by Bec McMaster
And he was having trouble looking her in the eye.
"Debney looks the part," she said. "The invitation is in his name, and quite frankly, unless he wants Malloryn on his heels, then he needs to comply with this case."
"You threatened him?"
"I reminded him of the consequences. There's a reward, in case you haven't being paying attention."
And Debney needed money.
"You'll get him killed," Byrnes growled.
"That's why I'm going." Walking smoothly, she trailed her fingers along the desk, stalking behind Debney. "I can keep an eye on him to protect him, while you're sneaking around the estate. It's perfect."
If a blue blood could sweat, Debney looked like he'd be doing it. "Wasn't my idea."
Byrnes didn't take his gaze off her. "Oh, I guessed that. I should never have told you."
"Au contraire, you should have told me from the start, and we could have come up with a feasible plan together. I might have allowed you to work my case." Ingrid leaned over the desk. "As it is, I might still allow you to join us. Someone needs to play valet."
Might? Might? Byrnes rested his knuckles on the mahogany and loomed closer until her breath brushed his cheek. "I thought you were chasing up that theory about the Doeppler orbs."
"Jack's still looking into it for me. Results should be due in around twenty-four hours, and oh, look, I seem to have the time to fit in a side excursion."
"No."
"Give me one good reason," Ingrid countered, her voice thickening and the bronze rings around her pupils flaring.
Usually a good time for any sane man to run. Verwulfen were rash, passionate creatures, and he'd since learned that Ingrid was dangerous when her verwulfen nature was roused. "Because I said so."
She leaned toward him and there was a heat in her eyes that indicated she was one second away from pouncing upon him.
He crossed his arms over his chest. Oh yes, my dear. Anytime you're ready, I can take you.
Debney cleared his throat. "Just in case anyone is interested in my opinion, I've decided that I'm only going if Ingrid goes, and I'm the one with the invitation. She can pretend to be my mistress."
Ingrid brushed a piece of nonexistent fluff off her sleeve.
"Be reasonable, Caleb." Debney's expression was long-suffering. "It's a better idea than your own. You've only got your back up because someone else came up with it. And I'm not going to risk my hide without at least two people to watch my back."
"I can circle the ballroom while you're skulking about Ulbricht's study," Ingrid countered. "Three sets of eyes, instead of one."
Maneuvring him like a chess piece. "I'm not Debney. You'll need to work harder than that to convince me."
"What makes you think I need to convince you?"
"The fact that you're trying."
"How about this, then? First challenge," Ingrid said softly, meeting his gaze. "Prove to me that you're worth the risk. Prove to me that you can compromise when you need to. I'm not interested in... selfishness, Caleb."
Every muscle in his body locked into stone. She was accepting his dare. But— No! Not like this. "Miller."
"You won't get another chance." Those dark lashes fluttered down, obscuring her amber gaze.
He stood arrested. Frustration clashed with sheer want. If he didn't submit, then she'd no doubt never let him so much as touch her. Oh, she'd trapped him so neatly. He was furious. And aroused. "The prize had better be worth it."
"I'll let you know what I'll consider." Ingrid's smile held satisfaction: his statement was pure capitulation. Pushing away from the desk, she took her seat in the corner, crossing her legs.
God. Damn. It.
Debney coughed, reminding them off his presence. "So we're all going, then?"
Byrnes gave a curt nod. "Let me go get my things and send for the dirigible. My lord." He shot one last glare at Ingrid as he strode from the room.
Patience. Just a little patience, and she could be his.
* * *
THEY BORROWED the dirigible from the Nighthawks Guild, though Ingrid wasn't entirely certain whether borrowed was the precise term to use.
Byrnes ushered them aboard a little too swiftly, and insisted on speaking to the captain privately, dropping his voice just low enough to make it difficult for her to hear.
"Well, I'm going to freshen up," Debney said with a yawn. "It's at least an hour to the air docks near Ulbricht's manor. And I'll need all of my wits about me tonight. Are you coming?"
