Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (2 page)

The Nighthawks occasionally had dealings in the rookeries, and ever since the corrupt prince consort had been dethroned, Blade had become a common sight around town.
The Hero of the Realm, the commoners called him, thanks to his part in the revolution that overthrew the prince consort.
More like the devil, Byrnes thought privately.
But Charlie was Blade’s ward, and had passed on information before.
Trustworthy enough, which, considering Byrnes’s trust in others only went so far, meant a lot.

"More fuckin’ blue bloods," the dark-haired man said under his breath.
"Like we don't already have enough in here."

"Kincaid," Gemma warned.

Ava stiffened, and Byrnes strolled toward the window, hands clasped behind him.
"By the scent of oil and the whir of clockwork, I presume you're a mech."

The word had once been an insult, before the Uprising of 1880.
Humans had been considered cattle, useful only for their blood, and mechs—those with mechanical limbs or clockwork organs—even less.
Once, there had been a line in the sand: blue bloods versus humans and mechs.
Taxes to be paid in blood.
Mechs to be imprisoned in the enclaves, where they worked metal to repay the gift of their clockwork organs or mechanical limbs.

Times had changed, or at least, they were changing.
Old hatreds, however, still lingered.

"Aye, I'm a mech.
What of it?"
Kincaid asked, in a low, threatening tone as he found his feet.
Byrnes had an inch on the bastard, but Kincaid more than made up for that in breadth.
Muscle rippled beneath his coat and bulged as the brute flexed his forearms.

Byrnes simply clasped his hands behind him and stared back.
Ava would no doubt tell him later that he was causing trouble, but sometimes he simply couldn't help himself.
"Nothing really.
It explains a great deal."
Then he turned away and ran his fingertips over the shelves, as though dismissing the man.

"Aye, well—"

"Mr.
Kincaid," Gemma mocked.
"Pray don't tell me that blue bloods make you uneasy."

Kincaid's voice flattened.
"Not really.
They tend to bleed just as well as any other, only takes a bit more sticking to finish the job."

"Gentlemen," Ava said firmly.
When he looked at her, she arched a brow behind her steel-rimmed spectacles.
"Byrnes."
This was said somewhat more warmly, with just a touch of exasperation.

He held his arms out, as if to say,
what?

"Well, don't you all wonder why we're here?"
Ava asked, including them all in her look.
"I don't think picking fights with each other is conducive to anyone's cause."

"But hardly unexpected," Gemma declared, with a faint snort of amusement.
"After all, what happens when you put four blue bloods and a mech in a room together?"

"That sounds like the beginning of a good joke," Charlie Todd declared.

"I just hope it's not on us."
Ava sounded nervous.

"Only thing is, we're missing one particular species, if we want it to have a truly decent punch line," Gemma replied.

"A verwulfen?"
Charlie said with a grin.

The only one who didn't find that thought amusing was Byrnes.
His gut dropped through his boots at the word.
No.

"Let us hope not," Gemma said.
"We already have one hothead."

It continued, but Byrnes's attention had been caught by something else.
He could hear footsteps padding behind the closed doors at the far corner of the room, and a slither of shadow darkened the door briefly, softening the air with scent.

Lilies.

And something else...
something that was becoming clearer as the day continued, as if the overpowering scent of perfume was wearing away, leaving a musky hint of something else.
Something...
all woman.

No.
Hell, no.

Every nerve in his body grew tight.
Byrnes stalked toward the door on silent feet, pressing his fingertips against the paneling.

"Fuck me,"
Kincaid muttered.

From Ava,
"Well, it stands to reason.
Verwulfen were cleared by the treaty too, you know—"

"And what would we need one of them for?
It's not like this is a frigging alliance of any sort—"

Every one of Byrnes’s hunting senses was alight.
His mystery was beginning to clear up, and it was drawing a conclusion that he didn't particularly like.
Not at all.

A light, husky laugh mocked him through the door, and then movement danced in the room beyond.
Going.
His prey was going.

Byrnes slipped through the doors before he could think about it.

