Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy

by Bec McMaster

  Debney threw his hands up in the air. "Fine. Try your luck. I don't know why I should care. Just—if you're caught—then you need to make it abundantly clear that you stole that invitation from my house. I know nothing."

  Melodramatic Debney. Byrnes laughed under his breath. "I know nothing. I know what I’m doing, Francis." Heading toward the door, he paused, then added softly, "Thank you."

  "Wonders never cease," Debney muttered.

  It wasn't the first time someone had mentioned something along those lines. With a wry smile, Byrnes reached for the door, listening to the sounds of Debney shifting on the bed.

  "Before you go... how is Nanny?"

  And there went his equilibrium. "The same. Nothing ever changes."

  "I miss her." There was a note of quivering hesitancy in Debney's voice. "She was the only one who ever cared, you know? She always made me feel like I belonged to her just as much as you did. Out of all the people I've lost, she's the one I miss the most."

  That vacant stare, the way his mother looked at him as though he was a stranger.... His smile evaporated and Byrnes bowed his head for just a moment. "So do I," he said bleakly, and stepped through the door. "Get some rest and sober up, Francis. You're of no good to yourself like this and from the looks of it you need to be."

  * * *

  INGRID STRETCHED IN HER BED, wondering what had woken her.

  The sharp rap came again.

  Ingrid froze for a single, heart-tripping moment, and then Byrnes popped the lock on her window, and lifted the sash. "Good afternoon."

  Ingrid let herself slump back onto her bed. "I must have missed the moment I invited you into my lodgings, Byrnes."

  "Oh? Miller, I thought that invitation ensued the moment you broke into mine? And I did knock. Good to see you're awake."

  "Barely," she growled, tossing aside her blankets and thanking God her cotton nightgown stretched to her knees. "What would you do if I told you to get out?"

  He blinked. Looked back at the window. "Get out, I suppose. Though I came here prepared to share information, and it's rather awkward to shout through the glass."

  Information.... That was unexpected. "I suppose you tracked me home last night?"

  "Not really. I followed your scent trail early this morning from Malloryn's." His gaze slipped away from her as she stood, an unexpected gesture of chivalry.

  But then, there was no challenge in this, and she hadn't invited him to view her bare legs, or the possible flashes of skin he'd easily make out through the thin cotton nightgown she wore. Crossing to the slatted timber screen, Ingrid considered his turned back. Byrnes would insist on an invitation. That was the only way he could tell if he was winning this game or not.

  And now she was in a rather interesting position of power.

  Ingrid flicked her honey-brown hair behind her shoulders, watching him over the top of the screen. "It's safe to look."

  Byrnes turned around just as she shimmied out of her nightgown. Cotton pooled around her bare feet and despite his immaculate control, his gaze dropped, eyes flaring wide, as though he hadn't expected it. The heat in his gaze sent a delicious shiver through her, despite the screen between them. Only the tops of her shoulders were revealed, and no doubt her feet and ankles, but she was still naked. An odd mix of nervousness and excitement sent butterflies scattering through her abdomen.

  Byrnes looked away as though he felt it too, taking in the bare state of the room. "You know, I overheard Malloryn offering rooms at Baker Street to Charlie Todd, and Kincaid. You could stay there."

  Ingrid splashed her face with water from the jug by the basin, then scrubbed her hair away from her face. "This is my set of rooms, Byrnes. I don't want to lodge with Malloryn."

  "What are all the rat traps for?"

  Ingrid barely suppressed a shudder. "Rats."

  "You need a cat."

  "I would have one, but for some strange reason they don't like my scent."

  "Strange." He almost smiled. "It quite sets my hair on edge too."

  She ignored that. "You're up early. I didn't think you'd be out and about during the day." That pale skin burned too easily, after all, and the bright sunlight half blinded him. Byrnes didn't like the vulnerability of day. That was one thing she'd learned in their previous encounter.

  "Haven't been to sleep yet." He was trying not to look at her. And failing.

