My Lady Quicksilver

Nine

“How badly are you bleeding?”

Lynch pressed back against the carriage seat as the door closed, locking them in darkness. He could hear Perry outside, snapping at the men to get out of her way as she clambered up onto the driver’s seat. A rumble started beneath him as Perry kicked the boilers into gear.

“Lynch?”

He dragged his attention back inside as Mrs. Marberry knelt on the seat beside him, her skirts tumbling across his legs. He shouldn’t be feeling this weak—damn Bleight. Taking a shuddery breath, he peeled his hand away from the wound in his side and winced. The scent of blood flooded his nose, saliva springing into his mouth. His world was spinning slightly, the warm press of the body beside him his only anchor.

So hot. So tempting. The color drained out of his vision, leaving him with the silvery patina of moonlight across the pale skin of Rosa’s throat. Instantly the demon within him leaped to the surface, threatening to drown him. Desire was a sharp ache that cut like a knife, his gut clenching in need. Christ.

He grabbed her upper arm, intending to push her away. The muscle beneath his touch tightened but Rosa didn’t withdraw. Lynch loomed over her, the subtler scent of lemon and linen washing through him.

He shuddered. “Devil take you, leave me be!” The words were a harsh croak as he clung to sanity by the finest of threads.

“Here,” she said grimly, withdrawing something from her reticule. Silver flashed in the moonlight as the steam carriage lurched into motion with a teakettle hiss. The sound of a flask being unscrewed drew his focus and then Rosa was pressing it to his lips.

Blood washed over his tongue. Lynch caught her wrist in surprise, then tipped the flask up. He needed blood. Lots of it—anything to focus his mind and leash the demon within.

Draining the flask, he collapsed back against the plush carriage seats, panting. Rosa took it from him and neatly screwed the lid back on.

He could feel her watching him. The world seemed to fade until it was just the pair of them, breathing softly in the dark interior. Even the pain in his side ebbed to a dull throb as the craving virus began to heal him. Come morning there wouldn’t even be a scar, courtesy of his high CV levels.

“Thank you,” he said.

Rosa let out a low breath. “I should be thanking you. That blade was meant for me. Here.” Leaning closer, she fumbled at his chest. “Let me have a look at it.”

“It will heal.”

Tugging at her gloves, she eased them off, her pale hands finding the buckles to his body armor and snapping one open. Even in the faint moonlight, he caught a glimpse of the scarred back of her left hand and the paler skin. My father… He suddenly wanted to know what the man had done to her but he didn’t ask. This was the first time she’d ever removed her gloves in front of him and as he glanced up, he realized that she knew he’d been staring at her slightly thickened fingers.

Rosa swiftly glanced down, tugging at another buckle. Heat darkened her cheeks as if embarrassed by his attention. Lynch didn’t give a damn about the deformity, but he would respect her wishes in the matter and not mention it.

He winced as the leather breastplate gave way. Built to stop a knife or a blow, it had been poor defense against Bleight’s sword.

“Why did he do it?” she asked softly. Taking hold of his undershirt in both hands, she ripped it up the side, baring his skin to her gaze.

Lynch shivered at the chill, feeling the cool blood pulsing down his hip. The blade had taken him high, just beneath the ribs. “Do what?”

Gentle fingertips probed the slash. “Attack you. Why did he think you had something to do with his son’s death?”

“I told you, Alistair and I were cousins.” Lynch bared his teeth in a silent hiss as she touched a particularly tender spot. “Bleight has long held the position that I desired Alistair’s place as heir of the House.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“It was the truth,” he told her, watching her expression in the flickering light from the passing gaslights. “Once.”

Her silence was almost unbearable. A hungry, curious yearning filled her expression. “Of course. You were Lord Arrondale’s cousin—which makes you the duke’s nephew.”

“Third in line to the duchy,” he said with a bleak smile. “My father and Bleight were never friends. My father was born an hour after Bleight and he never forgot it.”

Her gloved thumb stroked against the bare flesh of his side. “He wanted you to be duke?”

