by Bec McMaster
Gone.
She looked up. Realized that another pair of eyes was watching her. Drawing their own conclusions, no doubt. Perry swallowed against the fist in her throat, forcing all of the expression off her face as the Moncrieff glanced back at Garrett.
And smiled.
Her first instinct was to run or hide. But he’d seen her. Looked right at her. He had to know it was her. And she wasn’t leaving this room until she discovered what he wanted from Garrett.
***
The duke settled into the chair across from the desk as if he owned it, lacing his fingers together and giving Garrett an unreadable look. His blond hair was perfectly coiffed, matching the gold embroidered thread through his coat. A pristine cravat circled his throat, and there was a sword sheathed at his side. He looked like a man who had the utmost confidence in using it too.
“I’ll cut straight to the point,” the duke announced, dropping the faintly amused smile. It slid off his face as if it had never been there. “I want to hire you to find someone for me.”
Garrett leaned his elbows on the table and examined the duke. He had this itching sensation down the back of his neck. As though something here wasn’t what it seemed. Perry’s unusual reaction downstairs only pushed him closer to the edge.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied smoothly. “I will be happy to review your case and set someone—”
“No. I want you to be in charge of the investigation. Not one of your little lackeys.”
The arrogance of that statement made Garrett stiffen. But what the devil could he say? He still hadn’t stood before the Council and pleaded his case. When he did, this man would hold Garrett’s fate in his hands.
“Perhaps you could explain to me precisely who you want me to find.” That wasn’t a yes.
The duke stared at him through those arctic eyes. “I want you to find Octavia Morrow for me.”
Garrett frowned. He had little acquaintance with the duke, but the name of Octavia Morrow seemed to access a memory somewhere. Then it struck him. “Octavia Morrow,” he said bluntly. “Your supposedly deceased thrall.”
“Octavia’s not dead. She orchestrated the entire matter.”
“Let me be blunt, Your Grace. Why the hell should I believe that? Blood was found all over your bedroom, half the manor was on fire, and there’s been no sign of her since. Several of the servants claim to have overheard an argument between you earlier that day—” What else could he remember from the papers?
“Don’t forget the bloodied shirt of mine that was found in the wash basket.” The duke was clearly enjoying himself.
Garrett settled into silence. Either the duke was the best card player he’d ever seen, or he was telling the truth. “You’re suggesting that she staged her own death and laid the blame on you. Why would she do that?”
For the first time, the duke’s composure wavered. “I intend to find out,” he said in the sort of voice that made Garrett’s hackles rise.
The expression on the man’s face was the one thing that convinced Garrett he was telling the truth. This man hadn’t killed Octavia Morrow. No, he genuinely thought she’d staged her own death to implicate him, and he wanted revenge.
The case suddenly fascinated him. Garrett knew very little of it, as Lynch had dealt with it himself, but the case notes would be here somewhere. And if Lynch hadn’t found anything, there hadn’t been anything to find.
“There’s no one else who held some sort of grudge against her?”
“Octavia was willful and made few friends, but nobody wished her any harm. No, I have full confidence that she ran.”
“Why?”
The duke leveled a gaze on him, as if daring him to meet it. If Moncrieff thought Garrett could be intimidated, then he would soon learn he was wrong. Garrett had grown up in streets, where men didn’t fight with words, but with any sharp—or blunt—instrument they could lay hands to. If you showed a hint of fear, of backing down, then they would cut you down just to prove that they could.
“We argued,” the duke finally admitted. “Octavia disagreed with some research I was involved in.”
Garrett frowned. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“I believe you might start with her father.”
Taking up his spring pen, Garrett dashed off a few notes. “Was there anyone else who might have wished her harm? Or wanted to discredit you?”
“She ran—nobody harmed her.”
“And I have only the word of a man accused of murdering her as proof of that,” Garrett replied. “If you want me to investigate the matter, then I will. Thoroughly. I shall take your opinion into consideration, of course.”
Surprisingly the duke smiled. “I see why Lynch likes you. Do as you will, then. I am quite open to being questioned, considering I have nothing to hide.”
For the next ten minutes the duke answered his questions, leaving Garrett with a list of places to start. Miss Morrow had few friends among the Echelon—she’d been described as somewhat of a wallflower—but there were one or two debutantes she’d associated with. Nobody had seemed to hold any sort of grudge against her, but that was due more to her unassuming nature.
Garrett put down the spring pen. “I find myself exceedingly curious as to why you offered for her, considering her nature. You’re a man of a certain standing. You could have had any debutante, but you chose an earl’s daughter without any seeming accomplishments or grace in society. It baffles me.”
“Society didn’t suit her.” The duke’s eyes lost their focus for the slightest moment. “It didn’t mean that she didn’t have her own unique charm. Octavia had little interest in snaring my attention—a rarity, I assure you. I could have had anyone, but I chose the girl who didn’t want me.”
