by Bec McMaster
He might have been asking if she’d like some tea. Rosalind looked out the window, at the fog-laden streets. She didn’t want to empathize with him. Lynch was the enemy. But she’d heard whispers of how even the Echelon thought him cold and mechanical. A steel heart. Virtually a mech, they laughed.
Evidently he’d heard those rumors too.
“How do you do it?” she asked, despite her intentions. “How do you do this job?”
Lynch lowered the papers into his lap. “Because I’m good at what I do. I’m the best. For every woman I find assaulted, every child murdered, I know that I can find the culprit, perhaps even stop them before they get at someone else.
“And I can…switch it off. It’s a gift I have,” he replied softly. “I try not to think of them as human. They’re gone by the time I get to them. Bodies. Nothing but bodies. All I can do is offer them justice.”
That she certainly understood. Emotion had been burned out of her long ago. It was easy to simply…push it to the side. To not think of it. To focus on her cause.
The mystery of Lynch deepened. Who was this man? He was her opponent, the shadowy entity on the other side of the metaphorical chess game they played. She needed to know him, and yet, each answer humanized him in a way she didn’t like.
He was nothing like the Echelon. Like Lord Balfour.
Not a steel heart, she thought, but steel walls. Built to protect him. And that would be how she would bring him down, she realized. The man was not impervious, which meant he had a weakness. Rosalind simply had to find it.
Lynch’s gaze dropped. “You toy with your gloves. Do I make you nervous?”
Rosalind stopped playing with the fingertip of her glove immediately. “No.” Perhaps. It was that damnable stare of his. She’d faced many an adversary, often at knifepoint, but there was something about Lynch that itched at her skin, along her nerves. It wasn’t fear. She’d killed enough blue bloods to know they weren’t infallible. But…something… She couldn’t yet identify the reason for it. “It’s a habit.”
Folding her hands in her lap, she peered through the window. The streets raced past, an endless tapestry of brick, mortar, and fog. Gas lamps still gleamed on the street corners. And the touch of his gaze was almost a physical pressure. She found herself shifting in her seat and forced her body to still. It had been easier as Mercury, when the mask hid her from him. “Perhaps it’s the thought of what lies ahead. What we’ll see.”
There was a flash of movement in her peripheral vision. Rosalind jerked her hand back as he reached for it.
Lynch froze, his face hardening. “I was only seeking to offer comfort.”
Her left hand. Her iron hand. Rosalind’s heart thundered in her chest. “I’m sorry.” She put it back in her lap. One touch and he might feel the iron, feel the joins. It was only luck that etiquette demanded she keep her gloves on at all times in front of him, except while dining, though she intended to take her repast in private or not at all.
“I don’t like my hands being touched,” she replied. “Anywhere else is fine.”
For a moment his gaze flickered to her décolletage. Then away. It might not have even happened but suddenly her nerves were on fire again.
He’d looked at her as a man would eye a woman. And suddenly Rosalind realized what she’d said. Her mind took a swift detour, imagining those hands on her, and her body reacted, nipples hardening beneath the stiff taffeta of the gown, a shiver of feeling edging its way down her spine.
“I won’t touch you again then,” Lynch replied. “You have my word.”
Rosalind didn’t want to drive him away. She needed to get under his skin, learn his secrets, the manner of man he was. “It’s not personal,” she said, her mind racing through a list of plausible lies and finding one that was almost real. “My father…” She looked down at her lap. “I have a bad association with the gesture.”
Lynch’s stark features softened. “I see. I apologize then.”
The carriage lurched into another corner. Rosalind hung on for dear life. Lynch merely braced himself, his powerful thighs clenching as they cleared the corner. The butter-soft leather of his trousers creaked.
“This is madness,” she said. “We’ll be lucky to arrive at the crime scene alive.”
“I assure you, Perry drives like this all the time. I prefer speed over caution. I need to see what happened before the Echelon’s men step all over my evidence and destroy it.”
Her fist tightened on the carriage strap. “Some of the Echelon will be there?”
