no other use for him. And though it hit at his pride, Rhys couldn’t blame her. He’d been a man driven by purpose once—but for nine years, he hadn’t had much of one. Nothing to attract a woman who couldn’t be bought.
But now he had two things to drive him: finding the Terror, and taking away her fear.
He knew the course he’d take for the first. He hoped that walking into her home would give him a better idea of how to accomplish the second.
Leicester Square had obviously seen better days, but its inhabitants seemed determined not to let it go the way of the town houses where they’d battled the ratcatcher. Some had attempted to scrub away the smoke and paint their houses in pale colors. Almost every window pane appeared intact. A few pink blooms poked through the high fence that surrounded the garden at the center of the square.
Number Eight stood five stories tall, with all of the windows on the third and fourth floors shuttered. A simple casement sat over the front entrance, though a pale outline against the yellow stone suggested that it had once featured a pediment and columns—probably having rotted or sold off.
When they arrived, a steamcoach was pulling away from the entrance. Scarsdale met them at the front steps and gestured toward the departing carriage.
“I’m afraid several of the ladies have left. Apparently, it’s the height of indecency for a soused bounder to burst through the front entrance carrying a bleeding street urchin.”
“Oh, blast.” The inspector palmed her forehead and looked to Rhys with widened eyes. “I forgot the League meeting. Perhaps you shouldn’t—”
“I also killed your butler.” Scarsdale’s mournful confession interrupted her. When both Rhys and the inspector turned to stare at him, he continued quickly, “His fault, I assure you! He didn’t come to the door quickly enough, and I caught him full on when I kicked it open. He fell and his head burst to pieces.”
“Lovely. Just lovely.” With a dismayed shake of her head, she started for the door. “And after Mother worked so hard on him.”
Rhys finally caught on. “An automaton?”
“A piece of art, more like.” Scarsdale looked at the blood soaking his waistcoat. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
Christ. Rhys hated gatherings of any sort, but a gathering of ladies seemed pure torture. “Why?”
“I’m not fit company.” Scarsdale’s voice lowered. “You’ll be introduced to them. You’ve no reason to talk first.”
Hopefully he’d have no reason to talk at all. What would he have to say to them?
He joined the inspector in the foyer, where a blond maid knelt on the floor, picking up gears from out of a jumble that might have resembled a man. Her mouth fell open when she saw him.
The inspector smiled, a wry little twist of her lips. “Sally, let me introduce you to the reason you’ve spent all of today washing the blood out of my skirts.”
“It was a pleasure, inspector. My lady.” She bobbed her head, staring at Rhys, but not daring to speak to him. “It wasn’t nothing at all.”
Nothing at all. Bullshit. When Rhys stepped on a ship, he could immediately determine whether the crew was shorthanded or simply lazy by the state of the repairs and cleanliness. A house was no different—and this house was severely understaffed. All the work was done well; there just weren’t enough people to do all of it. Adding a blood-stained dress to this woman’s daily duties wasn’t “nothing at all.” It was a burden, and had probably felt like a heavy one.
Rhys looked at the inspector’s jacket, soaked through with the urchin’s blood. “I’m afraid you’ll have more tonight, Sally. My fault, too, for not reaching the boy before the inspector did.”
“I cannot wait, Your Grace.” The maid made a breathy short sound that ended in a little squeal. “But I don’t see how you’re at fault, sir. She’s awful fast. Too fast, sometimes.”
“Yes, she is.” She’d outraced him twice.
The inspector glanced at him. He read the gratitude in her expression before she continued down the hallway. Clever woman. She couldn’t give the maid more help, but she could give her the Iron Duke’s acknowledgment.
But despite her urging him that morning to attend her mother’s meeting, she seemed reluctant to show him into the parlor. Hesitating outside the door, she stiffened her shoulders and took a deep breath, as if bracing herself.
Conversation dimmed when she entered the room, then stopped altogether when he followed her.
Seven of them around the parlor, all looking to him. Images crowded into his brain, memories of other women all looking, some with arousal and hunger, others with amusement and disdain, but all expecting to touch. He forced them away. Those women weren’t here. The ladies in this parlor were curious and excited, but not one dared to approach him, let alone reach for him.
