Forged by Desire (London Steampunk Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  And there… The lean figure striding up the center of Abagnale Street. No sign of anyone paying her undue attention. Except…a tall man with his bowler hat pulled low over his eyes. Garrett couldn’t see the front of him, but the man stopped as she did, pretending to examine the nearest barrow, and then continued on as soon as Perry started walking again.

  What were the chances that the man following her sported an almost Prussian beard?

  “Got him,” Garrett murmured, knowing that she’d hear him through the aural communicator. “Thirty paces behind you. I think it’s Sykes.”

  Even through the earpiece he could hear her intake of breath. “I’ll play lure then.”

  Lure. His pace quickened, knowing she’d try to tempt the stranger out of the crowd. Which meant somewhere isolated.

  The next corner she took, she strolled left.

  “Perry, I can’t see you,” he snapped. “Get back on the main street.”

  “Is he following?”

  Garrett risked a look. “Yes, damn it. Don’t make any more turns. I’m coming.” He began to run, skating over the roof tiles and leaping between houses. He was breathless by the time he reached the street she’d turned down, though not from exertion.

  No sign of her. “Where are you?”

  “Third alley,” she murmured quietly. Which meant she didn’t want others to hear her.

  Sound crashed through the device in his ear. Garrett winced and clapped a hand over the brass piece. “Perry?”

  No answer. Just another jarring sound. An almost feminine grunt, as if she’d been hit. “Got him!”

  Garrett ran.

  Hitting the edge of the roof, he leaped out into the air, landing with a thud in the alley below. Perry was grappling with the man. She hit him in the throat with an open chop of the hand, and the moment he staggered backward, she spun and kicked him in the face. The man stumbled.

  That’s right, you bastard. No easy prey here.

  The moment the stranger saw Garrett, he took off, fists pumping at his sides as he pounded down the narrow reaches. Pitted brickwork lined the alley, full of shadows.

  “Got him!” Perry darted after him.

  “No!” Damn her! Garrett went after her.

  It wasn’t enough. The stranger ran directly at the brick wall at the end of the alley, then hit the ground in a slide, feet first. There was a small, timber door in the wall, probably an entrance into a cellar somewhere. The stranger hit it and vanished into the darkness as it splintered.

  Perry sped up.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  She hit the ground in a slide, her coattails splashing through a puddle of icy mud. Garrett lunged forward, snatching her by the arms as her legs and hips disappeared inside the small opening.

  He yanked her back, jerking her legs out of the way. A second later a large meat hook bit into the dirt from within. Garrett caught a glimpse of a pair of dark, rabid eyes and then the man was gone.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared. “We don’t know what’s down there!”

  Perry scrambled to her feet, brushing off her coat. Her face had paled. “An onion cellar, by the smell of it.”

  Immediately he knew he’d taken the wrong tone with her, but she was going to be the death of him. “You didn’t know that. And you could have ended up gutted.”

  “I’d heal,” she snapped. “And he’s getting away.”

  She shoved open the door of the building, revealing a small home with a pair of startled women looking up from the hearth. One of them pointed toward the window at the back, her hand clapped to her chest. “He…he went through there.”

  Out into the other alley. Garrett staggered to a halt in the empty confines, cursing under his breath. “Can you smell him?”

  “Nothing but bloody onions.” Perry exchanged a wary glance with him. “He has no personal scent.”

  A blue blood, then. Although from the speed he’d moved at, that was already certain.

  “His clothes?” Garrett asked, for she could often track a man to within ten inches of his home.

  “Laundered recently. Damn it. This whole area smells like tar. I can’t get anything else!” She kicked a crate, sending a cat flying from its midst, which startled the pair of them. “It had to be Sykes. He must have seen us at his home.”

  Bending over, Garrett caught his breath. Now that he had a moment, anger started to burn. “You nearly got yourself hurt. What the hell were you thinking?”

  That put her back up. “I was thinking that this could be the bastard who cut those poor girls’ hearts out!” There was a strange quiver in her voice. “I need to find him, and this was the best chance we had.”

