My Lady Quicksilver

Of course, he had other matters on his mind. Tonight might not be the best opportunity. Lynch held the door open for her. “Bleight despises me. There was some business when I was named rogue concerning Alistair and me. If he’s stricken by grief, I find it highly likely he’ll make some move against me—or go so far as to blame me. This could become quite a scene.”



Rosalind stared up at him, the hard body but a breath away from hers. She could scent the coppery wash of blood through the open door. No doubt Lynch could too. His jaw was tight with strain.



“Do you have your pistol?” he asked quietly.



She nodded.



“Don’t use it unless I tell you to.” Then he pressed his hand to the small of her back and propelled her through the door.



Inside, the hall was charged with silence. It almost felt as if the house were listening. Each creak of timber beneath her boot heel made her wince. Lynch’s presence behind her was almost comforting.



The firm hand in the small of her back directed her through another door. “This way,” Lynch murmured and she knew he could smell the death within.



As soon as she saw what lay on the floor, Rosalind stopped in her tracks. Her mind struggled to make sense of the mess, of the red pool that bloated the carpets and the frozen, screaming visage of the elderly woman dead on the floor. Half her throat had been torn out and gashes marred her lavender skirts. From the dark blue-red blood that covered her fingers, it was clear she’d tried to protect herself.



Firm hands slid over Rosalind’s shoulders and she relaxed into the touch. Death had never frightened her; she’d dealt it with little remorse, but that had been out of a sense of duty. Not personal. Not murder. This…this had been a woman just sitting down to her white soup, perhaps a smile on her face as she listened to her consort’s account of his day. Most consort agreements in the Echelon were business items, nothing more, but the woman had worn her good pearls and the scent of perfume lingered in the air. The silvery-blonde hair had been curled artfully over her shoulder, as if for a beau, and from the roses spilled out of the vase on the table, they’d perhaps been celebrating something.



Rosalind melted into the hard body behind her, feeling numb all over.



“Wait outside,” Lynch instructed quietly.



Rosalind turned, tripping on the carpet. Her worst fear—to be bloodied like that, torn apart by a rampaging blue blood. Pausing by the door, she held on to the frame and glanced over her shoulder.



Lynch knelt by the woman’s side, his gaze hooded and his mouth a stark line. With a sigh, he reached out and held his palm over the woman’s face, then slowly closed her eyes. His hand hovered there, as though to hide the dead woman’s face. Then he clenched his fist and dragged it tight against his chest.



The privacy of the moment struck Rosalind. She hesitated at the edge of the dining room. He knew the woman. There was so little in his expression she might have thought him uncaring, but something about the aura of grief around him almost physically hurt.



A clatter of sound as he scraped the plates out of the way and dragged the white tablecloth from the table. Kneeling down, he folded the woman’s hands over her chest and then carefully draped the tablecloth over her. It stained with red immediately, the edges soaking up the pool of blood beneath the woman’s hair. Lynch slowly turned, emotionless once more.



“Lady Arrondale,” he said, as if in explanation. Brushing past her, he strode along the hall, ignoring each door and tributary. Little spatters of dark blood trailed along the checkerboard floor and paintings hung haphazardly as if something had smashed up against the wall. By the stairs, a large smear of blood puddled on the marble tiles and the carved mahogany railing had been destroyed, splinters littering the floor.



Byrnes appeared at the top of the stairs. “He’s up here. I didn’t think it appropriate to leave him like that. Not with Bleight on his way.”



Lynch nodded, taking the stairs two at a time. “How did you kill him?”



Byrnes peered over the rail. His cerulean eyes were almost bright with hunger, as if they saw something she didn’t. Long dried blood clung to his right hand and his black sleeve was wet with it. “I couldn’t get him off Lady Arrondale. She was still screaming by that stage—somehow she’d locked herself in the dining room and someone heard her cries for help. I was coming back from interviewing the head of the master smith guild and overheard the commotion. From the look of the house, Arrondale killed everyone else, then went for her.” His lips thinned. “I put my gun to the back of his shoulder and pulled the trigger to get his attention. Unfortunately, it was too late for Lady Arrondale.”



Lynch glanced over the rail, assessing the bloody marks on the floor and the shattered paintings along the hall. “Just once?”



“I didn’t have time for a second shot. He turned on me and I went down. Somehow we ended up there—” Byrnes pointed at the spot below. “I’d lost the pistol by then.” He looked up, hard gaze locking on Lynch’s. “I had to rip his heart out of his chest. He was trying to gut me.” A shudder. “Christ, he was strong.”



Lynch surveyed the scene one last time then turned. “Show him to me.”



They’d taken the body to the main bedroom upstairs. The cloying scent of blood stained the air and Rosalind swallowed hard as she stepped inside. Someone had dragged a sheet over the body and Lynch strode to it, twitching it aside. His large body blocked her view and for that she was grateful. She’d seen enough macabre sights tonight.



Dropping the sheet, he turned, candlelight washing over his too-smooth features. “I want your report on my desk by morning. You’d best leave. If Bleight sees you, he’ll want your head—”



A shout sounded outside. They all spun toward the window and Lynch pushed past, twitching aside the curtains. “Go,” he said. “Out the back and return to the guild. Take a small guard.”



“Surely the duke wouldn’t attack anyone,” Rosalind murmured. Bleight was a vulture who sat on the council and circled for prey, but her dossier said he was once of the most cautious of the Council, choosing to pick his fights and rarely proclaiming them.



Lynch shot her a hard look as Byrnes left the room. “Don’t leave my side. Try to be inconspicuous.” He swore under his breath, grabbing her arm. “I should never have brought you here.”



“Lynch!” someone roared. The sound came from inside the house.