  Ingrid dragged her green silk robe around her shoulders. Not that she was uncomfortable. She'd always been comfortable in her own skin. It was just... him. Knotting it around her waist, she stepped out from behind the screen. Byrnes looked at the nightgown still on the floor, and then back at her.

  "What?"

  His eyes gained that lazy, heated quality that she remembered from when she'd pressed him down onto his bed and licked a line up the center of his naked chest. Right before she tied him to his bed with her stockings. "Nothing."

  Liar.

  They were both back there, in that moment. Only, those memories were juxtaposed against reality: he was surely wondering if she was naked beneath the robe, right here, right now, and Ingrid was having trouble forgetting the sensation of his skin beneath her palms as she'd taken the chance to explore that night.

  Soft. Cool to the touch. Like stroking her hands down silk.

  Her fingers curled into fists. She was still angry with him. "So did you learn anything in the Nighthawks archives?"

  "How did—? Ava," he guessed.

  Ingrid crossed to her vanity and brushed out her hair. "Congratulations. You've set a new record. Not even twelve hours, and you were already going behind my back with information."

  His dark form stepped into view in the mirror, but Ingrid concentrated on her hair. It was either that or throw the hairbrush at him. And Rosa had given her the bone-backed brush. It was precious to her. Byrnes was not.

  "You're annoyed."

  "One would think you a prime investigator," she replied mockingly. "Picking up on the mood so swiftly."

  "My apologies. It's instinct. I had a thought and followed it through to its conclusion. I don't work with others. Not well. You know that. But I'm here now. Apology... accepted?" That voice turned as smoky as sun-warmed honey.

  The brush caught on a particular knot, and she focused on it, tugging gently. Then the image of that pale, blank face from the autopsy penetrated her memory again. Imogen Moore. They had a name now. And a cause of death. And poor Imogen needed more than for Ingrid to risk this case thanks to her pride. She sighed. "You're not the only one with information, Byrnes. You share yours, and I'll share mine."

  Reaching inside his pocket, he produced an invitation, complete with gold curlicue writing. "I know what the letters SOG stand for."

  What? Ingrid put the brush down and reached for the invitation, but Byrnes withdrew it sharply.

  "Ah-ah," he said, sauntering back across the room. The black leather of his Nighthawks uniform did marvelous things for his anatomy. "Mine. I found it."

  "Where? And how?"

  "I remembered seeing a black flag symbol like the one we encountered yesterday on a piece of paper on Viscount Debney's desk one day. He told me that the Sons of Gilead are an anti-establishment group of Echelon lords, interested in returning to the status quo where blue blood lords rule over the human rabble and can own as many blood-slaves as they like. They use a black flag on all of their correspondence."

  "A symbol of anarchy," she muttered, then shook her head. "I don't see the point of their cause. Nobody would stand for a return to the 'good old days.’ All of the downtrodden have had three long glorious years to realize what freedom means. They'd fight to the death to keep it from slipping through their fingers again."

  "It's the Echelon. Inconsequential details like the lower masses resenting such a return to the 'old glory days' mean nothing to them. They probably haven't even wondered what they'd be up against. They're led by a Lord Ulbricht. I don't know much about him, but Debney's terrified they'll crucify him. Seems to
think that if I attend the party I'm practically begging to get myself killed."

  "We," she corrected.

  There was a pause as he digested this. "My clue," he reminded her. "My invitation."

  "Don't make this mistake again."

  "What mistake?"

  "This is precisely the way we set about last time." Somehow she managed to keep her vicious verwulfen temper in check. Somehow. "You began to hoard clues and I was forced to work by myself. Need I remind you what happened, Sir Leather-britches?"

  "No, you need not." His gaze dipped, just briefly, a quick glance that scored over the naked skin of her collarbones where the robe dipped. "I'm fairly certain I recall—in exact detail, mind you—what happened last year. Could you please put some bloody clothes on?"

  "What's wrong, Byrnes?" She sank into her chair, her robe sliding up her bare thighs as she crossed one knee over the other. A thrill of heat slid through her veins as she met his gaze with a challenge in her own. "Anyone would think you hadn't seen a naked woman before."

