Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy

by Bec McMaster

  "And you like chasing."

  Those fingers drummed on the table for a moment, quick flashes of expression crossing his face one after the other. She could see the moment he settled back into nonchalance, his mouth thinning and his eyebrow arching. "I know it's going to happen, Ingrid. But I can be patient and wait for you to come to terms with this. Even if it takes you weeks."

  "And then?" she asked softly. "What happens after we crash and burn?"

  That halted the softening of his smile. "We're both adults, Ingrid. When this ends, it doesn't have to be messy."

  Ingrid pushed to her feet to head toward the viewing deck. Maybe it was her recent sense of vulnerability following the telegram she'd received, but the idea didn't sit well with her. "Indeed."

  Sometimes she wished he didn’t have to be so bloody honest all of the time.

  * * *

  LEAVING Debney shivering by the dirigible, Ingrid and Byrnes headed toward the main thoroughfare to find him a steam cab.

  Byrnes strode with his hands in his pockets at her side, his gaze turned inward as dawn began silvering the sky. He looked faintly ridiculous in Debney's borrowed coat.

  "So what's our next move?" Ingrid asked, feeling equally ridiculous. She'd been forced to borrow a pair of pants from Debney and a great cloak that hung around her ankles, covering up what was left of her pretty ball gown. Fur rimmed the collar of the cloak, itching her skin. All she needed was a highwayman's mask.

  "Right now?" Byrnes seemed surprised. "As soon as we get back, I'm going to go deliver the coded letter to Malloryn, and then I'm going to get some sleep. It's been a busy couple of days."

  "Really?" Ingrid arched a brow. "Considering the coded papers are stuffed down my corset, I was planning on giving them to Malloryn to decode myself."

  Byrnes gave her a certain look that made her catch her breath just a little. "We shall see about that."

  A shadow skittered near her ankle, and Ingrid's heart felt like it leapt through the back of her throat. Leaping forward, she found herself on top of a house's brick wall, balancing precariously, before she could even think about it.

  "What is it?" Byrnes's coattails flared as he spun, a knife springing to his hand. Prepared to face danger, he obviously found nothing worth fighting, and cast her a dubious look.

  Oh God. She would never live this down. Ingrid shut her eyes as the rodent's smell caught her nostrils. "Nothing. Just a rat."

  The expression on his face was almost laughable. "A rat?" Byrnes's voice was soft. He sheathed the knife then extended a hand to help her down.

  Ingrid shook her head. A cold flush had sprung through her veins. She didn't want to get down. She hadn't seen where it went. "Just give me a moment, Byrnes."

  The way he looked at her, as if making silent calculations in his head, sometimes made her nervous. Like now. Then his face cleared; a decision made. Moving forward, Byrnes swept her into his arms and turned to stride away from the mess in the gutter and the small squeaking she could still hear. A sound that made her feel ill and forced her arms to lock tightly around his neck as she tried to look for the rat.

  "Ingrid Miller." Byrnes's voice was as soft as honey, his arms like steel. "Are you going to tell me that you don't hesitate to launch yourself at a vampire, and yet a tiny, insignificant rat sets you quaking?"

  "Shut up."

  A brief laugh sounded in his throat, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Worry not, fair maid. I shall save you."

  "If you like your teeth where they are, then I would take my advice," she growled.

  Byrnes merely laughed again.

  Though she'd been hesitant initially, Ingrid forced her body to relax. He was taking her away from the nasty rat, that no doubt had an entire contingent of friends. Some things were worth forgiveness. Resting her head on his shoulder, she let him carry her.

  Sensation began to leech into her. Again she felt that kiss, that sense of longing. Again she just wished she could let him do to her what was promised. Ingrid stroked his collar, not daring to do more, but wishing she could. Falling into bed with him should be easy, so why did it feel so hard to take that step?

  I don't want to be discarded at the end. Not like that.

  Then what was the answer? Because it was going to happen. She and Byrnes were burned in the stars together, a promise made but unfulfilled. She knew she wouldn't have enough willpower to last the distance. Ingrid rubbed the gilt thread of his embroidered collar between her finger and thumb.

  Maybe she should just take the plunge now, get it over and done with, and move on herself, before he could?

