“’Tis true,” the prince consort called. “An incredible device. My CV levels have dropped remarkably since I began treatment and continue to improve with regular infusions.”
“How does it work?” one of the Russians called in a heavy accent.
“Is it dangerous?” another gentleman asked.
Murmurs sprang to life.
“For this, I call upon an old friend of mine to explain and demonstrate. A genius, able to comprehend the very workings of the virus itself.” The Moncrieff gestured into the shadows at the sides of the curtain walls. “Dr. Hague, of Delft.”
Cold eyes met hers as a shadow detached itself from the edge of the stall. Wearing the thick, false beard he’d worn in the alley, the man she’d given chase to—the man she knew as Sykes—stepped forward. His hair was lighter than it had been once, but she suddenly realized that might be the effect of the craving virus upon him. Most blue bloods took longer than ten years to reach the Fade, but who knew what experiments he’d performed on himself, if any?
A tremble started down her spine and Perry’s fingers curled into fists. She wasn’t alone anymore and she wasn’t weak. This time she was going to finish the job she’d started so many years ago—to stop this monster from continuing his evil.
No more girls would ever have to suffer.
***
Hague.
Everything in Garrett went still as the bastard stepped out of the shadows. Perry stiffened, and Mrs. Carver’s sister, Honoria, settled a gentling hand in the small of her back. It wasn’t enough. He could see the fine trembling begin in her body, her shoulders jerking as if her lungs had arrested.
He liked to cut…
Perry’s words echoed in his ears. Instantly the world dissolved into shadows and Garrett found himself pushing his way through the crowd, cutting a silent, deadly path between silk-clad debutantes and thralls and their blue blood masters.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Hague. The man was demonstrating how the device worked, rolling up the duke’s shirtsleeve to insert a fine needle into the vein on the inside of his elbow.
“Using human blood to flush through a blue blood’s veins until the desired cleansing has been achieved…” the duke called. “It lasts several months, until the virus gains hold again, but the effects are instantaneous and significantly decrease the CV percentage. Regular infusions lower the percentage further each time, though the lowest we’ve been able to manage is twenty-one percent.”
Reaching out, Garrett slid his palm across the smooth taffeta covering Perry’s back. Through it, he could feel the boning of her stays. “I’m here.”
Honoria Rachinger gave him a grateful look and stepped aside. Perry’s shoulders sank and she half glanced over her shoulder. “Should you be?”
“I want to get Moncrieff alone,” he replied, rubbing circles in the small of her back. “Which means I need his attention on me. This will do it. We’re going to deal with him first, then arrest Hague. Are you armed?”
“I couldn’t—in case the duke noticed.”
Garrett slipped her thin stiletto dagger from inside his coat and pressed it, sheath and all, into her hand. Perry’s fingers curled around it and she flashed him a grateful smile.
“I’m being brave,” Perry whispered. “It’s not as bad as I expected. Not with you here.”
He bit his tongue against the admonition that he’d never doubted her bravery. That was her doubt to overcome, not his. “Just don’t be reckless.”
“This coming from you?”
“There’s too much at stake,” he admitted, sliding his hand over her hip and stepping closer. Tucked in the shadows near the edge of the curtains, they were out of the way enough that he could take certain liberties. “How was last night?”
“I had to take his blood,” Perry replied, watching Hague like a hawk. He felt the tension tighten each muscle along her spine and her voice grew unusually quiet. “There was no way to avoid it.”
The last thing he wanted to think about was Perry in another man’s arms. But that was his primal side speaking, furious at the thought of another man taking what was his right. “You did what you had to,” Garrett said gruffly. Then hesitated. “He didn’t touch you?”
“No. He had to receive his transfusion. It kept him away all night.”
Relief loosened the tight knotting in his gut. Garrett kissed the smooth skin at her nape, earning a small gasp from her. “Good. I hate to even think of his hands on you.”
Tension curled down her spine, but this time it wasn’t fear. Sweet, delicious tension. Garrett’s fingers stroked her hips, curving under her bustle to cup her bottom.
A swift intake of air crossed her lips. But her attention had dropped from Hague, which was what he wanted.
“Garrett, the duke is looking at us.”
“Good,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to her bare shoulder and looking up at the duke. Moncrieff glared pure hate back at him, unable to enjoy his and Hague’s triumph. His weren’t the only eyes watching, either.
