by Bec McMaster
“And then you asked me to stand by while you went to die. So yes, I told Rosalind what you intended when you set out toward the Ivory Tower. I couldn’t stand by and watch as you sacrificed yourself for her… I know that I failed you. I know that you’ll never forgive me for it, but I’m not sorry. I couldn’t just let you die. And telling Rosalind what you were planning—with the risk that she would sacrifice herself in your stead—was the only answer I had at the time. And if you want the full truth, I knew what choice she would make. I knew—I hoped—that she loved you enough to sacrifice herself for you.”
Another long silence. Lynch’s fingers tapped on the back of a chair, his face expressionless. “Rosa is something that I never thought I would ever have. She is my happiness. If I had died in place of her, then it would have been worth it.”
Garrett laughed humorlessly. “This might appeal to your sense of irony, but I understand that now. I understand what it’s like to almost lose something so infinitely precious that you can barely breathe for the near loss of it. I know”—he looked down—“why you hate me. I know you’ll never forgive me. I just wanted you to know… You asked too much of me.”
The words fell into the silence, seeming to echo in the small parlor, until Garrett couldn’t stand it anymore. He gave another clipped nod and darted through the door, feeling that overwhelming sense of censure following him.
***
“Well, that was interesting.”
Lynch’s hand jerked away from the curtains, and he let them fall as Rosalind entered the parlor behind him.
“Listening at the door, my love?” he asked.
“Of course. You only tell me the boring bits.” She crossed to his side, twitching aside the curtains to watch as Garrett disappeared into the traffic. “So Perry has finally made her move.”
“So it seems,” Lynch replied, glancing down at Rosa’s pretty, upturned features. “You did predict it, after all.”
“At least he has someone by his side,” Rosa murmured.
“That’s enough,” Lynch warned, sliding a hand over her elbow. Devil knew that she’d taken every opportunity in the last month to point out how stubborn he was being. He was weary of it.
“Far be it from me to point out that if Garrett hadn’t done what he did, you wouldn’t be alive right now to enjoy our marriage. I, at least, have him to thank for it.”
“That we’re both alive is a miracle,” he replied tightly. “We could both have died.”
“And I could have shot you when we first met and none of this would have happened, either.”
“That’s not a valid argument.”
“Then neither is yours,” Rosa pointed out.
He ground his teeth together.
“I think you’re feeling guilty,” Rosa murmured, reaching up to straighten the lapels on his coat. “He’s right, you know. Asking him to let you die was cruel. I remember the conversation he and I had when he told me the truth. You deliberately told him that if he tried to use the Nighthawks to rescue you, they’d be slaughtered. And you used Perry’s name in particular, because you knew he’d never risk her. Now you’re angry with him because you backed him into a corner and he took the only way out he had left. He came to me.”
Lynch rubbed his knuckles along her jaw. She was right, damn it. And he’d known it for far longer than he’d admitted. He sighed. “How the hell do I deal with this mess?”
Eighteen
Perry stalked inside the Birmingham gentlemen’s club, her cap pulled low over her face. The servant at the door tried to stop her, until she showed him the harsh leather body armor of a Nighthawk beneath her coat. A flash of five pounds told her exactly where the Moncrieff was.
The library was located upstairs, a room crammed with floor-to-ceiling shelves full of ancient books, and plush leather chairs that gleamed with polish. The thick scent of cheroot smoke and cognac assaulted her nostrils, as well as an overabundance of cologne. It was the kind of place where rich blue bloods gathered to survey the papers and discuss the major political events of the realm in hushed tones.
A pair of blue bloods lingered in chairs near the door, murmuring over snifters of blood-laced cognac. Behind them, an armchair faced away from the door, the gaslight gleaming on the fine golden threads of the Moncrieff’s hair.
The usual gut-twisting reaction gripped her. I’m not afraid of him. I’m not. She didn’t know who she was trying to fool. Best to get angry. She jerked her head at the pair of blue bloods and gestured toward the door. One of them paled, the other opening his mouth to protest. Perry slid her coat open and eased a hand over the hilt of her knife.
They vanished, the door clicking shut behind them.
Be brave.
“What a pleasant surprise,” the Moncrieff murmured, turning the page of his paper. “I didn’t expect to see you here…Miss Lowell, was it?”
Her reflection gleamed in the window in front of him.
Perry strode across the room. “Enough games. I refuse to play them anymore.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t get a choice.”
She had the knife drawn, the blade pressed against her forearm to hide it, and the hilt warm in her hand as she circled him. “Do you think this is amusing? What are you playing at?”
He looked up then. “I’m reading the paper. You’re the one accosting me.”
“Don’t pretend this isn’t what you wanted.”
His lashes lowered as he examined her, his eyes turning soft and molten. Dangerous. “Put the knife away, my dear.”
“Or?”
“I’ll take it off you.”
Maybe he could, but maybe he couldn’t. And though ten years stretched between them, she could remember just how easily he’d snapped a blue blood’s neck back then. Moncrieff rarely displayed how dangerous he was, which made him all the more unpredictable. She wasn’t quite certain if she could best him.