“He pushed me to compete with Alistair in all things, to prove myself. Alistair was heir by right of birth, but I could overthrow him if I chose. All I had to do was duel him in front of the court when we came of age. And kill him.” Memory was a sharp stab. He would have done anything for his father, but not that.

Lynch looked down beneath his lashes at the soft fingers that unconsciously stroked his hip. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“You’re weak,” she said, her white teeth flashing a quick smile. “And I’m taking advantage of the moment.” Sitting back with a sigh, she tugged her skirts up.

The sight stilled him. Acres of frothy white petticoats gleamed in the weak moonlight, revealing smooth, stocking-clad calves. Taking hold of the hem of her petticoats, she tore them with a sharp rip that made his gut clench.

“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

“I’m not taking advantage of you in that way. You may relax.” Wadding the fine linen into a ball, she tore another long strip, yanking sharply on the material with little care to the fact that his eyes were locked on her ankles.

Tossing her skirts down, Rosa knelt on the seat, bending forward. Shadows enveloped her upper body, but he could still see the faint outline of her breasts as she pressed her makeshift pad to his side. Sliding her arms around his waist, she tugged the long piece of linen around his back and dragged it clear with a determined expression.

Her teeth worried at her lip as she worked. Lynch watched, entirely frozen. He could feel the heat off her body and sense the scant inch between them. She was nothing but darkness and warmth, a shadow of a woman who ignited his desire, his dreams. And instantly he knew that when he was finally alone, he’d dream of her like this.

The thought shocked him. It had been Mercury on his mind, night after night, but there was something about the shadow-wreathed woman in front of him that drew him. A sense of…tenderness.

His own secretary. Bloody hell. If he was one of his men, he’d have strung himself up by the heels.

A tendril of hair brushed his cheek in the dark interior of the carriage, silky-smooth and lemon-scented. With Rosa busy tending his wound, she barely noticed as he turned his head and breathed in the scent of her. Whatever perfume she used, it bathed her skin and drenched her hair as if she’d washed in it. He could barely discern her natural scent. His mouth went dry at the thought. He yearned to press his face to her throat, to drink in that scent, his body reacting with swift need.

“There,” she murmured, tying off the ends of the piece of petticoat. The instant she was done, she tugged her gloves back on as if the lack of them left her vulnerable. “That should hold until we get to the guild.”

Lynch sucked in a shaky breath. “Thank you. You’re most efficient.”

“In all matters.” She shot him a soft smile, her dark eyes flashing in the silvery moonlight. Her gaze slowly lowered as she sobered. “You knew Lady Arrondale.”

The words were no question.

“Annabelle?” The thought sheared through his desire like a knife.

“You were very gentle with her body.”

He sucked in a sharp breath and dragged himself upright. Annabelle. Guilt was a sour taste in his mouth. “She was my cousin’s consort.”

He knew she heard the sharpness in his voice and cursed himself for a fool. He despised speaking of himself; the story had been all through the papers at the time, with every journalist taking it upon himself to form an opinion on the circumstances. Few of them had come close to the truth, but that didn’t matter. He’d suspected Bleight behind half of the damned stories, and truth was but a varnish to the duke.

He’d never given a damn before, but something about the close nature of the carriage and Mrs. Marberry’s curiosity bit at him.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked her.

“Because…” She floundered for words, a flush of color darkening her skin. His gaze charted the path of it, across her throat and cheeks.

“Idle curiosity is not something I encourage.”

The words might have been a slap. Her magnificent eyes jerked to his. “Because I suspect you took more than one wound today. I wanted… I was offering comfort, nothing else.” Shoving away from him, she leaned against the door of the carriage and peered out, limned by soft shadows and moonlight.

“You’re not curious?”

Lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks as she gazed down at her lap. The line of her nape drew his eyes. He wanted to press his lips there, to lick the lemon scent from her skin and taste her body’s salt.

Lynch stilled, arrested by his hunger again. The roar of it surged through his veins. Just one little taste…to have her beneath him, the knife to her throat, hot blood in his mouth as she struggled weakly. She was a temptation he never should have brought beneath his roof. For forty years he’d contained his blood urges, and she stomped all over his control as if it were worth nothing. The thought was troubling.