"In a moment," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "Just... curious about something."
Debney's glance shifted between the two of them and he made to say something, then clearly thought better of it and scurried away.
Byrnes was definitely up to something. Close proximity last year had given her most of his tells, and when Byrnes smiled like that and made an effort to be affable, he was up to no good. Charm did not come naturally to him, as usually he saw little point in it.
Despite her feelings about Byrnes, it was one of the things she almost admired about him. Charm was all well and good, but at least you knew exactly where you stood with him. Most of the time.
"Something amusing?" Byrnes arched an eyebrow at her as he finished up with the captain and sauntered over.
"A private thought. I might tell you later, if I feel like it. I also might not." Ingrid pushed away from the paneling she'd been leaning against. "So... just how difficult are you going to be to work with tonight?"
Byrnes opened a door in the passageway, revealing a private chamber. Those blue eyes were smoky. "I'm on my best behavior, aren't I?"
Ingrid stepped closer and slid sideways through the door, not taking her eyes off him for a moment. "That's because you want something."
His sudden smile took her by surprise, so blinding in its intensity. "You always think I have ulterior motives."
"You always do," she countered.
"Mmm." His smile softened. "Give me a moment to get changed, and then I'll return to plot with you." His gaze slid down over her curves. "Unless you don't mind if I change here?"
Ingrid smiled, tilting her shoulder toward him flirtatiously as she slipped her fingers around the door. "Tempting, truly it is, but the last time you ended up getting naked in front of me, it didn't end well, did it?"
Then she shut the door in his face and went looking for a drink.
* * *
HERS WASN'T the only transformation.
Byrnes's hair swept in a sleek line across his forehead from the layer of pomade and gleamed in the gaslight from the dirigible's chandelier. He'd borrowed Debney's previous valet's set of tails, and the black velvet coat looked almost touchable. A crisp white bow tie completed the look, rendering him almost tamed in appearance, though the sleek way in which he moved gave hint to the predator within. Anyone who mistook Byrnes for something he was not would have his teeth handed to them.
It should help. Servants were practically wallpaper at these events. Nobody would be looking for a Nighthawk in the kitchens.
Ingrid sprawled in her chair, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him pour himself a drink. "Time to plot?"
"Time to plot," he confirmed, sinking into the chair opposite her.
The drone of the engines throbbed through the floor beneath her boots, and her own glass vibrated on the small table beside her. Ingrid downed the remaining brandy in her glass in one swallow.
"Very well," she said, sitting forward on the edge of the seat as she laid out the small set of maps that she'd found earlier that day. "Airfields are here, in the small town of Kew-on-Upton. Ulbricht's manor is here." Her finger stabbed the map as she set about detailing their arrival and their escape paths should all not go according to plan.
"It will go according to plan," Byrnes countered. "We get in, you and Debney distract the group and see what you can hear, while I go sneaking about the back hallways."
"Still," she replied, "it never hurts to know your optio
ns."
"Always so methodical, my dear."
"One of us has to be." She continued on, detailing the layout of the manor from what she'd learned from Debney. "Any questions?"
"I spoke to Debney about what to expect. You'll be the center of attention," Byrnes warned, fetching the blud-wein and the brandy. Ingrid idly watched him move, because the man looked damned good in black. "Four years ago verwulfen were still outlawed and considered slaves. In London you might have the protection of the Reformation of Verwulfen Bill, but the group we're joining are considered outdated even among Echelon standards, so expect slurs and certain jibes. I'll do my best to protect you, but you may have to simply ignore the worst. Though you bring an exotic element to the group, I'm not entirely certain how they'll accept your position as Debney's mistress."
If some blue blood lord thought he was going to put his hands on her, then she'd disavow them of the notion, but words and slurs were old news. Ingrid shrugged. "If someone gets too friendly, I'll make certain they understand the situation," she said. "The rest is... nothing new."
After all, she'd spent nearly half her life in a cage being spat upon and taken out only to be bloodied in a ring, where her sole aim was simply to survive. Words couldn't hurt her anymore.
