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

by Bec McMaster

  Sweet.

  Sucre de sang, whispered a voice inside him, from the lessons he'd had when he went through his Blood Rites as a fifteen-year-old. All aristocratic blue bloods were taught how to master themselves, how to efficiently use a bloodletting knife and seal the wounds with their saliva.

  And they were taught how to recognize the subtle hormonal shifts in a woman's blood, so they would not injure their thralls should their seed take root.

  A child.

  A child.

  A child.

  He saw Catherine's face again—the only woman he had ever loved—as she begged him to stay away from her and Balfour.

  "Please," she had pleaded, the night before Balfour shot her. "You have to stop this. You have to give me up. He owns my thrall contract."

  "Never."

  "I'm in the family way!" she'd cried. "He will kill me if he finds out it's yours."

  Malloryn tore himself away from the wound, breathing hard. Balfour had killed her anyway, both her and the baby.

  "You're with child," he blurted.

  Ava's eyes opened wide as she clutched her wrist to her chest. "What?"

  So, so sweet....

  He slammed into the opposite wall of the cell, wiping the blood from his lips. Shuddering as he tried to get the taste of her blood out of his mouth and push the monster deep within.

  "What did you just say?" Ava's skirts whished as she found her feet.

  "Stay where you are."

  Her face was so pale he was afraid she might faint. "But... it's only been a week and a bit. I wasn't.... I wasn't certain. I thought it might be the stress. Oh, my goodness."

  Sweet Ava, who formed the heart and soul of the Company of Rogues.

  "Does he...?"

  "No!" She pressed her hands to her mouth. "No, he doesn't know. I didn't know."

  "I promise I will get you out of here," Malloryn swore, the throbbing in his head not quite so bad as the craving settled with a malevolent hiss inside him. Barely sated, but clearheaded at least. "No matter what I must do."

  This was no longer just about Balfour.

  This was about protecting those who'd come to rescue him.

  The next morning dawned bright and clear. The snow had stopped during the night, leaving little piles of dust in the corners of the street.

  "We have a lead on where they might have taken Ava," Gemma said, her cheeks pale as she strode into the dining room. "Luther just got word."

  "Then why do you look like your grandmother just died?" Charlie asked, lifting his head from the cup of tea Herbert had forced upon him.

  He hadn't slept and his eyes were grainy.

  But someone had to sit with Kincaid.

  "Because there's going to be a presentation tonight at the House of Swans." Gemma took a deep breath. "They're going to auction a young, blonde Englishwoman to the highest bidder."

  Kincaid's face grew pale. "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "It means precisely what you'd expect it to mean," Gemma replied. "There are very few rules here, but so far, we've only been shown the gilded lights of high society. The Blood have gone out of their way to present us—and several other foreign powers—with their exquisite, restrained manners.

  "The House of Swans is where the darker aspects of Blood society come out to play. There are no rules there. The young women and men they offer for entertainment are called swans, and you can bid on their services for the night. If the blood play gets out of hand and your swan suffers for it, then you pay extra to have them buried."

  Gemma eased a hand over Kincaid's. "We will get her out, Kincaid. I promise. No matter what we must do."

  Chapter 20

  "Deep breath," Lark warned as their carriage disbursed them outside a small, dark manor.

  Every single shutter was closed, and the street's gaslights were muted. Hints of sound came from within the manor.

  Laughter.

  Music.

  A shocked cry.

  "You're not the one wearing the goddamned collar," Charlie growled as she hooked the golden leash to her wrist. His white breeches clung to every single inch of his ass, and he kept trying to pull the hem of his shirt out enough to shield his codpiece from view. The diaphanous, billowing shirt was unbuttoned to his navel and offered very little protection against the chill breeze.

  According to Byrnes, he looked like he'd come straight from the ballet stage, and if the situation hadn't been so dire, he was fairly certain the bastard would have snickered.

  "I did offer," Lark pointed out.