This was a direct challenge to the duke’s stated ownership of her, and those watching knew it. Another layer to add to the mystery and drama of Octavia Morrow. He’d have to marry her now. For her reputation, of course.
“Here he comes,” Garrett murmured. “Stay here.”
“Be safe.”
“Always.” He moved to intercept the duke.
“A word?” Moncrieff’s smile was sharp edged enough to cut.
“Perhaps several?” Garrett murmured.
“This way.” The duke gestured through the crowd, toward the end of the exhibits, where they’d have some semblance of privacy.
“I must have missed your name on the guest list,” the Duke of Moncrieff murmured, slipping two glasses of cognac off the tray on a passing servant drone’s head. “I believe only those of noble birth were invited to attend the first day.”
Garrett smiled and held out his arms, displaying the elegant coat he wore. “One only has to look the part. Besides, what is nobility, if not the sense of impunity to do as one wills?” He’d learned that, if nothing else, from the streets. Watching as the prince consort slowly ground the human classes beneath his heel.
“You have stones, at least. I could almost admire your courage.” The duke’s smile slipped. “Or perhaps ‘stupidity’ is the better word.” He set one of the glasses on a small stand at the end of the row. “Would you prefer it neat? Or bloodied?”
Garrett’s gaze narrowed on the flask in the duke’s hand. Darkness stirred within him, his vision changing. He forced it down. Blood would only affect his focus. He already wanted to kill this bastard. The rational side of his mind fought his primal side; the only way to beat the duke was to outthink him. “Neat.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I choose to have mine bloodied. It’s the way I prefer it.”
“Not at all.”
The duke offered him the crystal-cut glass. Garrett took it, staring into the amber liquid. Everything depended on the next few minutes.
“I assure you it’s not poisoned,” the duke remarked, swirling blood through his own cognac. He took a sip, watching Garrett over the edge of the glass with dangerous eyes. “I prefer more direct methods of removing a man.”
It was excellent, as predicted. Garrett stared up at the enormous exhibit in the center of the aisle. One of the Scandinavian kraken submersibles, if he wasn’t mistaken. It hung from iron wires, the long strands of its propellers streaming like a windswept flag behind it. “Your direct methods confuse me, I admit. This whole game of asking me to look for Octavia Morrow, when you knew who she was all along. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand why you bothered to waste my time.”
“Have you ever been hunting?”
Garrett shook his head.
Only
thieves
and
murderers.
“In Scotland we shoot pheasant. First we send the beaters out, to frighten them out of the heather. They’re cunning birds. It’s only when they take flight that one gets a chance at them. Otherwise they lie in hiding, nothing moving but the frightened beat of their hearts.”
“So you were using me to force Perry’s hand.”
“I knew where she was. I just needed to flush her out.”
She’d been so out of sorts this week. Garrett could only imagine how afraid she’d been to come back to the duke. The thought stirred his protective instincts, which was dangerous. Only one thing could undo this. He downed the rest of the cognac to calm himself and put the glass down on the drone’s tray. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Always.”
“Do you gamble?”
The duke arched a brow. “Of course.”
With a smile, Garrett reached out and upended both his and the duke’s empty glasses. “Have you ever seen the three-cup trick? They play it out on the streets, to gull passing flats out of their chink. I used to turn my hands to such tricks when I was a lad.”
“You seem to have risen beyond your means.” The duke was unimpressed.
Garrett held up a penny and then turned one more glass over until they were arranged in a row. “It’s simple, really. First you give the flat a chance. Let him win a game or two.” Slipping the penny under a glass he began to move them, slowly at first. A little faster. “Once he’s getting confident, you start playing a little faster…”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Watch closely, Your Grace. I’m trying to explain the rules of the game.” Garrett stilled his hands. “The coin is here, of course.” They could both see it through the glass. “It’s called misdirection. I want you to watch the cups. Not my hands. Now where is the coin?”
It was gone. The duke looked down. Each glass was empty. Garrett held his hands up with a smile.
“The penny is worthless.” Garrett shrugged. “I do, however, have your key. The one you used for the device. I slipped it from your pocket as we moved through the crowd. One of my associates has it now.”
The duke sneered. “A thief as Master of the Nighthawks? No matter. Keep your key. Hague has a copy of it.”
Only
two
of
them.
