“Thank you for accepting my apology, sir.”
“Don’t know ’ow she always gets covered in muck, and ’ere’s you with the polish still on your boots,” Doyle muttered as Perry stalked past him. “By the way, I put ’Is Grace upstairs in your study. Sent the best of Lynch’s blud-wein stock up too.”
“His Grace?” Garrett murmured.
Perry was only half listening. But she paused at the base of the stairs as Doyle continued setting Garrett to rights, brushing off his coat and straightening his collar.
“Didn’t you get me message? I thought one of the lads must’ve caught up to you. Let you know the duke was ’ere,” Doyle said.
Duke
. She had this horrible sensation of lightness, as if she wasn’t in her body anymore. Perry’s foot moved mechanically, started up the first stair, but her head was turning, locking on Doyle, on the way his lips moved, even though she felt like she couldn’t hear the words anymore. There was a strange buzzing in her ears.
“The Duke of—?”
“Moncrieff,” a smooth voice announced from above.
Everything in Perry went still, her lungs locking tight as though there was a clamp around them. His voice swept through her, taking her back ten years into the past. Smooth, cultured. The kind of voice that slid over the skin like velvet in certain situations, or could cut like a knife in others.
A man stepped out of the shadows on the floor above, pressing both ringed hands on the railing as he surveyed the room below. The slightest of smiles touched his mouth as his gaze locked on Garrett.
Had he not seen her? Did he not recognize her? Perry made a small, choked sound in her throat, but none of the men noticed.
“My apologies,” Moncrieff continued. “I heard you speaking and thought to introduce myself.” He started walking along the railing toward the stairs. Still not looking at her.
Perry’s gaze shot toward the door in the room. She couldn’t run. Not if he wasn’t hunting her. And not without alerting Garrett or Doyle to the fact that something was seriously wrong.
She could see how that would play out. If Garrett caught one hint that she was terrified of this man, he’d set himself between them.
No
. She had to be strong. For his sake.
“Alastair Crawford, Duke of Moncrieff,” he announced, taking the first step down. “Recently returned from Scotland.”
Perry pressed her back against the wallpaper, trying to push herself through the wall. She didn’t know what to do. In all the scenarios she’d imagined, she’d never pictured this. Never pictured other people being involved. Her heart was thundering in her ears, her body trembling as if to flee, but there was nowhere to go. Moncrieff wasn’t stupid. He’d have the building watched, guards in place—
Garrett started toward them, giving her a deceptively lazy look. He’d picked up on her tension, at least. “Your Grace, a pleasant surprise.” He paused at the foot of the stairs, placing his body between her and the duke. “Garrett Reed, Acting Guild Master of the Nighthawks. What may I do for you?”
“A word, if I might?”
The Moncrieff’s entire focus was on Garrett. And that made the coldness shiver deep inside her. If he wanted to cut at her, that was the best way to do it.
Garrett shot her a questioning look.
Somehow she forced a smile to her lips.
No. Nothing is wrong.
The moment his back was turned, she let out the breath she’d been holding.
Everything
is
wrong. I have to leave.
Her heart fisted in her chest. For years she’d worked out precisely what she’d do if the Moncrieff ever found her, but she’d never considered just how much it would hurt to run. To leave behind everything that she knew. Everyone that she cared for.
Perry stared at Garrett’s broad back as he strode up the stairs, her heart breaking in that moment. She’d miss him so desperately. He was the one who’d made her stay here, made her feel safe and wanted. Slowly he’d helped her learn to trust again, to relax around other blue bloods. All of the quiet, teasing conversations they’d had flickered through her mind. All of the moments she’d wished she’d been brave enough to turn her face and press her lips to his. That moment today, when she could have admitted to him how she wanted to take that risk too.
Gone.
She looked up. Realized that another pair of eyes was watching her. Drawing their own conclusions, no doubt. Perry swallowed against the fist in her throat, forcing all of the expression off her face as the Moncrieff glanced back at Garrett.
And smiled.
Her first instinct was to run or hide. But he’d seen her. Looked right at her. He had to know it was her. And she wasn’t leaving this room until she discovered what he wanted from Garrett.
***
The duke settled into the chair across from the desk as if he owned it, lacing his fingers together and giving Garrett an unreadable look. His blond hair was perfectly coiffed, matching the gold embroidered thread through his coat. A pristine cravat circled his throat, and there was a sword sheathed at his side. He looked like a man who had the utmost confidence in using it too.