  "You speak Russian. I don't."

  "Besides," she mused, "you're prettier than I am."

  Charlie shot her a mutinous glare. "You're enjoying this."

  "Relax, Charlie. You're masculinity's intact." She glanced down suggestively. "In fact, I think you're going to put all the gentlemen in there to shame."

  "I hate you."

  Lark burst into laughter.

  "Revenge," he promised, "is going to be very sweet. I think I'll insist upon reversing our circumstances the second we get a chance. I want you wearing exactly what Gemma's wearing."

  He looked pointedly at the long black coat Lark was buttoned into, and her leather boots and leggings. She looked every inch the Russian aristocrat tonight, complete with gold braid dripping off her shoulder and her buttons gleaming in the lantern light that hung from the carriage. She even had a sword sheathed at her hip, though she barely knew how to use it. No, it was the knives within her coat that were her real claws.

  Lark's cheeks heated. "I'd hate to disappoint you. I'd look nothing like Gemma."

  "Trust me." He leaned close enough to scent the dab of cologne she wore at her throat. "It wouldn't be a disappointment."

  "Concentrate," Obsidian warned.

  "Why the hell am I always the bait?" he asked Gemma as Obsidian helped her down from the carriage.

  "As Lark says, you're too pretty for your own good. You practically reek of innocence and good intentions. It's like offering a—"

  "Don't say it," he warned.

  "—sugarplum to a child. Irresistible to a certain type of predator."

  "You don't look innocent at all," he told her.

  Gemma resettled the collar around her throat. "No, but I have these." She gestured at her very visible décolletage. White silk draped her figure and left most of her back bare. Without her corset, the dress was utterly indecent, and he very determinedly did not look where she pointed. "Trust me. Most of the men in there aren't even going to remember my face."

  "Or yours." Obsidian's face resembled a sphinx.

  The same kohl that darkened Gemma's lashes was traced around Charlie's eyes, and Gemma had dabbed some sort of beeswax on his mouth to make it glisten. There was fucking rouge on his cheeks.

  "Don't say another word," he told Lark, who was biting her lip as if to restrain herself.

  "Absolutely not." Her eyes sparkled. "But I assure you I am never, ever going to forget this night."

  "Time to enter the seventh circle of hell," Obsidian muttered. "Try and stay together. We'll maintain a spot out of the way and wait for the auctions to begin. Hopefully we've got enough money. If we don't, we'll have to cut our way out."

  Lark's smile vanished.

  A footman wearing a black mask and white wig awaited them at the door. He held out his hand, and Obsidian handed him the pair of gilded invitations they'd stolen from a pair of Blood aristocrats three streets over.

  Lark and Obsidian accepted masks at the front door, though neither Gemma nor Charlie were offered that luxury.

  And then they were through the dark foyer, the lush velvet curtains at the end of the hallway drawing apart as they approached. Light spilled from the parlor beyond, along with the sounds of raucous laughter.

  "Welcome to House of Swans," said one of the footmen in Russian as he held the curtain back.

  Gilt dripped from every surface and chandeliers glittered like diamonds.

  The main salon was f
illed with divans and elegant chairs. Masked guests moved through the gathering, dragging their pets on gold leashes. Some of the pets were traded and led upstairs to small, velvet-cloaked alcoves where the sounds of grunts and soft cries could be heard.

  Despite her supposed nonchalance, Lark couldn't stop the heat crawling up her throat.

  Everywhere she looked, she saw flashes of naked flesh and painted lips. Woman draped in sheer white gowns crawled over men, their mouths wet and rouged. In a nearby alcove, a man curled his fist into a woman's red curls as he pumped into her ferociously from behind.

  Lark's skin started to feel hot and tight. She'd expected danger and having to deal with her bloodlust, but she hadn't anticipated the other side of the coin; the rough, chafing press of sheer lust itself.

