by Bec McMaster
The room had been an orangery before the building became home to the guild headquarters. Lynch had ruthlessly stripped out all of the plants and transformed the room into a boxing saloon of sorts. Heavy matting protected some of the floor, and boxing bags swung from the iron rafters. The ceiling and most of the eastern wall were made of glass, through which one could see the denseness of London stretching into the distance.
It was empty of Nighthawks now, for Lynch despised being a form of entertainment. Every Tuesday morning he booked the room for the pair of them, and others knew better than to enter.
The only witnesses were Rosalind, who Lynch could never say no to, and Charles Finch, the enormous bruiser who presided over the room as the weapons master. Rosalind crossed the floor in a swish of dark green taffeta skirts and peered out through the glass windows, her leather gloved fingertips pressing lightly against the glass panes. Rain patterned the glass, distorting the view of the city.
As usual, Lynch’s head turned to track Rosalind. He did that often. As if just the sight of his wife was a pleasure in itself. A small, wriggling worm of jealousy bit at Perry, but she’d long since accepted that no man would ever hold her in such regard. And though she might have dreamed of it, whenever Garrett looked at her lately, it was with a sense of wariness, as if he was trying to puzzle something out about her.
Yesterday had changed nothing. For one blissful moment, there’d been a hint of something between them, a dangerously seductive glimmer of something more than friendship. He’d given her that smile, the predatory one he reserved for ladies he was pursuing, and then all of a sudden he’d reverted to the friendly distance he’d been holding her at for most of the last month.
“Shall we begin, Your Grace?” Tension coiled within her, just begging to be unleashed in one way or the other. “Or would you prefer us to leave you alone with Rosa so you may stare at her ever so prettily?”
Lynch shot her a long, slow look. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I’ve a mind to take you over my knee.”
“You’re showing your age,” she retorted. “You sound like my grandfather.”
“Father perhaps,” Lynch grunted, selecting his own blade. “I’m old enough.”
“I’ve noticed you’re slowing,” she replied. “I’m sure Master Finch has some liniment somewhere for your aching joints.”
Lynch’s gray eyes flashed fire and he shared a rare smile with her. It softened the hawkish features of his face, and she knew that few ever won that smile. The former Master of the Nighthawks had forged a family, a force, out of those the Echelon decreed rogues, and he’d done it by making himself into a finely honed weapon. Cold steel tempered only by his wife’s fire and the few careful friendships he’d established among his fellows—Doyle, Byrnes, herself, and even Garrett, once upon a time. “Careful, Perry. Or I shall be forced to prove just how slow I can be.”
His rapier slashed toward her with stunning speed. Perry parried with a shriek of steel, leaping back out of the way.
Lynch circled her. He no longer wore the leathers of a Nighthawk, but he’d not disdained black. Stripping out of his coat, he tossed it aside and rolled his broad shoulders. There was not a single sign of weakness in his flesh. He was pure muscle, built to take his enemies down.
He’d need it, now that he served on the Council of Dukes that ruled the city.
The pair of them settled into a slow dance of feinting. Perry’s muscles loosened, her feet seeming to float beneath her of their own accord. This was the time when she felt most alive. No time for troubling thoughts.
“For goodness’ sake, stop playing with each other,” Rosalind called. “We have an appointment with Sir Gideon Scott for a luncheon with the Humans First Party.”
“As you wish, darling.” As he swept in front of his wife, he shot Perry a grimace Rosa couldn’t see. He’d accepted the dukedom for the power to keep the deadly prince consort at bay, but politics tended to make Lynch’s eyes stutter shut.
The next second, his blade was slashing toward her. Perry parried, her wrists light and fluid, almost like an artist wielding his brush. That was what Garrett had never understood, and why he had little talent with a sword. He preferred to slash and hack with wide, ringing strokes that never landed because Perry was simply too quick for him, darting beneath his guard to tap him on the chest, the arm, the wrist, just to prove that she could.
Lynch, however… He’d also been born to the Echelon and had learned to duel at his father’s knee. Every dispute in the Echelon was settled with a blade, and it was the only way to promote oneself in the world. Kill the head of your House in a duel, and you inherited their position of power.
Steel rang on steel, and Perry shot Lynch a swift grin as the edge of her rapier slashed through his sleeve. No time to congratulate herself; he thrust toward her, using his greater height and reach as an advantage. Perry had to arch back to avoid being skewered.
The blades began to dance quicker and quicker, the ringing sound echoing in the rafters. No time for thought, only action, her arm moving before her eyes even saw the telltale hint of movement in her adversary’s body.
Lynch swept low, his boot hooking behind hers.
“Bloody—” Perry went down with a snarl, hitting the floor and rolling up over her shoulder so that she was on her feet again. She barely had her footing when he was upon her again, beating down hard on the sword in her hand. Her wrist jarred but she held on grimly, trying to scurry back across the floor to gain some room to straighten.
There was none. Lynch was ruthless, sweeping the tip of her rapier out of the way so that the blade was flung aside and pressing his own up under her chin.
Perry froze.
“Old dogs know many tricks,” he said, breathing hard. “You duel with all the politeness of one of the Echelon. Don’t forget you’re a Nighthawk. Fight like one.”