  “Find him! Not get yourself killed! You’re a blue blood, damn it, but you’re not invincible!”

  “Would you have stopped Byrnes?” she snapped. “I’m just as good as he is!”

  “You don’t have to prove that to me.”

  “Maybe I’m not proving it to you! Maybe it’s for me?” There was a flash of wild eyes. Frightened eyes. Swiftly masked. “Forget I said such a thing.”

  Like hell. He grabbed her arm. “What’s this all about? You’ve more than proved your worth over the years.” Sudden understanding made his grip tighten. “This is about the factory, isn’t it?”

  Perry struggled. “It’s…not just the factory.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “You think you have something to prove to yourself.” She looked up. The depth of emotion in her eyes almost drowned him but Garrett steeled himself. “You’re off the case.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re not thinking clearly, then you’re a danger to yourself.” He dragged his arm out of the way as she reached for him. “No. I mean it, Perry.”

  Her jaw dropped open. “You son of a bitch. Don’t you dare.”

  “Desk duty. For three days. Until you can prove to me that you can keep a calm head.”

  “You can shove that—”

  “Don’t make it a week,” he warned.

  “If you’re doing this because of what’s happening between us—”

  “I’m doing this because you were reckless,” he snapped back.

  Perry’s mouth worked, her eyes flashing mutinously. Pressing her lips together over some rather choice words, he imagined. “As you wish, sir.” Biting the words out. “And now we’ve lost him. He’ll be miles away or gone to ground.”

  Better that than to risk her life. His nostrils flared. He could, in part, understand her frustration. “Time to return to the guild and discover if Byrnes has had any more luck with Ava. And you could definitely do with a bath.” He glanced down at her muddy boots and leggings. “If Doyle doesn’t dunk you in the water trough outside before he lets you on his precious carpets.”

  He didn’t say anything else. He wasn’t sure if he trusted himself not to make the situation worse.

  And he wasn’t completely certain if she wasn’t correct in his reasons for doing this.

  ***

  It was a long trip back, using trains and omnibuses the way they used to before he’d been promoted. Perry rubbed at her eyes as Garrett opened the front door to the guild. What a long, confusing day, capped off by that horrendous chase. She could smell the rot of the streets clinging to her boots and clothes and, worse, to her skin. All for nothing. The bastard had gotten away, and now Garrett was going to put her behind a desk for the next three days. He’d keep her there the whole time too, just to prove his point.

  Had she been reckless? Perry stepped under his arm, deliberately ignoring him as he held the door for her. The moment she’d seen the stranger following her, a white light seemed to go off in her head. If she’d stopped and thought about it, she’d have talked herself out of giving chase into the cellar, but not because of the risk.

  Because she was frightened.

  There. She’d admitted it to herself.

  Doubt gnawed at her from within. All she could see was that laboratory again. Screaming, poundi
ng at the walls, lost in the dark… Unable to breathe. Her vision narrowing down to a tiny pinhole and numbness tingling in her lips.

  No matter how strong she’d made herself, how many ways she knew how to kill a man, the moment her past reared its ugly head, she became nothing more than a quivering mess.

  “There you are!” Doyle barreled through the foyer, his face flushed and angry. “I’ve ’ad lads out searchin’ for you for ’ours. You oughtn’t be traipsin’ the streets like you used to.”

  Perry was brushed aside as the old man clucked and cooed over Garrett. She shook off her maudlin thoughts. Time for that later. She had to focus again. Prove to Garrett that she wasn’t a risk to herself.

  “You’ve a visitor.” Doyle slipped Garrett’s coat off his shoulders.

  Perry flung off her muddy gloves and raked her hair out of her eyes. She needed a cheroot and a glassful of blood with a heavy dash of whiskey in it. Then those case files.

  But first… She met Garrett’s eyes. “I owe you an apology.”

  Surprise lit his features. Followed by wariness. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “You were right. I should have thought about it first. It was reckless.” Her cheeks burned. “And it did have something to do with what happened at the factory.”