“Yes, but now that you’ve given the device to the prince consort, who is going to control Hague’s key? Yourself? Or the prince consort?”
This time the duke’s eyes met his. He wasn’t sneering anymore. “You little bastard, you think you can blackmail me into giving up Octavia? I
own
the prince consort. If he wants my technology, he’ll crawl at my feet if I will it. I have the prince consort in my damned pocket, you fool. If I want him to jump, then he’ll damned well jump. I own him. I own them all—they just don’t know it yet.”
“That makes you a powerful man,” Garrett murmured, a knot of nervousness twisting in his gut. This was the moment he began to move his hands a little faster, metaphorically speaking. “I never realized you were so ambitious.”
“Ten years ago, that bastard exiled me,” the duke replied. “
Me
. After all of our years of friendship—everything that I had done for him—he turned his back on me to retain the favor of the masses.”
Time to steer the duke away from this topic, make sure he didn’t realize the game. “You sound like a man who shouldn’t be crossed.”
“Just so you know what you’re dealing with.” Moncrieff flicked lint off his coat. “I’ll warn you this once: Octavia is mine. I shall make her suffer for all the trouble she caused me. You don’t think I know her best? I’ll lock her up, trapping her in her bedroom, all alone, until I wish to parade her in front of my peers. She’ll perform her duties as my thrall, giving me both flesh and blood rights, and I’ll remind her of your name every time I come to her bed. Sometimes, I might even walk her past the guild, just to let her know how close to freedom she is—how only a wall separates the pair of you…”
“And here I thought you wanted me dead.”
“Death is closure, Reed. No, I want her to have hope. And when she gets close to breaking, I shall take her out and remind her that you’re still out there. Alive. Free. I will make her hate you.”
“You’re truly an evil man,” Garrett replied, seeing for the first time the true monster beneath the duke’s polished veneer. Hague was his own brand of evil, but Garrett wasn’t certain who was worse. “I almost feel sorry for the prince consort. For those on the Council. For they’re next, aren’t they? For the slight they gave.”
“Let’s just say, I have plans for the Council.” The Moncrieff straightened. “I’d advise you to leave immediately and return to the guild. I promised Octavia that I wouldn’t harm you if you kept your nose out of this business, but I’m not generous enough to give second chances. You have five minutes to remove yourself.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I shall see you removed.”
“I see.” Garrett straightened. “You’re a dangerous enemy, Your Grace. Too powerful for a simple Nighthawk to take on and expect to win. I can’t duel you, I can’t kill you, and I have little doubt that if I went to the prince consort with the information that you sought to manipulate him, I wouldn’t survive to meet him.”
“Precisely. Your word against mine.” The duke glanced around. “And I like holding meetings such as this so publicly. Nobody can get close enough to overhear.” His smile gleamed. “Now get out of my sight before my mood becomes less generous. I’m done with you.”
Now
the
reveal. Where’s the penny, Your Grace?
Garrett smiled, reaching inside his coat. “I’m not quite finished with you yet. Do you see this?” He held up the small brass disk with its clockwork cogs. “This is called an ECHO recording device.” Garrett wound it back to the start and inserted the small gramophone into the slot at the top. A tinny rasp sounded.
The next words were the duke’s. “…
own
the
prince
consort. If he wants my technology, he’ll crawl at my feet if I will it…”
Garrett stopped the recording. “I believe I know several people who might be very interested to hear your words.”
The duke’s jaw whitened with tension, the blue of his eyes vanishing. His nostrils flared. “You think you can defeat me with such childish tricks?”
One flick of the duke’s cane sword sent the ECHO tumbling to the floor. The duke stepped on it and ground it beneath his heel, then shoved the tip of the cane into Garrett’s chest, forcing him back a step. Moncrieff bared his teeth in a smile.
“You pathetic little shit.” He shoved and Garrett took a step back, shooting a glance at the crumpled device. The Moncrieff slowly lowered the cane sword. “I would kill you now. But it isn’t quite the done thing at an exhibition one is hosting. See yourself out,” he snarled. “I have guests to attend to.”
Giving Garrett his back, he stalked toward the milling crowd. Garrett followed, not quite finished with the duke.
A dozen heads turned their way. He saw Lynch in the crowd, moving the Duke of Malloryn and the Duchess of Casavian into place at the stairs. On the other side, by an Egyptian exhibit, Barrons tipped a glass of blud-wein back and saw him over the rim. Instantly he smiled at something his companion said and excused himself, gesturing to an elderly gentleman who stood beside Byrnes.