I will beat this.

“I’m curious,” she admitted. “Of course I am. But the motivation is not vulgar.”

“So your curiosity is personal?”

Silence. It lingered for long moments, during which he found himself examining her again, his fingers tightening their grip on the carriage seat.

“Yes, it’s personal.” A sharp look away.

He wasn’t the only one afflicted by this madness. Fighting his body, he forced himself to think of Annabelle, lying on the floor with betrayal written all over her face.

It worked, like a splash of ice water to the face.

“I told you,” he said simply, “Alistair and I competed in all things.”

“You loved her?”

“I don’t know. I was fifteen.” He breathed a harsh laugh. “I was consumed by her with all the rabid fascination of a young man. And I wanted to win her. Neither Alistair nor I wished to push our rivalry so far as a duel, so Annabelle became the prize.”

“And he won?”

Silence. This time of his own making. Lynch slowly shut his eyes, the image of Annabelle painted behind his eyeballs. He hadn’t seen her in years. The shadow of age had surprised him, but he could recognize her still, in the elegant lines of her cheekbones and those lips that had been made to laugh. Guilt was a twisting sensation within his chest. Guilt, regret, and sorrow…

“My apologies,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize how strongly you still cared.”

“I’ve not seen her in more than thirty years,” he replied. An old wound, but this had only seemed to knock the scab off it. “They tell me he was kind to her.”

Rosa seemed to wrestle with something. Slowly she reached out, her hand sliding over his. A gentling touch, but still a tentative one, as though she had to force herself to do it.

“My husband…” she began, and faltered. “It wasn’t…wasn’t love for me. Not at first. Indeed, I set about luring him into the marriage quite purposely.” At this, she darted a glance at him, as if to see how he took this revelation. “I hate that now that he’s gone. He loved me so much and I regret…so many things.”

Lynch stroked her thumb through the kid leather, simply listening.

“The guilt never goes away but the feeling fades,” she admitted bleakly. “At the end, when he realized what I’d done… I saw it in his face, you know? He hated me in that moment. But if he had survived, I wouldn’t care if he still hated me. As long as he were alive. That’s all that matters.”

Her voice trailed off, and he listened to the sound of her breathing, the feel of her hand anchoring him.

“What do you think happened?” Rosa whispered. “If your cousin cared for his wife, as you say, what could have made him kill her?”

“I don’t know.” Lynch’s gaze drifted to the window. He squeezed her fingers, feeling strangely vulnerable. “But I intend to find out.”

Rows of gaslights gleamed in the night as the carriage rolled past a park. Something caught his eye as his gaze lowered to Rosa’s hand and Lynch’s head snapped back to the window. There, standing by a grove of trees was a familiar figure smothered in a black silk cloak.

Mercury.

His heart leaped into his throat, throwing off the pall of grief. Exhilaration flooded through him. “Stop the carriage!” he bellowed, yanking at the door and dropping Rosa’s hand.

The masked figure blew him a kiss, then stepped back into the grove. Lynch opened the door while the carriage was still moving and leaped out, staggering as he landed. He clapped a hand to his ribs. Cursed weakness. Of all the times for his body to give out on him.

“Sir?” Perry shut off the boilers and knelt on the edge of the driving seat, peering into the darkness intently.

“Mercury,” he snapped, gesturing to the park. “I saw her in the trees. Get after her.” He drew sticky fingers away from his side. No point running after her himself. Frustration soared through him.

Perry leaped down into the street and sprinted toward the park.

Skirts rustled and then Rosa was sliding under his arm to help hold him up, her dark eyes raking his face. “What’s going on?” She looked down and paled. “You’ve torn your wound open.”

“It will heal.” He stared after Perry. On the other side of the park an engine hissed to life as a steam carriage pulled away from the curb. “Damn it.” He’d bet his last penny that Mercury was in that carriage. Perry would lose her and he didn’t know how to drive the carriage himself in order to give chase.

Rosa pressed her gloved hand against his side. “You need to sit back down and rest���”

“It won’t kill me,” he said absently.