  "So that's what it takes," he said gruffly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "A little bit of gallantry has you patting me like a cat." He smiled. "I'm learning your weaknesses, Miller."

  She sighed. So was she.

  And she was starting to be afraid that her most dangerous weakness was one that remained somewhat unrevealed to her.

  "Here," Byrnes said, setting her down on the footpath with a faint flourish.

  Ingrid patted her cloak into place. "Thank you."

  With his hands in his pockets, Byrnes strolled beside her. "Why are you afraid of rats?"

  Just the word sent a shudder of dread through her. "I'm not."

  "Really?"

  Ingrid turned her face away, feeling that queasy sensation return. "I would rather not speak about it." But that didn't mean that she wouldn't remember it. Viktor's face sprang to mind, slack and gaping in the shadows of memory. A little boy, locked in a cage on the ship the English raiders had dragged her to as a child. He'd been half-dead when they put her in the cage next to him, and not quite all-the-way dead when the ship's rats had started eating him. She didn't know how old she'd been—four or five—but she would never forget that moment, or her screams when the rats scurried over Viktor's corpse and nobody came to help her.

  Firm hands cupped her cheeks, and suddenly Byrnes's face swam into view, breaking through her waking nightmares; those stark cheekbones, and the harsh slant of his dark brows. "Then I shall not ask."

  Ingrid let go of the breath she’d been holding. She’d expected him to push, but was thankful that he didn’t.

  “Let’s go hail that cab,” she said, and turned away.

  ELEVEN

  DEBNEY SHUDDERED, wrapping both hands around the flask of warm mulled blood that Ava had fetched for him. The bloodied gashes at his wrists and ankles where the chains had cut him were gone now, healed by the craving virus, but the night's events had shaken him.

  "I don't particularly wish to be alone tonight," he'd told Ingrid, with shadows in his eyes, and so Ingrid had stepped into the steam cab with him and taken him back to Baker Street.

  Malloryn was at a ball, according to Isabella Rouchard, squiring his fiancée around town. It was the first Ingrid had heard about his engagement, but from the baroness's tone, she didn't like to press. Some things were easy to guess about the humans surrounding her, and judging from how often Malloryn wore Isabella Rouchard's perfume, she knew she was most likely correct in her assumptions. The woman was his mistress.

  Until Malloryn returned, she had nothing to do but sit and wait for Jack to help decipher the coded letter she'd found at Ulbricht's. At least Byrnes had returned to the Guild of Nighthawks, which gave her some peace of mind about his promised, “later.”

  "You've a visitor." Jack limped into the workshop with his goggles sitting high on top of his head.

  "Oh?" Ingrid asked, caught in the act of fetching a rug to wrap around Debney's shoulders.

  Crisp heels rang down the staircase, and Ingrid's heart leapt within her chest as she recognized that step and the purposeful swish of skirts. Rosalind Lynch, the Duchess of Bleight, swept into view, gowned in a deep purple that gleamed beneath the gaslight. As Jack's sister, Rosa shared the same coppery hair and the same stubborn mouth. Calculating brown eyes swept Ingrid from head to toe, and then Rosa came forward to press her lips to Ingrid's cheek.


  "My, my," Rosa murmured. "You look lovely in a gown. Or the remnants of one."

  "It itches, and I can't breathe," Ingrid replied.

  Rosa laughed. "There's my fierce verwulfen friend. I was wondering what this stylish young woman had done to you." She glanced down. "Though she made short work of your skirts, I'm afraid. Is that blood?"

  "Not mine."

  "It never is." Rosa looked amused. "Want to tell me all about it?"

  Guilt flared. No. No, she did not. Because whilst Jack might not bat an eyelid over Byrnes's reappearance in Ingrid's life, Rosa knew altogether too much. And fiercely disapproved.

  "Jack, will you keep an eye on the viscount for me?" Ingrid murmured, noting the curious look Jack gave Debney. Then she linked arms with Rosa, drawing the duchess back upstairs, toward the parlor. "What are you doing here?"

  "I cornered Malloryn at the Parkers’ ball," Rosa snorted. "He told me where you were. You haven't been at your rooms for days, though I found Malloryn's invitation in your drawers and recognized the writing."

