by Bec McMaster
Interesting.
From what he'd heard of the marriage, it had been an alliance and nothing else. The duke and duchess lived separate lives, and his spy in Malloryn's household reported that the duke despised her.
"Is his interest in Devoncourt or his wife?"
"Difficult to say." Dido tossed the cloak from her shoulders. "Perhaps he's interested in the wife because of Devoncourt's sudden attentions to her."
This was why he'd sent her.
Jelena wouldn't have noticed the difference. Nor would she have cared.
"Definitely a situation to watch." He couldn't dare hope Malloryn would fall for the girl. That would be a gift from the gods. "And how did your meeting go?"
A faint sneer graced Dido's lip. "He'll be difficult to control but he has the influence of his peers. They prefer him to the other candidate you proposed."
"Then remove Darlington from the equation and give Sir George my encouragement."
"He wants to know how you intend to bring the queen down."
Balfour paused. "My, my, he has grown big for his boots. Tell him that if he wants to know my final plans for the queen, then he needs to prove his loyalty. The latest shipment of explosives is due to arrive. Sir George owns three warehouses down by the docks. Tell him I'll be using those warehouses."
"I'll enjoy that," Dido said. "He thinks I'm beneath him because I'm a woman."
"Most of the older Echelon does." More fool them. Balfour had long since learned women could be the most dangerous of species. "Excellent. While Devoncourt and his wife divert Malloryn's attention, why don't we see if we can push forward with the Prometheus project?"
"And me?" Jelena demanded, like an overeager puppy.
"It's time to send Malloryn another message," he said, turning to her. "Would you like to spill some blood, my dearest?"
"Anything to report?"
Malloryn slung his coat off his shoulders and draped it over the back of his chair as Gemma followed him inside his study at Hardcastle Lane. He poured the pair of them a drink.
Gemma tossed her mask down on the desk. "She met with him again."
Malloryn froze, the brandy halfway to his lips as he tried to sort through the implications of her statement. "My wife?"
"With Devoncourt." Gemma slumped into the chair opposite him in a spill of bronze taffeta. "Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps she is working for Balfour. They seemed quite intimate as they withdrew to a small alcove. I couldn't get close enough to hear what they were saying, alas, but it was shortly after she returned from the gardens."
Where Adele had practically challenged him to seduce her.
Malloryn set the brandy down on his desk and tugged at his cravat to loosen it. Well. And here I thought matters were proceeding according to—if not quite the plan, then certainly proceeding.
A hundred questions circled through his mind, but what came out was, "Did he kiss her again?"
An uneasy expression crossed Gemma's face. "I don't know if it was precisely a kiss. Strands of ivy hung over the alcove and I couldn't get too close. But he grabbed her face and leaned in, and... something happened."
Son of a bitch. "Devoncourt's starting to irritate me."
"He may have just been whispering in her ear."
I may just strangle him with my bare hands.
"Don't even think about it. He's our only lead to the remnants of the SOG," Gemma pointed out, interpreting his expression accurately. Her blue eyes narrowed. "You're not actually jealous, are you?"
"Of course not." Malloryn threw back the entire glass of brandy. The burn of it cleared his mind. "But it's one thing to challenge me, quite another to try and blatantly seduce my wife in front of me."
"Oh, of course." Her eyes twinkled as she sipped at her glass. "We can't have that, can we? You only have yourself to blame. You told her—"
"I know what I told her. We have reached a new agreement."
"Oh?"
Malloryn set the glass down. "First one to submit."
Gemma burst into a laugh. "No wonder you've got your britches in a twist. My, my, all is not going according to plan?"
"Actually, this works perfectly," he mused. "It gives me time to work out Adele's loyalties without having to push her into bed."
"I shouldn't have thought it would be a problem? You're clearly attracted to the girl."
Attraction wasn't the problem. It never had been.
