To Catch A Rogue (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  "This is insane." Gemma turned on him, her blue eyes flashing. They'd set up the high-pitched oscillating device that prevented anyone from listening in, and though it made his ears ache, at least they could speak freely. "Balfour's setting a trap for you. Why would he want Sergey dead? He practically put him in the position he's in. Sergey took the princedom, but Balfour spent years building him into a legitimate power here in Russia—and now he wants him dead?"

  Obsidian hauled the cravat from around his throat, wrapping it around his knuckles and imagining it was Balfour's neck. "A mystery, to be sure."

  "Not to mention, it's a dangerous target," Charlie said. He dwarfed an armchair in the corner, his gaze straying toward the young woman perusing the bookshelf in the corner. He probably didn't realize how often he looked at Lark. "Assassinating a prince of the Blood right before the tsarina's final ball? Good way to get us all killed."

  Byrnes winced. "The second we do, it wouldn't surprise me if Balfour turned around and pointed his finger directly at us. Then he gets rid of Sergey, who's clearly outlived his purpose, and he manages to neatly frame us for the murder of a prince of the Blood. Two enemies, one stone. And no matter how much we protest our innocence, I'm sure nobody will believe Balfour arranged it. Oh no, his hands will be clean."

  Us. Sometimes it surprised him how easily the Rogues had welcomed him into the group. "That did occur to me."

  "You could say no," Ava said earnestly. "He cannot make you do this."

  Obsidian exchanged a long, slow look with Gemma. "Balfour's being generous. First, he offers me a trade."

  "And if you refuse?" Kincaid asked.

  "Then I daresay the threat comes next. Or Malloryn's finger in a box. If he wants something done, then he doesn't stop until it is done."

  "Like I said, it's a trap," Gemma snapped. A little tendril of hair had worked itself down over her forehead, she who was always perfectly presented.

  Obsidian captured her wrist and drew her against him. It wasn't in his nature to display his affection so publicly, but he hated seeing her like this. Clasping her shoulders, he stared down into her eyes, willing her to take comfort from him. "Then we just need to work out how to spring it."

  A furrow grew between her brows. She'd barely slept in weeks, and it was starting to show.

  But at least her eyes had lost that panicky edge. "I don't want to lose you."

  Again echoed unspoken. They'd lost five years to Balfour's manipulative games.

  "You won't, muy lyubov."

  He drew her toward the sofa and settled there, letting her rest against his side. "If Balfour wants to set a trap, then perhaps we can twist it to our advantage. It's dangerous—"

  "When is it not?" Kincaid snorted.

  "We thrive on danger," Charlie added, with a flash of white teeth.

  "There is also the fact that Balfour may have slipped up a little, when he was so eager to assure me I couldn't kill him without Malloryn suffering for it."

  "The red smoke," Lark murmured, still flipping idly through the pages of the book she was holding. "Luther gave us a list of all the holdings Balfour—and his wife—own. There are far too many to search within six days, but perhaps we don't have to. Wherever they're keeping Malloryn, it's close enough to see a smoke signal."

  "We just have to figure out the outside radius of that distance. Any of his holdings within it are prime targets," Obsidian added.

  "And we know Jelena is the one watching over him," Charlie said.

  "It could be miles of distance," Byrnes said, ever the voice of grim reality. "The countryside is so damned flat you can see forever on a clear day, and red smoke is rather obvious."

  "No." Ingrid shook her head. "It has to be within a reasonable distance. You're not accounting for inclement weather, or nighttime. Both would cut visibility, and Balfour needs his signal to be spotted relatively quickly. He doesn't strike me as a man who'd leave much to chance."

  He’s not.

  "It’s a start," Gemma said.

  "So we start figurin' out the radius, while Obsidian tracks down our errant Prince of Tsaritsyn. Then we just need to make it look like an accident," Kincaid mused. "If it looks like an accident, then how is Balfour going to connect this Sergey's death to us?"

  "Are we... talking about murdering an innocent man?" Charlie looked nervous. "Trust me," Obsidian muttered. "Sergey's not innocent."