“No, but you’ll end up bedridden for days at this rate,” she replied tartly.

That caught his attention. Lynch looked down in bemusement as his secretary clucked and scolded him back into the carriage. Her expression was furious as she tugged his undershirt back up and reexamined her bandaging.

“Of all the rotten timing,” she muttered under her breath. “It doesn’t look too bad. The bleeding is slowing. However, if you move suddenly again, I shall be most put out with you. Sit there and don’t move until we reach the guild.”

One didn’t argue with a woman with that kind of tone. Lynch sank back into the leather seats.

Perry arrived at the door, breathing hard. “Lost them, sir. They had a driver waiting—a man wearing similar cologne to what Garrett prefers. Looked like he was wearing some sort of half mask over his lower face. And a tall woman on the back of the carriage, like a footman. She helped hustle the masked woman into the carriage.”

“Not your fault.” Lynch’s eyes narrowed in the direction Mercury had disappeared into. “They planned this meeting.”

But why? Nothing had come of it. Mercury had meant to be seen. Was she sending him a message? A taunt? Or was her presence in connection to the death of Alistair?

“Do you want me to track them?” Perry asked.

“You can do that?” Rosa’s head jerked up.

“Perry can trace scents even I can’t,” he admitted, then turned back to Perry and shook his head. Most of the men would be returning to the guild. There was no way he was sending Perry after the revolutionaries on her own—not so soon after nearly losing Garrett.

“When we return to the guild, I want you to take three of the men and see if the scent trail’s still alive,” he murmured, easing back in the seat. “Don’t confront them and don’t be caught alone. You can give me your report in the morning.”

Whatever Mercury’s purpose, for tonight he had other concerns he was forced to prioritize.

Lynch hadn’t been able to examine the body or the house and knew Bleight would never allow either now.

Fitz had stitched the wound in his side and they’d propped him here hours ago. Staring across the dark shadows of his study, Lynch silently ran through what he knew of the case. He’d examined both Haversham and Falcone himself. There’d been no sign of needle marks, no toxins or poisons in either of their cups and no evidence in the house to suggest a reason behind this insanity.

Just that sticky sweet smell he’d noticed in both houses.

He could only assume that Alistair’s bout of insanity would be the same.

Scraping his hair out of his face, he stared at the desktop. His mind felt dull tonight—grief, most likely. He could barely think. Every time he chased a thought, it skittered away, dissolving into mist. The confrontation with Mercury kept leaping to the forefront of his mind, despite the need to focus on Alistair.

Why had she appeared tonight? Had she tracked him from Alistair’s house? Was she involved with his death? If she was… His fist clenched. There would be no mercy if she was.

A sharp rap at the door sounded.

Perry. He could tell by the way she waited for his response. “Yes?” he called, glancing at the clock. She’d been gone only three hours. This wouldn’t be good news.

Perry slipped in through the door, a light rain misting her hair and eyelashes. “Lost them,” she said. “I got a trail on them for several streets, then it started to rain.”

“Which direction were they heading?”

“The docks by the East End.”

Lynch sat back in his chair and eyed the way she clasped her hands behind her back. “You have something else to report.”

Perry sighed. “When I lost the trail, I went back to Holland Park Avenue. I managed to pick up a scent from the man wearing cologne in the opposite alley. He never approached the house, but I assume he was watching for you.”

“Not involved in the attack then,” Lynch muttered. “Which means their interest was in me. But why?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.” She took a deep breath. “There’s something else. The taller woman is verwulfen. I’ll swear it.”

Interesting.

“I’ve sent two of the men out to check the registry, to see if they can identify a woman,” she said.

The treaty with Scandinavia had introduced a change in the laws, freeing all of the verwulfen in the Empire from slavery. Yet, all newly freed verwulfen were required to register at each city and town they passed through.

“Excellent.” The pieces were starting to fall into place. Lynch had always been patient; the spider’s web was starting to tingle, the trap slowly drawing in on Mercury. A flutter of anticipation stirred in his gut.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “Clock off and get some rest. You did well tonight.”