Perry let out the breath she’d been holding as he stepped back. Her rapier lay on the ground several feet away. She glared at it.
“You’ll regret such advice when she kicks you in the unmentionables,” Rosalind teased, coming forward with his coat.
Perry rolled to her feet, bending to fetch her discarded steel. “I could never do such a thing to you, Rosa. I promise I’ll aim for something less debilitating.”
“How considerate.” They shared a smile, though Perry still felt a little shy around the other woman. They’d known each other only a month, and yet it was nice to be friends with another woman for a change.
“Your concern for my consort is touching,” Lynch drawled. “Don’t think I’m going to drop my guard, though.”
“I wouldn’t expect it.” Perry shared a grin with him. If Lynch was foolish enough to think she wouldn’t use every advantage, then he deserved what he got and he knew it. “Can I ask you something?”
Lynch paused in the act of handing Finch the rapier. “Of course.”
“You’ve heard about the murders at the draining factory?”
“Yes.”
“A party of Russians was taken through there a week ago.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I was there, with several others of the Council. A grand display of our greatest technology.”
Of course he would have been. “Did any of them seem particularly interested in the facility?”
“Not even remotely,” he drawled. “Countess Orlova could barely stop yawning. They didn’t understand why we would want to store our blood, rather than drink it fresh from the vein. It’s…a different culture and they’re not bound by the same afflictions we are.”
“You mean, by humans who refuse to be cattle?” Rosa asked with a deadly sweet smile.
“Precisely. If they want blood, then they take it. No matter the consequences. They own many serfs and, regrettably, have little concern for the sanctity of human life.” He paused. “You think they had something to do with the murders?”
“It’s a theory, among others. We’re trying to ascertain the link between the draining factory and two debutantes.”
“Certainly unusual.” Lynch frowned.
“Come on,” Rosa clucked, holding up his coat. “We’ll be late. And you’re getting that look in your eye.”
“Are you going to say good morning to the men before you leave?” Perry asked.
Lynch paused in the act of sliding his arms into his coat. Rosalind slid it over his shoulders, her expression neutral as she patted it into place.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” he replied. “I am no longer their master. They have another now. He needs to establish himself as the man in charge.”
“A deed that would be slightly easier if you’d speak to him,” Perry dared to say. “The men know you’ve not spoken a word to him in the last month. It makes it difficult for Garrett to establish his command, considering some think he’s usurped you. There are rumors—”
“Then he needs to learn how to deal with them,” Lynch shot back.
Rosalind straightened his lapels, shooting Perry a glance. “Perhaps if you greeted him in public as—”
“Enough.” Lynch caught Rosa’s wrists and glared down at her. “I asked him to do one thing for me. One thing. I trusted him.”
“And if he had obeyed, you’d be dead,” Rosa shot back. She tugged her hands free and smoothed a lock of her dark red hair into place. “Garrett broke his word and told me you intended to sacrifice yourself for me. If he hadn’t, the Echelon would have executed you. It worked. We tricked them into thinking that I wasn’t the revolutionary they were searching for. You lived and so did I.”
The prince consort had demanded the head of the revolutionary who led the humanist movement in London—or he’d take Lynch’s in return. When Lynch realized that his pretty little secretary was the revolutionary “Mercury,” he’d been unable to deliver her. Only by going against his word and telling Rosalind what Lynch had intended had Garrett been able to pull the wool over the prince consort’s eyes and save Lynch.
Lynch, however, was only too aware of how lucky they’d been. Rosalind could have died instead.
“He traded your life for mine, and he did it knowing the consequences,” Lynch said to Rosalind, giving Perry a tight nod. “I understand your loyalty to him. I appreciate it. But I am not in the frame of mind to forgive him for what he did.” A slight pause. “I don’t think I ever shall be.”
“That’s not fair,” Perry snapped. “I was aware of what Garrett planned regarding Rosalind. I helped him. Yet you’ve not given me the cut.”
“I never asked you to keep my secrets. You did as I would expect, given the closeness of your relationship with Garrett.” Taking up his top hat, Lynch clasped hands with Finch and then strode toward the door. “Until next week.”
The door shut behind him abruptly. Rosa let out a faint huff of breath. “Well. That was a spectacular failure.”
“I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“Perhaps my husband needs to be pushed every now and then. I wish he could resolve this feeling of being betrayed. He misses the men.”
“And they miss him,” Perry replied, sliding her rapier back into the rack with slightly more force than needed. Why had she said such a thing to him?
Perhaps because you’re worried that you might not be here for long, a little voice whispered, and you don’t want to leave Garrett alone.
“How is Garrett managing?” Rosalind asked.
“The one thing he is very good at is managing men. It’s Byrnes I’m worried about.” Perry glanced toward Finch. She knew he was unlikely to loosen his tongue, but some things should never be said in company.
Rosa slipped her arm through Perry’s and walked her toward the far end of the orangery. It wouldn’t matter. Finch had a blue blood’s exceptional hearing.
As if noticing their intent, the grizzled weapons master called, “Might leave you two alone and fetch myself some tea.”