Others may have been indiscriminate with their bed partners over the years, but he'd never been comfortable flitting from bed to bed. He'd suffered enough betrayal in his lifetime to warrant a natural caution when it came to taking a lover. He desired trust, in the least, and preferred a mutual friendship, if he could find it.
He had none of those aspects with Adele.
Only pure, carnal desire.
Challenge.
An odd sense of grudging respect.
"This is merely a means to an end," he replied. "I need to know Adele's loyalties, not... whether we are well-matched in bed."
"You should find out." Gemma shook her head. "It's been months since you've even glanced at a woman. It worries me. I know you still regret what happened to Isabella, but it wasn't your fault. You cannot simply lock yourself away like a monk, just because Balfour's a threat to anyone who gets close to you."
And there it was.
The other reason he didn't dare get too close to another woman.
The baroness had been at his side for years. First as a friend, and then as a lover, and now, as yet another weight upon his stained soul. He'd tried to protect Isabella by ending their arrangement, but it had been too late.
Balfour had used his neural stimulating device to make her betray the Company of Rogues, and then kill herself.
"I love you," she'd said, and they'd both known he didn't feel the same. He'd seen the fire in Isabella's eyes die as she realized she'd never been more than a friend to him. Seen it fill her from within with bitterness.
Guilt. What a familiar taste it left in his mouth.
"Watch me," he murmured.
Gemma shot him a long, slow look. "You've never spoken about it."
"What is there to say? Balfour killed her because he thought he could hurt me." He succeeded. "Until I have his heart in my hand, nobody is safe and I cannot allow any distractions."
"You—"
"I need to speak to the queen," he said, pushing to his feet and swaying just slightly.
"You need sleep."
He shrugged back into his coat. What little of it I can manage to snatch.... He wasn't tired enough to guarantee himself a dreamless slumber if he tried. And with Balfour arisen from the shadows and Jelena lurking out there somewhere, he doubted even exhaustion would allow him such.
"Unfortunately, there's no rest for the wicked."
"Are you still having nightmares?" Gemma said, stepping directly in his path.
He glanced toward the door. She was the only one who knew. He'd like to keep it that way. "They come and go."
Sympathy softened her face. "If you wanted to talk about it—"
"I do not."
A sigh escaped her, and she reached up and fixed his collar. "Then go warn the queen. And try not to murder Lord Devoncourt before we've extracted what we can from him. Or at least, try and understand precisely why he bothers you so much first."
Malloryn strode through one of the hidden tunnels that led into the queen's apartments at the top of the Ivory Tower.
The sound of merriment echoed within, but he had a good idea of her schedule and knew who her companions would be.
As he slipped out from behind a tapestry, he saw Sir Gideon Scott rise to poke the fire. The leader of the Humans First party was a stout man with gray at the temples of his dark hair and a dashing moustache. That he'd attached himself to Alexandra so soon upon her return from Windsor spoke of machinations.
The man was no doubt up to something: Some new law or rule he wanted to discuss in private with the queen. They were never f
ar from each other's side these days, and Malloryn couldn't help wondering what they were plotting.
Several of the queen's attendants sewed and cleared platters, providing an escort for the queen.
One nearly dropped her platter when she saw him appear out of the shadows. "Your Grace!"
"Ah, my Lord Stormcrow." The laughter faded from the queen's eyes as she caught sight of him. "You look particularly dire."
Sir Gideon looked up sharply. "Malloryn."
He exchanged polite greetings with the room and bowed to the queen. As he rose, their eyes met.
Her Highness's smile never faded, but she clapped her hands, capturing the attention of her ladies-in-waiting. "It seems my holiday at Windsor has left me with a mountain of paperwork to sign, no doubt. I shouldn't wish to bore my ladies. You may all retire while Malloryn drones in my ear."
The three ladies-in-waiting curtsied and left the room.
Sir Gideon did not.
"What news?" the queen asked briskly.
Malloryn waited until the doors were properly closed. "You received my missive?"