Indeed, ever since Will Carver's law had been announced just over three years ago and she'd been allowed onto the streets of London as a free woman, she'd found such a prospect the more frightening situation. Leaving the dark shadows of Undertown—where she, Rosa, Jack, and the rest of the humanists had once discovered sanctuary—made her feel uncomfortably out of place. She was still getting used to daylight, open spaces, and blending in to a crowd, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about her. Freedom was terrifying in a way that oppression never had been.
But she'd be damned if she'd admit that.
Byrnes looked away, tapping his fingers on the edge of the chair. "I'm not going to be difficult to work with tonight," he said suddenly, and then their eyes met. "This is not the time nor the place for the two of us to be clashing. Ulbricht and the Echelon can be dangerous, and they've no liking for your kind or what you represent for them."
She breathed out a laugh. "So it's a truce then?"
"A truce."
Ingrid's smile faded. "You must be worried about me."
His look said it all, really. Ingrid downed another finger of brandy. "There's a possibility that they won't even know what I am. As soon as we land, I intend to use the occipital lenses that hide the bronze in my eyes."
"And your scent?"
"A liberal dousing of perfume," she replied. "Blue bloods like you have exquisite sense of smell, but in my experience the Echelon lords are too used to wearing colognes and perfumes. It dulls their senses."
"Like your letter," he murmured, standing and heading for the small travelling case he'd brought. "The one you left on my pillow. I could barely smell you at all. Here," he said, opening the case. "We might as well finish the remaining preparations, if you're going to start disguising yourself."
She watched him gather up a handful of devices. "It's quite convenient having the Nighthawks at your beck and call, isn't it? Did you raid their equipment store on your way out?"
"I'm testing some new experiments for Fitz," he corrected, "the guild's weapons master."
"Does Fitz know this?"
That earned her a rare smile. "Hold still. And wear this at all times," Byrnes told her, brushing the honey-brown curls on the left side of her head behind her ear. Ingrid's pulse hammered as he gently eased the small brass device inside her ear and fitted it carefully. Byrnes looked up from beneath thick lashes, as if he'd noticed. That touch gentled, tracing the delicate curve of her ear. Then his gaze dipped, the back of his fingers twisting to brush against the delicate skin of her throat. Right over the flutter of her pulse.
"Byrnes," she breathed, though it was a token protest.
Hunger flooded through his eyes, turning them darker, until only blackness remained. Byrnes leaned closer, his breath buffeting her jaw, and—
Ingrid caught his wrist, breathing hard. She knew what he was thinking, what he'd intended. And so did he, judging by the sharp realization in his eyes as he blinked. The darkness fled, leaving only the alpine clearness of his blue irises, but it unnerved her. Blue bloods only reacted like that when their hunger was in ascendancy. "You haven't earned your kiss yet."
"A kiss, is it?" His voice roughened. "This is a communicator. You'll be able to hear me, and I'll hear what is being said around you too. Once the ball's in full swing, I'm going to explore the grounds a little and see if I can find anything incriminating in Lord Ulbricht's study."
"Can I join you in rifling his study?"
"I'll think about it." Easing out of his squat, the creases of his trousers falling into place, Byrnes turned away, toying with the various items displayed on the table in front of him. Taking the time to compose himself, she thought, remembering that dark glint in his eyes.
The hunger. She was still frozen, not quite certain what had just happened. Something unusual, judging by the stiffness of his shoulders.
Once upon a time, she'd despised all blue bloods, considering them nothing but monsters; their inner predator hidden by a sleek exterior that was little more than a facade. Byrnes himself had helped dispel that myth a year ago, when they'd worked together. She'd expected a blue blood, driven by his desires for blood. What she'd gotten was a man who held himself so chillingly composed that the only predator she'd seen within him had been the one who hungered to capture the Vampire of Drury Lane. His needs were sharply focused; his thoughts trained solely on the mission. If anything, she'd found his composure so supreme that it was almost insulting.
