To Catch A Rogue (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  "I was there, Vladimir, listening through the English delegation's device when you told Zhukov you wanted my death to look like an accident. You did not want it to happen in front of the court.

  "You said you were the next thing to a god. You said princes knelt at your feet, and then you spoke of even the tsarina herself dancing to your tune. Or her replacement. Were you planning to murder our tsarina too?" Sergey drew his sword with a steely rasp.

  Balfour glared bloody murder at Gemma as the court erupted in cries of horror and rage. "This is a lie."

  "And just to be certain you could not snake your way out of this one," Sergey hissed, "I brought several friends with me." He gestured to Valentin Kosova, the Captain of the Imperial Ravens, who guarded the tsarina. "We all know the captain is incorruptible, and favors me not. He heard everything I heard. You are done, Vladimir."

  "You are done, Balfour," Gemma whispered.

  "You are done," Barrons murmured.

  "You think you have won?" He bared his teeth at them and switched to English. "You're too late. The order has already gone out. Malloryn dies within the hour, and you will never see him alive again." He strained beneath the grip of the guards pinning him to the floor. "Jelena will send you his head in a box."

  Gemma rested her hands on her thighs. "Ah, yes, your message. Your red smoke. It seems you've been distracted in the past few hours, Balfour. You haven't looked to the skies. If you had, you would have seen a column of red smoke rising over Saint Petersburg. It is the signal from my team, telling me Malloryn has been retrieved safely. You've lost. You've lost everything."

  And soon he would lose his head.

  Rage filled his eyes.

  "Traitor!" Sergey called in Russian, striding forward with his sword held high. "You scheme against Her Imperial Majesty! And you shall pay."

  Balfour glanced down, as if in thought.

  He seemed far too composed for a man who’d recently had all his schemes blow up in his face.

  "Let the new dawn rise," he called in Russian, his voice ringing through the court.

  "And the sun set on the old regime!" came another yell from somewhere in the crowd.

  Gemma spun around, but men were surging through the crowd, drawing swords and attacking the congregation of Blood. Barrons grabbed her arm, drawing the rapier at his side as he and Ingrid pressed into a tight formation around her.

  The Imperial Ravens swarmed around the tsarina, several of them lifting their mech arms and pointing arm cannons at the crowd.

  There was a flash of pale hair out of the corner of Gemma's vision, and she caught a glimpse of Dido casting off her brown wig and throwing something to the floor.

  Acrid smoke erupted, filling the throne room.

  Gemma couldn't see a damned thing.

  Her eyes stung and she could barely stop coughing.

  "We have to stop him from escaping!" Gemma snapped, drawing the knife from her sleeve as she rubbed her eyes. "He's going to use the distraction to get away!"

  "Wait!" Barrons warned. "We cannot afford to be separated."

  Not with so many dissidents suddenly attacking the Blood. Ingrid turned as one of them rushed at her, grabbing him by the wrist as he lunged to skewer her and driving the full force of her verwulfen strength into a punch that hurled him off his feet.

  "Barrons is right," Ingrid gasped, bronze eyes flaming to life in the thinning smoke. "It's too dangerous."

  Damn it. Gemma surged forward and paused in the wreathe of smoke, looking for him.

  "Gemma!" Ingrid cried.

  But she caught a glimpse of Balfour across the ballroom, separated from her by too many dueling blue bloods. Dido crouched by his side, her knuckles slick with blood as she cut down any who approached them.

  Balfour smiled darkly and saluted her as if to an old foe. "Until we meet again, Miss Townsend."

  He vanished in the smoke and the clash of weapons, and Gemma cursed to herself as she was forced to fall back.

  "Ava! Ava?"

  "Liam?" Ava pushed to her feet in the cold stone cell and rushed to the bars. She pressed her face between them, trying to see up the cellar stairs.

  Kincaid’s burly form thundered down the steps, the lantern in his hand sweeping light across the room.

  Joy burst within her. Relief. She wanted to weep.

