by Bec McMaster
the most impassioned Debney had ever been.
"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"
"Why? Worried you'd be called in to identify
the body? I'm sure such a thing would only be an
inconvenience for you."
Byrnes eyed the stiff way Debney sat. "I don't
wish you ill. I've never wished you ill. It would...
grieve me to see you dead."
Debney raked a hand over his face, the sneer
vanishing as something more akin to hopelessness
filled his expression. "I'm not going to do anything
suicidal. I'll leave that to you and your mad scheme
to confront Ulbricht and his cronies." Looking up,
his voice softened. "They're dangerous, Caleb.
Those who speak out against them or threaten to
reveal their secrets have a tendency to go missing.
And we're talking about dukes and barons here,
people in positions of power. If you think that your
Nighthawk status protects you, then you're wrong."
"I'm used to dealing with dangerous people,"
he replied, crossing to the secretary and rifling
through the piled up invitations there. He finally
found the one he wanted and tapped the invitation
against his thigh as he turned back to Debney. "It's
made out in your name."
"Of
course."
Debney
frowned,
then
understanding dawned. "You can't use it yourself."
"Why not?" Undercover work was one of his
fortes. "Just how large is this gathering going to
be?"
"It doesn't matter how large it will be."
Debney's gaze raked over him. "You're not.... You
wouldn't fit in. They'd spot you from a mile away."
Byrnes looked down at himself. "I mustn't
have realized that my rogue blue blood status was
emblazoned on my forehead. I might, however,
need to borrow some clothes—"
"It's not the clothes, or the fact that your
infection was unapproved," Debney protested.
"Christ, Caleb, it's the attitude, it's everything—
even the calluses on your hands. You don't look
like some idle aristocrat, and you never will."
Which wasn't something that had ever
bothered him. Byrnes arched a brow.
"You look like you kill people for a living."
Debney interpreted the look correctly.
"Part of the job description sometimes. I don't
do it for fun."
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 m
akes
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
