From London, With Love

by Bec McMaster

  “Desperately? That’s a little gauche, is it not?” he teased. “I’m a duke. I do nothing ‘desperately.’”

  “Considering I had you on your very knees in the rubble of the Ivory Tower, my love”—Adele cocked a haughty brow—“‘desperately’ is the precise term I would use.”

  “Ah.” He couldn’t suppress a smile. “And how many times are you going to remind me of that proposal? I had one moment of weakness—brought about by the emotion of finally thwarting my nemesis, no doubt—and you’ve thrown it in my face ever since.”

  “Every day,” she promised. “For the rest of my life.”

  Malloryn stroked his finger and thumb down a golden curl that spilled over her shoulder, twirling it idly around his finger. He’d seen the marriages of his companions and had once thought them a combination of physical chemistry conspiring to lure the unsuspecting to their doom. He’d even succumbed to such madness himself, though he hadn’t realized affection held just as much weight as lust in bringing a man to his knees. Every day with Adele by his side brought new revelations—including the fact he’d never have thought to enjoy teasing her so much.

  “I think you like seeing me kneeling as penitent before you.”

  Adele turned her face, biting his finger with a challenge in her eyes. “If you’re a nice husband and promise me a waltz tonight, I may return the favor.”

  His finger stilled. Jesus. “Then I shall promise you all of my waltzes tonight.”

  “Just one, Malloryn,” she said with an impish smile as she disengaged his finger from her hair and then twirled away. “Perhaps you should offer the queen one of your others. Save her from her misery.”

  “I don’t think seeing me will rouse any joy in her. I’m currently at the top of a list of people she would care to avoid at the moment.”

  “I disagree.” Adele shrugged, her gaze sliding across the room to where a tall, taciturn man scowled into his wine and very carefully did not look anywhere in the queen’s direction. “I think she might be concentrating on avoiding someone else, to be honest. I daresay you’re merely an annoying gnat at her ankle.”

  “A gnat, am I?” And to think that once upon a time, princes and kings had cowered when he arched an icy eyebrow in their direction. He shook his head as he turned for the stairs. “Sometimes I think you consider it your prime duty in life to keep me humble.”

  Adele’s twinkling laughter filled his ears as he made his way down to the ballroom.

  It took him half a minute to intercept the queen, holding out a hand. “May I?”

  Alexandra arched a brow, but gracefully accepted, and he swung her into the waltz. “Pleased with yourself?”

  “It’s your ball,” he replied. “I think you should be the one graced with congratulations. The blud-wein is an excellent vintage, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and you certainly seem not to lack for dance partners.”

  “It appears word has gotten around that I seek a consort. I cannot imagine how that happened.”

  “Neither can I,” he replied smoothly. “Though I did invite half of Europe’s eligible bachelors to attend the exhibition, so perhaps some of them are merely ambitious and reading between the lines.”

  “Ah,” Alexandra said with a bitter little twist of her lips. “And which one do you care for, Malloryn? I see we have some Russian Blood princes, all with ties to the tsarina. But you don’t want me to choose one of them. The Blood play by their own rules, and you’d never be able to control one of them.”

  “True,” he admitted. “Nor would you accept one. They’re merely here to keep up appearances. Besides, I have some interest in business with one of the princes. That’s why they’re here.”

  “One of the princes?” She scanned the crowd. “Ivan Feodorovich? What business could you possibly have with him?”

  “It’s personal,” Malloryn told her.

  “Malloryn,” she warned. “You don’t do personal.”

  “I am merely tying up some loose ends from that entire ordeal in Russia,” he assured her. He suddenly smiled. “And I may need a friendly Russian prince one day.”

  “Always meddling, Malloryn.”

  “Always,” he promised.

  She returned her attention to the crowd. “So it’s not one of the Russians. I see we have a few swarthy Hapsburgs, but you disapprove of their means of leashing verwulfen.”

  “I disapprove of collars in general.”

