Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (6 page)

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."

I
ngrid 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 makes 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."