by Bec McMaster
“What about Hague?”
“There’s been no sign of him, and I doubt I will see one. The duke knows how I feel about that. And Hague is disciplined, despite everything. He will be working on the device.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked and he shut his eyes, his chest expanding as he took a slow breath. “If he lays one hand on you…”
“If he touches me, I’ll break his fingers,” Perry whispered, squeezing his hand. That warmth was spreading through her now. Belief. She had the ridiculous, light-headed feeling that they were going to do this. “You know I will.”
For a long moment she didn’t think she’d convinced him. Garrett opened his eyes and stared at her, releasing the breath he’d been holding. “Tomorrow,” he said. Then, foolishly, “I don’t want to let go of you.”
“I don’t want to let you go, either.”
His eyes searched hers. “You mean it.”
“I always meant it,” Perry whispered. “Even if I never dared say it.”
The light in his eyes almost made her smile. But neither of them dared, at this moment. Garrett squeezed her hands where they were laced through his. “Don’t tempt me to take you out of here,” he growled. “Tomorrow, when this is done, I’m going to lock you in my bedchambers and make you tell me that until you’re hoarse.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she whispered.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Garrett glanced over her shoulder as if meeting someone else’s eyes. Perry didn’t dare look; she could feel the Moncrieff’s gaze drilling between her shoulder blades.
Slowly she rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, bringing his attention back to hers. “Trust me.”
“Tomorrow.” He said the word as if it was a promise, then he gave a taunting nod to someone behind her and, turning, strode away through the crowd.
A hand locked around her elbow. “What the hell is he doing here?” the Moncrieff hissed.
“Saying good-bye,” Perry whispered, watching as the crowd swallowed up the man she loved.
Twenty-three
Perry had barely gotten a wink of sleep for the nervousness that racked her and the fear that something was going to go wrong, that Garrett would be harmed. That was truly her worst nightmare. To come so close to being in his arms—his heart—and have it all torn away from her. To lose him forever.
“You look rather unimpressed,” the Moncrieff murmured at her side, tearing her thoughts from the man who held her heart.
Perry blinked. She’d barely noticed any of the exhibitions they’d passed, or the chorus of amazed exhalations from the attendees. Everyone was curious about her, of course, and though she’d exchanged small pleasantries, they’d been distracted ones at best.
“The exhibitions are truly first-class,” she said, meaning none of it. “The prince consort shall be overjoyed with their reception.”
Feathers bobbed as ladies fluttered fans and the echo of conversation hummed through the air, floating up toward the glass ceiling high above. The enormous building was formed of glass, and light streamed through the panes, highlighting every curtained partition and the brass gleam of the latest standard of automaton, or enormous threshing machines an American company had shipped all the way from Manhattan City. Businessmen and nobles from all over the world had come to see these marvels of modern engineering. Ahead of them, light sparkled off what appeared to be a line of mirrors—a mirrored maze in the heart of the aisle.
The duke offered his arm, tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow and holding it there. A possessive gesture. “The best is yet to come. This way, my dear. Let me show you the device.”
Anticipation sat heavily in her chest. He’d spent most of the night locked away with the device, after offering her his blood. Perry had taken it, despite a moment’s hesitation. Though the thought disgusted her, she had wanted to be at her best today. “The device you use to neutralize the craving?”
He checked his pocket watch, then tucked it within his embroidered champagne-colored waistcoat. “All will be revealed within minutes.”
Drat it. Perry tried not to let her disappointment show, but he saw it, a tiny smile playing over his lips. “Do try to pretend you’re interested in me, rather than my machine.”
“Why lie?”
His laughter rang through the room as he led her toward a large, curtained-off exhibit directly opposite the grand staircase. A walkway lined the upper floor, providing excellent vantage points.