But for one. A white-haired woman in dark spectacles rushed across the room—but not, Rhys realized, toward him. She was taking in the inspector’s appearance, horrified, making certain that the blood on the inspector’s jacket wasn’t her own.
“Dear heavens, Mina! Are you well?”
Mina. Triumph shot through him. Yes, that fit her. And he’d use it—but not here. Not yet.
She didn’t immediately answer the white-haired woman. Hesitating, she glanced at the other women in the parlor before simply saying, “I’m well, Mother. It is only on my clothes.”
So the woman was her mother, Lady Rockingham—but Mina wouldn’t be relaying the news about her brother here, he realized. Not until the other ladies left. With luck, that wouldn’t be long.
The countess stepped back, looking to a pregnant woman sitting at the edge of a blue chair. “Felicity, dear, will you assist her upstairs?”
Mina seemed ready to protest. Her mother glanced back at her, and the inspector’s mouth snapped shut. “Yes, Mother.”
The pregnant woman—Felicity—made her way over to them, somehow maneuvering around furniture without ever taking her gaze from his face. When she reached the two ladies, she gave a sharp look to Mina before gesturing to the countess and then to Rhys. When Mina frowned at her, Felicity leaned to hiss something into the inspector’s ear.
A moment later, Mina’s brows lifted, and she flushed. Awkwardly, she took her mother’s hand and pulled her closer to Rhys. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to my mother, the Countess of Rockingham?”
He hated these rules. Apparently so did Mina, if she’d forgotten to introduce them—and even now she winced slightly, as if realizing she’d said something wrong. Rhys could have told her that he couldn’t remember the proper response, anyway—Scarsdale’s always seemed to be long and effusive, and not worth memorizing—but the inclination of his head and his “Well met, my lady,” seemed to do the trick. A brilliant smile lit the countess’s small face.
“Your presence delights us, Your Grace. May I introduce you to my friends?”
Blast. And Felicity was drawing Mina away, out of the parlor. He’d rather be heading upstairs to watch her change clothing, but Rhys recognized that he was well and trapped.
With another inclination of his head, he walked with her to the first sofa, and almost stumbled over a table that moved into his path. Christ, the whole room was full of them. Topped with nutcakes and coffee and driven by some of the quietest clockworks he’d ever seen, they waddled in a wide oval that brought them to every sofa and chair on their circuit, and within reach of any lady who desired the refreshment.
Brilliant, and completely nonsensical. Even ladies could get up off their asses and collect food from a table.
“Please pardon the servers, sir.” The countess smiled sweetly. “They provide a bit of amusement, and so our meetings are not all about what is bleak and dreary.”
Ah, yes. Marriage reform. God help him. Each lady she introduced to him seemed friendly and intelligent enough, but in no time he felt surrounded, bombarded on all sides by their enquiring looks and their well wishes. Damn Scarsdale.
Then Mina returned, and he stopped cursing his friend and stared at her, instead. She wore some kind of pale blue frock, and with her hair still tight at her nape, exposed all of her neck and half of her collarbone.
No armor. No buckles. Only a few layers of cotton and ten feet of parlor separated his mouth from her breasts. Without meeting his gaze, she took a seat on an already crowded sofa, and lifted a nutcake from the waddling server. Her pregnant friend sank into the sturdiest chair in the room, leaving Rhys standing beside the fireplace with her mother—who was watching him.
And what had she seen on his face when her daughter had come in? God knew. The Blacksmith could detect a man’s lies. Maybe her mother saw just as much from behind those dark lenses.
He couldn’t begin to fathom what a mother would think of his reaction, though. Such relationships were alien to him. But reading the determined set of her mouth was easy enough—Mina’s mouth looked exactly the same.
So it came, the question he’d dreaded—the one he couldn’t answer with a single word. The countess turned to him and asked, “And do you support marriage reformation, sir?”
A damned nuisance, not knowing whether he could lie to her. He opted for the truth.
“I know little about marriage or families, and so thoughts of reform occupy little of my time.” That wouldn’t be enough, he knew. They would want to pick apart every bit he did think about. Perhaps he could head them off, however, by offering it wholesale in a form they likely already knew. “But after speaking with Detective Inspector Wentworth this morning, I found that my opinion aligns closely with hers.”