  "You could use Black Vein," Ava suggested, looking horrified at herself for even suggesting a means to murder a person.

  They'd discovered the Black Vein serum several months ago, when a string of unusual deaths began popping up among blue bloods. Derived from the caterpillar mushroom that grew in Tibet, it had an adverse reaction upon a blue blood and was the only thing—apart from decapitation or removing their hearts—that could effectively kill one.

  "Using Black Vein would draw attention," Gemma murmured. "It's quite a... noticeable death."

  All the veins in a blue blood's body turned dark, giving them a ghoulish appearance.

  "Not to mention the fact it would make certain people nervous," he pointed out. "If we use Black Vein, then Balfour will have no compunctions about returning the favor. We're all vulnerable to it."

  Except for Ava, whose clockwork heart saved her from death by the poison.

  "I've been working on that," Ava said, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. "While I'm not certain I have an antidote to Black Vein, my initial trials into a herbal infusion appear to be meeting some success. Black Vein wreaks damage on blood vessels and capillaries, and is an anti-coagulant, so I've been trialing a fusion of alfalfa, yarrow, goldenrod and...."

  She broke off when she saw their faces. Left to her own devices, the pretty crime scene investigator could ramble for hours about herbal concoctions and scientific theories about the craving virus. Getting her to focus was an ongoing task, and she knew it.

  "Does it work?" Gemma asked.

  "I don't know if it's entirely successful," Ava admitted. "But I have tested it on myself and it appears to assist in the recovery process and lessen the impact of the poison."

  Kincaid's head snapped around sharply. "You poisoned yourself with Black Vein to test an antidote?"

  Ava's lips pressed firmly together. "It might be a matter of life and death, and these are my friends. I can't just let them—or you—die when I know it won't kill me. Of course, the problem is, now I don't know if it will stop a blue blood from dying, because I'm a poor test subject. I just know it works, to a degree."

  "Sorry, Kincaid. The pair of you can discuss this later," Gemma interrupted pointedly. "In private."

  Kincaid pushed out of his chair and strode to the window, scrubbing his mouth in fury. Charlie went after him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear, as Ava stared after her fiancé longingly.

  "And we would prefer it if you didn't take such risks, Ava." Gemma knelt in front of her, clasping her hands. "You are our friend too, and while you survived one Black Vein attack, we don't know if the serum has other, further reaching consequences."

  "I only did it once," Ava muttered.

  "So no Black Vein," Byrnes said, "No decapitation. No removal of a heart. We could burn him alive."

  "Fire is out of the question too," Gemma said, and Obsidian tried not to look at her.

  Only she knew how closely he'd come to dying in the fire set by Silas to implicate her. He wasn't precisely afraid of it, but the sight of roaring flames made him extremely uncomfortable.

  "We're not killing anyone. Yet," Gemma insisted. "We don't dare risk an international incident, not even for Malloryn's sake. We just need to string Balfour along and buy a little time."

  The slap of a book closing drew Obsidian’s attention, and Lark glanced sideways at him. "Why you? Why does Balfour want you to do this deed? He's got at least two dhampir working for him, and probably a handful of assassins up his sleeve. He didn't get where he is without shedding a little blood, and as much as you think he wants to
frame you, it's dangerous to give his enemy a chance to haul him down with them."

  "You don't trust me," Obsidian said.

  "Don't take it personally," she replied, her eyes glittering in the afternoon sunlight. "I don't trust anyone I don't really know. And all my senses are telling me there's more to this than there seems."

  Likewise.

  "Show them," Gemma said.

  Obsidian slowly began unbuttoning his shirt.

  "Is he—? Are you trying to steal all the ladies in this room?" Byrnes joked, but he leaned forward curiously. "Ingrid, avert your eyes."

  "It's not the first half-naked man I've ever seen," his wife retorted. "Besides, I'm enjoying the show."

  "Me too. I think I'm going to swoon," Byrnes replied.

  Stripping his shirt down his arm, Obsidian showed them what only Gemma had seen.

  The scrawl of tattoos up Obsidian's forearm and biceps drew an almost soundless gasp from Lark.

