Forged by Desire (London Steampunk Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

“I’d rather starve.”

  “Then you will,” he replied, lowering the handkerchief. There was no sign of the wound. His CV levels must have been astoundingly high.

  “Keep Hague away from me. If I see him, I’ll kill him.” How confident she sounded. Inside, she trembled, but the duke nodded as if accepting her terms. “You will also cause no harm to Garrett or any of the Nighthawks, either by your own hand or anyone else’s, or by any political maneuvering.”

  “I won’t need to. Unless they move against me.”

  Which would be her task to manage. Perry gave a brief, abrupt nod. “You’ll give me your word?”

  “You have it.” A look of dark satisfaction shadowed his expression.

  Perry suddenly felt tired. This was the moment she’d been running from for years. It was almost a relief to have it over and done with.

  “Then I will see you on the morrow.” The strength was starting to wash out of her, leaving her knees quivering beneath her. A certain sense of hopelessness settled over her. She needed to get out of here. She needed to walk, to clear her head, to be alone to think.

  “Octavia?”

  She paused on the threshold and glanced over her shoulder at him.

  “I shouldn’t care to be pushed on this. You’ve been given my terms. If you don’t appear tomorrow at four, then you will regret it.”

  The finality with which he said the words made her shiver.

  ***

  Perry couldn’t return to the guild. Not just yet. Instead she walked out into the heavy rain, barely feeling the icy sting of it on her face and head. People hurried past with parasols and umbrellas, and one poor girl selling oranges shivered on the corner, holding a bedraggled newspaper over her head.

  She walked for hours, not knowing where she was going or why. The rain came down like a curtain, obscuring the world and sinking through her clothes until the wet leather clung to her clammy skin and her teeth chattered with the cold. She staggered to a halt and looked up, staring at a white Georgian manor in Kensington. Suddenly she knew where she’d been going.

  Perry shivered in misery as she waited for someone to answer her knock. At this time of night, most blue bloods would be out doing the social rounds and she would be lucky if the servants let her in.

  Footsteps sounded, then an imperious-looking butler cracked open the door. Butter-yellow light flooded out, and for a moment she felt like she’d found her balance again.

  “Yes?” the butler intoned.

  “I need to speak to Lynch.”

  An imperious eye raked over her. “His Grace is not at home.”

  Perry pushed past, dripping water all over the white marble floor. She couldn’t stand to be out in the rain a moment longer.

  “What’s the problem, Haversley?” A voice rang out.

  Lynch strode to the edge of the gilt balcony above the entry, his gaze raking over her. His knuckles tightened on the rail at her appearance and he turned to the butler. “I want drying cloths and a flask of blud-wein sent up to my study, and a bath drawn in the guest chambers. Have something of Rosalind’s laid out for her.”

  “Your Grace—”

  Lynch took the stairs two at a time. “If I wished for your opinion, I would have asked for it.”

  He caught her by the arm as she swayed, his nostrils flaring. “Bloody hell, you’re freezing. What have you been doing?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Perry said hoarsely. “I need your help.”

  He gave the butler a glance to warn her and nodded. “Upstairs. The fire’s lit in my study. We can speak there.”

  Somehow he got her up the stairs. Perry was so cold, she was shivering almost violently by the time he helped her through the door. He pressed her into an armchair, despite her protestations about being wet.

  The butler reappeared with several maids, and Lynch conferred with them quietly before returning with some towels. He dragged her coat and boots off her and dried her as best he could.

  Finally he knelt in front of her, his dark head bent as he took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?

  “You had to know,” she whispered. “You’re not stupid. You had to know who I was. And the investigation closed shortly after I found the Nighthawks. You’ve never given up on a case before, not like that.”

  Lynch stared at her for such a long time that she thought perhaps she’d been mistaken. Then he jerked his head. “Do you need me?”

  The power of the Duke of Bleight against the Duke of Moncrieff. It was a tempting offer. And it might have worked.