Lynch’s grip tightened, then he cursed again and started toward the door.



“Get your goddamned hands off me, you cur!” The voice was sodden with rage. “Lynch! You bastard, where’s my son? Where’s my bloody son?!”



Lynch stepped up to the rail by the stairs. “Release him.” His voice rang through the entry.



Rosalind hovered in the shadows as much as possible. Below her, the old Duke of Bleight threw off the restraining grip of two Nighthawks. His own men, in their dashing red livery, had followed him in and the hallway looked like a sea of red and black. The black outnumbered the red, but not by much.



Dozens of blue bloods. Rosa’s eyes narrowed fractionally, her gaze raking the hall. No faces she recognized. Her shoulders relaxed.



“You bastard!” Bleight bellowed. “You vengeful prick! You’re behind this! You wanted everything he ever had!”



Lynch stepped forward, tugging at the soft leather gloves he wore. “Your Grace,” he said sharply, “perhaps you’d care to discuss this in private? Your son’s body has been removed to the bedroom. If you’d like—”



“I’ll discuss nothing with you,” Bleight hissed, starting up the stairs. “Get out. Get out before I kill you.” The old duke’s hand lowered to rest on the hilt of his sword. His pale face was even whiter with stress, his eyes glittering with malice.



Below them a half dozen men stiffened at the implied threat. Rosalind straightened as her vision narrowed on the duke. She could almost feel the cool ring of sweat around her garter, where it held her pistol in place.



The sword hissed as it cleared its scabbard. Below, a pair of Nighthawks leaped toward the stairs but Lynch took a commanding step forward, holding up his hand. “I’ll leave, Your Grace. But if you would consider having some of my men remain, to examine the—”



“Get out!” Bleight swung the sword, cool gaslight glimmering off the razor edge of the blade.



Lynch ducked and the sword sheared through the elegant railing at the top of the stairs and stuck. Bleight snarled, yanking it free with a force that belied his evident age.



Lips thinning, Lynch stepped back, his hands held in a placating manner in front of him.



What the devil was he doing? Why did he not fight back? Rosalind had seen him in action; the duke didn’t stand a chance.



Swinging wildly, the duke slashed forward as Lynch stepped out of the way, his back hitting the wall. Lynch’s gaze met hers for a moment and narrowed in warning. Rosalind just had time to realize she’d stepped forward, her hand dipping automatically into her pocket when Bleight followed the direction of Lynch’s gaze.



“Is she yours?” the duke asked in a soft, threatening voice.



This close, Rosalind could see the darkness of his pupils threatening to overtake his irises. Her corset tightened and her fingers clamped around the smooth grip of her pistol through the slit in the bottom of her pocket. If he made one move toward her, she’d blow his head off.



“Don’t,” Lynch warned. For a moment, she thought he referred to the duke, then she realized that his stark gaze was locked on hers.



Reality flooded in. Kill the duke and she’d be executed by dawn. Rosalind’s finger rubbed the trigger hesitantly. Trust that Lynch knew what he was doing? Or take action? She hovered on the precipice, staring into the mad duke’s eyes. She’d never stop him in time if he attacked her; a blue blood was simply too fast.



Her hand slowly withdrew and she took a shaky breath. Trusting Lynch went against all of her instincts, but she had no choice.



Bleight turned on her with a snarl, the sword cutting through the air. Rosalind threw herself backward, tripping over her skirts and tumbling to the floor. The sword gleamed eerily in the bluish light as it arced toward her.



Then Lynch was between them, slamming his body hard against the duke’s. A sharp hiss of pain filled the air and blood spattered her face. The pair staggered into the railing, which gave with a sharp crack.



“No!” She snatched at Lynch’s cloak, her fingers closing over air, and then they were gone.



The dull smack as they landed dragged her to the edge. She peered through the broken gap of rail as Lynch smashed his elbow into the duke’s face. Somehow he’d gotten the upper hand and forced the duke’s sword hand to the floor. Grabbing Bleight by the throat, he crouched over him with a snarl.



Around them, both the Nighthawks and the duke’s men had danced back, clearing a circle. One of the red-clad guards stepped forward and Lynch looked up, baring his teeth. “Enough!”



Looking down, he smashed the duke’s hand to the tiles. The sword clattered free, and as he stood, Lynch kicked it away. He staggered back, clapping a hand to his side.



Blood dripped on the floor.



Rosalind shoved to her feet, hurrying for the stairs. The moment when he’d leaped in front of her flashed before her eyes. He’d taken the blow meant for her.



She couldn’t quite name the emotion that gripped her. Lynch shot her a quelling look and Rosalind slowed, her steps flagging. She couldn’t see how badly he was bleeding against the black of his leather body armor. Nor could she ask him, not now, in front of the duke and his men. Any sign of weakness and Bleight would be on them.



“We’re going,” Lynch commanded. He nodded sharply to his men. “I want all preliminary reports completed by morning.” Gesturing her to his side, he put his free hand in the small of her back—an almost protective gesture—and ushered her close to his body.



Bleight struggled into a sitting position, spitting blood. “I’ll have your head for that—”



Lynch turned swiftly and the duke flinched, some of his men stepping forward with their hands dropping to their weapons. All eyes were upon him as he glared down at the duke. “If you ever make a move against one of mine again, you’ll face me in the atrium. I swear it.” Then Lynch shoved free and, taking Rosalind by the arm, ushered her to the door.



Nine



“How badly are you bleeding?”



Lynch pressed back against the carriage seat as the door closed, locking them in darkness. He could hear Perry outside, snapping at the men to get out of her way as she clambered up onto the driver’s seat. A rumble started beneath him as Perry kicked the boilers into gear.



“Lynch?”