Dark midnight-blue skirts swished around her ankles as he directed her to a spot beside the bloodred curtains. Another dress cut to fit her perfectly. Black lace edged the neckline and dripped down her bustle, and her gloves were gleaming black satin. The amount of thought the Moncrieff had put into her wardrobe was unnerving. Planned. No doubt everything that had happened up until this point was part of his game.
Not everything. She caught a glimpse of Barrons across the crowd, sipping at his blud-wein, with that outrageous ruby dangling from a hoop in his ear. At his side stood the young Duke of Malloryn. In the light, Malloryn’s hair gleamed like polished copper, and she almost thought it was Garrett until he raked the crowd with a cold, dismissive gaze. Young but deadly, as he’d have to be to keep his seat on the Council.
She didn’t dare look for Garrett. He’d told her he’d get word to her somehow, but she couldn’t give him away. Instead Perry watched as the Moncrieff strode to the center of the curtain, waiting for all eyes to notice him.
A hush fell and skirts rustled as people began to edge closer. Someone brushed against her and Perry found Mrs. Carver at her side, her burnished bronze eyes gleaming in the light as she fanned herself. There was no sign of her brutish verwulfen husband, but at her side stood another young woman in delicate condition, wearing a sternly cut charcoal day dress that hinted at the soft swell of her curves. From the similarity in their features, they had to be related to each other.
“This is my sister, Honoria.” Mrs. Carver introduced them. “She wanted to see the device they’re about to reveal. She’s the sister I spoke of at the autopsy, the one with the interest in science.”
“How do you do?” Perry murmured.
“Quite well, thank you,” Honoria replied.
“Don’t look now,” Mrs. Carver said through lips that barely moved, “but your man is behind you. On the gallery above us.”
Perry glanced up, but Mrs. Carver caught her hand and tilted the large black ostrich feathers in front of their faces as if she were sharing a humorous on-dit. “Don’t give the game away,” she whispered. “It’s very important that the Moncrieff doesn’t know Master Reed is here yet.”
Here. Watching her. Instantly Perry’s shoulders relaxed. She glanced at Honoria, wondering how much she knew, but the woman was watching the stage intently. “And your husband? I didn’t think he’d allow you here without his presence.” It wouldn’t be easy, being verwulfen in a world that thought such creatures little more than recently released slaves.
“He didn’t,” Mrs. Carver replied dryly. “He’s at the back of the crowd, with my sister’s husband.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “I was the only one they didn’t think the Moncrieff would suspect and…I owe Barrons a favor or two. He asked me to let you know that things are proceeding as planned. However, they need to get the Moncrieff alone.”
“Alone?” She could certainly lure him away…
“Not you,” Mrs. Carver replied. “Master Reed wants you to stay here, in the crowd, where it’s safe. He and the Duke of Bleight have matters in hand.”
“Of course they do.” Keeping her nice and safe while they planned to ambush the Moncrieff. The thought made her unaccountably nervous. “Thank you for helping then, Mrs. Carver. I shall owe you a favor myself.”
“Lena, please. I feel so terribly ancient when someone calls me Mrs. Carver.” The vibrant young woman flashed her a smi
le. Then it faded. “Tell me, did you find the man who killed Miss Keller and Miss Fortescue?”
“I believe we’re both about to meet him.” Perry felt ill at the thought, a ring of coldness circling her temples.
“Don’t be frightened.” Lena squeezed her hand. “I can smell it,” she admitted when Perry shot her a sharp look.
“I’m not frightened.” She had friends. And a man who loved her. The thought warmed her from within, burning through that trembling, breathless feeling in her chest. Perhaps she’d always have such a feeling whenever she thought of Hague, but at least she was learning to manage it. She’d survived once. She would do it again. She just needed to keep believing such a thing.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the Moncrieff called.
Instantly the room hushed and people gathered closer.
“As announced last night, the prince consort and I have a demonstration of particular interest and magnitude.” He gestured to the side and the prince consort stepped forward with a smug smile.