  "Some secret." Ingrid sighed. "And what were you doing going through my private documents?"

  Rosa looked amused. "The same thing you were doing when I was working undercover as Lynch's secretary. Trying to keep an eye on you. You haven't been to dinner in an age."

  Privacy, she'd learned, was practically impossible when it came to Rosa and her two siblings. All she needed now was young Jeremy showing up and lecturing her about getting involved in dangerous affairs. Which would be somewhat ironic, considering how many times she and Rosa had saved him by the skin of his teeth.

  But then, she guessed that turnabout was fair play. Rosa was family, and that meant more to Ingrid than anything in the world. Meddling in each other's lives seemed to be the price they all paid for the warmth and love that they shared. "I've been busy."

  "Clearly." Rosa looked around. "Malloryn has a mind like a steel trap," she warned. "Don't get caught in its jaws."

  "Brandy?" Ingrid ignored the warning, knowing that Rosa was only worried about her.

  "Would love one," Rosa replied, drawing off her gloves as she perused the parlor. One of her hands was entirely mechanical, and Ingrid noticed the easy way Rosa wore it these days, when once she'd hidden it behind a never-ending supply of gloves. Rosa's marriage to Lynch had brought about a newer, softer presence in her friend.

  "How's the baby?" she asked, because that was something else that had changed in Rosa's life.

  "Too well behaved. He barely cries, he sleeps most of the night, he watches everyone and everything, and he wears this serious expression on his face most of the time. I fear Lynch had more involvement in Phillip's temperament than I." Rosa's smile softened her entire face, however, for baby Phillip was the light of her life. "It's only now that he's reached his first birthday that I'm starting to see a hint of stubbornness about him. He tried to strangle his father the other day, and Lynch spent ten minutes telling him about the importance of cravats in a man's life, and how Phillip was to keep his chubby little fists off them."

  "Did he listen?" A quiet yearning filled her. Ingrid adored Phillip, but it was a bittersweet sensation.

  "He stuck the end of the cravat in his mouth, and Lynch just sighed." Rosa nursed her brandy, reclining in the chair like the Queen of Sheba. "So," she said, throwing down the gauntlet, "Malloryn tells me you're working with Caleb Byrnes again."

  Which was the real reason that Rosa was making this early morning call. "Apparently I enjoy torturing myself."

  "Really?" Rosa's dark eyes locked on her. "It has nothing to do with bets made and...not quite paid up?"

  "I never should have told you about that," Ingrid growled. "And I paid what was owed. Byrnes should have been more specific."

  Rosa's eyes narrowed. "How does he feel about this partnership?"

  "Bloody ecstatic, by his own proclamations. I won't pretend that he's not interested in gaining some measure of revenge."

  "Of course he is." Rosa sipped her brandy. "Byrnes lives for the hunt, and you, my dear, are the one that got away."

  Which was nothing that she hadn't told herself. Ingrid threw back her brandy, then stalked to the liquor decanter to pour another. "Then he'll live to experience disappointment once again."

  "Ingrid," Rosa warned. "You're upset. I can tell."

  "That's because I was set upon by a vampire barely eight hours ago."

  Rosa sucked in a sharp gasp. "What?"

  And so Ingrid told her. As one of the councilors on the Council of Dukes, it wasn't as though Malloryn wouldn't have taken her into his confidence anyway, and she trusted Rosa a hell of a deal more than Malloryn.

  All of the color had leeched out of Rosa's face by the time she'd finished. "You're certain there were four of them?"

  "You're the one who taught me to count," she replied irritably. "And there's only three now."

  "Three's enough." Rosa scrubbed at her mouth. "Hell. Vampires loose in London. I never thought I'd see the day."

  "Well, they're not loose yet," she replied, softening a fraction. It was clear that Rosa was shaken. "And they're not quite in London. Ulbricht's manor was an hour's flight away. I'll let you know if I see them again though. Give you time to get Phillip out of the city."

  "What about you?" Rosa asked.

  Ingrid shrugged. "I survived one."

  "Ingrid." There was that tone again.

  "I'll be safe, Rosa. I promise."

  Thoughts and plans raced behind Rosa’s dark brown eyes. "I think you should—"

  "Enough, Rosa," Ingrid said softly. "Enough. Let's speak of other things."