“Barrons perhaps, the Duke of Caine’s heir. The summons came from him and he has an inquiring mind.” Lynch picked up his papers again. “And no doubt the prince consort’s Coldrush Guards will be there, to report back to him.”
The place would be swarming with blue bloods. But not Lord Balfour. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was much changed from the child and young woman he’d known, but though he expected her to be dead, he would still recognize her.
“What—”
The world suddenly slammed to a halt, tires squealing and people cursing. Rosalind lost her grip on the carriage strap and plummeted forward.
A firm grip caught at her as she tumbled onto the carriage floor between Lynch’s legs. There was a moment of hard muscle beneath her hands, then she realized exactly where her hands were and wrenched them back.
Lynch’s fingers dug into her arms, his large body stiff as they both realized the suggestiveness of her position. The color leeched out of his irises, his black pupils swallowing them whole.
The demon inside him.
Rosalind froze. The gun strapped to her thigh suddenly chafed, as if reminding her how difficult it would be to get at it. She’d cut through the pockets in her skirts, leaving a clear path to the weapon, but her skirts were hopelessly tangled around her legs.
With a jerk he tore his hands away, his fingers clenching in the seat.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Lynch’s voice was hard, almost metallic, completely lacking inflection. He took a deep breath and looked away, closing his eyes. “Just move slowly.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I would help you, but I don’t believe I should touch you just now.”
There was nowhere to put her hands. Rosalind eyed his knee grimly and forced herself to lay her right hand on his thigh. The steam carriage jerked into motion and her fingers dug into the clenched steel of his muscle.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He hadn’t opened his eyes, his breathing slow and steady. Controlled. Forcing himself to reign in his hungers, his desires. “As am I.” A tight smile. As if he could only permit himself this.
Rosalind pushed herself to her knees, her eyes level with his chest. The hard carapace of his breastplate molded to fit his body, the musculature defined in an almost vulgar way. Beneath it he wore a black shirt with a long, leather coat over the top.
The only thing she could smell was leather. A blue blood had no personal scent, but some liked to disguise that fact with perfumes or aftershave. Indeed, Garrett reeked of it, though from her impression of the man, she wasn’t surprised. Lynch however…No scents, no perfumes. Only a faint lingering hint of coffee and something else, something almost coppery.
Blood.
His eyes opened, as if wondering what was taking her so long. Rosalind’s breath caught and she surged to her feet, practically throwing herself back into the seat. The black had faded, his demons well and truly leashed. The sight was impressive. She’d rarely ever seen a blue blood control himself like this.
“It doesn’t happen often. But I’ve not been to sleep for several days and I didn’t have time to…partake of nourishment before we left.”
His entire body was rigid, his words so quiet she might not have heard them. A hint of embarrassment? Of shame? Rosalind stared at him, the breath slowly leaving her lungs. She felt almost unnerved, her body primed to fight or flee. But the danger had passed. Why then did the feeling persist?
“Perha
ps you should carry a flask,” she suggested, her voice rough and low.
“An excellent suggestion.”
The murmur of his voice shivered over her skin, and she tore her gaze away, forced it to the window. The world beyond was a foggy haze, gas lamps flickering past in rapid succession. The brickwork on the houses was fancier, and iron-scrolled fences appeared, often with small gardens.
They were nearly there. Suddenly Rosalind couldn’t wait. She wanted to get out of this damned carriage, away from him. And it wasn’t fear that motivated her desire, but rather the uncomfortable turmoil he left her thoughts in.
The carriage slowed, the rumble of the steam engine softening to a hiss as the furnace exhaled. Rosalind pressed her hand to the window, peering through the glass. He watched her, she knew. She could feel it on her skin, shivering down her spine. The thought almost tore a laugh from her lips, sharp-edged with panic.
Think of Nate. She pressed her lashes tightly together, desperately trying to picture her husband. For years he’d haunted her thoughts, but she couldn’t find him now—only a vague outline, a hint of the smile that had won her heart.
“I would never hurt you,” Lynch said.
