Mina Wentworth and the Invisible City (12 page)

“Anglesey,” she said. “How unexpected.”

He had to catch his breath. “Mina—”

“Is with her father in his medical office, and is perfectly well. So am I, thank you.”

Had she just chastised him, or was she merely amused? Rhys couldn’t be certain. He never had any idea what Mina’s mother was thinking. But it hardly mattered whether he’d just made an idiot of himself—nothing mattered but seeing Mina.

Still, Scarsdale had impressed upon him that the one woman he should never anger was a wife’s mother. So he bowed and said, “Thank you, my lady,” before leaving her in the foyer and rushing down the hall. Mina opened the door before he reached it, her eyes widening up at him.

And she was all right. No blood soaked her white shirt. Relief replaced panic. Pulling her into the hall, he gripped her waist, hauled her up to his mouth. Just one long kiss, just to be certain. She wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her lips to his.

From inside the office, Rockingham cleared his throat. The man couldn’t see anything, but Rhys probably shouldn’t anger the father, either. Her soft body slid against his as he set her down again, and he was pleased to note that her flush wasn’t embarrassment, but need.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said softly. “Come.”

Mina’s father stood near his desk, observing a freckled boy who was devouring a plate of apples, bread, and cheese. In his shirtsleeves, Newberry sat on Rockingham’s examination table with a blanket over his legs and his face red. “Your Grace,” he said. “Forgive me for not getting up.”

Rhys didn’t care whether the other man got up or not. Obviously, the constable had been injured—and was likely the reason Mina wasn’t. If Newberry wanted it, Rhys would hire a team of men to carry him around so that the constable could sit all day.

“His wife is coming with another pair of trousers,” Mina said, and grinned when Newberry’s blush deepened. She looked to Rhys. “What did you hear?”

“That you’d driven the police cart over Trahaearn Bridge with your uniform soaked in blood.”

“Not mine.” Mina confirmed what Rhys had already guessed. “But Newberry’s, because he can’t follow an order. I told you to get behind me, constable.”

The constable didn’t blink, didn’t blush. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t hear your order.”

“You’re a good man,” he told Newberry. “Thank you.”

Mina narrowed her eyes at them both before gesturing subtly to the boy—who was, Rhys realized, staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment. She lowered her voice.

“We’ve got every police station on alert to look for Wilbur the Reacher and his wheel,” she said. “Geordie was inside it, but I think he might have been forced there. Billy isn’t talking, though. Is Anne with you?”

Because children from the Crèche would speak to each other. Rhys had to disappoint her. He shook his head. “No. I can have her brought here, though.”

“We’ll try something else, first. Will you talk to him?”

He’d do anything she asked, but he wasn’t sure what she was asking. “Like I did with Anne?”

“No.” She smiled a little. “Not as a father. As the Iron Duke. And Rhys . . . he likes to help.”

He nodded. This, he could do for her. He’d had cabin boys as young as this one, and though life on a pirate ship was difficult, the way through it was never coddling them. Direction and order was all they needed—and were two things Rhys didn’t have to even think about giving. He faced the boy, crossed his arms over his chest, set his feet.

“Billy.” The same voice he’d have used on his decks. “You come and stand here now.”

The boy hastily complied, looking up at him, eyes wide.

“You know who I am?” When the boy nodded without hesitation, Rhys said, “You know Anne the Tinker? You know she’s mine?”

Shaking a little, Billy nodded again. “Yes.”

“Did Geordie hit her?”

The boy’s knuckles were white. Terrified, but still standing. “Yes.”

“Did he have a reason for that?”

Billy nodded.

“Speak up!”

“He was helping her! So Wilbur the Reacher couldn’t use her, too.”

Rhys nodded. He’d still have liked to thrash Geordie for calling Anne a jade whore and hitting her, but he might have thanked the boy for trying to help her, too—and followed it up by telling Geordie a few ways to help someone without hurting them.

“But Wilbur the Reacher’s still using Geordie, isn’t he? And now Geordie needs our help.”

The boy’s mouth set. “Yes. He does.”

“And you’re going to help us, too, Billy. You’ll talk to this inspector and tell her what you know, and you’ll help us find him.”