  But it would also draw Lynch and Rosalind into Moncrieff’s schemes. And who knew what the Moncrieff would do? If he was having her watched, then they were good at what they did, for she hadn’t seen them. Which meant that one of his men could potentially get close to Garrett. Or perhaps they were already close enough to hurt him.

  “No,” she whispered miserably. She had run from the duke years ago. It was time to pay her dues. “But I do need you to do something for me.”

  Lynch’s expression softened. “Anything.”

  “I have to go back. I have to—” She swallowed hard. “I need you to look after Garrett for me. I know you’re angry with him for what he did, but I need you to promise me that you’ll forgive him, that you’ll make sure he doesn’t do something foolish.”

  “Perry, I—”

  “Your word!” she replied, feeling her own anger rise. “After everything he has damned well done for you over the years! He needs you now.”

  Lynch turned on his heel and paced to the decanter in the corner, pouring them both a shot of blood. “We’ll discuss this in a minute.”

  “He needs you,” she repeated stubbornly.

  Lynch handed her a glass of blood and then threw his own back. “As you’re all intent on reminding me at the moment.”

  “Please. His virus levels have doubled. From the Falcone attack. They’re at sixty-eight percent.”

  Lynch froze.

  “He’s always thought of you as a father. You know that. And he needs you to forgive him.”

  “Bloody hell.” Lynch let out a harsh breath. “And you? Will he forgive you?”

  “No.” This was the second time she wouldn’t say good-bye. “No, he won’t.”

  A bleak look crossed Lynch’s face, and then he sighed and knelt beside her. “Perry, are you certain?” A hand reached out to stroke her cheek, one of the few times he’d ever touched her like that.

  “Please. Don’t—” Perry couldn’t stand his gentleness. She felt as though one kind word or touch would shatter her right now, like a rock pitched through a stained-glass window. It would smash her into a thousand tiny pieces that would never quite fit back together again. “Just promise me.”

  “I’ll forgive him.” Lynch’s hand lowered. “I’ll find…some way to help him through this.”

  “There is no cure,” she said bleakly, the first time she’d ever voiced it. The first time she could contemplate what that meant for Garrett.

  “There have been rumors of late—I’ll look into them, I promise. And perhaps I wasn’t speaking of his craving levels.”

  Their eyes met. He knew how she felt. She saw it.

  “How?” she whispered.

  “Rosalind,” he replied. Then more gently, “Does Garrett know how you feel?”

  “He—I—”

  Again he understood. “He won’t let you go so easily.”

  “I know.”

  Another favor she was asking from him. Another debt that she would never be able to repay. And more. “Can I stay here tonight?”

  He disapproved, she saw, but he nodded. “Are you going to say good-bye to him?”

  “I can’t.”

  And suddenly Perry realized that this was the end. She could never see Garrett again, never touch him, never tell him how much she loved him, how she’d always loved him…

  Lynch saw it in her face. Hard arms wrapped around her, dragging her tight against his chest. Perry couldn’t hold it in
anymore. She broke, sucking in huge raking gasps of air, her hands fisting in his coat to hold herself up. A sob tore loose. Then another.

  “Shhh,” he murmured, stroking her damp hair. “I’ve got you, Perry. I won’t let anything happen to him, I swear. We’ll work this out. We’ll do something…”

  A thousand meaningless words that she couldn’t hear anymore, but they soothed her when nothing else could. This was Lynch. The man she’d once believed could do anything, save anyone. Not herself perhaps, for there was no saving her, but he would look after Garrett.

  She heard someone come into the room. Rosalind, from the fresh scent of lemon verbena perfume. A murmured question, then Lynch was lifting her in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

  “Come,” he murmured. “I’ll put you to bed.”