No doubt that appealed to someone of the duke’s arrogance. Garrett stood. “I’ll conduct some preliminary inquiries and meet with you again, once I have some of the groundwork in place. I assume you’ll expect regular progress reports?”
The duke gave him a little smile. “You assume correctly. The sooner this matter is taken care of, the better.”
“The Keller-Fortescue murders must be my priority, but I shall certainly give it my full attention once we have dealt with the murders.”
“I would rather—”
“As soon as they are dealt with,” Garrett interrupted, holding the door open for the duke.
Not a man given to being denied anything, the duke opened his mouth again.
“Actually,” Garrett said, “you could help me with that—in the interest of solving the murders all the more swiftly…”
Moncrieff arched a brow, bowing to defeat with a certain sense of irritation. “Could I?”
“Last week you were with the party that guided the Russian Embassy group through the draining factory.”
“Where the two girls were murdered,” the duke drawled. “I’ve read about it in the papers. One can scarce imagine such a thing. But yes, I was with the party. I own an interest in the factory itself, as well as two others. Both the Dukes of Malloryn and Caine are also major stakeholders. Why?”
That was a surprise. He’d thought the factories were government owned. “Were you associated with either Miss Keller or Miss Fortescue?”
“I see. My dubious past rears its ugly head again. Of course I’m a suspect.”
“I didn’t say that, Your Grace,” Garrett countered smoothly. “It’s an unusual neighborhood for their bodies to turn up in. I’m trying to establish a link between the factory and both girls.”
“You do realize I’ve been gone for nearly ten years. I’ve only been back in London perhaps two weeks. I have faint acquaintance of the Keller girl and her father. He and I do business together. Miss Fortescue, on the other hand, propositioned me the night I returned to society. Unsurprisingly. I am the only duke in London witho
ut a thrall and her proposition isn’t the only one I’ve received. We danced once or twice, as I’m certain several sources will corroborate.” He frowned. “I also believe we took a stroll in Hyde Park. Flavored ices. Yes, that’s right. That was her. She didn’t suit me.”
How difficult it must be to remember one girl among many. “And the Russians? Would either of them have come into contact with the two deceased?”
This time the glare was forceful. “Tread carefully, Master Reed. The Romanov court is a dangerous place. They’re not like us, not at all. They don’t understand our rules or ways of doing things.” Moncrieff gave a brief laugh. “The humanists plaguing us should consider themselves fortunate that they only have the Echelon to deal with. As to whether the Russians knew either of the girls, I would consider such acquaintance fleeting at best. And the prince consort is most interested in furthering acquaintance with the Russians. If you ask too many questions in front of certain ears, you might find yourself…removed.”
“I’m only trying to find a murderer.”
“And I’m only warning you to be careful. Russia is an important potential ally. In the grand scheme of things, Misses Keller and Fortescue are of little consideration.”
Unimportant, to be precise. For the first time Garrett had a flash of empathy for what Lynch had been forced to deal with all these years. It set his teeth on edge to be beneath notice like this—like his mother had been, like all the humans in the city, the mechs…even himself.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Perhaps Malloryn or the Duke of Caine shall be able to shed further light on the situation.”
“Perhaps.”
They crossed to the stairs, the duke surveying the room.
Movement shifted below as Perry peered out from behind the open doorway she was loitering—or almost hiding—in.
“I do trust that you’ll keep my confidence,” the duke threw over his shoulder as he started down the stairs. “From all involved.”
“You have my word.”
“Let me fetch your coat, Your Grace,” Doyle said with deference he rarely showed.
Moncrieff ignored him, glancing around the room, his cold gaze taking in everything. It paused on Perry, a considering look.
“Have we met?” the duke asked her, a somewhat unsettling smile crossing his face. “You look like someone I used to know.”
Perry remained frightfully still. She’d never liked dealing with the Echelon. It was the only time when her aplomb slipped and her shyness bled through. Garrett could understand that. A few influential men knew there was a female blue blood among the Nighthawks, and though it wasn’t illegal, it was frowned upon. “Your Grace, may I introduce Miss Perry Lowell,” Garrett said, making it clear she was under his protection. “She serves as one of the members of my Hand.”
“Perry.” Surprisingly, a smile ghosted over the duke’s lips and he glanced at her. “The peregrine, no doubt?”
Again Garrett looked back and forth between them. A part of him didn’t like the attention the duke was giving her. Or perhaps it was simply the thought of any other man paying attention to what was his.
Not his. Damn it, he could feel his thoughts warping, taking on a darker edge. It was getting worse. If he couldn’t control this, then he never would.
Perry stared back defiantly. “Yes, I was named for the peregrine.”
“Swift and deadly,” the duke murmured.
“I try to be,” she replied.
Garrett might as well not have been in the room. Perry met the duke’s stare, her eyes slowly darkening. The sight of it stirred something dark and protective within Garrett.
Doyle came back into the room with the duke’s overcoat and top hat. The duke’s gaze dropped, as if nothing unusual had occurred, and he slipped his arms through the great cloak as Doyle held it out. That faint, mocking smile played over his lips again.