There was no one there.
Only another door, swinging shut slowly, and her scent, becoming obnoxiously clearer the closer he got to her.
He knew that scent hiding beneath the perfume.
It had driven him crazy a year ago, when someone—the Nighthawks’ guild master—had this smashing idea about pairing him with an outside bounty hunter on a case nobody could seem to solve.
His bloody case.
The case
he
couldn't solve.

"Just work with her, Byrnes.
She's good at what she does, and she's an even better tracker than you are."
Garrett's voice echoed in his memory.

Byrnes grit his teeth.
Garrett had known he worked better alone.
He always had, and it got on every one of his last nerves to know that not only could he
not
find the answer in this particular case, but that they expected that
she
would.

They’d lasted an entire day working together.

And then it became a competition.

"Bet I catch the killer first," that husky voice whispered in his mind.

"I bet you I do," he'd shot back, and stepped toward her, into her space.
"And when I do, you're going to get down on your knees and—"

"And?"
she'd drawled, straightening a little, her eyes lighting with a challenging fire.

It changed what he'd meant to say.
“And kiss my boots” had been his intention.
That was not what had come out.
The instant he'd stated his intentions she'd taken a step toward him, closing that last inch between them, and reached up to whisper in his ear.

"Be careful what you wish for, Byrnes."
A mocking finger traced over his shirt so lightly he barely felt it, yet the not-quite touch sent a shiver through him, and their eyes had met then, as something more than words had been exchanged.
"I don't think you'll want my teeth anywhere near your balls."
A smile that gripped his cock like a vise.
"Not that that will ever happen, but it does add a certain little incentive toward the case.
When I bring this bastard in, I have my own terms, and you'll meet them."

"Name them."
The shock of his sudden interest had flared through him, and he'd caught her wrist, stopping her hand just above the waistband of his leather breeches.

"If I solve the case, then I get to tie you to my bed, and do anything I desire to you.
Anything at all."

A mistake.
He should have made her be more specific, but just at that moment she'd flexed her wrist in his grasp and raked her fingernail over the leather protecting his cock.

"Done," he'd said.
After all, he'd never lost before.

If there was one person who could get into his room at the guild and leave that taunting note, knowing just knowing how much it would get his itch going, it was her.

The devil in disguise.

Pushing open the doors to the next room, he came to a halt.
It too was empty.

And then someone spoke.
Someone he knew all too well.

"Looking for something?
Or is it someone?"
said an amused voice from the side.

Her
.

Byrnes met a pair of eyes that were lit from within with a bronze glow.
She hadn't changed one inch from that debacle last year, where he'd been left tied to his bed, naked, with a lovely little message written across his chest in ink, which all of his fellow Nighthawks had found absolutely hilarious.

"Ingrid," he said.

"Did you miss me?"

"
M
ISS YOU
?"
Byrnes stated flatly, though the gleam in his blue eyes wasn't cold.
Not at all.
He took a menacing step toward her before pausing, his lean form falling into absolute stillness.

Ingrid Miller smiled.
She'd worked with Byrnes for only two weeks—or worked against him, perhaps, when he'd declared that he didn't need her and could find the suspect before she could—but in that time she'd come to know him well enough to predict him.

He hated emotional displays, especially in himself.
His control was absolute.
And she'd just caused him to break both of those self-governed rules.

Call it the devil on her shoulder, but when it came to Byrnes, she absolutely could not help herself.

"Miss you?"
he repeated.
"Why yes...
I believe I did.
I have a little debt to repay."

"A
little
debt?"
Ingrid glanced at him from beneath her lashes in a most un-Ingrid-like way.
"What a curious choice of words."

Instantly his gaze flattened, and she laughed.

"I searched for you," he said stiffly.

"Did you?"

"I spent months looking for you."

"You wouldn't have found me, no matter how much time you spent looking for me."
You wouldn't have found me, because I wasn't here.
Not that her quest to Norway had been successful, even with all of the lovely bounty money she'd earned by bringing in the so-called Vampire of Drury Lane all by herself.
The humor drained out of her, but she managed to keep her smile on her face.

Some mysteries took time.

She certainly wasn't giving up on this one.
And now Ingrid had received this offer, with more money on the table, should her work prove satisfactory to the Duke of Malloryn.
More money meant more informants she could pay, more searchers she could employ.
She'd find the family she'd been stolen from all those years ago.
One day.