Every gaze in the room turned to Mina, who looked back at Rhys in dismay. The countess pursed her lips before saying, “My daughter is famously reluctant to share her views.”
Mina sighed. “You are experienced in matters of marriage, Mother. Not I. And very likely, I will never be. Whatever is decided here and put into your bill will hardly affect me, and so I leave it in the hands of those to whom it will matter the most.”
Amused, Rhys shook his head. She hadn’t been so reluctant to offer her opinion this morning. And she hadn’t stopped at her own chances of marriage, but had focused instead on the laborers—women who, thanks to her occupation, she probably met with more often than these ladies ever did.
And if he was to be put on the spot, then he would drag her in with him. “You better know the women this bill will most affect. Yet you don’t have any opinions to share?”
She set her jaw. After a brief silence, her pregnant friend came to her defense. “Mina has been the reason behind some of the most important provisions, Your Grace.”
He looked to Felicity. She was like another Newberry, he realized, but in a parlor rather than on the streets. So he would need to fulfill this role for Mina, too.
Or better yet, keep them both out of parlors.
But he appreciated the woman for her defense now—especially as it gave him a deeper look beneath the inspector’s armor. “How so?”
“The English laws written before the occupation do not protect women. Even the Horde’s had more protections. Yet they put those old laws into effect, as if two hundred years hadn’t passed.” Felicity shook her head. “And Mina would come from her job with shocking stories of women who had been abused and cheated by their husbands. And even more shocking, that nothing could be done according to the laws. We hope to add those protections.”
His admiration deepened. He’d put her on the spot, and she came out looking better for it. He wouldn’t have.
But that morning, she hadn’t seemed satisfied with the steps taken. Curious, he wondered, “And those protections are not enough for you, inspector?”
With another sigh, she looked to her mother. “No,” she said quietly.
So she couldn’t lie, either. She was trapped, just as he was. Good. “Will you tell us what you would change, then?”
Her jaw clenched again. After a short silence, her mother prompted, “Mina?”
Anger filled the look she threw at him, hot and sharp as a poker. “There should be a provision to make it easier for a wife to divorce her husband.”
“Mina!” The countess gasped, and was echoed by the other women. Each of them looked at the inspector in horror.
Goddammit. Damn his mouth, and damn Scarsdale for leaving him to cock this up. He’d done this to her. He’d sought payment for his discomfort, and only at this moment did he realize that the price was unequal.
He was only discomfited by having to talk here. But Mina would be affected by what she said.
Even her friend seemed surprised. “You would advocate for divorce in a bill designed to promote marriage?”
“I would advocate for choice.” Her back rigid, she stared somewhere over Rhys’s shoulder. “My mother is blinded by one privilege that most people do not have.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her chest as if to cover a wound. In a high, strained voice, she asked, “Mina, did you misunderstand so completely? Marriage is not just for the privileged classes. That is what I am trying to undo.”
With a shake of her head, Mina met her mother’s eyes, and Rhys realized he’d been forgotten. No longer angry, but earnest . . . as if the countess’s wound had become her own, and she wanted to close it.
“No, Mother. The privilege is that you and my father love each other, completely and unconditionally. You hold each other’s interests close to your hearts, and you will fight together through any difficulty.” She drew a deep breath. “But that is not something everyone will have. Some will marry for convenience, or for love that doesn’t last. And when a woman within a marriage finds her interests are unimportant, when her husband’s needs completely subsume hers, it is like the Horde overriding thought and feeling—except her thoughts and feelings are overridden by a husband, simply because he has more power. If that happens, a woman should strike for freedom . . . but it should not be so difficult and ruinous to find it.”
The countess’s face had softened with understanding. Quietly, she said, “Perhaps. But no one would see it as choice, Mina. And the provision would completely undermine the intended reform.”
“Which is why I have never suggested it.” Mina stood suddenly. She looked to the other ladies, her gaze never touching Rhys’s. “Forgive me. I truly believe your reform will make a difference, and for those who wish to marry, the changes to the law will make their lives that much better. And I hope you will please excuse me.”
With a swift bow, she left. In the short silence that followed, Rhys stared after her. Christ, he’d made a mess of this. He started for the door.
“Your Grace.”