  "Are you trying to tell me you were once a sailor?" Byrnes asked.

  "Not a sailor. No."

  "Well, it's not as though you'd know," Byrnes said.

  "I get horrendously seasick on a ship. Trust me. I've never been a sailor."

  A firebird rising from the flames curled over his biceps. An ornate golden Orthodox cross painted the outside of his upper arm, with thorns curling around it. He'd had them for years, though he couldn't recall getting them.

  He'd never truly given them a thought until he'd seen the same damned image displayed on the coat of arms in the file with his name upon it.

  The Grigoriev coat of arms.

  But it was the girl he couldn't take his eyes off.

  Lark had beautiful skin the color of molten honey, but right now there was an ashen tint to it.

  "I told Lark there's a possibility you might be Dmitri Grigoriev," Charlie said.

  It wasn't a secret, but the young man was entirely too eager to share personal details.

  "Balfour likes to play games. He knows what these mean. I don’t. Which means he wants to twist me in knots. Are you satisfied?" Obsidian asked her, feeling the same stirring of suspicion that had graced her voice.

  Lark nodded, her thick lashes shuttering her hazel eyes. "Satisfied. Now if you'll excuse me.... I'm not feeling very well. May I use the water closet?"

  "Our suite is through there," Ingrid said, gesturing to one of the connecting doors.

  "Thank you."Lark waved Charlie off as she started toward the door.

  Gemma arched a brow at Obsidian, no doubt sensing what he'd been sensing. What was all that about?

  Hell if I know. He stared after Lark as the door closed. But suspicion burned within him.

  Gemma had worried Lark was keeping secrets.

  Now he was certain of it.

  Because she'd known exactly what those tattoos represented.

  Chapter 15

  Breathing hard, Lark leaned over the basin of water and splashed her face with it. Her hands shook so badly she could barely control them enough to wipe the water from her face.

  All she could see were those tattoos.

  The Firebird. The cross. The thorns. There ought to be a sun there too, but she couldn't remember if she'd seen a hint of its golden rays beneath his shirt. The second he rolled his sleeve up, the world had started sucking at her, until all she could see was those tattoos.

  If he was Dmitri Grigoriev, the marque du sang should have been on his back. But he would have shown it if it was, wouldn't he? Why would a man have the individual elements of the Grigoriev family crest tattooed on his arms?

  Especially a man who’d had dealings with Balfour—Sergey's ally—in the past.

  What were the odds? What did it mean?

  A swift rap came at her door.

  Lark's heart nearly burst out of her chest. She couldn't let anyone see her like this. Grabbing a towel, she wiped her face and pinched her cheeks, but the world was still spinning around her.

  A second knock came.

  "Who is it?" she called.

  "I wanted to see how you were feeling."

  Him.

  The heat rushed out of her face. No. No, this wasn't happening.

  Lark cracked the door open an inch. "What do you want?"

  Obsidian leaned one hand against the doorframe, practically dwarfing her. He was taller than Charlie, and from the little she'd seen when he removed his shirt, cut lean with muscle. The other Rogues looked dangerous, but this one looked like a survivor, from the ice-cold eyes that gave nothing away when he looked at a person, to the faint scar above his lip.

  "May I come in?" he asked, a hint of silky menace in his voice.

  It wasn't a question.

  "I was going to sit down. My... head aches."

  "It will only take a moment."

  Lark silently held the door open for him, tension crawling down her spine as he sauntered into the wash chambers.

  "You know what these mean, don't you?" Obsidian murmured, tugging his sleeve up and staring down at his tattoos.

  Despite the menace she suddenly felt, she glanced around the suite and swiftly shut the door. "You shouldn't show those tattoos here in Russia."

  "Why?"

  All her lies were coming home to roost. What the hell was she going to tell him? They already suspected her of knowing more than she should.

  "Because they are the marque du sang of the Prince of Tsaritsyn and his House." A twist of unease flickered though her. "Peter the Great brought the concept to Russia from France many years ago, before the French humanists guillotined their blue bloods. Only those of the direct Grigoriev bloodline are allowed to wear the Grigoriev marque. Each member of the Blood is marked with the family's coat of arms at the age of five, to show they belong to the family bloodline. To wear the marque without belonging to the family is forbidden. If anyone saw these, they would kill you."