“I’ll cut straight to the point,” the duke announced, dropping the faintly amused smile. It slid off his face as if it had never been there. “I want to hire you to find someone for me.”
Garrett leaned his elbows on the table and examined the duke. He had this itching sensation down the back of his neck. As though something here wasn’t what it seemed. Perry’s unusual reaction downstairs only pushed him closer to the edge.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied smoothly. “I will be happy to review your case and set someone—”
“No. I want you to be in charge of the investigation. Not one of your little lackeys.”
The arrogance of that statement made Garrett stiffen. But what the devil could he say? He still hadn’t stood before the Council and pleaded his case. When he did, this man would hold Garrett’s fate in his hands.
“Perhaps you could explain to me precisely who you want me to find.” That wasn’t a yes.
The duke stared at him through those arctic eyes. “I want you to find Octavia Morrow for me.”
Garrett frowned. He had little acquaintance with the duke, but the name of Octavia Morrow seemed to access a memory somewhere. Then it struck him. “Octavia Morrow,” he said bluntly. “Your supposedly deceased thrall.”
“Octavia’s not dead. She orchestrated the entire matter.”
“Let me be blunt, Your Grace. Why the hell should I believe that? Blood was found all over your bedroom, half the manor was on fire, and there’s been no sign of her since. Several of the servants claim to have overheard an argument between you earlier that day—” What else could he remember from the papers?
“Don’t forget the bloodied shirt of mine that was found in the wash basket.” The duke was clearly enjoying himself.
Garrett settled into silence. Either the duke was the best card player he’d ever seen, or he was telling the truth. “You’re suggesting that she staged her own death and laid the blame on you. Why would she do that?”
For the first time, the duke’s composure wavered. “I intend to find out,” he said in the sort of voice that made Garrett’s hackles rise.
The expression on the man’s face was the one thing that convinced Garrett he was telling the truth. This man hadn’t killed Octavia Morrow. No, he genuinely thought she’d staged her own death to implicate him, and he wanted revenge.
The case suddenly fascinated him. Garrett knew very little of it, as Lynch had dealt with it himself, but the case notes would be here somewhere. And if Lynch hadn’t found anything, there hadn’t been anything to find.
“There’s no one else who held some sort of grudge against her?”
“Octavia was willful and made few friends, but nobody wished her any harm. No, I have full confidence that she ran.”
“Why?”
The duke leveled a gaze on him, as if daring him to meet it. If Moncrieff thought Garrett could be intimidated, then he would soon learn he was wrong. Garrett had grown up in streets, where men didn’t fight with words, but with any sharp—or blunt—instrument they could lay hands to. If you showed a hint of fear, of backing down, then they would cut you down just to prove that they could.
“We argued,” the duke finally admitted. “Octavia disagreed with some research I was involved in.”
Garrett frowned. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“I believe you might start with her father.”
Taking up his spring pen, Garrett dashed off a few notes. “Was there anyone else who might have wished her harm? Or wanted to discredit you?”
“She ran—nobody harmed her.”
“And I have only the word of a man accused of murdering her as proof of that,” Garrett replied. “If you want me to investigate the matter, then I will. Thoroughly. I shall take your opinion into consideration, of course.”
Surprisingly the duke smiled. “I see why Lynch likes you. Do as you will, then. I am quite open to being questioned, considering I have nothing to hide.”
For the next ten minutes the duke answered his questions, leaving Garrett with a list of places to start. Miss Morrow had few friends among the Echelon—she’d been described as somewhat of a wallflower—but there were one or two debutantes she’d associated with. Nobody had seemed to hold any sort of grudge against her, but that was due more to her unassuming nature.
Garrett put down the spring pen. “I find myself exceedingly curious as to why you offered for her, considering her nature. You’re a man of a certain standing. You could have had any debutante, but you chose an earl’s daughter without any seeming accomplishments or grace in society. It baffles me.”
“Society didn’t suit her.” The duke’s eyes lost their focus for the slightest moment. “It didn’t mean that she didn’t have her own unique charm. Octavia had little interest in snaring my attention—a rarity, I assure you. I could have had anyone, but I chose the girl who didn’t want me.”
No doubt that appealed to someone of the duke’s arrogance. Garrett stood. “I’ll conduct some preliminary inquiries and meet with you again, once I have some of the groundwork in place. I assume you’ll expect regular progress reports?”