No doubt he could smell her nervousness, read it in the still lines of her body. But he misconstrued the reason behind it.
Opening her eyes, she noticed her breath fogging the glass. “I know.” She wouldn’t allow him to hurt her. Taking a slow breath, her corset digging into her ribs, Rosalind pasted a smile on her lips. “It’s the carriage. I’m not fond of small spaces. Not for too long anyway.”
His penetrating gaze bore into her. “Don’t touch your hands. Don’t lock you up.” A slow nod. “I shall remember.”
Finally the carriage eased to a halt. The door jerked open and Rosalind could barely contain herself. She wanted to get out with a desperation that bordered on anxiety. The walls were pressing in on her.
Garrett appeared, surprised to find her in the doorway so suddenly. He offered his arm in reflex, that insincere smile edging over his lips. A dangerously handsome man but far too pretty for her tastes. No her tastes ran darker, or so it seemed.
Rosalind ignored his arm and stepped down, pleased to be free of the carriage. The lack of its constraint lightened her soul. Her skirts spilled around her and she straightened them.
Garrett looked down beneath his lashes, as if considering his arm. He’d made it clear he considered this a hunt and she the prey. Every affront only seemed to heighten his intensity, though it merely frustrated her.
“She doesn’t like being touched.” Lynch alighted with dangerous grace. “On the hands anyway.”
Their eyes met. Was it her imagination, or was there actually a play of amusement around the hard line of his lips? A softening perhaps or hint of smoldering warmth in those glacial eyes?
“Of course.” Garrett stepped aside with a smile that almost gleamed.
One punch with her metal hand and all those pretty white teeth would be scattered across the cobbles. Rosalind smiled at the thought and he smiled back, no doubt thinking he was winning her over.
The warmth faded out of Lynch as if it had never been there.
“Come.” Lynch snapped his fingers and strode toward the house. “Stop trying to seduce my secretary, Garrett, and get your mind on the job. Mrs. Marberry, if you would kindly do what I’m paying you to do. Feminine wiles are almost as teeth-grating as the vapors.”
No softening there.
Rosalind stared after him with narrowed eyes, then grabbed her skirts in her fist and scurried after him. “You haven’t paid me anything yet. And believe me, I have no interest in plying my ‘feminine wiles.’”
He stopped abruptly at the front door of a large mansion, well lit from within. Rosalind nearly ran into him. Turning, he said, “Garrett likes women, Mrs. Marberry. Don’t think you’ll be the only one.”
“Why thank you, Sir Jasper.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, goaded into sarcasm. “I hadn’t figured that out at all.”
Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.”
“You’re mistaking me for a fool.”
Another hot glare that unnerved her. “I dislike women who think they’re smarter than I am.”
“I don’t think I’m smarter.” To her own credit she didn’t emphasize the word “think.” “And it seems you dislike women in general.”
“That’s not true. I simply find little use for them.”
This time she could feel her cheeks heating. “Beyond the obvious.”
His gaze traced her mouth. “Mrs. Marberry. This is precisely what I wished to avoid with my men.”
“I thought it was Rosa? Now I am Mrs. Marberry?”
A long, steady look. “You are always Mrs. Marberry. To me. For convenience sake, you are Rosa.”
She looked around. “And we’re alone, Sir Jasper.” On the stoop of a Georgian town house, the wind whipping his great cloak around her in a cocoon of intimacy. Rosalind took a shallow breath. But this was what she wanted, she decided—to discover the man’s weakness. And it seemed, from the way he was looking at her, that he did find some use for women. Or perhaps for redheads in particular.
It was easy to smile, to play at being Rosa Marberry, now she was out of that carriage. She slipped into the role as if it were a second skin. All of the disquieting thoughts she simply shoved aside. “I don’t believe my supposed wicked tendencies are bothering your men at all.”
But bothering him. Ah, yes. She smiled, let her gaze drop beneath her heavy lashes. It helped to think of him as a man, not a blue blood, to pretend that he was only human.