  “And it cannot be one of the verwulfen candidates—not with the risk I might contract the loupe and die. So the Scandinavians are off the list. And the Spanish are only here for appearances, what with their ties to New Catalan and the Illumination. I daresay you wouldn’t want those policies polluting London.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. I daresay you wish to promote blue blood interests in the wake of the revolution. Too many humans on the council and the throne. Time to balance the accounts. Which leaves me with the blue blood candidates from London. Of course. The rest are a distraction. You’re trying to screen your ideal candidate from me.”

  He gave her a considering look. “The choice is yours, Alexandra. I merely offer a buffet from which to consider your options.”

  “If you think I don’t know that you’ve already chosen my husband, then you either consider me a fool, or a queen who doesn’t know her spymaster well enough.”

  It provoked a laugh. “You’ve never been a fool.” He’d have never been able to help her and the Duchess of Casavian overthrow her husband if she was. “I shall concede: Yes, I’ve already chosen your husband.” Capturing her hand, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. “But I doubt you’ll ever guess who.”

  The queen’s eyes narrowed. “So be it, Malloryn. Let the games begin.”

  And she waded into the melee with her head held high, astutely studying the crowd of suitors.

  Malloryn gestured to one of the servants, taking a small snifter of brandy as he watched the queen laugh and placate, and search for his ideal candidate.

  A year ago, he’d have never even considered Sir Gideon.

  The man was humble and honest and alarmingly human, with a humans first agenda. He was also the sentimental choice, and Malloryn had never held truck with sentiment.

  Until recently.

  Adele had shown him the error of his ways.

  The queen deserved to be happy. She deserved a husband who would cherish her and help her steer the monarchy into a safe, secure future for humans, verwulfen, and blue bloods alike. And Sir Gideon could be reasoned with.

  And then, catching the eye of Sir Gideon Scott, who was watching proceedings with a thinly disguised look of irritation on his face, he lifted his glass as if in mutual celebration.

  Dukes. Princes. Barons. Counts.

  Alexandra was starting to lose track of them all. Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her head swam from the reek of perfume and cologne. She circled the ballroom in the arms of a Russian prince, wishing she could be elsewhere.

  The choice of dance partner didn’t suit her either.

  Prince Ivan Feodorovich was too tall and physically imposing. He’d taken her in hand as if she was a prize to be claimed, and though he was perfectly polite, his cool skin unnerved her.

  He reminded her a little of her former husband with the hawkish glint in those eyes and the sheer overwhelming masculinity that oozed off him. Though his smile was warmer, she nonetheless felt hunted.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Her stays… pressing tighter. Constricting all the breath from her lungs.

  “Are you well?” he demanded in his thick accent, his hand tightening on her waist. “You seem breathless. Do you wish for fresh air?”

  Not with you.

  But it was the perfect opportunity. Alexandra made her excuses and discreetly slipped from the ballroom, her skin crawling. She made her way toward her private apartments in a flurry of silk, barely aware of the Coldrush guard and servant who followed her.

  Once inside her drawing room, Alexandra pressed
her back to the door, closing her eyes and breathing slowly. It was ridiculous. The man had barely touched her, barely even looked at her, yet she’d felt the prickle of nerves alight within her like a sudden sickness.

  It was because he was attractive.

  Demanding.

  Physically imposing.

  And worse, a blue blood.

  She was the queen of England. No man could control her ever again.

  But no matter how often she told herself that, it didn’t still the jump of nerves.

  How was she going to do this? How was she going to let another man into her bed, when she could barely even stand to be touched?

  The only man she felt comfortable around was Sir Gideon, and even then she’d had… a moment. And she’d been kissed once by the Duke of Goethe, before her husband had him murdered. It had been nice, though to be perfectly honest, she’d fallen for Manderlay’s quiet charms and his gift of poetry, rather than being swayed physically. And the kiss had been so perfunctory, it hadn’t threatened her.

  But she trusted Sir Gideon. He felt nonthreatening, and indeed, she’d wanted him to kiss her, once upon a time.

