Mina Wentworth and the Invisible City

by Meljean Brook

  He ripped open a sheath. “Sit forward and open your legs over mine. Wide.”

  Would he shag her like this, facing forward in his lap? Her heart pounding, she leaned forward and spread her thighs, bracing her hands on his knees. Her fingers tightened as he suddenly slid lower in the seat, half-lying on the bench. His fingers hooked beneath the waist of her trousers, pushed them down over her bottom. They could go no farther with her legs open.

  They went far enough. His rough palm smoothed over naked skin. Her body tight with need, she glanced over her shoulder. His face was stark with arousal, his gaze fixed on her most intimate flesh. He could see everything like this, she realized. A flush swept beneath her skin, searing the ends of her nerves. There wasn’t an inch of her body that he hadn’t kissed and licked, not an inch that he hadn’t seen, yet he’d never her seen her like this—armored and fully clothed, but for the vulnerable flesh exposed to receive him, and possession his only focus. She trembled with the intensity of it.

  “You can see me.”

  His gaze locked with hers. “I only see you, Mina.”

  With his hands on her hips, he guided her back, slowly filled her with exquisite, burning pressure. Mina moaned, her back arching, her fingers digging into his knees. He was so thick, his intrusion endless. His gaze held hers, seeing only her as he filled her completely. Fully embedded, he stilled and took her in.

  “Rhys,” she whispered raggedly. He lifted, surged, and in the dark hot carriage, he was all she heard, all she saw, all she felt. And when she shuddered around him, when he groaned her name, he was all that she knew, too.

  * * *

  No one saw anything of Wilbur the Reacher and Geordie—or if they did, they said nothing of it. Those who did speak saw very little. With Newberry at her side, Mina pursued every lead they received, and each one turned into nothing. Rumors reached them that he was in a Lambeth rookery, that he’d taken a locomotive to Bath, that he’d fled to Port Fallow. Newssheets speculated and created caricatures of Wilbur the Reacher based on descriptions bought from fellow Birdcage Alley residents: of medium height, medium build, medium brown hair—and steel prosthetic arms that unfolded to six feet long from shoulder to hand.

  At breakfast, a surly, half-awake Anne shook her head over the description. “Blind idiots, the whole lot of them. His arms are at least eight feet long,” she said.

  Lovely. Mina would not try to get close when she found him, then, and use her opium darts instead.

  But she didn’t have a chance to use them, and soon other murders demanded her attention, other bodies needed examinations. She spent every spare moment during her shifts following up more leads, while every spare moment at home seemed filled with a duchess’s duties and the demands of a quickly approaching ball. Mina invited Felicity to stay with them in the days prior to the event, and delighted in her friend’s delight in witnessing all of the preparations—and, although there was nothing left to plan at this stage, took her enjoyment from Felicity’s pleasure as they approved a thousand final details.

  Striped tents went up over the lawn and the gardens near the ballroom, until Rhys’s estate resembled Temple Fair, only lacking the oddities and amusements; yet even those would arrive by nightfall, additional entertainments for almost eight hundred guests. Many of the guests who’d been born under Horde rule would not dance—even Mina had not learned until that past year—but there would be other activities available to them so that they would not have to hug the walls.

  An endless number of supply wagons rolled in through the gates, kept wide open throughout the day. Mina did not have to lift a finger, and yet as the time arrived to dress for the ball, she already felt exhausted. She was upstairs when guests began arriving early, a line of steamcoaches that filled a portion of the lawn—some aristocrats, and anyone else that Rhys had been of a mind to invite. He came into their rooms as the maid finished lacing her up. Mina eyed his impeccable jacket and freshly shaved jaw, then raised a brow at his breeches and boots—also impeccable, but hardly the usual costume for a ball.

  “Who was more horrified,” she wondered, “Scarsdale or your valet?”

  “Scarsdale,” he said, and grinned. “It’s my ball. I’ll wear what I damn well want to.”

  And Mina would wager that breeches and boots would soon become the fashion at every other ball that season. “You just want to remind them that you’re a vulgar pirate.”

  “I am that.” He dropped a kiss to her mouth. “You are beautiful. I intend to dance with you all night.”