He turned back. The countess’s pale cheeks had flushed. Before she could apologize for the scene that he’d caused, Rhys said, “I will let it be known that you have my full support, Lady Rockingham.” He started after Mina again, but paused. “Perhaps you should further consider what your daughter has said, however.”
She dipped her head. “Of course, sir.”
He only needed to ask Sally where the inspector had gone, and the maid showed him to the back of the house. Rockingham’s office resembled a library, except for the metal examination table at the near wall. Mina stood beside it, her back to the door. Not much taller than his daughter, the earl wiped blood from the table, his concerned gaze on her face. He was speaking as Rhys entered the room.
“. . . I’m sure your mother will survive it, Mina.” He glanced up and regarded Rhys with an inscrutable, penetrating gaze. No question where his daughter had inherited it. “I am sorry that I could not welcome you sooner, Your Grace.”
He watched Mina’s back stiffen. “You had other concerns. Is the boy all right?”
“A few stitches closed up everything the bugs couldn’t.” His gaze returned to Mina’s face as she half turned. “But that is not all, is it?”
She shook her head. “I must tell you, Father. Marco’s Terror . . . has been taken.”
The earl frowned. “Taken?”
“By pirates.” As her father’s face blanched, she rushed into the rest of it. “Andrew wasn’t ransomed, but they’ll keep the ship and the crew. A midshipman is useful. He’ll have a place.”
“Yes, of course,” her father murmured, but his shock hadn’t faded. His hand gripped Mina’s, knuckles white, and he looked to Rhys as if for confirmation.
Although any reassurance could end up a lie, Rhys inclined his head. “It’s true.”
Mina continued, “The Iron Duke is leaving tomorrow in pursuit of the ship. He’ll bring Andrew back.”
The older man nodded. He seemed to have difficulty swallowing, but finally said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.”
Rhys didn’t want that. He hadn’t done anything yet. But he bowed and accepted it, because there was nothing else to do.
Except to add, “I’m the one who ought to be grateful. Your daughter saved my life today.”
The earl blinked twice, as if he couldn’t follow. Then he looked to Mina with raised brows. “Oh?”
“From zombies.” She smiled as shock rendered him speechless again. “I will tell you and mother together.”
“Your mother.” The earl’s voice thickened. “Have you told her?”
“Not yet. I couldn’t.”
“We will together.” Still holding Mina’s hand, he turned for the door. “We will see if I can hurry the ladies along.”
He didn’t need Mina for that. Rhys said, “May I speak with the inspector here, sir?”
The earl glanced at Mina. She nodded. With a sigh, he kissed her forehead and patted her hand again. He left the door wide open behind him.
Rhys had to warn her, “Your brother might not be on the ship.”
Her short nod told him that she already feared that. “I know. I’ll prepare them.”
“And what will you do if he’s not?”
“If you find the Terror and he is not aboard, my brother Henry and I will be taking a trip to the Ivory Market.”
With no money, and no one to guide them. “You’ll die.”
She inclined her head. “Probably.”
Rhys couldn’t let that happen. And now he saw why he had nothing to interest her. She was surrounded by people who would die to protect her, and that she would die for in return. He wanted to be one of them. But he needed to take her away from the others, so that she’d see that he could be one of them.
And he was in uncharted territory now, needing something that he couldn’t take and couldn’t buy. The only leverage he had was the Terror and her brother.
“Accept my offer and share my bed,” he said, “and I’ll take you with me to find your brother. And we won’t return until we discover his location, whether he’s on the Terror or not. But only if you come with me.”
Her lips parting, she stared up at him. Then shock faded, and the bitter disdain that came into her eyes twisted like a knife in his chest.
But it was the only advantage Rhys had. And he’d be damned if he didn’t use it.
“We leave at dawn, so make your decision quickly,” he said, and strode for the door. “I’ll wait until midnight for your wiregram.”
Rhys found Scarsdale standing beside the steamcoach, flirting with the neighbor’s maid. Damn good man. He’d made himself useful, after all.
He waited until Scarsdale climbed into the coach. “You chatted up the maid?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Crazy, the whole lot. Like a French family out of an antebellum salon novel.”
That meant nothing to Rhys. “How so?”
