by Bec McMaster
He fought to think through it. It was only his protective instincts, forcing him to act irrationally. Byrnes was right; Perry was the best they had. And if she knew he’d kept her out of the action to protect her, she’d have his head.
Or worse, she’d think that he didn’t trust her abilities.
He nodded. Could barely speak for the wash of fierceness sweeping through him. “She’s not here at the moment. She might have told Doyle where she was headed. Just…don’t let her get hurt.”
“Not a scratch,” Byrnes promised.
A moment later Doyle poked his head in, squinting at Byrnes. “Not interruptin’?”
Garrett waved him in. “You found the book?”
“Aye.” Doyle placed it on the desk and glanced at Byrnes. “You run afoul of the Thames?”
Byrnes bared his teeth, then swiftly explained. Doyle sank into the chair on the other side of Garrett’s desk and scratched at his beard. “Case keeps gettin’ muckier and muckier,” he growled, and Garrett knew he was thinking of Kennewick, who he’d trained as a novice.
Garrett flicked the book open, swiftly searching until he found the House of Langford’s section. “Do you know where Perry went?”
“Never said. ’Ad that look in ’er eye, though… That determined one.”
Garrett frowned. Then his gaze jerked back to the sigil engraved next to the House name. “Bloody hell.” His jaw dropped.
A peregrine, stretched out in a hunting strike.
He’d seen that before. On the coin that he’d stolen from Perry’s pocket the other afternoon. Why the hell would she have a coin with the Langford crest engraved on it?
“What’s wrong?” Byrnes asked.
“Have you ever seen a coin with this sigil on it before?” he asked, pointing to the page.
Byrnes shook his head but Doyle squinted. “Nope, and I ain’t likely to. Not like some scion from Langford ’Ouse is goin’ to come marchin’ through them doors, and they certainly ain’t for sale.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were in fashion ’bout twenty, thirty year ago. All the Great ’Ouses were ’avin’ ’em made—one for every member of the family. Birthin’ gifts, most often. And if you ain’t a Langford, you ain’t gettin’ one.”
It hurt to breathe.
No.
But so many things fell into place. Roughly nine years ago Perry came to the guild, not long after Octavia Morrow disappeared. Her dyed hair. The way she’d reacted with the Duke of Moncrieff, the way she’d fooled half the Echelon into believing she belonged at the opera, the way she’d fooled him.
Perry.
Who was frightened of something, frightened enough that she’d tried to run.
Moncrieff. His vision went white with rage. What the hell was the duke playing at, coming here and asking him to look for Octavia when he had to have guessed who Perry was?
And where the devil was she? Little fingers of cold licked up his spine. Think, damn it, think. His immediate instinct was to hunt her down himself, but something—years of discipline under Lynch—stayed his hand.
If the Moncrieff was intent on revenge, then Garrett was considerably out of his depth. He needed allies and he needed absolute confirmation that what his gut was telling him was true. It made too much sense not to be, but before he went up against the duke, he had to be certain that Perry was Octavia Morrow.
And he had to be certain that he could control himself. The force of the craving was no ally in this; it could cost him his wits and, therefore, everything.
“Rouse the guild,” he said, urgency making his voice harsh. “I want you all out on the streets searching for her.”
“Who? Perry?” Doyle frowned.
“The whole guild?” Byrnes asked incredulously.
“The whole guild,” Garrett repeated, snapping the case file on Octavia closed and tucking it under his arm. “And quietly. I don’t want anyone to notice.” He tugged the location device from his pocket and tossed it to Byrnes. “This should help. I’ve set a tracking chip on her.”
“What about Sykes?” Byrnes asked, holding it in his hand.
“I think I know exactly where Sykes has been hiding.” If Sykes was the man who’d hurt her, then the bloody duke had a hand in it. Moncrieff had to be the link between the factories and Sykes. “Just find Perry and bring her back here. Keep her under guard until I return.”
“Where are you goin’?” Doyle called.
“To see the Earl of Langford. And if the Duke of Moncrieff returns, don’t, under any circumstances, let him near her.”
Time to find out the truth behind this entire maze of deceit and trickery. And to work out exactly what type of game the Moncrieff was playing with him.
***
Langford Hall loomed out of the mist like some enormous gargoyle, carved of heavy gray stone with Gothic columns. The elegance of youthful beauty clung to its lines, but the stone was slightly water-stained, the curtains not quite right, like some middle-aged matron who’d once been a diamond of the first water.
Garrett swung down out of the steam carriage and stared up at the manor. An odd feeling of foreboding traveled down his spine, the tiny hairs along his arms rising. He could guess at some of the facts of the case, but he needed more. He needed to know why she’d fled from the duke.
“Want me to ring the bell, sir?” Jamie Cummings asked, pushing the driving goggles up on top of his head. The young novice had driven him out here, and rings of coal smoke circled his eyes from the city’s pall.
Garrett shook his head. “You might as well pull the travel rug out and sit in the carriage. I doubt I shall finish here very swiftly.”
The lad gave him a grateful look and Garrett slowly strode toward the door. It was barely two hours’ drive from London, but it might as well have been another country, for the quiet that lay like a thick blanket.