  She feigned ignorance. “You dance?”

  “Scarsdale has shown me the waltz.”

  Oh, Scarsdale. Mina had to laugh. It was the most scandalous dance. The bounders would all die of apoplexy . . . and she would enjoy every moment. “But they do not only waltz, Rhys. It is played once or twice.”

  “I’ll give them enough to dance to. But I’ll be damned if I can’t hold you in my arms at least half the night. It is the only thing that will make this nonsense tolerable.”

  Pleasure lifted through her, warm and sweet. “And I suppose you must make Scarsdale’s crushed feet worth it.”

  “So he said.” His eyes narrowed. “You knew.”

  Mindful of the maid, she gestured him close and said into his ear, “It was either that or you were shagging him in the library.”

  He drew back, his eyes hot. “Only you. And as soon as we have a moment, so I will again.”

  But that moment wasn’t now. A knock signaled that it was time to go down. Mina took a deep breath and a final look in the mirror before resting her hand on Rhys’s elbow. This would not be so terrible. She was accustomed to having people stare at her. Perhaps not this many people, but she had Rhys at her side.

  Anne waited at the top of the stairs, wearing a darling dress and a huge smile. When Mina’s brows lifted and she looked up at Rhys, he shook his head ruefully.

  “I can’t say no to her,” he admitted, and so Mina was laughing as she came down the stairs into the crush. Her cheeks soon ached from smiling, and even her memory for matching faces to names was soon overtaxed, but relief came in quick bursts as she welcomed Newberry and his wife, Felicity and her husband, Superintendent Hale and the commissioner. Not all strangers, but many friends, too—and their enjoyment made the aching cheeks and curious stares worth it.

  They finally arrived in the enormous ballroom, and even though the doors were open to the gardens to let in air, the heat and number of people were beyond oppressive. As the musicians played a low, swelling note, Rhys led her to the center of the empty floor, and it was the first time Mina felt able to breathe in . . . she did not know how much time had passed. Minutes, perhaps. Forever. They had set up another dancing area outside, another orchestra. Hopefully Rhys would be amenable to moving out there for the remainder of the night.

  She thought he would be. Rhys appeared as if he felt as hot and oppressed, as if he’d like nothing more than to order everyone the hell out of his home. His expression had turned dark, his mouth tight—until he turned to her, slipped his hand around her waist. Then everything dark fell away, and there was only his focus and his intensity, softness and love. Her heart swelled with the music, and over the racing of her pulse and the sweet draw of a bow over strings, she almost didn’t hear the sudden startled cries from the gardens, the click click click.

  Oh, smoking hells. Mina’s eyes widened. Rhys’s hand tightened on hers. He swept her around—behind him, his arm locking her against his back. He faced the doors where their guests were scattering and falling over themselves to get away from the brass wheel rolling into the ballroom. Mina struggled to come up beside Rhys, but he had an unbreakable hold.

  “He’s after you,” Mina cried over the screams and the noise. “You, Rhys!”

  With Parliament out of session, he had no real routine, but everyone had known Rhys would be here in this ballroom. Mina should have guessed. She should have known. The opportunity had been wide open—just as the estate’s gate
s had been, all damn day. And now Wilbur the Reacher had sent the boy after him.

  “Geordie, stop!” Rhys’s voice thundered across the ballroom. “We have Billy.”

  The wheel halted. So did everyone else. Sudden quiet fell over the crowd.

  He released Mina. His heavy tread echoed as he stalked toward the wheel. “Open that machine, boy!”

  A muffled clank! sounded over the clicking. The top wedge in the side of the wheel opened.

  “Geordie!”

  Mina heard Anne’s disbelieving cry, and intercepted the tinker as she raced across the ballroom floor, skirts hiked to her knees.

  “Stay here until we’re certain,” Mina said. She scanned the crowd, found Newberry just as he pushed through. “Watch her, constable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wineglass in hand, Scarsdale had joined Rhys at the wheel. A slight bulge beneath the man’s perfectly tailored jacket told Mina that he’d armed himself first.

  Oh, but she loved Rhys’s friend.