  "Oh, my God," she whispered. "I knew you would come."

  He rushed to the bars, sliding his arm through and curling her in a one-armed hug—or as much of a hug as he could give with the bars between them. "I’ve been trying to find you—"

  The words burst out of him in a rush; apologies, explanations, all things he didn’t need to give her.

  "I know you did your best," she whispered, cupping his face. "I never doubted you were out there looking for me, not even for a second." Pressing her lips to his, she felt the cold iron bars burning her skin.

  Kincaid stepped back, rattling the bars. "I’ll get you out of here."

  "Liam." She captured his hand. "There’s something you need to know."

  He’d been examining the bars, his jaw heavily lined with stubble, but at that, he looked down. "What? What’s wrong?"

  "Nothing’s wrong." A smile burst over her face. "We’re going to have a baby."

  He almost ripped the bars down with his bare hands.

  Lark retreated up the stairs, giving Kincaid and Ava some privacy as the pair of them reunited in a sudden flurry of tears and hugging.

  Exhilaration still ran through her veins, leaving her body on edge and her heart racing, despite the win. They'd survived. They'd managed to pull it off. She couldn't wait to throw herself into Charlie's arms, and let him spin her in the air.

  They'd won, which meant she could finally let herself relax.

  A masked wolf hovered at the top of the stairs, and Lark nodded to him as they both turned to the side to pass each other.

  She was one step clear of him when a prickling sensation chased its way down her spine. She'd spent years listening to that sensation, and running when it told her to run. The knife slipped into her hand, Lark turning to face him—

  Something sharp slid into her side.

  Lark slapped at the wolf's grip, but it was too late. Numbness flooded through her, the taunting chill of hemlock sweeping through her veins. All she could hear was the clatter of her knife hitting the stairs and tumbling back down them.

  The wolf caught her and swept her up into his arms before she could hit the floor. "Apologies, Your Highness. But it seems there is someone who is very interested in meeting you."

  Your Highness.

  Lark snatched at his mask with the last ounce of her strength. It came away, revealing his dark features. "L...thr...."

  "Indeed," said the man who'd been feeding the Company of Rogues information. "Though I fear my loyalty no longer belongs to the Duke of Malloryn."

  Chapter 30

  "Lark?" Charlie searched for her as Kincaid helped Ava up the stairs from the cellar.

  "She was down in the cellar with us. Slipped away when I let Ava out," Kincaid said, his eyes shadowing as he read the tension in Charlie's face. "Why?"

  He counted faces, seeing nothing but a swarm of Black Wolves—Nikolai had shot the vampire between the eyes, and they were inside the cell, cutting it to pieces to make sure it stayed dead.

  Blade stood over Malloryn, his body shielding the duke from prying eyes, but he noticed Charlie looking.

  And he straightened.

  There was no sign of her in the room.

  "She's not in here," Charlie said, the predator within him slithering through his veins as it sensed his tension. Lark could take care of herself—he knew that. But his insides were twisting themselves in knots. He had this horrible feeling he couldn't escape. "She wasn't in the cellar?"

  "No. There's only one way out," Kincaid said.

  "What's wrong?" Blade demanded.

  "I can't find Lark."

  All three of them set out in brief search, leaving
Ava with Malloryn. By the time they met back in the cells, Charlie's heart was starting to hammer through his veins.

  The second he saw Blade's face, he knew something was wrong.

  "Found this on the stairs," Blade said, holding a knife.

  Charlie snatched it, the heat draining from his face. "It's hers. She'd never drop it."

  Nikolai made his way toward them, using a strip of cloth to wipe the vampire's acidic blood from his reddened knuckles. "Irina's missing?" he demanded, having clearly overheard them.

  "I can't find her. She wouldn't just wander off. Not now. Not here." Charlie scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Did anyone see her go?"

  "No." Nikolai turned around slowly. "But I'm one Wolf short."

  They found the missing Wolf stashed beneath the sweeping staircase in the house above, with his throat slit.