  "Like Caleb Byrnes?" Rosa retorted, frustration twisting her mouth.

  "Not like Caleb Byrnes."

  Rosa crossed to her armchair, sinking onto the edge of it. "Fine then. No more talk of vampires or dangerous blue bloods. Come to dinner on Sunday," Rosa said, holding Ingrid's hands and squeezing them. "Promise me."

  "I'll try," Ingrid replied. "It depends on this case. But I'll send a note if I'm not going to be able to make it."

  "If you don't, then I'm going to think that something's wrong with you, and I'll only come looking for you again."

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Was I ever this painful?"

  Rosa reached down to kiss her cheek. "Yes," she said, "you were even worse. Remember when you threatened to skin Lynch alive if he broke my heart?"

  But Ingrid smiled. Here, with Rosa, she belonged, and sometimes it was the only thing that made her feel whole. “I have no recollection of that at all.”

  Rosa drew away with a snort. “He does. Now the shoe is on the other foot. Be careful, Ingrid. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  TWELVE

  A LONG FRUITLESS day of following up on smaller leads stretched behind Ingrid.

  Jack had retreated to what they were affectionately calling the dungeon to attempt to decode the scrap of letter that she'd found; Byrnes was off at the guild, coordinating the use of Nighthawks in tramping all over the Venetian Gardens; Gemma Townsend was reportedly setting up surveillance on Lord Ulbricht; and Ingrid had snatched six hours of sleep before checking in on Ava to see if there'd been anything else from the autopsy or the Doeppler orbs connection.

  Today had been a frustrating day. No results on any of the leads, but Ingrid knew from long experience that these hours spent laying down the groundwork often yielded a vital clue in the end. One of these leads would suddenly amount to something, and the entire case would open up.

  She just wished it would happen sooner rather than later.

  Ingrid dug her thumbs up under the arch of her brows to relieve the pressure in her aching head as she pushed aside her notes.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall, along with soft feminine laughter.

  "Are you coming?" Gemma Townsend called, popping her head in through the door to the library, where Ingrid had been meticulously going over her case notes.

  "Coming?" Ingrid looked up distractedly. "Where?"

 
Gemma slipped inside the library, a fan dangling from one wrist and a rather daring ruby gown barely containing her figure. "Malloryn's letting us off the leash for the night," Gemma said, "while he sets his information networks to ferret out every secret Ulbricht ever owned. So a few of us thought we might as well see a bit of the town, get to know each other a little better." She shrugged one slim shoulder. "It's probably going to be our last chance for a while, for as soon as Malloryn discovers something, he'll have our noses to the grindstone. The man doesn't know the meaning of the word 'rest.'"

  Time to get to know each other.... It wouldn't hurt. After all, these people might hold her life in their hands one day.

  Ingrid looked down at the sheets of paper in front of her. Ulbricht. Vampires. Venetian Gardens. Orbs. Connection? She'd been staring at her notes for hours, and nothing was making sense anymore. Time away from this place would do her the world of good, and hopefully allow her mind to clear. "Who's going?"

  "Charlie's leading the expedition—it was his idea, after all. And somehow he's talked Kincaid into coming. Something about gaming hells, I believe. Then it's just you, me, and Ava."

  "No Byrnes?"

  "No sign of him," Gemma replied with a cheerful shrug. "I think he's still at the Nighthawks Guild."

  "Good." A weight lifted off Ingrid's shoulders. She needed a night away from him following the intensity of that kiss.

  The man was dangerous to her senses.

  "So... does that mean you're tempted?" Gemma asked.

  "Be more specific," Ingrid drawled, crossing her arms over her chest, and leaning back in her chair. "Where, precisely, are we going?" A night out on the town could mean anything, from the fighting pits in the East End to the automaton theatres in Covent Gardens. And Gemma reminded her of Rosa in some ways; flirtatious, worldly, and cynical. She could be leading them anywhere. Particularly astray.

  Gemma's smile was pure deviousness. "The Garden of Eden. Ava has an interest in plants and as soon as she heard where we were heading, she wanted to come and examine the... flora."

  Flora. Ingrid's eyebrows arched. "She does realize that plants are hardly the draw card to the Garden?"