“Very well, then,” Moncrieff said, accepting his hat. “I want this matter concluded as swiftly as possible.”
The duke disappeared with Doyle. Silence fell, thick and heavy, as Garrett and Perry listened for his tread and waited until the front door had closed. Perry let out a breath, then turned to him. “What did he want?”
Garrett started loosening his cravat. He didn’t know what was going on in her mind, but he was still irritated with her. “To hire me for a private matter.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
That mulish look was back.
“I thought not,” he replied, crossing to the decanter and pouring himself a snifter of blud-wein. He needed it badly. “Do you want one?”
Perry shook her head. “Don’t get caught up in his games, Garrett. You know what the Echelon is like. He’ll be moving you like a pawn, playing at some game himself.”
“You don’t think I know that?” He threw the glass back. It eased something within him, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
They stared at each other. At an impasse.
“You have your duties,” Garrett said softly. “Perhaps you should go and bathe, then see to making a list of the Echelon’s master smiths—or those mech artisans in the Enclaves that could possibly create such a thing as a mechanical organ.”
She lingered. As if she wanted to ask him something. But he’d set the terms between them today. All or nothing. He was damned tired of reaching for her and having her throw it back in his teeth.
Still, Perry looked troubled. As though she was fighting some thought that was tearing her in half. He’d never seen her like this and it worried him. His irritation washed out of him and he lifted a hand toward her. “Perry—”
She stepped back, that smooth mask sliding into place again. “You’re right. I need to get clean.”
The moment was lost. Perry turned and Garrett was left staring at her back with the horrible feeling that something momentous had been decided.
***
What the hell was she going to do? The duke had recognized her. That little mention of the peregrine—the symbol of her father’s House—was a certain sign, but why had he simply walked out? What was he playing at?
Perry had always thought that seeing the duke would be the worst nightmare she could imagine, but it wasn’t. Seeing the duke with Garrett, knowing that he watched as Garrett stepped between them protectively, was worse. It locked her chest up tight with panic until her head grew faint.
This was why she’d fled in the first place and never gone home. The first time she’d realized that Hague was keeping girls in the dungeons and doing something awful to them, the Moncrieff had promised her that if she ever breathed a word of it, he’d kill her father. The shock of that threat, murmured in an almost gentle voice, had torn her from her safe world.
And so, when she’d finally escaped, she hadn’t gone home.
Knowing how much her father would grieve hurt her, but at least he was still alive to grieve. Her sisters were happily married, each with several children of their own. Nothing could change that. They were safe.
But was Garrett safe?
The truth was becoming clearer in her mind, solidifying with each detail.
She couldn’t stay.
Could she?
Perry groaned, raking her hands through her still-wet hair. The silence of the room was deafening, and Garrett’s words kept echoing in her head. Demanding more from her than she could give.
She didn’t realize she was moving until she was through the door. Damn it, what had the duke asked of him? She needed to know.
Night had fallen with economical grace as she made her way to his rooms. Too many random thoughts swirled through her head, but what beat in her chest was the steady, dooming beat of an executioner’s drum.
Perry rapped at his door with her knuckles, bruising them in her haste.
“Come in,” Garrett called.
A shiver of breathlessness ran through her. Her hands were shaking but somehow she managed to open the door.
And there he was.
Shirtless.
“Garrett.” Perry stopped on the threshold as if she’d been hit, staring at the naked expanse of his back.
He’d been shaving. Lather still decorated one cheek and he held the blade poised against his skin, his eyes locking on her in the mirror in surprise. Water dripped down his bare chest in the reflection, gleaming on the muscles. He’d discarded his shirt haphazardly over a chair, and his leather pants fit him snugly enough for a part of her to ache.
She’d seen him in a state of undress before. But she’d not expected it now, and the shock stole all of the words she’d been thinking of. Perry could only stare.
It took a moment for him to recover too. He cursed under his breath as his hand slipped and a bright line of red sprang up against the lather. Holding his cheek taut, he scraped the blade down his cheek, his attention returning to his task. “What do you want?”
You.
Slowly she shut the door. “May I speak with you?”
“Only if you have something interesting to say.” Another stroke of the blade. His cheek was bare now and he angled his chin to shave beneath his jaw, wielding the blade with a dexterity she couldn’t take her eyes off of. Her gaze slid over the faint red line on his cheek. Healing now, but she could scent the blood in the air. Hunger burned in her throat.
“Something along the lines of what we spoke of today. Secrets, for example,” he continued. Flicking the last bit of lather from his jaw, he put the blade down and dabbed his face with a small wet towel. His skin was slightly pink and smooth, gleaming in the gaslight. Again he caught her looking at him in the mirror. “Otherwise, I have work to do. I planned on seeing what I could find out about—That’s right. That’s between the Duke of Moncrieff and myself. I know how much you like secrets.”