As the door closed behind him, Rosa smiled. “A perceptive man.”
“A rarity,” Perry admitted dryly.
Rosa examined her. “And how are you doing? Truly?”
Nobody ever asked her how she was. Perry looked at Rosalind in surprise. “I’m fine,” she said guardedly.
“Surrounded by all these men… I doubt you have anyone to speak to of…certain matters.”
“Actually, Garrett and I often…” She stopped. He hadn’t been her confidante in over a month. So many things in her life seemed to exist in the past tense now.
Rosa patted her hand. She had never been an affectionate woman, but it helped that neither of them truly belonged to a conventional female role. Rosalind had been raised to despise blue bloods and the prince consort. Lynch had changed all of her perceptions. Now rather than destroying them, she was trying to browbeat them into restoring human rights through Parliament.
“Things change,” Rosa said wisely. “It is often difficult for men and women to have a true friendship without certain complications coming between them.”
Heat warmed Perry’s cheeks. “I don’t want our relationship to change.” She just wanted to take back that night at the opera, to have her friend back. Uncomplicated. Safe. Feeling as though she could breathe again when he was in the same room.
“Don’t you?” This time the look Rosa shot her was uncomfortably perceptive. “I was there, remember. I saw your face when you walked out in that dress and Garrett realized you had breasts. You wanted him to know.”
“I was a fool.”
“Better a fool than a coward.”
Perry pressed her hand against the glass, her skin soaking in the coldness. She’d never spoken of this to anyone else, and it felt uncomfortable to be doing so now. “Rosa. Please don’t.”
“Do you know, you and I are very similar in some ways. I don’t like to be vulnerable. That is why I fought so long against Lynch, against what I felt for him. It’s a horrible feeling to be at the mercy of one’s emotions, especially when you have spent so long forcing yourself not to feel them.”
“That’s not how I—”
“Isn’t it?” Rosa glanced over her shoulder. “Do you know the one thing that changed my mind? The moment I realized that I could lose him—truly lose him. Nothing else mattered anymore.”
“Garrett doesn’t feel the same way that I do,” Perry blurted out, then cursed herself. Now where had that come from? She curled her fingers into a fist and turned back to the sword rack. “Forget I said that.”
Silence followed her as she crossed the room, broken only by the faint patter of rain against the glass behind her. Perry dragged the rapier free and examined the blade, running it between her fingers to feel for the faintest flaw. She took up a rag and the pot of oil that Finch lovingly caressed the weapons with.
The swish of taffeta skirts followed her. “I think that you have worked very hard over the years to keep him from thinking of you as a woman or realizing that your own emotions hold such sway. And now he has realized at least one of those truths, and you are frightened.”
Frightened? Perry pressed her lips together to stifle her retort. She was trying not to ruin their friendship. Fear had naught to do with it. “This is most unbecoming, Your Grace.”
“If you call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I shall box your ears. I thought we were friends. Indeed, I’d hoped.”
“I should like to see you try to box my ears,” Perry muttered under her breath, sliding the oiled rag along the blade. She held it up, examining the gleam of fine steel, and then set it aside.
“Don’t tempt me,” Rosalind said dryly. “Do you want to know what I think of the situation?”
“Not particularly.”
Rosalind shot her a humored look. “I think that if you went knocking on Master Reed’s door one night, this whole matter m
ight be sorted before dawn.”
Heat swam through Perry, a flush of both embarrassment and need. In her dreams she was brave enough, but not now. “If Garrett feels anything for me, then why hasn’t he acted upon it? He’s made it quite clear that he’s avoiding me. I’ve seen more of you this past month than him.” She didn’t mention what had happened in the alley yesterday. Garrett had made it quite clear that if she hadn’t come to her senses, he had no intention of stopping.
But that was sex. Of course he wouldn’t turn such an opportunity down.
“There must be some reason he’s been avoiding you. Come now. You’re a Nighthawk, Perry. Why don’t you figure it out, hmm?”
***
“Any ill effects?” Dr. Gibson pressed his stethoscope against Garrett’s bare chest and then tapped his ribs in several spots while Garrett breathed in and out.
“Nothing,” he replied, staring at the white walls of the small surgery. He hated being here. He’d been trapped here for days last month while his body recovered from the crippling injury it had taken. The vulnerability had shaken him.
“Mmm.” Dr. Gibson tapped along Garrett’s back with two stiff fingers. “Your chest sounds fine. No sign of that wheeze that was bothering you at the start.”
“I’m a blue blood—which means everything should be perfectly healed. Are we done?”
“Even a blue blood rarely recovers from a thrust through the heart. If Falcone had gotten his fingers through the heart muscle, you’d be dead. You may put your shirt back on. We’re finished with this part of the examination.”
Garrett stood and picked up his shirt from the back of a nearby chair. “You mean there’s more?”
“I need to take your CV levels,” Gibson replied, staring down at his notes as he swiftly made a few marks.
Garrett froze with one arm through his sleeve. “Is that necessary? I monitor them myself.”
Gibson scratched out another word. “As this is your final examination, I would like to be able to complete your file.” He gestured distractedly at the corner. “The spectrometer is there, if you would?”