Perry put the knife away.
“So you have finally come to see me,” he said, lowering the paper and looking satisfied.
“How did you find me?”
“One of my old acquaintances thought he saw you at the opera last month with a group of Nighthawks. Imagine my surprise when I opened that telegram.”
“So you came all the way to London for me,” she demanded.
“Don’t be arrogant. I already intended to reinstate myself here. I had no intention of staying in that wretched hellhole in Scotland. Your reappearance is simply a serendipitous moment I intend to take full advantage of.”
Then why all the subterfuge? Why? Unless… “That’s why you haven’t come for me yet, isn’t it? You wanted me to crawl here to you. You think you hold all the power.”
“I do hold all of the power. Do you know that this is the only gentlemen’s club in the city that will accept me?” He smiled, a chilling sight indeed. “Everybody believes I killed my thrall.” His gaze raked over her. “I don’t like what you’ve done with your hair.”
“What do you want?”
Moncrieff shook out the paper again and opened it. A grainy photograph of the queen stared out at her from the front page, endorsing the upcoming exhibition. “I want the truth to emerge.”
“The truth?” she challenged, snatching a fistful of the paper and forcing it down. “Or your version of it?”
He looked up. Slowly.
Perry let go and he shook the wrinkles out of the paper in a careful manner.
“You will return to my house and resume your duties as my thrall, as you agreed to do ten years ago. You will fulfill the terms of our contract, and I will see to your every comfort and continued good health for the rest of your life, as I promised to do in your thrall contract. You will attend balls on my arm, and we will let it be known that you are very much alive and well. As for everyone who accused me of dirtying my hands with your blood, I will rub their faces in the truth until it blinds them.”
She swallowed. “You think I believe you mean me no harm?”
“I
don’t particularly care if you do or not,” he replied.
“And Hague?”
“Is unimportant.”
Her temper flared. “I know he’s damned well alive, Moncrieff. He’s responsible for the deaths of those two girls, isn’t he? Girls you brought into his sphere. He saw you with them, didn’t he? Saw them somehow and wanted them for his collection, the way he wanted me. You think I can look him in the eye and not want to cut his throat?”
“You didn’t do such a good job of it last time.”
That roused her ire. “How can you look the other way and ignore what he’s doing? All those girls… How many have there been? How much blood is on your hands?”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. He flipped a page of the paper. “I only need him for a little longer. He is a means to an end. Then the good doctor will have outlived his usefulness.”
“And until then? What of the girls he’ll take between then and now?”
“There won’t be any,” he said firmly. “I’m in London now, and I fully intend to hold his leash. I’ll choke him with it, if need be.”
“I’m sure that shall stop him,” she snapped. “You told him to keep his hands off me, did you not?”
The duke looked sleepy eyed. Dangerous. “Hague learned how much he cost me over that unfortunate incident.” His eyes met hers. “I hold both of you responsible for my exile. If you’d stayed, Octavia, you would have seen how I dealt with the matter…”
Despite her feelings for the monster, she almost shivered. “And the girls here? You wouldn’t have wanted him to draw attention to whatever you’re planning. How long has he been here? Why the hell did you let him off your so-called leash?”
She’d scored a point; she saw it in his expression. “Unfortunately, his current experiments require a great deal of blood. My investment in the draining factories last year provided too good an opportunity. Nobody would miss the blood here, and I could provide access to the factory for him.”
“And—”
“Enough.” He held up a hand.
Perry’s nostrils flared. “No.” It was the hardest word she’d ever said. But it was easier the second time. “No. I won’t come back.”
“Won’t you?” A silky threat. “Don’t make me kill him, Octavia.”
A chill ran through her, like ice in her veins. “Kill whom?”
“Your lover.”
The world seemed to freeze. All she could see was the Moncrieff’s gaze slowly scanning the article he was reading. As if she meant nothing to him, as if Garrett meant nothing to him. Her throat thickened. “Garrett’s not my lover.”
The paper lowered. “Did I say his name?”
She stared at him, realizing that she’d only confirmed his suspicions. The Moncrieff wasn’t just clever, he was cunning too. “He’s my friend,” she whispered.
“But you love him.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Then why did you come back?”
She lost the ability to breathe. “What?”
“On the train. You were going, weren’t you? Fleeing me. But something he said convinced you to come back.”
The heat drained from her face.
“I have every road, rail, and ship watched, Octavia. Even yourself. So if you think you can escape me this time, I pray, think again.” A slither of darkness blackened those eyes, and she realized that his calmness was just a veneer, as it had always been.
Trapped. She could almost feel the iron bars closing in around her and it hurt, because she realized that for a moment, she’d almost thought there might be a chance. Garrett had given her that, made her believe that she wasn’t alone in fighting this, and the Moncrieff was ripping it away.
“I won’t kill him at first.” The Moncrieff must have taken her silence as doubt. “I’ll take everything away from him to begin with. I’ll destroy any chance he has of becoming Master of the Nighthawks. I’ll take his friends, his reputation, his health. I will cripple him; you know I can. I know precisely what a blue blood can survive, just how much damage the body can—or can’t—heal. I will make him regret ever meeting you, until your name is just a curse in his ears, or what is left of them. Then, and only then, I will kill him.”