She just had to be patient.

"Where did you go after the Drury Lane case?
You weren't in London.
You weren't in any of the towns nearby.
You weren't even in bloody Scotland!"

"That's not really any of your business."

"Oh, I think it is."
Byrnes was in her space.
They were of a height, especially with her in her heeled boots, but she never felt unfeminine around him, the way she sometimes felt with other men.
Byrnes always challenged her to be an equal, and that look in his eye had always made her feel distinctly feminine.

"You left me naked and bound to my bed.
I've been thinking about what I'd do to you to repay the debt for the last year."
His voice dropped.
"Oh, and Ingrid, I've had time to get very creative about it."

"Poor Caleb.
It sounds like I got to you."

He
hated
it when she called him Caleb.
His teeth ground together, and he reached out to cup her cheek.
One thumb brushed against her cheek, then lower, to her mouth, sinking into her plush lower lip and pressing just firmly enough to rouse a fire in her blood.
Byrnes leaned closer.
"That happens when a woman makes certain promises, and then reneges upon them."

"I promised to get you naked," she whispered around the press of his thumb.
"You were naked, if I recall.
We never agreed upon anything else."

"You wrote on me."

"It was a lovely little poem.
'There was a young Nighthawk from Matlock; Who had a fairly significant—"

"I remember," he growled under his breath, blue eyes alighting with fury and desire.

Ingrid's smile deepened.
"I'm certain you do."

I am going to repay this debt tenfold
, his eyes seemed to say.

You can certainly try
, replied her smile.

That made his eyes narrow.

"Miss me, Byrnes?"
she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper as her body softened toward his.
The devil always had this effect upon her.
"It certainly sounds like it."

"Only because I mean revenge, Miller."

Miller
.
God knew she'd missed that, strangely enough.
Ingrid's smile softened and she bit the thumb that still lingered on her lip.
The heat in his gaze turned intense, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Admit it," she said, sucking his thumb gently.
One of her hands curled in the lapel of his coat as she drew free of his hand.
"It was more than revenge."

The look on his face told her everything.
Everything
.

A part of her wanted to grab a fistful of his hair and yank his mouth down to hers.
The second she did, they'd be upon each other, Byrnes slamming her back into the wall, and Ingrid lifting her legs to wrap around his lean waist.

She knew it, because that's precisely what had happened the one time she'd dared to kiss him.
The vision sent a shiver of need straight through her, as if she could remember every second of that moment, every self-destructive instinct that had driven her to throw herself into the abyss of desire.

No, their interest in each other had never been the problem.
It was the fact that she couldn't trust him.

Ingrid stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest.
Sometimes she was tempted to reach out and touch, but the warier part of her knew it would get burned when it came to Byrnes.
Far easier to keep him at arm’s length and pretend this was merely desire between them.

"One day, Miller," he said, noting the way in which she'd disengaged, "One day you're going to pay your dues—"

"But until then," a male voice said behind them, "would it be at all possible for the pair of you to join us?"

They staggered apart with a start of surprise.
The Duke of Malloryn stood in the doorway, both hands holding the doors wide open, and from the look on Byrnes's face she hadn't been the only one taken unawares.

Which was almost unforgivable, considering the two of them had the greatest hunting senses of anyone in the house.

"Of course."
Ingrid recovered smoothly.
"After you, your Grace."

Malloryn's icy gaze raked over the pair of them, “This had better not become a problem.”

“Of course not,” Ingrid replied.

“Because if it does….”
Malloryn didn’t need to add anything else as he turned to head back to the library.

And she needed this job too much to disobey.

"Revenge is going to be very sweet," Byrnes whispered in her ear as he brushed past.

She followed him, feeling that little thrill tingling through her blood, unable to stop herself from whispering, "Just remember: two can play at that game."

Malloryn shot them both a cool glance as they entered the library, but Ingrid merely smiled and took a seat next to a young woman with blond curls, who looked at Byrnes, and then at her with a slightly shocked expression.

"Ladies," Malloryn called, taking the center of the room.
"Gentlemen.
May we begin?"