If she pretended he was only a man, then she could admit that he was quite a fine figure of one. It was no wonder she felt this odd attraction. The thought eased her nervousness. It meant nothing. Lynch’s silence was troubling. Expression flickered over his face when she looked up, but so minutely that she could not decipher it. He was an observer, she realized. Always watching, always thinking. She wondered what conclusions he drew as he examined her. Wondered if he could see right through her.
“I’ll say this once,” he said quietly. “If I suspect you are having inappropriate relations with any of my men, the position will be forfeit immediately.”
“So I’m not allowed to smile at any of them?”
Stillness. Then: “Of course you are.”
“For that is all it was,” she replied tersely. “Garrett holds no interest for me as a man. He laughs too much and he wears far too much cologne.” She gathered her skirts. “Now, if that is settled, shall we?”
Lynch’s lips thinned. “Follow me then, Rosa. If you feel the urge to cast up your accounts, please don’t do it on the bodies.”
With that he strode past her, his broad shoulders framed by the elegant chandelier in the entry. Rosalind licked her lips and gave a frustrated sigh as she hurried after him. The man was infuriating.
Four
“Bloody hell,” Garrett muttered, standing in the middle of the foyer and turning in circles as he examined the scene.
Lynch moved slowly, cataloging each inch of room and analyzing it. One of the servants lay on the grand staircase. She’d obviously tried to flee before Lord Falcone got to her. The woman lay sprawled across the carpeted stairs in her mobcap and apron, blood dripping from the torn gash in her throat. It was messy—made with blunt teeth and not a blade.
The butler had almost made it to the door before he too was cut down. A spreading pool of blood beneath his crumpled body soaked into the carpet. Lynch’s brows drew together. “It’s the same as the Haversham case,” he murmured. “Falcone was more interested in killing them by this stage. No doubt he glutted himself upstairs.” Kneeling down, he touched the sticky pool beneath the butler. His vision blurred momentarily, his sense of smell heightening even as his mouth watered. He wanted to touch his fingertip to his tongue but years of control had taught him better.
Behind him, Rosa scribbled furiously in her notepad, taking
down his words. Her skin was pale, her lips compressed, but she gave no other sign that this scene bothered her—or she was determined not to.
Rubbing his fingertips together, he looked up the stairs. Golden lamplight bathed the walls. Falcone had not bothered to update to modern conveniences like gaslight. Some of the older blue bloods were like that.
Perry slipped silently into the room, her dark hair slicked back beneath a cap. “A bloodbath,” she murmured, exchanging an uneasy glance with Garrett. Her nostrils flared, scenting the air, the blood. As one of the five who made up Lynch’s Hand—his best—she needed to be on scene. Perry had gifts of her own, beyond driving a steam carriage through hairpin turns at breakneck speed. With one sniff she could place a man to the London borough he came from.
“Find Falcone,” Lynch commanded. “I want a full CV count by morning.” If Falcone had been close to the Fade, Lynch needed to know.
Barrons appeared at the top of the stairs, lean and moving with a swordsman’s grace. Dressed in black velvet, the only sign of color was a ruby stickpin in the stark white cravat at his throat.
“Barrons.” Lynch nodded, a sign of respect to the young lord. Barrons was often involved in matters requiring an inquisitive mind. Their paths crossed regularly at these events; no doubt the prince consort wished to be kept apprised.
“Falcone’s up here,” Barrons called, his voice carrying the inflection of the well bred. “He’s still alive.”
“Still alive?” Lynch hurried up the stairs. Behind him came the swish of skirts and the lemon-and-linen smell he couldn’t quite escape.
The two men exchanged a look.
“If you can call it that. I’ve managed to subdue him in the study. I’ll warn you, it’s not pretty,” Barrons said, his gaze drifting over Lynch’s shoulder toward Rosa.
“It rarely is,” Lynch replied. He had the brief instinct to step in front of her, his shoulders bristling.
Barrons didn’t have the look of a man eyeing a fine woman, but something about his perusal chilled Lynch to the core. He turned and offered his hand to Rosa to help her up the last three steps.