  Like her own father had done, once upon a time. Perry clung to him, feeling as though she could sleep for a hundred years.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Nineteen

  Garrett rubbed at the bridge of his nose and pushed the case file away from him. Where the hell was Perry? She was supposed to meet him back here at five, and that was hours ago. To take his mind off matters, he’d been poring over the nonexistent case file for Octavia Morrow in the hope that something would give him a lead. He’d even sent Doyle to look through the boxes of books he’d packed for Lynch. Somewhere in there was a Guide to the Great Houses of the Echelon. If he had nothing on Octavia, perhaps he could look into the entire Morrow family. See if anyone there might have had a motive to kill her—or to hide her.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway and his head jerked. Too heavy for Perry. The moment a rap at the door sounded, he knew who it was.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Byrnes strode into his study as if he owned it. He was covered in mud and God-knows-what, and the smell of him hit Garrett in the face like a punch.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “I thought you were hunting Sykes. Not rats in the sewer.”

  Byrnes’s own lips twisted. “Much the same thing, it appears. Caught sight of a man matching your description, but he ran into the tunnels beneath the draining factories.”

  Another scent lifted the hairs on the back of Garrett’s neck. “Is that blood?”

  “Sykes was prepared for a hunt. The whole place is rigged with traps. We lost him, and then I had to bring two of the lads back to Gibson. Thought I’d let you know, then I’ll head back out. The bastard’s not getting away from me this time.” A strange glint gleamed in the other man’s eyes.

  “How bad?” A blue blood could heal from almost anything, and Dr. Gibson’s help was rarely required.

  “Mind if I have a drink?” Byrnes asked, tipping his head toward the decanter.

  Garrett nodded and poured them both a snifter of blood. “How bad?” he repeated.

  “Might lose Kennewick. Took a wooden shaft straight through the chest. Jansen’s leg’s hanging by a tendon or two, but that should heal if Gibson can stitch it all back together.”

  “Bloody hell.” His first month as master, and already one Nighthawk was at death’s door. “How many men would you need to hunt him down safely?”

  Byrnes considered it. “Give me a squad of twenty-five. The best you’ve got.”

  Garrett nodded. “Brief them on what to expect. Then see if you can pick up Sykes’s trail.”

  “It’s hard to track—he doesn’t have a personal scent, but I can smell the faintest hint of chemical on him.” Byrnes looked nervous for a moment. “It’d be easier with Perry. She can smell things even I can’t.”

  Their gazes locked. The hair on the back of Garrett’s neck rose, darkness flickering up over his vision.

  He fought to think through it. It was only his protective instincts, forcing him to act irrationally. Byrnes was right; Perry was the best they had. And if she knew he’d kept her out of the action to protect her, she’d have his head.

  Or worse, she’d think that he didn’t trust her abilities.

  He nodded. Could barely speak for the wash of fierceness sweeping through him. “She’s not here at the moment. She might have told Doyle where she was headed. Just…don’t let her get hurt.”

  “Not a scratch,” Byrnes promised.

  A moment later Doyle poked his head in, squinting at Byrnes. “Not interruptin’?”

  Garrett waved him in. “You found the book?”

  “Aye.” Doyle placed it on the desk and glanced at Byrnes. “You run afoul of the Thames?”

  Byrnes bared his teeth, then swiftly explained. Doyle sank into the chair on the other side of Garrett’s desk and scratched at his beard. “Case keeps gettin’ muckier and muckier,” he growled, and Garrett knew he was thinking of Kennewick, who he’d trained as a novice.

  Garrett flicked the book open, swiftly searching until he found the House of Langford’s section. “Do you know where Perry went?”

  “Never said. ’Ad that look in ’er eye, though… That determined one.”

  Garrett frowned. Then his gaze jerked back to the sigil engraved next to the House name. “Bloody hell.” His jaw dropped.

  A peregrine, stretched out in a hunting strike.

  He’d seen that before. On the coin that he’d stolen from Perry’s pocket the other afternoon. Why the hell would she have a coin with the Langford crest engraved on it?

  “What’s wrong?” Byrnes asked.

  “Have you ever seen a coin with this sigil on it before?” he asked, pointing to the page.

  Byrnes shook his head but Doyle squinted. “Nope, and I ain’t likely to. Not like some scion from Langford ’Ouse is goin’ to come marchin’ through them doors, and they certainly ain’t for sale.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were in fashion ’bout twenty, thirty year ago. All the Great ’Ouses were ’avin’ ’em made—one for every member of the family. Birthin’ gifts, most often. And if you ain’t a Langford, you ain’t gettin’ one.”