Billy looked to Mina and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

By the time she’d
finished interviewing the boy, it was apparent that he’d seen and heard almost everything that had taken place in Wilbur the Reacher’s workshop—and outside of the workshop, too. Geordie hadn’t been the only boy Wilbur the Reacher had used: He’d made Billy climb over the wall and unlock Redditch’s gate, and a threat to the boy’s life had convinced Geordie to follow through on the murder. Now that they’d removed that threat, perhaps Geordie would be able to escape . . . but Mina would still be looking for Wilbur the Reacher. Billy offered her a solid picture of the Reacher—though given the man’s actions, it was a picture that Mina could barely wrap her head around, and not the one she’d expected.

Wilbur the Reacher wasn’t driven by money or the fear of losing his workshop. He wanted to liberate all of the children in England.

“It was because of a friend who’d been killed in one of the Horde’s factories when they were hardly older than boys,” Mina told Rhys as she walked with him to their steamcoach. After Billy had begun to talk, Rhys had left her and Newberry alone with the boy—not wanting to interfere with her investigation, she knew. “And after the revolution . . . well, you know how many are hurt in the factories every year, and some of them too young to be working at all. At least the Horde kept them in crèches until they were older.”

“Yes.” His voice was rough, his gaze on the jacket in her hand.

Oh.
Mina glanced down at the black wool. Under the gray sunlight, it was visibly stained with Newberry’s blood. As her parents’ home was so near to headquarters, she kept an extra uniform on hand and had changed out of her ruined shirt before Rhys had arrived.

“It’s not mine,” she reminded him.

“I know.” But his expression told her that he couldn’t help imagining that it was. “It’s all right. Go on.”

She stepped into the coach, and through the window she saw a journalist peering their way from across the square. They’d scented the blood, apparently. They wouldn’t get Newberry’s; she’d already sent him home. Shaking her head, Mina drew the curtains over the windows. Tomorrow, she’d be back at work, and they could sniff around all they liked. The rest of the evening was hers.

Mina waited until Rhys settled onto the bench beside her, his hard thigh pressing against hers. She relaxed against him with a contented sigh and continued, “Wilbur the Reacher believes that if the factories are automated, it means fewer injuries, fewer deaths—and no jobs for most children, anyway. Redditch stood in the way of that.”

“And if the children didn’t have money to eat?”

“I don’t think it matters.” She stared at the empty seat across from them, but in her memory she was seeing so many bodies, hearing the echo of so many confessions. “Murder is a selfish thing, isn’t it? And it’s not really about the children; it’s about Wilbur the Reacher, and what
he
wants. He doesn’t give a thought to Geordie and how it might be hurting him.”

“Why
is
he using Geordie?”

“So that ‘a child frees them all from the tyranny of labor.’” She quoted Billy, who she didn’t think had even understood what Wilbur the Reacher had meant by it. The boy had listened well, though—and no doubt he’d soon tell his story again. “My father is taking Billy back to the Crèche tomorrow morning. I need to find Wilbur the Reacher before the children do.”

Rhys’s short laugh rumbled against her side. “What are your chances of that?”

“Not very good,” she had to admit. The children of the Crèche took care of their own. If they found Wilbur the Reacher and extracted their brand of justice from him, Mina might never know about it—and would never know whether Wilbur the Reacher was still out there, hiding. “And I don’t think even Anne would break their silence and tell me what happened.”

The coach lurched forward, rocking her against him. His muscles were like steel, his body tense. With gentle fingers, he pushed up her sleeve, exposing the still-healing cut on her forearm. “And if I find him?”

Oh, but she’d have loved to let him. Not just for Redditch, but because she could still see Newberry on the ground, his blood pooling on the cobblestones.

“You can’t,” she said, and laced her fingers through his. “But I wouldn’t be adverse to your people keeping an eye out for him—and Geordie.”

“We will,” he said, and his voice hoarsened. “Mina.”

She knew. Even before his strong arms dragged her over his lap, her back against his chest, she knew that he needed this. By the blue heavens, she did, too.

“Tell me no,” he rasped into her ear. “If not in a carriage, if you don’t want it now, tell me no.”