  Nikolai knelt at his side, blood staining his fingertips as Charlie paced.

  "Someone's taken her," he said.

  It was the only conclusion he could draw.

  "They killed Ivan," Nikolai murmured in a chilling voice as he straightened, "and took his cloak and mask. They must have grabbed her in the mayhem."

  "But why?" Charlie blurted. "And who?"

  "Who else knew who she was?" Nikolai demanded.

  "Only the Company of Rogues," he replied.

  "Nobody else?" the man pressed.

  "Someone in the 'ouse mighta seen her back," Blade murmured. "One o' the servants, mebbe."

  Charlie stared through the dead Wolf as a horrible thought occurred. "Luther picked the servants by hand. Gemma suspected the information he was giving us was false, but.... She thought one of his spy network was compromised."

  He met Nikolai's eyes.

  Luther had been commissioned in Russia for years, according to Gemma. He was Malloryn's trusted source here, but what if someone else had bought his loyalty? It was a long way from England, after all.

  And the servants would report to him.

  "Son o' a bitch," Blade cursed. "The fuckin' bastard was right in front o' us, all along."

  "Where would he take her?" he whispered.

  "There's two options," Blade said.

  "But only one of them would want her dead." Nikolai's knuckles tightened around his cane. "If your friends have Balfour cornered in front of the court, then this Luther will know he can gain no value there. It will be Sergey. Luther will take her to Sergey."

  "My prince," Luther called, hauling Lark through the assorted nobles swarming around the dais at Balfour's palace. "I have a gift for you."

  The crowd parted and Lark squirmed against her bonds, biting into the silk gag he'd bound around her face, as Luther shoved her in front of her worst nightmare.

  Sergey resided on Balfour's chair, which was set right in the middle of the dais. A half dozen Imperial Ravens stood between him and the crowd, standing impassively. Light gleamed off their metal enhancements. Whereas England had shunned its mechs as barely human, the Empire embraced them as cold-blooded killers.

  Sergey barely glanced up from a paper his attendant had been holding, waving a negligent hand. "Can you not see I am busy? Vladimir Feodorevna has been found a traitor to the court, and someone must bring this mess to an end. The tsarina is furious. Be off with you."

  "Perhaps this will change your mind?"

  Luther drew a knife, and her leather over corset suddenly gaped as he slashed at the cords binding it together. Grabbing the back of her shirt, he tore it right up the center and sent her sprawling.

  A gasp went up behind her as Lark's fists slapped on the marble floor. She didn't dare move. The world faded around her as she looked up, and all she could see was the man who'd murdered her family, sitting up straight as he saw the tattoo on her back.

  "Saints' blood," someone whispered.

  "She wears the marque du sang," said another.

  This had always been her most common nightmare.

  Lark reached up with her bound hands to tear the gag from between her teeth. Hungry eyes watched her, and a chill ran through her as she raked the crowd for any sign of a familiar face.

  There was none.

  Gemma and the other Rogues had to be here somewhere, but would they even know she was in the palace?

  How the hell was she going to get out of this one?

  Charlie would come for her. She knew he would.

  And yet, with that thought came another chill, for she never wanted the man she loved to have to face the Prince of Tsaritsyn.

  "Well." A gleam lit Sergey's eyes. "This day brings many an unusual gift. First, the downfall of an old foe. Now this." He pushed to his feet, towering over her. "A young woman bearing the marque of the Grigoriev family. Who are you?"

  Lark pushed to her feet, cool air caressing her back through the slit of her shirt. Every inch of her remained tense, but she'd be damned if she'd tremble before him.

  "My name is Irina Konstantinovna Grigoriev. You killed my family."

  And I want you to die.

  More gasps.