Perry didn’t quite smile at the rare praise, but she nodded and took her leave.

Slowly his gaze focused on the desk in front of him and he realized there was a piece of folded vellum popped beside his inkwell.

Scent wafted off the paper—Rosa’s scent, reminding him of spring days and sunshine, of laughter and linen sheets. Despite his mood, he felt his shoulders ease. He’d wanted a secretary who wasn’t afraid of him, though he had no idea what to do with her.

Be careful what you wish for.

Well, she certainly didn’t fear him, and he had to admire her ingenuity with the flask of blood. He also admired certain other aspects of her person but those were better left unthought of.

Flicking open the letter with his thumbnail, he ran his gaze across the sheet. Moonlight glanced over his shoulder, giving him just enough light to understand the slanting script.

Dear Sir,

They say that cleanliness is next to godliness, which explains your lack of reverence. I have therefore taken it upon myself to save you from sinning. You’ll find your papers filed in my office; sorted, alphabetized, and ironed flat.

I would appreciate it if you could keep them this way, though I have low hopes. With all due respect…

Your servant,

Mrs. Marberry

She must have written it prior to this afternoon. And he in his blustering state had not noticed it.

Lynch traced the curl of her name, his lips softening. Blasted woman. She had an audacity that astounded him.

She had also managed to distract, if only momentarily.

Lack of reverence indeed. He knew precisely who lacked reverence, whether he and his kind had been excommunicated or not. The admission spoke of her middle-class upbringing; the Echelon had long since turned its back on a church that disavowed them for being demons. As if in retaliation, faith was becoming a surprisingly strong counterpoint amongst the poor and middle classes these days. They had no churches—the Echelon had torn them down—but he’d heard of secret gatherings in shadowy places.

Lack of reverence. His eyes narrowed and he put the letter down, reaching for his drawer to try and find where she’d put his paper.

Bloody woman.

“You didn’t think to ask me if you should make an appearance tonight?” Rosalind snarled, striding along the dark, damp passage.

“Finding someone of your height to play Mercury were your suggestion,” Ingrid reminded her. “Keep his lordship from suspecting you, eh?”

Rosalind’s lips compressed. “He was injured.”

“Exactly. I could smell the blood on him when he come out of that mansion.” There was a long moment of silence and Rosalind realized that Ingrid was wondering why she would care. “Knew he couldn’t give chase,” the other woman muttered. “Perfect opportunity to dress Molly up in a cape and mask. We just took advantage of the situation.”

Which was precisely what she would have done in Ingrid’s situation. Rosalind slowed as she neared a door. What the hell was wrong with her? Lynch hadn’t been injured, not badly… Though she felt an odd discomfort at the thought of his blood on her fingers. The ruse with Molly would assuage any doubts he might own if she slipped up by accident. Act. Don’t react, Balfour had always said.

Holding the flickering gas lamp high, Rosalind slipped through the door. “I just wish you’d have given me some warning,” she murmured.

Shadows melted away from the encroaching light, revealing enormous man-shaped statues in the dark. Light gleamed on steel, reflecting back off the empty glass eye slit of the creature in front of her.

“One hundred and twelve,” Rosalind said, staring down the rows of automatons. “And not enough.”

“Calculations indicate each of our Cyclops are worth four of the Echelon’s metaljackets,” Ingrid said with a shrug. She tucked a cheroot between her full lips and struck a match. Red phosphorus burned in the cold, dark cellars, then Ingrid shook it out.

The other woman disdained the chill, wearing naught more than a gentleman’s shirt rolled up to the elbows and a pair of tight, men’s breeches. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back tight into a chignon that left her high cheekbones bare. Sucking back on the cheroot, she blew the sweet-scented smoke through the room, running a bare hand over the steel-plated arm of the Cyclops.

Rosalind sighed. “And they have over a thousand of those.”

“We’ll make enough.”

“Eventually.” At that, her lips thinned. Ever since the mechs had abandoned the humanist cause and vanished, the secret production of the Cyclops had ground to a halt. She could be patient—she would be—but she was fast running out of options. And now that Lynch had discovered her supply smuggling route out of the enclaves, she had even fewer. “Have you finished inquiring in the enclaves for a blacksmith?”