Light gleamed off the gold breastplate the man wore beneath his pale blue frock coat, as per his usual custom. He hadn’t aged in the ten years since she’d last glimpsed him, though his skin was paler and even his hair had lightened. Those almost colorless eyes surveyed the crowd, settling on something for a moment. Following the prince consort’s gaze, Perry saw that it was Lynch and Barrons, standing at the back of the crowd with expressionless faces.
Danger stirred the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
“My queen.” The Moncrieff nodded to the small woman behind the prince consort. “Would you do me the honor of stepping forward? Duchess?”
Queen Alexandra’s skin flushed a healthy pink, and she looked around warily as the crowd surveyed her. “As you wish.”
Another young woman took her arm, leading her forward with an iron grip on the queen’s gloves. Together they were the sun and the moon—the human queen with her dark, glossy hair and warm complexion, and the tall, icily regal duchess with hair the color of flame, ruthlessly gathered into a chignon. Perry had barely known the Duchess of Casavian, but she recognized her immediately.
Lady Aramina Duvall was the only acknowledged female blue blood in London, and one that held a substantial amount of power. Not only did she sit on the ruling Council of Dukes, but she had thwarted numerous assassination attempts and even fought her own duels. Cold as an arctic breeze, the Echelon whispered, but Perry rather thought that the woman had to be, in order to survive in such a world.
The Moncrieff slipped his superfine coat off and handed it to Perry. He began working on the buttons of his sleeves. “Last night, you both attended me at the conclusion of my ball. I took a measure of my blood and tested it with a brass spectrometer that the duchess provided herself. Lady Aramina, could you inform the crowd of what my craving virus levels were?”
The duchess arched a defined brow, smoothing her cream-colored skirts. “Your CV levels were sixty-two percent.”
“Your Majesty, will you confirm this?” Moncrieff asked.
“I confirm it,” the queen replied, glancing at her husband as if to seek his approval.
“Could Mr. Thomas Wexler step forward, please?” the Moncrieff called.
The crowd parted around a tall man in a gray suit, who looked rather surprised at being named. “Yes, sir?” he asked with a distinct American twang.
“Mr. Wexler owns Wexler and Sons, a fine American company that produces the Spectrum 300, the latest—and supposedly greatest—example of brass spectrometers in the world. Some of you might have noticed his exhibit next door,” the Moncrieff said. “Mr. Wexler, would you mind if I borrowed your device for a simple experiment?”
The man offered a rakish smile. “As long as we can discuss the commission afterward.”
Laughter echoed. The duke returned his smile. “Consider this an endorsement.”
The brass spectrometer was brought forward and the crowd craned their necks. Even Perry was growing curious now. She glanced up, just once, but she couldn’t see any sign of Garrett.
She could sense him, though, the gentle caress of his gaze on her back, like the faint tracing of fingers.
“Duchess, would you do me the favor of checking my CV count?” the Moncrieff asked.
“I should be delighted,” Lady Aramina replied, in a voice completely devoid of such stated expression.
Stepping forward, she withdrew a small case from her reticule and removed what appeared to be an elegant fléchette. Taking the duke’s hand, their gazes meeting, she slashed the blade across his finger, then turned and dripped the welling blood into the mouth of the spectrometer.
The small device gave a whirring sound, swiftly overwhelmed by the creak and rustle of clothing as everybody leaned forward.
A little slip of paper shot out and the duchess held it up. “Your CV count is—” The words stopped suddenly, her eyebrows arching in surprise. For a moment her face looked softer, younger. A woman of warmth and emotion, rather than the ice princess who’d stood there but a moment ago.
The Moncrieff tied a small linen around his finger until the cut healed. “My CV count is…?”