Garrett had rarely been out of the city environment. The lack of noise made his ears ring slightly. There was always noise in London, even at night.
It seemed an eternity before he heard the shuffling footsteps of someone coming to answer the door, and when it opened, an elderly butler peered out at him. “Sir.”
“My name is Garrett Reed, Acting Guild Master of the Nighthawks. I wish to speak to the Earl of Langford.”
“It’s late, sir. He may not be receiving.”
“If you would emphasize the importance of my visit, I would appreciate it.”
The butler shuffled away, leaving Garrett standing in the entry, examining the manor and tapping his foot impatiently. Glassy eyes stared at him from a stag’s head, and ancient banners hung from the stone walls, most of them bearing that damning House sigil.
It seemed to take minutes, but the butler finally returned, his rheumy eyes full of disapproval. “His lordship shall see you now.”
Garrett let out the breath he’d been holding. It was more than he’d been expecting. Langford had been in seclusion since Octavia’s death.
The butler led him to a sitting room on the north side of the house. Heavy drapes were pulled across all of the windows and a fire flickered in the grate. A man sat before it, staring into the flames from his seat in a heavy, studded leather armchair. The flames reflected back off his blue eyes, and he seemed not to notice Garrett’s arrival until Garrett cleared his throat.
The earl looked up, his vision coming into focus. There was a blankness to his face, as if he’d simply stopped feeling, as if he’d stepped back from the world and events that went on around him. “You’re not Lynch.”
It seems like the world is intent on reminding me of that. Garrett accepted it as his opening and stepped into the room. “My lord, my name is Garrett Reed. I serve as Acting Guild Master for the Nighthawks following Lynch’s abdication.”
“He retired?” the earl actually seemed surprise
d.
“He is now Duke of Bleight.”
“Ah.”
The fire crackled in the grate. Garrett gestured to an armchair beside the earl’s. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Do as you will. Though I have no doubt I shall be of little use to whatever avenue you pursue.”
“I’m interested in your daughter’s disappearance,” Garrett said carefully.
The earl’s face darkened. “She didn’t disappear. That bastard killed her.”
“The duke?”
All of the vitality that had been lacking in the man seemed suddenly to have found a spark: hatred.
“Moncrieff,” he spat. “He killed my daughter. He took her away from me—” The earl’s voice broke and he shut his mouth abruptly, nostrils flaring as he looked away. “He didn’t even have the decency to accept my challenge afterward.”
Despite what he knew of the duke, Garrett thought that might have been a single act of mercy in the morass of what had happened.
“What was Octavia like?” Garrett couldn’t hide the interest in his voice.
“Octavia was my youngest daughter. She was stubborn, spoiled. I adored her.” The softening of the earl’s features told the truth. “Her older sisters, Daisy and Amelia, were beautiful, kind girls…but Octavia…she was mine.” His voice roughened. “I failed her. She wrote me several times, begging me to break the thrall contract. I thought it simply nerves, or her inability to conform to a traditional role.
“We never had a son, and I fear I allowed Octavia far too much freedom. I encouraged her to learn the sword, to ride, to take up masculine pursuits, and it wasn’t until too late that I realized how much she would struggle to become what was expected of her. When she begged me to get her out of there…” The earl shook his head. “I wanted her to conform. My daughter is dead, because I ignored her.”
“What reason did Octavia give for asking you to break the thrall contract?” Perry had been hurt by someone—had it been the duke who gave her the craving? The duke who put that fear in her voice and hurt her? No, no, she’d said it was Sykes—or Hague. Garrett squeezed his fists together, forcing the memory of her haunted expression away.
Control yourself.
“Why are you here?” the earl asked bluntly. “This was investigated years ago by Lynch.”
“I’ve been asked to reinvestigate the case.”
The earl was no fool. His head lifted, those blue eyes locking on Garrett with a clarity that reminded him of someone. “Who hired you?”
“The Duke of Moncrieff.”
Blackness slithered through the earl’s eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Get out.”
“The duke claims that he is innocent,” Garrett said, finding his feet. “He believes that Octavia wanted to escape her thrall contract and staged her death.”
The earl staggered upright, vibrating with rage. “That filthy snake lied through his teeth.”
Garrett stared him in the eye. “I believe him.”
“Get out! Bentley! Bentley!” The earl started for the door, calling for the butler.
“Wait!” Garrett went after him.
“You despicable—”
“Wait!” He shoved a hand into his pocket, withdrawing the one thing that might still the earl’s wrath. “Do you recognize this?”
He held the coin up.
The earl froze, breathing harshly. “Where did you get that?”
“It belongs to a young woman I know. A Nighthawk. She calls herself Perry, and she’s been with us for almost nine years. I need to know if this belonged to your daughter. I need to know if the woman I know as Perry is Octavia.”
All of the color drained out of the earl’s face. He simply stared, unable to speak or to move, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps.
“Do you have a portrait of her?” Garrett asked instead.
“In the hallway,” the butler replied, peering through the door.
Garrett shot him a glance, then gestured to the earl. “Do you have some fortified blood? Something for him?”