“Not even you have the right to murder a man,” she whispered.
“Can’t I? Perhaps I don’t have to.” He smiled. “All I have to do is tell him what I’ll do to you—what I’ve done. I’ve met the man. I made a point of that. It’s always wise to know your adversary. He’s intent on protecting you, my dear, which means he won’t have a choice but to challenge me.”
And she could see it, just as clearly as the picture he painted for her. The Moncrieff had the power to do exactly what he’d just threatened. The only thing she could do was sacrifice herself to protect Garrett. As the Moncrieff no doubt planned.
“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” she whispered, knowing that the words were capitulation.
“I don’t want to be the better man,” he replied, folding the paper and putting it aside. “I’m the Duke of Moncrieff. However, I’m not entirely cruel. I shall give you a day to say your good-byes and gather your things. You will come to my house tomorrow at four in the afternoon, when you will put aside that hideous thing you’re wearing and dress appropriately. Coincidentally, I’m hosting a ball, something of a welcome back to civilized life. You’re to be my special guest.”
He’d never once doubted that she would appear. He must have been planning this for weeks, manipulating her into a position where she would have no choice but to face him. Giving her a day to say good-bye was just a sign of how much power he held over her, nothing more.
“I hate you.”
“That’s irrelevant,” he replied. “I might have given a damn once, Octavia, but nine years of humiliation tends to wear away at a man’s pride. There are a number of ways I could punish you for this, but I simply wish to put this behind me and move on. I have a reputation to regain and you have a reneged contract to fulfill.”
“And what shall we tell the world about my absence?” she asked bitterly. “Since you seem to have thought of everything else?”
“You tripped and hit your head,” he replied, “which led to a temporary loss of memory, and in your disorientation, you fled my manor. You have been living in the city serving as a governess for a merchant banker, until I found you and helped you regain your memory.”
“I’m terrible with children.”
“Use your imagination, my dear. I’m certain you’ll be fine. You seem to have lied your way into the Nighthawks quite adequately. Unless Lynch was aware of your identity the entire time?”
The way his gaze focused on her chilled her. A warning that any answer of hers might only implicate Lynch. “I didn’t find my way to the Nighthawks until three months after Octavia had disappeared. Lynch doesn’t ask questions. He’s not interested in our pasts, only what we can make of ourselves.”
The Moncrieff stared at her for a second longer, then nodded shortly, accepting the story.
“And my father?” she demanded. The words almost stuck in her throat. She would rather face the Moncrieff before she could look her father in the eye again. “I don’t want to see him.”
“Hardly the thing, Octavia.”
“Perry,” she corrected absently.
“Octavia,” he repeated. “I’m afraid that everything you’ve known for the last nine years is about to be buried.”
The words were a chilling reminder of the threat facing Garrett. “I don’t want to see my father,” she repeated. “I won’t. I can’t look him in the eye and lie. Not about this.”
“He’ll want to see you,” the duke replied.
“Then tell him I don’t want to see him.” It was the only way she could protect him.
They stared at each other. The duke gave a short, clipped nod. He could afford to be magnanimous, and if her father didn’t believe her lies, then Moncrieff was the one who would have to deal with the Earl of Langfo
rd.
He would do it too.
“Is there anything else?” Perry asked hollowly.
“Not at this stage.”
“Then I have my own conditions.”
Interest flared in his eyes. The man had always been charismatic enough to charm, but few charmed him. He’d always enjoyed the challenge she’d presented. “Intrigue me.”
“I’ll fulfill my contract as your thrall, which means you have every right to my blood. But I won’t give you my flesh rights.” She had once, before she’d known the true depth of the monster before her.
“Challenge accepted,” he purred.
Suddenly her temper snapped. Perry had the blade to his throat before she even knew what she was doing. The Moncrieff didn’t even flinch. “You will never bed me again,” she ground out harshly. Blood welled as the tip of the knife dug into his pale flesh. “If you touch me, I will kill you.”
Her gaze dropped, drawn despite her hatred for him to the sudden droplet of blood that ran down his throat. Something stroked over the back of her hand. His thumb.
“I like this change in you,” he whispered. “Why don’t you taste it?”
Their eyes met, his thumb digging into the back of her hand, forcing the edge of the knife across his throat. Blood welled.
Perry staggered back, dropping the knife. All she could see was the line of blood across his throat, the scent of it flavoring the air. She could almost taste it in her mouth.
“I won’t force you, Octavia. I won’t have to. You think you can control your hungers? Your passion? I know just how deep it runs. How much it aches to hold it back.” He smeared the blood across his hand, drawing her hypnotized gaze again as he sucked it from his fingers. A hint of darkness crept through his irises and Perry took a half step toward him.
She realized what she was doing and froze.
“When you are beneath my roof, you will take your blood from me, or not at all,” he stated, tugging a snowy white kerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his throat. “In return, I shall not demand your flesh rights or touch you in any manner other than is necessary for the blood-letting.”