The duke gave him a little smile. “You assume correctly. The sooner this matter is taken care of, the better.”
“The Keller-Fortescue murders must be my priority, but I shall certainly give it my full attention once we have dealt with the murders.”
“I would rather—”
“As
soon
as they are dealt with,” Garrett interrupted, holding the door open for the duke.
Not a man given to being denied anything, the duke opened his mouth again.
“Actually,” Garrett said, “you could help me with that—in the interest of solving the murders all the more swiftly…”
Moncrieff arched a brow, bowing to defeat with a certain sense of irritation. “Could I?”
“Last week you were with the party that guided the Russian Embassy group through the draining factory.”
“Where the two girls were murdered,” the duke drawled. “I’ve read about it in the papers. One can scarce imagine such a thing. But yes, I was with the party. I own an interest in the factory itself, as well as two others. Both the Dukes of Malloryn and Caine are also major stakeholders. Why?”
That was a surprise. He’d thought the factories were government owned. “Were you associated with either Miss Keller or Miss Fortescue?”
“I see. My dubious past rears its ugly head again. Of course I’m a suspect.”
“I didn’t say that, Your Grace,” Garrett countered smoothly. “It’s an unusual neighborhood for their bodies to turn up in. I’m trying to establish a link between the factory and both girls.”
“You do realize I’ve been gone for nearly ten years. I’ve only been back in London perhaps two weeks. I have faint acquaintance of the Keller girl and her father. He and I do business together. Miss Fortescue, on the other hand, propositioned me the night I returned to society. Unsurprisingly. I
am
the only duke in London without a thrall and her proposition isn’t the only one I’ve received. We danced once or twice, as I’m certain several sources will corroborate.” He frowned. “I also believe we took a stroll in Hyde Park. Flavored ices. Yes, that’s right. That was her. She didn’t suit me.”
How difficult it must be to remember one girl among many. “And the Russians? Would either of them have come into contact with the two deceased?”
This time the glare was forceful. “Tread carefully, Master Reed. The Romanov court is a dangerous place. They’re not like us, not at all. They don’t understand our rules or ways of doing things.” Moncrieff gave a brief laugh. “The humanists plaguing us should consider themselves fortunate that they only have the Echelon to deal with. As to whether the Russians knew either of the girls, I would consider such acquaintance fleeting at best. And the prince consort is most interested in furthering acquaintance with the Russians. If you ask too many questions in front of certain ears, you might find yourself…removed.”
“I’m only trying to find a murderer.”
“And I’m only warning you to be careful. Russia is an important potential ally. In the grand scheme of things, Misses Keller and Fortescue are of little consideration.”
Unimportant, to be precise. For the first time Garrett had a flash of empathy for what Lynch had been forced to deal with all these years. It set his teeth on edge to be beneath notice like this—like his mother had been, like all the humans in the city, the mechs…even himself.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Perhaps Malloryn or the Duke of Caine shall be able to shed further light on the situation.”
“Perhaps.”
They crossed to the stairs, the duke surveying the room.
Movement shifted below as Perry peered out from behind the open doorway she was loitering—or almost hiding—in.
“I do trust that you’ll keep my confidence,” the duke threw over his shoulder as he started down the stairs. “From all involved.”
“You have my word.”
“Let me fetch your coat, Your Grace,” Doyle said with deference he rarely showed.
Moncrieff ignored him, glancing around the room, his cold gaze taking in everything. It paused on Perry, a considering look.
“Have we met?” the duke asked her, a somewhat unsettling smile crossing his face. “You look like someone I used to know.”
Perry remained frightfully still. She’d never liked dealing with the Echelon. It was the only time when her aplomb slipped and her shyness bled through. Garrett could understand that. A few influential men knew there was a female blue blood among the Nighthawks, and though it wasn’t illegal, it was frowned upon. “Your Grace, may I introduce Miss Perry Lowell,” Garrett said, making it clear she was under his protection. “She serves as one of the members of my Hand.”
“Perry.” Surprisingly, a smile ghosted over the duke’s lips and he glanced at her. “The peregrine, no doubt?”
Again Garrett looked back and forth between them. A part of him didn’t like the attention the duke was giving her. Or perhaps it was simply the thought of any other man paying attention to what was his.
Not
his
. Damn it, he could feel his thoughts warping, taking on a darker edge. It was getting worse. If he couldn’t control this, then he never would.