  Even Sergey looked surprised, as though he'd expected her to be an imposter or beg him for mercy. "Irina?" he breathed. "Unfortunately your words betray your lie. Irina's family died in the fires that swept the palace—"

  "No. They did not. The first to die was Yekaterina." Lark curled her hands into fists. Fear bled into anger as the darkness within her awoke. All these years. Always looking over her shoulder. Well, she was done now. She had never wanted to face him, not like this, but if she had to.... Then she would not cower. "She begged my mother to save her, but mother could not. She was being held down by two of the Chernyye Volki who ruled under your hand."

  Sergey's cold gaze locked on hers and she saw the recognition there as he remembered it too.

  His faint smile died.

  Not an imposter. She saw it in his eyes.

  And saw too, that he didn't particularly wish for the truth to come out.

  "The second to die was Evgeni. The man who killed him wore a wolf mask. Perhaps he couldn't look my brother in the eyes as he slit his throat. He was barely off his short strings, after all. A baby. An innocent baby. My mother was screaming by then, begging his killer for mercy.

  "And then it was my mother's turn." She spun, finding Luther standing there gaping at her, the knife still in his hands. Lark used it to slash the ropes that bound her wrists together. He jerked away, but she wasn't done yet. Grabbing his wrist, she twisted and took the knife from him in a move Blade had spent years teaching her.

  Backing away, she held the knife in his direction to warn him against retaliation.

  Lark turned back to Sergey, all the color draining out of the world as the darkness washed over her. Suddenly she felt no fear. Only the desire to face him, once and for all. "You wanted her to see the life leave her children's eyes. You saved her for last to punish her for choosing my father and not you."

  Sergey took a half-step back as Lark advanced toward him, burning with rage. Then he paused.

  "You lie," he sneered.

  "I do not. I was on the balcony, shivering with cold. A little girl watching her family being slaughtered before her eyes. The one Grigoriev child you couldn't account for. I saw your face when you removed the mask. You killed them. You slaughtered my family, and used your Black Wolves to assault my father's carriage."

  "A dangerous claim," he said.

  "I'm not afraid of you anymore."

  It was the first time she'd lied.

  Whispers circled through the nobles surrounding them.

  Sergey took stock, his mouth thinning. Nobody here would decry him for killing his cousins and taking power, but being caught out like this? That was a cardinal sin. "Then you're a fool. You think to threaten me? My wife will be the tsarina's heir. I am the Prince of Tsaritsyn, and you are nothing. Guards, seize this imposter—"

  "Be warned, my prince," called a firm voice. "She is with the English delegation. You risk an international incident."

  Lark'
s heart slammed behind the cage of her ribs as skirts swished, a group of young ladies revealing the speaker. Nobody wished to stand at his side, it seemed.

  Captain Kosova rested a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, his eyes watching her expressionlessly. He'd provided Gemma with information about the state of the court and they'd been hoping he would stand as witness when it all went down with Balfour, but he was one of Sergey's Ravens.

  He could only dare so much.

  "Nobody knows she is here," Luther called.

  Sergey's eyes cut toward her again. "Then she is alone." He drew his sword with a steely rasp. "And there is only one way to deal with such slanderous accusations. If you are a Grigoriev, then I challenge you. If you are not, then you will die, regardless."

  The doors slammed open behind them.

  Lark spun, but she couldn't see who had entered.

  "But she is not alone," came a loud, familiar voice.

  Charlie.

  Relief burst through her as she saw him, shoving his way through the crowd, his eyes given over entirely to black. He dwarfed the nobles surrounding him, and moved with a lethal intensity she'd never seen on Charlie before. Gone was her sugarplum. In his place stood a man fighting against the violent press of the craving.

  Blade was at his side, hands held low against his thighs, no doubt hiding his razors.

  "Lark," Charlie called, reaching for her. "Come here."

  Sergey's eyes hooded as he considered the turn of events. "Seize them," he told his Ravens.

  Metal rang on marble as four of the Ravens stomped forward. Luther stood in her way, cutting her off from the others. Lark held her knife low, considering options. Charlie must have seen the risk too, for when their eyes met, his nostrils thinned.

  "You interfere with a Blood challenge," Sergey called. "If you interfere, my Ravens will be forced to cut you down."