  "Anyone would think this an invitation," he reminded her, his nostrils flaring.

  "Well, it's not."

  "I know," he growled. "That's part of the problem. And I'm trying to behave, Miller. I'm trying to be a gentleman. I know I'm not allowed to touch. But this is both distracting"—he captured the end of her robe—"and tempting."

  Ingrid captured his hand before he could tug at her robe. Every inch of her body said yes. It was only the part of her that was still capable of rational thinking that knew this was a bad idea. "You want revenge."

  "Hmm, that wasn't a no."

  "No, it wasn't." She'd concede that, even if she wasn't entirely certain what it was. "I'm thinking about it."

  Byrnes's eyes flared with heat, the black of his pupils overtaking the blue of his irises, as the craving hunger within him flooded to the surface. He eased closer, reaching out to brush a lock of hair off her shoulder, his fingers grazing the silk of her robe and sending a ripple of sensation through her. "I want you naked and writhing beneath me, my dear. I want... everything."

  Hell. If she'd thought her body complicit in his seduction before, then she'd severely underestimated the effect he had on her. Her entire body ached. And she was... tempted. "What makes you think I'd trust you?"

  The edge of his mouth curled up. "Then give me some rules to play by, my dear. Challenge me. I'll prove myself worthy."

  The thought captured her attention. A challenge. Yes. "Three challenges," she interrupted breathily. "Prove yourself trustworthy, and I'll give you a reward after each challenge is completed."

  "Be specific."

  So he hadn't let that go. She tugged the silken tie of her robe from his grasp and leaned closer. "I will. But all in good time, Byrnes. You wouldn't want to rush me. I know you're not interested in anything that can be won easily."

  He smiled and held his hands up, giving her an innocent expression. "Fine. I'll await your first challenge then. Just... don't be too long, Ingrid. Now, you were saying... about the case? I showed you mine, after all...."

  True. Curse him. Ingrid dragged her robe closed.

  "Thank you," Byrnes murmured, and sat on her bed. A clear foot of space separated their knees. "That was distracting me."

  It was meant to. But she looked away. "Ava finished the autopsy a few hours ago."

  "I know."

  "The girl's name was Imogen Moore. She's the niece of some baron, hoping to make a thrall contract with a powerful lord." Though the practice personally affronted her, Ingrid knew that not all young ladies were as privileged as she was, to be in command of her own life. For a young girl in society, perhaps becoming some blue blood lord's personal blood flask was the best option they had. And the fact that they earned pin money and gowns and jewels from their protectors probably made it seem a glamorous proposition. Probably. "Unfortunately Imogen attended the wrong party at the wrong time. Ava's certain the wounds to her abdomen were what killed her, and she's also fairly certain that they don't belong to a knife, an animal, or anything else she can imagine. The closest she could come to explaining it was presuming it was some sort of handheld threshing machine."

  Byrnes scratched at his jaw. "Looked like teeth marks to me. What's your point? What's new about this?"

  "Think about it, Byrnes," she said, leaning back in her chair. "If this SOG had anything to do with it, then why would they kill a girl of their own class? Or kidnap an entire party full of blue blood lords? How does that affect their cause?"

  That got his attention. "Maybe Carrington knew something. Or maybe the partygoers were arguing against the status quo."

  "I did a little digging. Carrington was a vocal supporter of the prince consort before the queen overthrew him. His finances took a blow thanks to the revolution. I'd imagine that if this SOG does have something to do with the disappearances, then he'd be a prime candidate for one of their members."

  "Go on."

  "So why attack a group of people belonging to their own class? And what would a group of disaffected lords be doing tramping through sewers? How would they even know what was down there?"

  Byrnes frowned. "You're blowing holes in my theory."

  "It's a nice theory." She shrugged. "And deserves looking into. Maybe the black flag symbol is purely coincidence... but maybe it's not. We just have to put the pieces together. Which is why you need me."

  His back straightened. "Miller—"

  "The party should reveal more about this mysterious SOG." Ingrid crossed toward the screen, snagging her shirt and protective overcorset off the edge of a chair.