  “Apology accepted.” Garrett took the small tumbler of blood that Doyle passed him. “We’ll discuss it later in more detail. You’re still on desk duty for three days, however.”

  Doyle looked her up and down, eyeing the small trail of mud she was leaving on the rugs. Trying to pretend he wasn’t as curious as hell about that little encounter. He gossiped like an old woman.

  “Thank you for accepting my apology, sir.”

  “Don’t know ’ow she always gets covered in muck, and ’ere’s you with the polish still on your boots,” Doyle muttered as Perry stalked past him. “By the way, I put ’Is Grace upstairs in your study. Sent the best of Lynch’s blud-wein stock up too.”

  “His Grace?” Garrett murmured.

  Perry was only half listening. But she paused at the base of the stairs as Doyle continued setting Garrett to rights, brushing off his coat and straightening his collar.

  “Didn’t you get me message? I thought one of the lads must’ve caught up to you. Let you know the duke was ’ere,” Doyle said.

  Duke. She had this horrible sensation of lightness, as if she wasn’t in her body anymore. Perry’s foot moved mechanically, started up the first stair, but her head was turning, locking on Doyle, on the way his lips moved, even though she felt like she couldn’t hear the words anymore. There was a strange buzzing in her ears.

  “The Duke of—?”

  “Moncrieff,” a smooth voice announced from above.

  Thirteen

  Everything in Perry went still, her lungs locking tight as though there was a clamp around them. His voice swept through her, taking her back ten years into the past. Smooth, cultured. The kind of voice that slid over the skin like velvet in certain situations, or could cut like a knife in others.

  A man stepped out of the shadows on the floor above, pressing both ringed hands on the railing as he surveyed the room below. The slightest of smiles touched his mouth as his gaze locked on Garrett.

  Had he not seen her? Did he not recognize her? Perry made a small, choked sound in her throat, but none of the men noticed.

  “My apologies,” Moncrieff continued. “I heard you speaking and thought to introduce myself.” He started walking along the railing toward the stairs. Still not looking at her.

  Perry’s gaze shot toward the door in the room. She couldn’t run. Not if he wasn’t hunting her. And not without alerting Garrett or Doyle to the fact that something was seriously wrong.

  She could see how that would play out. If Garrett caught one hint that she was terrified of this man, he’d set himself between them.

  No. She had to be strong. For his sake.

  “Alastair Crawford, Duke of Moncrieff,” he announced, taking the first step down. “Recently returned from Scotland.”

  Perry pressed her back against the wallpaper, trying to push herself through the wall. She didn’t know what to do. In all the scenarios she’d imagined, she’d never pictured this. Never pictured other people being involved. Her heart was thundering in her ears, her body trembling as if to flee, but there was nowhere to go. Moncrieff wasn’t stupid. He’d have the building watched, guards in place—

  Garrett started toward them, giving her a deceptively lazy look. He’d picked up on her tension, at least. “Your Grace, a pleasant surprise.” He paused at the foot of the stairs, placing his body between her and the duke. “Garrett Reed, Acting Guild Master of the Nighthawks. What may I do for you?”

  “A word, if I might?”

  The Moncrieff’s entire focus was on Garrett. And that made the coldness shiver deep inside her. If he wanted to cut at her, that was the best way to do it.

  Garrett shot her a questioning look.

  Somehow she forced a smile to her lips. No. Nothing is wrong.

  The moment his back was turned, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Everything is wrong. I have to leave.

  Her heart fisted in her chest. For years she’d worked out precisely what she’d do if the Moncrieff ever found her, but she’d never considered just how much it would hurt to run. To leave behind everything that she knew. Everyone that she cared for.

  Perry stared at Garrett’s broad back as he strode up the stairs, her heart breaking in that moment. She’d miss him so desperately. He was the one who’d made her stay here, made her feel safe and wanted. Slowly he’d helped her learn to trust again, to relax around other blue bloods. All of the quiet, teasing conversations they’d had flickered through her mind. All of the moments she’d wished she’d been brave enough to turn her face and press her lips to his. That moment today, when she could have admitted to him how she wanted to take that risk too.

  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?”