The queen's hands paused in the middle of pouring herself tea. "I did not."
"Balfour is back."
A breath hissed between Sir Gideon's teeth. "You're certain of this?"
"I do not speak unless I am certain." Malloryn produced the letter from within his coat. "He left this on my desk. In my house."
No need to explain which precise house he referred to.
The queen's expression gave nothing away as she read it. "So Balfour has risen from the ashes once more. I do wish you would do something permanent about that sometime soon, Malloryn. I grow weary of looking over my shoulder."
"If he was so easy to kill, I would have done it. He's a cockroach."
"Then he means trouble?" Sir Gideon looked worried. "You think he'll make another attempt on the queen's life?"
"In the least. I've sent orders to have the guards doubled."
The queen made a vexed sound in her throat. "Let me guess..., you're here to convince me to cancel a certain number of my forthcoming engagements."
Malloryn didn't bother to lie. The queen knew him too well. "Yes."
Alexandra pushed to her feet, her skirts swishing around her ankles. "My fifteen-year anniversary is coming up."
"I know."
"No," she snapped. "No. I will not put it off. It's been nearly fifteen years since that bastard murdered my father and put me on my throne. Four years since I became queen in truth and not just name. I will not cancel my celebrations just because my husband's little lackey wants to take my crown. We've been planning this for months. The people are looking forward to the parade. Sir Gideon assures me it's vital they see me out in public, and not locked away up here like a spider toying with their lives. There's been so much unrest—"
"Most of it stirred by Balfour," he reminded her. "And as much as the people might wish to see their queen, I daresay it wouldn't do public morale any good if someone put a bullet through her head on the parade route."
She narrowed eyes at him.
"You think Balfour will make his play for revenge during the queen's celebrations." Sir Gideon stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
If he wanted Alexandra to consider what he was proposing, he'd need Sir Gideon's cool head on his side.
"Why would he not? It's very public, very visible. It would make a great spectacle and holds a certain sense of theatrics. I don't think he'll be able to help himself."
"Gideon?" the queen whispered.
"We can cancel the extraneous events," Sir Gideon proposed. "The parade will be more difficult, and the ball is meant to bring the Echelon back together. It's not just the human races who resent the lack of progress in recent times."
"Hang the blue blood aristocracy," the queen snapped. "They've caused me nothing but grief. Now. And then. And they're the prime cause of said lack of progress."
"Does this include me?" Malloryn asked coolly. "Lord Barrons? Lynch?" He saved the best for last. "Your dearest friend, the Duchess of Casavian?"
The queen's lips thinned.
"You are their queen too," he reminded her. "And while it frustrates you to see their rallies against your new laws, you cannot hate them all. You cannot crush them completely, or you are no better than your husband was."
Alexandra drew back as if slapped. "You dare?"
"Speak the truth?" he pointed out. "Blue bloods have the same right to exist as humans do. You will never weld this country together if you resent one and not the other. Change is happening. And yes, it is slower than you may like, and yes, there are always going to be teething problems with each new law we introduce, but if you take this stance then you play directly into Balfour's hands."
The queen paced like a cat backed into a corner. "Gideon?"
"For once I agree with Malloryn," Sir Gideon replied.
She turned on Malloryn, and he knew he'd won. "I will cancel all the parties and the fireworks. The parade will go on as planned. The ball will stay. In the meantime, find that bastard and bring me his head."
Malloryn met Sir Gideon's eyes as he bowed. "I will do my best."
"Do better than your best, Malloryn. This time, I want no failures."
Chapter 7
The war began on a Wednesday.
Malloryn would always remember that, afterwards.
It began at midafternoon when he was dressing for the day, meticulously knotting his cravat with half a mind as he played through the queen's demands for her forthcoming anniversary parade.
A sound caught his attention.
The flurry of movement next door.
Maids' murmurs. Heels coming and going, as if in a mad dash.