The butler nodded and Garrett strode out into the hallway. Portraits lined it, but he’d not noticed them before. He paced past dozens of them, then stopped, his breath catching. There it was.
Three young girls stared out from the painting, sprawled in a rural scene with an enormous hound at their side. The elder two girls were beautiful, with bright smiles and plump, heart-shaped faces. One wore bright yellow and the other wore pink as she sniffed a handful of meadow flowers, peering mischievously over the top of them.
It was the third girl who stole his breath. She was young, perhaps only fifteen or so, looking solemn and serious as she petted the wolfhound. Silky blond curls tumbled over her shoulder, and her eyes were as gray as a stormy sky, staring out at the viewer as if she could see straight through them. She wore a green gown, as though to blend in with the grass around them, her head tucked shyly against the hound’s shoulder.
“Is it this one? Is this Octavia?” Garrett stabbed a finger toward the girl in green, although he knew. Oh God, he knew. How many times had he seen that exact expression over the years?
The butler followed his gaze toward the portrait. “That is Miss Octavia with her sisters. Directly before she signed her thrall contract with the duke.”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” the earl whispered, taking unsteady steps toward him. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”
Garrett gave a short, harsh nod.
The man shut his eyes, pressing a quivering hand to his mouth. “She’s alive,” he whispered. “But she never came home. She never let me know.”
“Maybe she couldn’t,” Garrett suggested. The coldness was building in him again, a thunderstorm flickering within. “If she fled from the duke, then maybe she had cause. And maybe that threat, that fear, included the reason she couldn’t come home.”
“What are you going to do?” The earl’s voice was becoming stronger.
Garrett eyed him. The man he’d first found would be no help to him, but there was a hint of something in the earl’s voice that promised a growing strength. Maybe he needed this too.
“I’m going to find her—” And not wring her bloody neck as he wanted to. “Then I’m going to discover why she’s frightened of the duke…”
“And then?”
“I’m going to make certain he can’t hurt her anymore.” The words were soft, but deadly menace echoed in them.
“Why do this for her?” the earl asked, his eyes keen. “You have to know that the duke will move to crush you.”
There were a thousand things he could have said. A thousand reasons. Instead, he chose the one that burned the strongest within him: “Because I love her.”
“Enough to die for her?” the earl challenged, clearly trying to test how far Garrett’s loyalty would stretch.
“No.” Garrett let out a small, harsh laugh. “I have no intention of dying. Not yet. But enough to destroy the duke. Or anyone who stands in my way.” He stared the earl down. “I will not falter, my lord. I won’t betray her and I won’t turn back at the first hint of danger. Perry is my light in the darkness. I would burn the world to ashes to keep her safe, if it comes to that.”
The earl stared at him for a long moment. “Then you have my blessing—and any help that I may offer you.”
“Excellent. First I need to know my enemy. I need everything you know about Moncrieff. His strengths and his weaknesses.”
“You have it, on one condition.”
Garrett arched a brow.
“The duke is mine,” the earl said grimly. “I failed her once. I won’t fail her again.”
“We might have to flip a coin for that honor.”
Twenty
Garrett strode into his study, sliding the coat off his shoulders as he raked a hand through his wet hair. His fingers were shaking
. Looking at them, he turned and crossed to the decanter of blud-wein, downing two glasses before he could even begin to sort through the mess in his head.
“Bloody hell.” He turned and kicked a chair out of the way violently. The encounter with the Earl of Langford had only increased his tension. The Moncrieff was well nigh invincible. Reportedly the best swordsman in a generation, with the power of the Council of Dukes behind him and as rich as bloody Croesus. In comparison, Garrett had no true power—the duke would crush him if he moved openly—and barely any allies of consequence now that Lynch wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t challenge the duke to a duel, he couldn’t set the Nighthawks against him, and he couldn’t buy him off.
The only weakness the man had was arrogance. Garrett was a Nighthawk, so far beneath him that the duke would barely see a challenge. It was the one thing he could exploit, if only he could think how to do it.
A sharp rap sounded at the door. Byrnes leaned against the door frame, his gaze riding over the bloodied glass on the desk and the forlorn chair on the floor. He said nothing, but it grated on Garrett’s nerves, notching the tension within him even tighter.
“Have you found her?”
Byrnes’s left eyebrow inched toward his hairline. “No.”
“What do you mean?” Garrett froze.
“No sign of her. No trail, not even a hint of one.” Byrnes held up a knife, the one with the tracking beacon inside it. “Found this near Covent Garden, tossed in an alleyway. No sign of a scuffle. Why? What’s going on? Has she run again?”
“Nothing is going on,” Garrett murmured, accepting the knife. One he’d designed himself, just for her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’ve got four hundred Nighthawks out on the streets and you can’t find her?”
“My, my, aren’t we in a fine mood?”
“Now is not a good time.”
Byrnes stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, blatantly ignoring the warning. “It would help the search if I had all the pieces of the puzzle. Something’s bloody going on. You looked white as a ghost the instant Doyle handed you that book.” His hand slipped into a pocket inside his coat and came up with a small piece of parchment. “Perhaps this has something to do with it.”