“Mordecai’s evidently beaten us to it. Not a mech amongst them will offer us help.”

“Then we look elsewhere. Kidnap one of the Echelon’s master smiths.”

Ingrid choked on her cheroot. “Are you insane? The Echelon has them locked up tighter than a virgin’s drawers.”

“Then where?” she snapped, spinning on her heel and staring at the silent, motionless giants. Based on the metaljackets’ blueprint, they’d been designed so that each heavy breastplate opened wide for a human to haul themself inside and manipulate the metal monster from within. It gave them a greater dexterity and manipulation, with a human’s reactions safely guarded behind the thick steel body armor. Coupled with the cannons that were fitted to each arm, they could belch Greek fire accurately up to twenty feet.

“I need men to wield them,” she continued. “And men to build them. I don’t have either at the moment.”

“You’ve always been patient enough to wait.”

“That was before Jeremy vanished!” Cursing under her breath, Rosalind slapped her hand against the nearest Cyclops. Pain stung her palm, bringing with it a clarity she knew she needed. She was failing—failing her brother, failing Jack and Ingrid by this odd softening toward her enemy, and failing Nate’s final dream to restore human rights in Britain. Somehow, speaking of him tonight to Lynch had stirred her guilt to tormenting levels. “Did you circle the guild?”

“Aye. No sign of Jeremy’s scent. I’ve been in the city too—”

“Ingrid!” she snapped, turning on her friend. “You take too many risks. One look at your eyes and every blue blood in the city would know precisely what you are.”

As if to spite her, Ingrid lifted her gaze, those metallic golden irises catching the light. “The laws against verwulfen have been revoked. And there’s enough trickling in from Manchester and the Pits for one more not to be noticed.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.” A blue blood was a verwulfen’s natural enemy. Even Ingrid’s berserker-fueled strength wouldn’t help her if there were enough of them. “Promise me you won’t take any more risks. Don’t go near the city again—don’t show your eyes.”

Ingrid’s shoulders swelled, a look of burning indignation narrowing her eyes. “I’ve as much a right as you,” she growled softly. “I’ve hidden these bloody eyes half my life, down here in the dark. Now that the blue bloods have signed a truce with the Scandinavian verwulfen clans, I don’t have to hide anymore.” Her expression turned stubborn. “I won’t. It kills me to be cooped up down here, in these bloody tunnels.”

Rosalind clasped Ingrid’s hand between her own—one of the few who would dare when Ingrid was in this mood. The skin beneath her right palm was burning hot. The loupe virus that made Ingrid what she was had done more than just make her super-humanly strong. “I know.” Rosalind’s voice softened. “I’m just worried that the truce is still too new. The blue bloods have long memories and some of them are so old they still live in the past.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “If you go above, take several of the men. Or Jack, even.”

Ingrid tossed the cheroot to the floor and ground it beneath her heel, expressionless. The very blankness of her face told Rosalind how upset she was. Ingrid had long since learned to keep her temper leashed for fear of hurting someone, and her control showed in the stiff line of her shoulders.

“Truce?”

Ingrid glared at her moodily, then nodded. Rosalind grabbed her hand in a rough shake, squeezing with her iron fingers. Ingrid’s nostrils flared, but she squeezed back. The seconds dragged out, then Ingrid shoved her away, cursing under her breath.

Rosalind hit the wall and laughed—an old ritual that never failed to soothe Ingrid’s savage temper. She flexed the metal fingers, feeling the muscle grab through her forearm where the steel cables met tendon.

“If you’ve broken my hand, you’ll have to pay for it,” Rosalind warned with a smile.

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “I’ll kidnap a master smith.”

Rosalind’s mirth faded at the reminder. She pushed away from the wall. “Come. We’d best get going after these mechs. I’ll need some sleep tonight if I’m going to manage my lord Nighthawk on the morrow.” The thought tightened something within her—a feeling of shivery anticipation.

She was so distracted she didn’t even notice the sharp look her friend gave her.