“Forty-six percent,” the duchess said. “That’s impossible. I saw it with my own eyes last night. The levels of virus in your blood can’t have dropped almost twenty percent within hours. That’s simply—”
“Miraculous,” the duke finished for her, with the most satisfactory smile Perry had ever seen on his face. Success. He studied the crowd, dwelling in the moment, knowing that every eye in the place was upon him. “And I assure you, quite possible.” Taking a step back, he grabbed a fistful of the curtain. Waited.
“For years, we blue bloods have ruled the world, victim only to the violence of the disease and its inevitable consequences. Living in fear of that moment when our CV levels finally reveal to us the end: the Fade.” His fist tensed in the curtain. “No more.”
With a flourish he yanked it down, revealing an enormous brass device. The crowd gasped. A chair sat between two glass cylinders, with several wires and tubes running between them. Blood filled one of the cylinders, and rearing above them were a pair of conductors, the type that spat charged lightning between them.
Honoria sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s how he does it,” she whispered. “He drains as much blood as he can and then replaces it with human blood to dilute the CV levels.” Her straight brows drew together. “A rather temporary notion, I’d suspect.”
The two sisters glanced at each other, momentarily forgetting Perry. “So it’s not a cure?” Lena whispered.
“I don’t believe such a thing truly exists… Used regularly enough, it should control the craving levels, however.” Honoria slid a hand over Perry’s wrist and leaned closer. “If I were to propose a theory, it’s entirely possible that this would be the perfect time to rid oneself of the duke. He’ll be recovering from the blood loss, and the lower limits of craving virus in his blood will slow his healing and reaction times. For the moment, he’s made himself rather more human than he anticipated—or indeed, has probably thought of.”
“How do you—”
“She knows what we’re about,” Lena murmured.
The perfect opportunity. “Could you relay this information to Lynch?”
Lena nodded and faded into the crowd. Perry’s heart started to beat a little faster, her gaze locking on the duke.
“The process takes several hours,” the duke admitted, “which is why I spent most of the night hooked up to the device in order to provide proof of its authenticity. Some of you may doubt my word, but do you dare dispute what the queen and the duchess—no friend of mine—saw with their own eyes?”
The Moncrieff sat in the chair, resting back like a king on his throne. “This technology is the first of its kind in the world. The only known management for the craving virus! It’s not a cure—an
d truly, who would not wish to be a blue blood? But with this, who knows, perhaps we could live forever.” He reached inside his shirt and withdrew a long key on a chain. “And to prove my loyalty to the Crown, after the demonstration I will give the key to the prince consort, who my own doctor has been personally treating for the last month.” Tucking it in his pocket, he stood and bowed to the prince consort.
“’Tis true,” the prince consort called. “An incredible device. My CV levels have dropped remarkably since I began treatment and continue to improve with regular infusions.”
“How does it work?” one of the Russians called in a heavy accent.
“Is it dangerous?” another gentleman asked.
Murmurs sprang to life.
“For this, I call upon an old friend of mine to explain and demonstrate. A genius, able to comprehend the very workings of the virus itself.” The Moncrieff gestured into the shadows at the sides of the curtain walls. “Dr. Hague, of Delft.”
Cold eyes met hers as a shadow detached itself from the edge of the stall. Wearing the thick, false beard he’d worn in the alley, the man she’d given chase to—the man she knew as Sykes—stepped forward. His hair was lighter than it had been once, but she suddenly realized that might be the effect of the craving virus upon him. Most blue bloods took longer than ten years to reach the Fade, but who knew what experiments he’d performed on himself, if any?
A tremble started down her spine and Perry’s fingers curled into fists. She wasn’t alone anymore and she wasn’t weak. This time she was going to finish the job she’d started so many years ago—to stop this monster from continuing his evil.
No more girls would ever have to suffer.
***
Hague. Everything in Garrett went still as the bastard stepped out of the shadows. Perry stiffened, and Mrs. Carver’s sister, Honoria, settled a gentling hand in the small of her back. It wasn’t enough. He could see the fine trembling begin in her body, her shoulders jerking as if her lungs had arrested.