She couldn’t. Angling her head, she leaned back against his shoulder, her mouth seeking his. With a harsh groan, he bent and opened his lips over hers, plundered. His hands slid up her sides, cupped her breasts, but that wasn’t fast enough, hard enough. Mina’s fingers tore at the laces of her trousers. He lifted her, and she felt his hand working beneath her bottom, felt his ragged breath against her mouth.

“Touch yourself, Mina.” Need hardened his voice. “Are you wet?”

Fearing that his great size would hurt her, he never came into her unless she was ready—and he apparently meant to have her
now
. Anticipation shivered over her skin. Her hand slipped down into slick heat. Her breath escaped on a hiss. “Yes.”

He ripped open a sheath. “Sit forward and open your legs over mine. Wide.”

Would he shag her like this, facing forward in his lap? Her heart pounding, she leaned forward and spread her thighs, bracing her hands on his knees. Her fingers tightened as he suddenly slid lower in the seat, half-lying on the bench. His fingers hooked beneath the waist of her trousers, pushed them down over her bottom. They could go no farther with her legs open.

They went far enough. His rough palm smoothed over naked skin. Her body tight with need, she glanced over her shoulder. His face was stark with arousal, his gaze fixed on her most intimate flesh. He could see everything like this, she realized. A flush swept beneath her skin, searing the ends of her nerves. There wasn’t an inch of her body that he hadn’t kissed and licked, not an inch that he hadn’t seen, yet he’d never her seen her like this—armored and fully clothed, but for the vulnerable flesh exposed to receive him, and possession his only focus. She trembled with the intensity of it.

“You can see me.”

His gaze locked with hers. “I
only
see you, Mina.”

With his hands on her hips, he guided her back, slowly filled her with exquisite, burning pressure. Mina moaned, her back arching, her fingers digging into his knees. He was so thick, his intrusion endless. His gaze held hers, seeing only her as he filled her completely. Fully embedded, he stilled and took her in.

“Rhys,” she whispered raggedly. He lifted, surged, and in the dark hot carriage, he was all she heard, all she saw, all she felt. And when she shuddered around him, when he groaned her name, he was all that she knew, too.

* * *

No one saw anything
of Wilbur the Reacher and Geordie—or if they did, they said nothing of it. Those who did speak saw very little. With Newberry at her side, Mina pursued every lead they received, and each one turned into nothing. Rumors reached them that he was in a Lambeth rookery, that he’d taken a locomotive to Bath, that he’d fled to Port Fallow. Newssheets speculated and created caricatures of Wilbur the Reacher based on descriptions bought from fellow Birdcage Alley residents: of medium height, medium build, medium brown hair—and steel prosthetic arms that unfolded to six feet long from shoulder to hand.

At breakfast, a surly, half-awake Anne shook her head over the description. “Blind idiots, the whole lot of them. His arms are at least eight feet long,” she said.

Lovely.
Mina would not try to get close when she found him, then, and use her opium darts instead.

But she didn’t have a chance to use them, and soon other murders demanded her attention, other bodies needed examinations. She spent every spare moment during her shifts following up more leads, while every spare moment at home seemed filled with a duchess’s duties and the demands of a quickly approaching ball. Mina invited Felicity to stay with them in the days prior to the event, and delighted in her friend’s delight in witnessing all of the preparations—and, although there was nothing left to plan at this stage, took her enjoyment from Felicity’s pleasure as they approved a thousand final details.

Striped tents went up over the lawn and the gardens near the ballroom, until Rhys’s estate resembled Temple Fair, only lacking the oddities and amusements; yet even those would arrive by nightfall, additional entertainments for almost eight hundred guests. Many of the guests who’d been born under Horde rule would not dance—even Mina had not learned until that past year—but there would be other activities available to them so that they would not have to hug the walls.

An endless number of supply wagons rolled in through the gates, kept wide open throughout the day. Mina did not have to lift a finger, and yet as the time arrived to dress for the ball, she already felt exhausted. She was upstairs when guests began arriving early, a line of steamcoaches that filled a portion of the lawn—some aristocrats, and anyone else that Rhys had been of a mind to invite. He came into their rooms as the maid finished lacing her up. Mina eyed his impeccable jacket and freshly shaved jaw, then raised a brow at his breeches and boots—also impeccable, but hardly the usual costume for a ball.