  It hurt to breathe.

  No.

  But so many things fell into place. Roughly nine years ago Perry came to the guild, not long after Octavia Morrow disappeared. Her dyed hair. The way she’d reacted with the Duke of Moncrieff, the way she’d fooled half the Echelon into believing she belonged at the opera, the way she’d fooled him.

  Perry.

  Who was frightened of something, frightened enough that she’d tried to run.

  Moncrieff. His vision went white with rage. What the hell was the duke playing at, coming here and asking him to look for Octavia when he had to have guessed who Perry was?

  And where the devil was she? Little fingers of cold licked up his spine. Think, damn it, think. His immediate instinct was to hunt her down himself, but something—years of discipline under Lynch—stayed his hand.

  If the Moncrieff was intent on revenge, then Garrett was considerably out of his depth. He needed allies and he needed absolute confirmation that what his gut was telling him was true. It made too much sense not to be, but before he went up against the duke, he had to be certain that Perry was Octavia Morrow.

  And he had to be certain that he could control himself. The force of the craving was no ally in this; it could cost him his wits and, therefore, everything.

  “Rouse the guild,” he said, urgency making his voice harsh. “I want you all out on the streets searching for her.”

  “Who? Perry?” Doyle frowned.

  “The whole guild?” Byrnes asked incredulously.

  “The whole guild,” Garrett repeated, snapping the case file on Octavia closed and tucking it under his arm. “And quietly. I don’t want anyone to notice.” He tugged the location device from his pocket and tossed it to Byrnes. “This should help. I’ve set a tracking chip on her.”

  “What about Sykes?” Byrnes asked, holding it in his hand.

  “I think I know exactly where Sykes has been hiding.” If Sykes was the man who’d hurt her, then the bloody duke had a hand in it. Moncrieff had to be the link between
the factories and Sykes. “Just find Perry and bring her back here. Keep her under guard until I return.”

  “Where are you goin’?” Doyle called.

  “To see the Earl of Langford. And if the Duke of Moncrieff returns, don’t, under any circumstances, let him near her.”

  Time to find out the truth behind this entire maze of deceit and trickery. And to work out exactly what type of game the Moncrieff was playing with him.

  ***

  Langford Hall loomed out of the mist like some enormous gargoyle, carved of heavy gray stone with Gothic columns. The elegance of youthful beauty clung to its lines, but the stone was slightly water-stained, the curtains not quite right, like some middle-aged matron who’d once been a diamond of the first water.

  Garrett swung down out of the steam carriage and stared up at the manor. An odd feeling of foreboding traveled down his spine, the tiny hairs along his arms rising. He could guess at some of the facts of the case, but he needed more. He needed to know why she’d fled from the duke.

  “Want me to ring the bell, sir?” Jamie Cummings asked, pushing the driving goggles up on top of his head. The young novice had driven him out here, and rings of coal smoke circled his eyes from the city’s pall.

  Garrett shook his head. “You might as well pull the travel rug out and sit in the carriage. I doubt I shall finish here very swiftly.”

  The lad gave him a grateful look and Garrett slowly strode toward the door. It was barely two hours’ drive from London, but it might as well have been another country, for the quiet that lay like a thick blanket.

  Garrett had rarely been out of the city environment. The lack of noise made his ears ring slightly. There was always noise in London, even at night.

  It seemed an eternity before he heard the shuffling footsteps of someone coming to answer the door, and when it opened, an elderly butler peered out at him. “Sir.”

  “My name is Garrett Reed, Acting Guild Master of the Nighthawks. I wish to speak to the Earl of Langford.”

  “It’s late, sir. He may not be receiving.”

  “If you would emphasize the importance of my visit, I would appreciate it.”

  The butler shuffled away, leaving Garrett standing in the entry, examining the manor and tapping his foot impatiently. Glassy eyes stared at him from a stag’s head, and ancient banners hung from the stone walls, most of them bearing that damning House sigil.