Except for the last couple of days, when the bet had been in place, and for the first time she'd seen a man with hunger in his eyes, a man who burned with it.
But not for blood. Never for blood.
"Screamer," he said, turning and handing her a tube-shaped device. Evidently they were pretending nothing had ever happened, which was fine with her. "You press this button, and the device emits a high-pitched noise that will drive a blue blood to his—"
"Jack created these," she told him, taking the device and slipping it down her bodice as she stood, before adjusting the snug fit. The gown was one she'd used in the past for undercover work, though times had been straitened then, and she'd evidently gained weight since. "This is not my first undercover role, Byrnes."
He held up a slender dart. “Then you know what these do?”
“Hemlock dart, meant to paralyse a blue blood,” she replied promptly.
He put the dart down. “ Fine. Just play it safe."
With her heeled slippers on, she was almost on a level with his eyes. Reaching out, Ingrid smoothed her hands down over his lapels. "I cannot quite figure out if you're worried about me, or worried that I'll betray the game before we have it figured out." Though her voice sounded light, she felt that question curl through her. Did he actually care more than he seemed to?
Byrnes's hands captured her wrists. Something flickered in his gaze—consternation? "If we get caught, then we get out as swiftly as we can. It would be an inconvenience, but... not unmanageable."
"You are worried about me," she blurted.
"The last time I worked with a partner, I almost got her killed," he admitted with a scowl. Every word sounded as though she were threatening to pull teeth. Clearly he loathed admitting his concern. "I don't work well with others. I never have, and I know that I frustrated you last night when I went behind your back with Debney, but... working in a team has never been one of my strengths. Sometimes I forget to cooperate, and when I find a clue my first instinct is to chase it, not to reconnoiter and plan our next step. It wasn't personal, Ingrid." Grudgingly, he added, "If I were going to work with someone, you seem as good as any of the others I've been partnered with."
Good heavens. That was practically a compliment. She didn't voice it, however,
as Byrnes had clearly extended an olive branch toward her. Instead, she shrugged. "Apology accepted. I will warn you though, I do expect better next time."
A sudden flash of smile made him shockingly handsome, then it was gone as he turned his attention back to her earpiece. Ingrid couldn't help feeling as though she'd been jolted by a Leyden jar, however.
Byrnes was a complex man. "Who was she?" she asked, for his tone had softened at the mention of a “her.”
"My Nighthawk friend, Perry." Byrnes let her wrists go. "As you can imagine, Garrett was quite put out with me."
Perry... Well, that was all right. Ingrid had met the woman and decided that she liked her, thanks to a knife-throwing game when the pair of them had been into Rosa's sherry one night. Besides, Perry was quite happily married to the guild master of the Nighthawks. "It sounded as though you were quite put out with yourself."
"Yes, well." He turned, the tails of his coat flaring. Pouring a glass of blud-wein from Debney's decanter, he drained it in one swallow, and Ingrid enjoyed watching the muscles in his throat work. "I care for Perry. She reminds me of myself, in some ways, and I always.... She always seemed invulnerable to me."
"Until?"
"The day she was not." Byrnes finally looked at her. "Don't get yourself killed. I still have a bet to win and a reward to claim."
Ingrid's breath flushed from her lungs. For a moment, it had almost felt like something else lingered between them, but his words were a good reminder. Byrnes considered life a challenge. If he gave any indication that he cared for her, she would be a fool to believe it.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't want to deprive you of such a challenge."
SEVEN
THE WELCOMING ball was a masquerade.
"No mention of that on the invitation," Debney huffed, as though personally affronted, as they waited in the receiving line.
Dozens of gorgeously gowned ladies fluttered their fans, wearing an assortment of hawk masks, and butterflies, or even some masks with clockwork gears turning slowly over their faces. At the door, a footman held a platter of assorted masks for those guests unfortunate enough not to have one, and Ingrid swept up a pretty gold-and-blue concoction of feathers that matched her gown.