  "And you know this how?"

  "There was an old Russian exile who lived near us. He used to tell me stories." She made her mouth twist ruefully. The best lies were formed with a little bit of truth. "Once he started, you could barely get him to stop."

  This is your heritage, Irinka. Remember it, Tin Man had signed.

  Obsidian dragged a footstool toward her and sat down, his hands clasped between his knees, his sleeves deliberately rolled up. "My name is Dmitri. I thought my surname was Zhukov, but that also could have been an alias I was given for a mission. I don't know. I want to know who I am."

  She had a sudden brief flashback of a tall, serious boy with pale brown hair. The last time she'd seen him, Dima had been on the verge of growing a mustache, a thin, scraggly thing she'd teased him about.

  She sat very still, her world shattering into little pieces around her, and then abruptly shook her head. "It's impossible. The entire Grigoriev line was murdered fifteen years ago by their cousin, Sergey Mikhailovich Grigoriev. I don't think any of them survived."

  Except for the stranger in the tower, but she didn't know who he was.

  All she had was suspicion.

  Obsidian's gaze locked on her. "That's not the sort of thing that is common knowledge."

  "There were witnesses. It is spoken of among the bratstvo bezmolvnogo. My friend—the exile—he was one of the Brotherhood of the Silent."

  "Is he still alive?"

  "No."

  "Do you have proof?"

  "No."

  Obsidian scrubbed at his mouth. "What you're saying is very dangerous."

  "I know. Sergey cut their throats and burned Grigoriev Palace to the ground. And then he blamed it on the Dorontsovs and sued for peace." She met his eyes. "It should make killing him easier."

  "I don't need many excuses." His eyes grew heavy-lidded. "Gemma said your grasp of Russian is better than expected."

  Suspicion echoed in every word. She'd been careless, but how could she not have been? She'd made one mistake and now she was scrambling.

  Lark pushed past him, wrapping her arms around her middle. Never
speak your name, Irinka. Never tell anyone who you are. As if summoned, Tin Man's ghost filled her head, making her swallow hard.

  This was becoming so hard. First Charlie, and now Obsidian....

  She didn't know what to do.

  "The man I knew didn't just live near me. He took me in off the streets and raised me. He was highly placed within the bratstvo bezmolvnogo and fled Russia many years ago," she told him carefully. "It wasn't safe anymore. He knew too much. He never wanted to come back here. It's dangerous for me to know so much, so I pretend I don't."

  "And you don't think this seems suspicious? You just happened to join this mission?"

  "I came here for Charlie," she snapped, turning on him. "I knew what this world was like and he doesn't! I couldn't just let him walk in here blindly. I don't care about your duke. I don't care about Balfour. I just want to make sure Charlie survives. And he asked me. I'd never heard of any of you before this."

  "That explains why you speak Russian so well."

  "Please." She captured his sleeve. "Please don't tell anyone."

  "Gemma has to know."

  She gave a faint nod. "I also speak the sign language of the Brotherhood of the Silent. They're everywhere. They might know more than we do."

  He looked at her as if he still wasn't entirely certain whether he trusted her or not.

  Lark reached out hesitantly, pushing his sleeve further up his arm. "Do you have these tattoos on your back?"

  He shook his head. "Only scars. I was burned in a fire five years ago, and some of the wounds didn't heal properly."

  Lark's shoulders slumped a little. "If you were a Grigoriev, then your back would show the Grigoriev marque. These symbols all welded together in a gorgeous emblem. Without them...."

  Obsidian flexed his fist, making the muscle in his arm flex. "Without them, I cannot be a Grigoriev. I know."

  She saw the flicker of emotion cross his face, as if he hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted it until that moment.

  "Without them, you cannot be a Grigoriev," she repeated, a secret little hope she hadn't known she'd felt, dying a sudden death inside her.

  The door to Charlie's bedchambers opened and a figure slipped inside.