And his wife's voice. "Get rid of it all."
Malloryn met his valet's eyes.
Simmons looked away swiftly.
The servants all knew the duke and duchess kept separate bedchambers. The door between had never been breached, and he'd never intended it to be.
He completed the cravat—a task he never allowed Simmons to do—but his attention kept returning to the door as a maid gasped in shock behind it.
What the devil was going on in there?
"Has my wife broken her fast?" With blue bloods sleeping through most of the day and carrying out their revelries at night, London society had evolved to fit their schedules.
But sometimes Adele was out of bed early enough in the day to have it still be deemed morning.
"I believe she has, Your Grace. She's been about for several hours."
"Causing mayhem?"
Simmons coughed politely into his hand. "I believe it could be considered so. Will that be everything, Your Grace?"
Malloryn dismissed Simmons with a wave of his hand and moved toward that bloody door. He paused a moment before he turned the key. There was only one, of course, and it resided firmly upon this side.
There was absolutely no reason doing this should make him feel as though he crossed an irrevocable line. It was just a door. But he paused all the same. With a soft click, he eased the door open, encountering mayhem.
The duchess's chambers were in an uproar. Silk and velvet swathed everything. Hats cascaded across the divan and the carpets. Feathers and gowns adorned the bed.
And in the center of it all stood his wife, gowned in an exquisite concoction of seafoam green that made her look pure and innocent, all soft ruffles and a gauzy bodice overlay that hid the smoldering curves that were her best weapon. Curly hair bound back in a loose chignon. Breathtaking, to be sure, but... hardly the sort of battle visage he'd expected. Innocence wasn't the sort of thing to entice a man like him, and she'd made it clear she intended to bring him to his knees by fair means or foul.
Four maids stared at him with wide-eyed horror.
Adele hadn't noticed. No, she was too busy flinging her armoire open and considering the contents.
"Good grief," she said, hauling out a filmy nightgown she dropped on the floor. "What
was I thinking?"
Adele tossed something behind her, and he caught it before it hit him in the face, glancing once at the four maids in dismissal. They bobbed a hasty deference and practically fled, and that was when his wife finally noticed him.
She spun in a swirl of green skirts.
"A little early for spring cleaning, isn't it?" Malloryn opened his bare hand.
Silk. The palest of pinks, edged with frothy white lace. A frilly little peignoir with lace so thin across the bodice it would be...
See-through.
Aha. There was the first strike. His gaze slowly shifted back to Adele.
She blew a curl off her forehead, hands on her hips. "Did you know, I actually thought I would need a wedding trousseau. I wanted to please you." She rolled her eyes. "I promised myself I would be the best wife you could imagine. I would strap myself into pretty white corsets and lacy chemises that would make the veriest maid blush. I would do my duties, lie back and think of England—"
"You do think of England quite a lot," he mused. "A sacrificial martyr on my altar?"
"It sounds silly, doesn't it? What would the Duke of Malloryn do with such an insipid creature? She was becoming quite maudlin, but I'm tired of playing that Adele. She was a fool who miscalculated rather badly. It's time to become the new Adele."
"Oh?" He belatedly discarded the garment—if it could be called such a thing—into the trunk with all the others.
The impression of the silk lingered against his skin.
"Do tell," he murmured, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Does this new Adele have a certain agenda?"
"She might. I've made an appointment with Lena's modiste, Madame Lefoux."
"Madame Lefoux?" He failed to understand. "I've never encountered her name, I'm afraid."
"A pity. Every husband should know Madame Lefoux's efforts at least once in their lives."
Malloryn's gaze sharpened upon her at the sultry sound of her voice.
"Ah," he said, as Adele swanned closer. "That kind of modiste." His gaze raked her from top to toe. There was something different about her today; a new kind of confidence. And he still wanted to get to the bottom of her appearance. There was something... out of place about it. "Is that a new gown?"