  Geordie huffed and pedaled at the wheel, his voice rising over the clicking. Terror had whitened his face, slick with sweat and tears. “I can’t, I can’t! He’s rigged it.”

  Rhys stiffened. “Rigged it?”

  “It’s under the seat. If I get out, if I stop pedaling, it will blow.”

  “Christ.” He looked to Mina. “Bluffing?”

  “We can’t take that chance.”

  Rhys nodded, turned to the crowd. “Everyone, onto the lawn!” he bellowed. “Out!”

  Mina met Scarsdale’s eyes, saw his bemusement. Well, at least no one would ever forget this ball. As their guests ran, Mina stepped closer to the open wedge, tried to look in. A rail gun sat on a mount in front of the boy. On the opposite side, a disc spun—part of the influence machine. She couldn’t see anything attached to his seat.

  “Can you open this up, Geordie? We need to see what he’s done.”

  He nodded, reached for a lever. With a crank, a wedge folded back against the brass below. A few more cranks, and all of the wedges but one opened the side of the wheel. Mina crouched, looked beneath the seat, trying to make sense of the complicated wires and gears.

  Blast. After the explosion at his workshop, she didn’t doubt that Wilbur the Reacher could create such a device, but she had no idea how to disarm it. “Is my mother here yet?”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Scarsdale said. “But there’s still a line of steamcoaches making their way in.”

  Damn it all. She couldn’t take time to search them. Mina closed her eyes. “Newberry, bring Anne over here.”

  The tinker crouched beside her, drew a sharp breath. “Oh, Geordie. You’re in a mess.”

  “I know.” The boy began to cry. “I’m sorry I called you a jade.”

  “It’s all right,” Anne said.

  It wasn’t, but they’d talk about it later. Mina touched the girl’s shoulder. “How does it work, Anne?”

  She pointed to a wire attached beneath the seat. “There’s current from the discs. As long as it flows, the fuse in that device behind his legs won’t pop.”

  “So he just needs to keep spinning,” Rhys said. “We can find a wind-up churner in the kitchens to do that.”

  “No, because there’s also this spring.” She pointed beneath the seat. “If the weight lets up, that will break the wire—and the current.”

  “Is there any way to shut it down?”

  “This sequence combination here.” Anne gently touched a row of dials on the exploding device. “But if we guess the wrong number, it blows.”

  Even her mother couldn’t guess a sequence. “We need Wilbur the Reacher,” Mina said and looked to the boy again. “Where did you intend to meet him?”

  “Near the entrance to the South Quay.”

  On Rhys’s docks, not far from the estate. Mina stood. “I’ll bring him back. Newberry, will you ask one of the staff to ready the two-seater balloon? We’ll never get out of the front gates.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Blacksmith could open this up in a few seconds,” Scarsdale said. “Is he back?”

  “Yes,” Rhys said, holding her gaze. “I’ll send him a gram.”

  Oh, good—because if Mina didn’t find the Reacher, she didn’t know what would happen to the boy. She stepped close to Rhys, took his hand. Her gaze searched his face. Determination had set in. Did he intend to go with her? She hoped this would not turn into a fight, because he was needed here.

  “Will you stay with Geordie until the Blacksmith comes? He’s terrified, he’s exhausted—but you’re a hero to him. You can keep him going.”

  “I’ll stay.” He cupped her jaw, kissed her softly. “Be safe.”

  “I will.”

  And she’d come back.

  * * *

  Rhys watched her call for the maids to bring her armor and weapons, watched her leave the ballroom with Newberry on her heels.

  Behind him, Anne said quietly, “The Blacksmith hasn’t returned.”

  “I know.” Rhys moved to the side of the wheel, crouched. “All right, Geordie. It’s time to get you off this thing. Anne, does the weight on the seat have to be precise?”

  Scarsdale laughed. “Oh, captain. The inspector will kill you.”

  “Why?” Understanding lit Anne’s small face. “Oh. No, it doesn’t have to be precise, but yours might crush it all and set the device off.”

  “I can—” Scarsdale began.

  “No,” Rhys cut him off. He wouldn’t risk the bounder, not for anything. “I’ll hold it down and turn the pedal with my hand. I just have to turn the one pedal, Anne, is that right? They share a single axle.”