"
A
s you all know
," Malloryn said, standing with easy authority by the wall, "three years ago the prince consort was overthrown by his queen and society went through quite an upheaval.
Humans and mechs had their rights restored"—this with a tip of the head to the burly Kincaid—"and Echelon society was changed forever."

"Aye," said Kincaid.
"Bluebirds fuckin' sang, and everybody lived happily ever after.
'Til the Packenham Riots, and the burnings in Manchester, and the disappearances in Begby Square."

Malloryn smiled.
It wasn't friendly at all.
"Like I said, everything has changed.
Some changes have been well received.
Some have not.
The queen and the ruling Council of Dukes would like to think that Britain is on its way to greatness but others seem not to hold that same opinion.
That's why this team has been called together.

"Someone in particular means to cause trouble for the monarchy and they're using the populace to do so.
The Packenham Riots weren't just circumstance.
Someone murdered that poor young mech and before her blood had even cooled, there were pamphlets being circulated in the streets, which makes me think it was planned.
I want to get to the bottom of who is stirring trouble before another riot breaks loose.
And that's where all of you come in."

"I had friends as died in the Packenham Riots," Kincaid said.
"Why should I help you?
Your Echelon used your Cyclops war machines to mow down half the mob that day."

"A mistake, in hindsight," Malloryn admitted.
"And you're not helping
me
.
I don't even particularly want you on this team.
You're a hothead and I don't entirely trust you, but you came highly recommended by my friend the Duchess of Casavian, and I need someone with a particular skill set that's hard to find.
You fit that description."

"And what’s in it for me?"
Kincaid demanded.

"For you?
A comfortable wage and the help of one of my best inventors for that project you've been working upon,” Malloryn replied.
"Someone who has recently passed his Bio-mech examinations with the Royal Mechanics Society.”

Kincaid reeled back as if struck and Byrnes sipped his blud-wein.
Bio-mechanics dealt directly with the application of mechanical limbs and organs that were fused directly to a man or woman’s flesh as if they were one.
Oh, there were cruder mech limbs in circulation, but only those within the Royal Society knew how to deal with the process called fusion.

Which meant that Kincaid needed some sort of limb or organ that crude mechwork couldn’t cover, and was shocked to realize that Malloryn knew of it.
For himself though?
Or someone he knew?

Bio-mech was ridiculously expensive.
If Malloryn could gift that so negligently, then what else could he offer the rest of them?

Byrnes's heart raced.
Bio-mech, medical technology...
was there an answer for his mother's fate?
"And the rest of us?
What can you do for us?”

"You all have something you want and I have the means to provide it.
But we can discuss that later.
In private.”
Malloryn gestured to the mysterious woman at his side, the one in blood red silk.
"This is my colleague, Isabella Rouchard, the Baroness Schröder.
She will be in charge of this team."

Charlie Todd stuck his hand in the air.
"Arguments aside...
what team?
Why precisely are we here?
To find the instigators of the riots?
That was over a year ago."

Isabella Rouchard leaned on the back of her chair, every inch of her thick black hair tamed into an elegant chignon.
"The queen has tasked Malloryn with putting together a team of highly skilled participants to discover who is behind these incidents that threaten national security.
We have… information networks, but we need more.
We need people who can deal with and contain threats, and are equipped to both delve directly to the heart of a mystery, and then handle it.”

"Why would you choose us?”
Kincaid asked.

Malloryn shuffled some files on his desk.
"Don’t assume that you haven’t been thoroughly vetted.
All of you came recommended to me by various members of the Council of Dukes who rule this city.
I have spies—I don’t need more of them.
But what I don’t have,” he said, picking up the files and gesturing toward Byrnes, "is someone trained to investigate.”
One of the files hit the desk and that gaze turned to Ingrid.
"Someone who works private commissions to find what others can’t find and has ties to the verwulfen community; someone who understands the mech world,”—this at Kincaid—"someone who knows the rookeries and how to steal the eyes from a man’s sockets."
Charlie Todd.
"An inventor trained in detailing crime scene investigations."
Ava.
His hard blue gaze turned to Miss Townsend.
"And—”