In front of him, Moncrieff strode through the crowd. Garrett struggled to keep up, his shoulders striking first one rich lordling, then another. Despite their protestations, he paid them no mind. The prey was in front of him, climbing the stairs toward where the prince consort resided with his nervous queen, holding court along the gallery.
At the top of the stairs, Perry stood between Mrs. Carver and her sister. Their eyes met and Garrett gave her a smile. The world didn’t exist for him in that moment. Just her.
Nearly
done.
Lynch paused halfway down the stairs, stopping Moncrieff in his tracks. “Did you get what we needed?”
Garrett nodded and slipped a hand inside his waistcoat pocket. The Moncrieff glanced behind him, his brow furrowing when he saw who stood there. “What the devil is going on?”
“I was trying to explain,” Garrett announced, climbing the steps with slow deliberation. The duchess looked interested now, turning to see what had caught Lynch’s attention. The Duke of Malloryn echoed her movement. “How easy it is to gull a flat. You see, I kept telling you to keep an eye on the glass with the penny. But all the time, my hands were moving behind the scenes.” He tugged out a second ECHO and swiftly rewound the clockwork.
The instant he stopped, it clicked into motion and the duke’s tinny voice echoed out. “…
have
the
prince
consort
in
my
damned
pocket, you fool. If I want him to jump, then he’ll damned well jump. I own him, I own them all—they just don’t know it yet
…”
The Moncrieff’s face drained of color.
Check. Mate.
Garrett met the duke’s gaze with vicious satisfaction.
The Duchess of Casavian took several steps down the stairs, her embellished cream skirts swishing around her feet as she reached for the device. She looked up, a devious little smile curling over her red-painted mouth. “Oh, Moncrieff. Bested by a pup. And a rogue, at that.” She laughed.
The duke’s hand slid over the hilt of his sword. Garrett stepped past him, shooting him another deadly look. “I did try to warn you about the rules of the game. You weren’t paying enough attention, Your Grace.”
Perry’s eyes were wide as she stared down at him. For Garrett, none of the others existed. He climbed toward her, reaching out to cup her face. “You’re free. I have him over a barrel.”
Perry’s lips quivered, then her gaze slid past him toward the duke. “Don’t turn your back on him yet, Garrett.”
The duke looked furious. His black eyes raked over the group, seeing no sign of any potential allies.
“I believe the prince consort will be most interested in this,” the duchess said, tapping the ECHO against her cheek. She tipped her chin to Byrnes and the pair of Nighthawks that had materialized at the Moncrieff’s side. “Arrest him. For collusion against the Crown.”
They took one step toward him, the duke bristling with fury. “You lay one hand on me and I’ll remove it,” he snarled, then turned his attention to the duchess. “You’ll regret this.”
“I doubt it,” Lady Aramina said, holding up the key that Garrett had slipped to Byrnes.
“Whoever owns the cure, owns the Echelon.” Garrett lifted his voice. “Isn’t that correct, Your Grace?”
All of the Council members shifted uncomfortably.
Those black eyes turned on him. “You insolent little prick.” The sword slid free of its sheath with a steely rasp, but Barrons stepped forward.
“Are you offering challenge, Moncrieff?” Barrons asked. “To the Master of the Nighthawks?”
Garrett’s eyes locked on the duke.
Do
it.
He’d been holding himself back, but the sudden urge to spill the duke’s blood was almost overwhelming.
Perry squeezed his arm in warning. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.
“Master Reed’s not of the Echelon,” Lady Aramina stated. “The duke cannot offer challenge.”
Moncrieff’s eyes glittered as he surveyed them. Finally his gaze locked on something—or someone—just past Garrett’s shoulder.
Footsteps echoed on the marble as all eyes turned to the aging Earl of Langford. Perry’s grip tightened on Garrett’s arm, her face draining entirely of color.
“
I
offer challenge,” the earl said, one hand sliding to the hilt at his side. He never looked away from the duke. “You gave your word that you would care for my daughter.” His nostrils flared. “I failed her once. I won’t ever let you touch her again.”
Perry let out a small gasp. Garrett slid his fingers through hers and squeezed, but he never took his eyes off the duke.