  "And I'll tell you everything you need to know—"

  "I'm coming, Byrnes."

  "No, you're not." He stood, tucking the invitation firmly within his pocket. "You didn't get a chance to read the fine print, but I'm not telling you when or where. I might be able to slip beneath their notice, Miller, but you're very clearly verwulfen. As far as they're concerned you're an animal, and far beneath their notice. You'll stand out like a sore thumb, and contrary to popular opinion..." He held up a finger to stall her protests. "I don't want you getting hurt because some blue blood lords decide they want to play games with you."

  She glared at him over the screen, because he was mostly right. "I'll think of a way."

  "As for today," he continued, as though she hadn't spoken, "I'm planning on informing the Moore family of Imogen's passing, and seeing if they know anything more about Carrington, or this Ulbricht fellow. What are your plans?"

  "I'd love to tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." With a smirk over the top of the screen, she dropped the robe. His eyes turned flat, his nostrils flaring as she slipped into her shortened chemise. "May the best agent win, Byrnes."

  After all, two could play this game, and Ingrid was weary of his lone wolf attitude. "Now get out, and let me wash and dress."

  "I could stay," he replied with a half-amused smile. "Button up those hard to reach places for you."

  "I could also rip your arm out of its socket," she told him mildly. "But I'm not going to. Though I am tempted."

  Byrnes wisely beat a strategic retreat as Ingrid set to thinking. Just because he didn't want her along on this mission into Ulbricht's home didn't mean that she couldn't be there.

  SIX

  THE SUMMONS TO Debney's house appeared early that afternoon. Curious, but not entirely surprised, Byrnes complied.

  "Change of heart?" he called, appearing in Debney's study where the lord was scribbling something furiously on a piece of paper.

  Debney started, spattering ink across the page he'd been working upon. "Can you not use the front door, like everyone else?"

  "The point is subterfuge," Byrnes replied, resting his hip against the desk and trying to see what his half brother had been writing. "I don't particularly want anybody seeing me waltz in and out, and neither should you. I'm a known Nighthawk, and you're a very convenient source of information. You look like hell."

  "Thank
you." Debney pushed away from his desk, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not entirely certain whether I've been manipulated, or whether I've had an attack of conscience."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm coming to the house party."

  That was interesting, but also not exactly what he'd planned. Debney would be cannon fodder at best, and if Byrnes was to work at optimum, then he couldn't be watching over his shoulder all the time, trying to keep an eye on his wayward brother. "If you don't wish to go, then you don't have to. I don't need you, Debney."

  "No, but I do," came a sultry voice from the door, and then, with a swish of skirts, Ingrid appeared.

  Like hell. "I don't—" And then his mind stopped working as he saw her for the first time.

  The tall, lean huntress had vanished, replaced by a woman in a flattering black jacket, open over a dove-gray corset and bustle that swept up on one side to reveal the midnight-blue sweep of skirts beneath. There were bows. Ribbons. Frills. A hat cocked on top of a mass of gorgeous, polished honey-brown curls. She was even carrying a white-and-blue-striped parasol, though the design looked almost like something Ava had created.

  Their eyes met. She was wearing that intense expression—almost as if he were prey at that moment—the one that made his hackles rise. Ingrid's slow smile was dangerous.

  The French had a word for it: la femme fatale.

  Byrnes' eyes narrowed, and he belatedly realized his mouth was hanging open. "No," he said, turning and placing his hands flatly on the desktop, as he captured Debney's gaze. "I don't know how she managed to convince you to do this, but it's not going ahead. We stick with my plan."

  "Which includes you waltzing through the doors at Lord Ulbricht's estate and pretending to hobnob with the Echelon?" Ingrid snorted, crossing her arms under her breasts. "Even the blindest member of the Echelon would spot you for a wolf in their midst the second you appeared. You wouldn't pull it off."

  "And you would?" A vein ticked in his temple. She was doing this on purpose, using her stance to turn her bust to best example. If she wasn't careful she was going to spill out of that dress.