  She still wanted him to kiss her, though she doubted he’d ever chance such an encounter again after she’d fled from him that last time.

  Indeed, he was possibly the only man of her acquaintance whom she could even consider… lying with.

  An idea occurred.

  It was ludicrous. Preposterous.

  But what if it worked?

  Alexandra froze. What if all she needed was frequent exposure with someone she trusted? What if she could defeat this… this fear within her?

  “Don’t you even think about it,” she whispered in the stillness of her rooms.

  And yet, the thought of Sir Gideon kissing her again was almost its own type of lure.

  And you are the queen.

  Ava winced as the frequency transmitter squealed. Gemma must have been standing too close to the orchestra.

  She swiftly turned the dial for Gemma’s communication device down, and scanned through the other Rogues’ frequencies. All was well.

  The door behind her opened.

  “I’m sorry, this room is taken.” Ava glanced behind her, then abruptly straightened and dipped a curtsy. “Your Majesty. My apologies. I had no idea it was you. Forgive me.”

  She’d taken over one of the queen’s antechambers for the night, with Malloryn’s blessing.

  The queen smiled. “Forgiven, Miss McLaren. Whatever are you doing out of bed?”

  Ava relaxed. “Oh, I volunteered. Someone has to keep them all in line,” she joked, gesturing to the transmitter. And it wasn’t as if she was going to be getting much sleep, what with the incessant ache in her hips.

  “I trust you are well?” The queen’s face softened as she glanced down, though her eyes bore the stain of sadness.

  Ava should have been in confinement. No amount of ruffles in the world could conceal the bulk of her midriff, where Kincaid’s baby kicked morning and night. But Herbert was the only other person who knew how to work the switchboard, and he was currently enjoying a weekend in Bath with his wife.

  “Tolerably well, Your Majesty.”

  “Malloryn’s not working you too hard?”

  “Oh no,” she hastened to reassure her queen. “He wanted me to rest, but there’s no rest to be had, unfortunately. I may as well keep my mind and body busy.”

  “Oh, I remember those days,” the queen murmured, one hand resting on her flat midriff.

  Ava stiffened. Oh, no. She’d completely forgotten. The queen’s only child had been stillborn. It was the worst thing she could imagine. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be.” There was no emotion in the queen’s eyes, though her lips curled in a placating smile. “Edward’s memory should always be kept alive.”

  Awkwardness fell upon the pair of them, however, and Ava couldn’t help bringing a hand to rest upon her swollen abdomen. She’d been cursing the way the baby kicked all night, but she would never take such gestures for granted again.

  But what should she say?

  “I should get back to the ball,” the queen murmured, as if sensing Ava’s distress. “Malloryn will be wondering where I am.”

  “I hope you find someone,” Ava called as Her Majesty turned toward the door. “I hope he makes you happy.”

  The queen glanced over her shoulder. “You’re very kind.”

  Through the door, Ava heard the whirr of a servant drone sensing movement and rolling toward the queen.

  Accepting a glass of cordial from the drone’s tray, the queen swished past, heading toward the ballroom in a cloud of perfume, cordial and something else, something bitter—

  Ava’s head turned unerringly.

  That smell….

  The scent of lilacs and oils was almost overwhelming, but her sense of smell was stronger now she was with child—as all scents seemed to be—and she’d know it anywhere.

  Ava lumbered toward the drone, grabbing the second flute of champagne and sniffing it.

  Bitter almonds. Cyanide. An impressive dose of it.

  The cordial!

  The doors swung shut behind the queen, and Ava lunged after her, hampered by both her skirts and her bulk. She shoved the doors open, but the queen was vanishing toward the second gallery. Two guards stood side by side at the next set of doors, but it was the elegant brunette pacing in front of a painting that drew her attention. Gemma had drawn guard duty for the night.

  “Gemma!” she cried, meeting her friend’s eyes from across the room. “The cordial!”

  Gemma’s smile faded in an instant. Her gaze tracked Ava’s, and she leapt toward the queen.