“Their title isn’t just a privilege. No, they’ve got the mindset that the peerage’s sole duty is to protect those less fortunate—though you won’t find many peers less fortunate than the Wentworths. They can’t afford their cook or their maids, but they employ as many as they can, and pay the wages even if it means the family goes without. The staff work their arses off in return.”
Just as Rhys had thought. “A house full of people with principles.”
“Yes.” Scarsdale looked out the carriage window. “I told you to let her sail on. You’ll ruin them all.”
Frowning, Rhys shook his head. He usually found Scarsdale’s advice valuable. But this was pure shit. “I’ll protect her. No one will dare touch her. And I’ll destroy anyone who tries.”
“No. They won’t come at her like that. Not with fists or guns or even cannons. And even you can’t go low enough to touch them.”
Bollocks. “They won’t touch her. She’ll be coming with us.”
Scarsdale’s face cleared and he nodded. “Good show, captain. The airship would be the only possible place. Certainly not here.”
Rhys’s frown deepened. That hadn’t been what he’d meant.
With a sigh, Scarsdale leaned back into his seat. “How did you manage it?”
“I found her price.”
“What price?”
“Her brother.”
Scarsdale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dear God.”
“Bad sport?” Rhys didn’t need to ask. And he didn’t want her this way. He wanted her to come to him on her own. Now, she’d hate him for forcing her—but she was determined to resist him. And he needed some damn time.
“You ought to just hold a gun to her head.”
He knew. Blast it all, he knew. “You say the airship is the only place?”
“Maybe the Terror on return.”
A few weeks. Enough time for Rhys to convince her to carry on with him after they came back to England. “Who could make it so that she comes with us, without force and without ruining her?”
“I know someone. But he’ll ask a high price—and I doubt it will be money.”
That didn’t matter. “Let’s visit him, then. And I’ll pay it.”
The countess of Rockingham couldn’t shed tears. But she could still cry, and when devastated, she wept silently. And when Mina and her father sat with her in the front parlor, and told her of the Terror, she cried quietly into her hands until Mina’s throat felt as if it had been shredded by razors.
After a long time, her mother lifted her head. “But you say that he is still on the ship?”
Her father nodded. “Yes.”
“For certain?”
Blast. Mina couldn’t lie to her. And though she’d have tried, her mother read her face before a word passed her lips. Determination firmed the countess’s mouth.
“I’ll repair the butler, then. It will fetch enough.” She looked to her husband. “You and Henry will travel to—”
“No, Mother.” Mina shook her head. “Henry and I will.”
But Mina knew that wouldn’t be what happened. She just had to admit it to herself.
Her mother’s face crumpled. “And shall I lose you all?”
Mina couldn’t answer that, but she was saved from responding by a knock at the front door. They all waited quietly, listening to Sally’s voice and the rumble of a stranger’s. A few moments later, the maid came to the parlor carrying a thick envelope.
“A messenger has come from the Duke of Anglesey, milord. I’ve asked him to wait for a response.”
With a creased brow, her father took the envelope. He looked inside and blinked very slowly, as if expecting the contents to disappear after the fall of his eyelids. Swallowing hard, he extracted a small note.
“It’s from the Earl of Scarsdale. Payment for the butler,” he said. “With apologies.”
Mina closed her eyes. No. It was so that she’d have no reason to stay. She’d told them she couldn’t live on entertainment . . . and any amount of money that could make her father blink like that would have to far exceed the salary she’d lose while traveling.
Surprise spread over her mother’s face, and almost immediately gave way to dread and fear. “Should I write a letter to Henry, then?”
And shall I lose you all?
“No.” Mina stood. “I saved the duke’s life today. I believe . . . I believe he will let me accompany him, if I make the request, and help me search for Andrew.”
Her mother and father looked to each other. She saw their indecision, their hope, their fear.
“He would protect me from any danger,” Mina said. “I know that he would.”
And beyond England’s shores, he probably could. She believed that—and her parents would, too.
Her father studied her face. “Do you want to go?”
“I want to find Andrew,” she said. “More than anything in the world, I want to see him safe.”
He nodded, and looked to her mother. She was weeping again, but this time, she made noise. Not just terrified now. Hopeful.
“I’ll write the messenger a note,” Mina said.
And Mina did, quickly, for she only needed to write two words. Then she went upstairs to pack.