  “Yes,” the tinker said.

  “All right.” He looked up at Geordie. “I’m about to shove my hand under your ass and press down on this seat. When I do, you get off, and you run with Anne through those doors, out of the ballroom. Understood?”

  Out of breath, the boy only nodded.

  “Scarsdale, you help them make it out.”

  The man downed his wine, tossed the glass through the door. “I’m not leaving you, captain.”

  “Get them out, then find a goddamn heavy pot to put on this seat.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll leave you for that.”

  “Anne, you get going.” Rhys met Geordie’s eyes. “Ready, then? You make certain you run.”

  When he nodded, Rhys gripped the seat, pushed down. The spring beneath it compressed slightly. “All right. Go. Go!”

  The boy staggered when his feet hit the floor. Scarsdale swept him up, ran. Rhys grabbed the pedal, began turning, keeping the same rhythm the boy had set.

  He waited, listening to the clicking discs as they gathered their electrostatic charge. He slowed the pedals; the clicking didn’t immediately slow. Once those big discs gathered momentum, it took a few seconds for them to wind down.

  A few seconds was all that he would need.

  A crowd began to gather outside the doors, watching him crouch, watching him spin. A few cried out his name in dismay. They must have seen Geordie and Anne run out, realized that he’d taken the boy’s place. Rhys let them look, let them cry. They’d be running away again soon enough.

  Three minutes later, Scarsdale hauled in a wine cask. “I found the cheapest one. Still, seems a shame to waste it.”

  “There are more.” He continued holding down the seat, moving his fingers to the edge while Scarsdale balanced the cask atop it. Rhys let the seat go, continued turning the pedal. They both waited.

  They didn’t explode.

  “Well, then,” Scarsdale said. “What now, captain? We take turns pedaling?”

  “We run for the door.”

  “Not a very heroic exit.”

  Rhys shook his head and turned the pedal faster, faster. No reason not to give the disks a little more momentum. “I’m not a hero.”

  “You’re sure as hell not. But tell that to the boy out there.” Scarsdale clapped him on his back. “How long will we hav
e?”

  “Just make it past the doors.” The stone walls would do the rest.

  “All right. Ready, then?”

  Rhys rose from his crouch, gave the pedal a final hard turn. “Go!”

  He pounded across the ballroom, Scarsdale alongside him. Ahead, the crowd began crying out, turning to run. Pulse racing, he tried to hear the slowing clicks over the noise. Click . . . click . . . Click.

  “Down!” he shouted, and leapt for Scarsdale. He caught the man mid-stride, hit the floor with him, shielding his friend’s body. The explosion almost knocked him over. Hot pain tore across his side. The ringing in his ears didn’t deafen him half as much as the screams from outside.

  Beside him, Scarsdale groaned. “You’re the heaviest lout who ever lived.”

  True enough. Rhys sat up, looked at the destruction. Hell. There wouldn’t be any dancing in here, but they’d already set up outside.

  Anne raced in, stopped on a gasp. Her frantic gaze found Rhys. She threw herself at him, wrapped her arms around his neck. The impact seemed to tear his side open again, but he didn’t care. He held her tight.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “All right,” she said, then drew back. Her brows pulled together in the fiercest expression he’d ever seen. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  Rhys grinned. God, he loved this girl.

  “Don’t worry, Anne.” Scarsdale’s amused gaze fell to the blood pouring down Rhys’s side. “After the inspector is done with him, he won’t be able to.”

  Perhaps not. All that Rhys knew for certain was that Wilbur the Reacher was damn lucky Mina didn’t know about this.

  * * *

  Too easy. Sitting in a lorry with the engine idling, Wilbur the Reacher didn’t hear the approaching balloon until they were almost on him. Frantically, he threw the valves closed. The lorry jerked forward with a great huff of smoke, rolling along the docks.

  Mina sat forward in the rear seat, looking down over the side. Always busy, the docks were filled with carts and crates, laborers hauling on lines. The Reacher wouldn’t be able to gain any speed—not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be able to outrun the balloon.