  Even as Ava watched, the queen laughed at something a guard had said and lifted the glass to her lips.

  There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say—

  And then Gemma slammed into the queen, sending the glass flying, and the pair of them toppling.

  Instantly, a cry went up. Guards swarmed out of nowhere, swallowing the pair of them whole.

  “What the hell is going on here?” The captain of the guards demanded, as several Coldrush guards hauled Gemma off the queen.

  Ava finally fought her way through. “The cordial smells like cyanide!”

  The captain helped the queen to her feet, and someone handed her the crown, which had gone flying. The queen shot Gemma a pale-faced look—and Ava couldn’t help remembering how long it had taken Her Majesty to forgive Gemma for trying to kill her when she’d been implanted with the mind-controlling chip.

  “It’s the cordial,” she begged the queen. “I smelled it as you went past me. I think it’s poisoned.”

  Malloryn appeared out of nowhere, tucking Gemma under one arm and giving Ava a curt nod to retreat. “I’ll handle it,” he said to the waiting guards, visibly inspecting the queen. “Did you drink any of it?”

  The queen looked shocked. “A sip, perhaps.”

  “I think you should retire,” he stressed.

  The queen nodded, and Malloryn gestured for the captain of the guards to escort her to her private rooms.

  “Ava,” he said.

  “I’ll gather the evidence,” she replied, slipping a small leather satchel from one of the pockets in her gown and withdrawing a sample vial.

  She found little enough of the cordial to test, but as she brought her damp fingers to her nose to sniff it, she realized she’d been right.

  Someone had poisoned the queen’s cordial.

  Chapter Three

  “What the hell do you mean, she was poisoned?” Sir Gideon demanded, pushing his way through the doors into the queen’s antechambers despite the burly mech standing on duty outside.

  Malloryn captured his forearm, but Gideon was having none of it.

  Grabbing the duke by his collar, he shoved him into the wall, searching for Alexandra. “Where is she, damn you? What happened? Have you sent for the doctor, or the—?”

 
“Sir Gideon. That’s enough.”

  Alexandra. There. His breath eased in his chest as the queen pushed to her feet from the chair by the window. Moonlight painted silver fleur de lis across the patterns of her gown, but she looked whole and hearty, and as well as he’d ever seen her.

  “You weren’t poisoned?” he gasped.

  “Evidently.” Malloryn pried Gideon’s clenched fists off his collar. “You’re lucky I like you. That cravat took a half hour to knot.”

  Damn it. He let the bastard go, scrubbing at his mouth. Malloryn could have handed him his teeth, and they both knew it. “You’re lucky I trust you with the queen’s continued health.”

  Malloryn arched a cool brow. “I wasn’t aware the queen’s health was of your particular concern.”

  “Of course, it’s of my concern,” he countered, though heat flushed through his cheeks. The words were dangerously close to the truth he tried to hide every damned time he looked at her. “It’s of concern to all the council. All of London.”

  “And yet, none of them are barging into her private chambers like a Suffolk bull given a glimpse of a red rag.”

  “That’s enough,” Alexandra repeated. “The both of you.” Her voice softened. “Gideon, I’m fine. Luckily, one of Malloryn’s agents scented the cyanide in the cordial, and another one of them knocked it from my hand before I could drink much of it.”

  He couldn’t help crossing toward her, though he paused at the edge of the carpet. A decent five feet of distance. “Do we know who it was?”

  “No,” she murmured. “Malloryn’s agents are attempting to find us some answers. It could be anyone. There are so many foreign dignitaries here, anyone could have seized the chance.”

  “That makes little sense. Half of them are here to… to meet you.” He couldn’t say the words. “Who would wish you dead?”

  Before a potential wedding?

  “Someone who would enjoy seeing England cast into chaos,” she said. “The French, perhaps? An unruly member of one of the foreign parties? Someone with a grudge against a potential suitor? One of the Echelon who hasn’t yet forgiven me for changing the nature of London?”