  A man painted entirely in gold stood on a pedestal as a masked blue blood lord knelt at his feet, his wig bobbing up and down. Lark tilted her head in fascination, trying to see precisely what—

  A hand swatted her backside.

  "Concentrate," Charlie growled.

  "Perhaps I'm expanding my repertoire," she told him smokily, and his blue eyes darkened.

  Clearly she wasn't the only one trying to deal with the press of the craving.

  The thought spurred her on.

  She could touch him here.

  It was allowed, nay, encouraged. She had her role to play, and he had his.

  They slipped through the crowd, and Lark played the role of mistress, stealing touches of Charlie as the press of people forced them flush against each other. Charlie's eyes were pure black now, his lips a hard, thin line. All she could think of was that kiss in the pool and the silken scrape of his wet skin against hers.

  The breath exploded from her as Charlie's hand slid beneath her coat, resting firmly on her hip. "Are you trying to torture me?" he breathed in her ear.

  "I'm trying to play a role."

  "You're succeeding." His lips brushed against her ear. "Am I allowed to play back?"

  They'd had no time to discuss what had happened yesterday afternoon, so she could understand his reticence. "Yes."

  "Good." Warm breath stirred the small curls in front of her ear. "Then you should know, it's taking everything in me not to drag you into one of these alcoves and fuck you."

  That word.

  It set her skin on edge.

  She was no longer wholly in control of herself.

  Lark pushed him back, behind one of the heavy Grecian columns that circled the room. Hands planted against his abdomen, she held him pinned to the marble. Charlie's arms splayed wide, a wicked smile curving his mouth. She wanted to kiss the beeswax from it. She wanted to suck his lower lip between her teeth and ravage the hell out of him.

  "Lark. Your eyes are black."

  The craving.

  The hunger.

  But this was the first time she'd felt it turned in this direction.

  She grabbed the leash and hauled him down for a kiss.

  Their mouths met, firm and possessive. Gauze slid beneath her hands, and then she was touching only skin. His chest and abdomen were smooth and hairless, and the large spread of his hands cupped her ass and ground her against him.

  He tasted like beeswax and hot tea, his tongue darting lushly against hers. When Valentin had kissed her in the garden it had been expertly done, every move choreographed to delight. But Charlie kissed as if he wanted to drown himself in her.

  Lark drew back and pressed her forehead to his chest, breathing hard.

  A warm hand stroked up the back of her neck, cupping the back of her skull.

  "Breathe," he whispered.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't expect the intensity of... that."

  There was a faint stirring against the top of her hair. A gentle kiss. "Sometimes it's stronger than the blood thirst. When you drink blood, even a little eases the press of the craving, but this is different. A single kiss burns through you like a wildfire. Each touch only makes it worse. The only way to slake it is to take it to the end."

  Lark looked up. "You've felt this before?"

  His kohl-lined lashes hid his eyes. "Sometimes."

  Who? She was suddenly, burningly jealous.

  "There was a girl," he admitted. "She was beautiful, but she didn't know it. Fierce, and kind. A little guarded. She had the most amazing eyes. I dreamed of kissing her, but I didn't dare. I dreamed of doing a hell of a lot more to her than that, but—"

  "I don't want to know." Lark pushed away from him.

  She made it three steps before the leash hauled her to a halt. She'd completely forgotten about it.

  Charlie reeled her back in, hand over hand along the leash. His smile seemed a little dangerous. "I like it when you're jealous."

  "I'm not jealous."

  He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "It was you, you idiot."

  "What?"

  Fierce. Beautiful. Amazing eyes....

  She didn't know what to do with that information. There was something blooming within her; a little bit of a breathless feeling.

  It was as if being here, like this, lowered both their guards.

  Charlie waited patiently.

  "Me?" she whispered.

  "The most frustrating, impossible girl I've ever known," he replied, with that devilish smile. Bending down, he pressed a sweet, fleeting kiss to her lips. "You look like I've just hit you with a brick."

  "I spent most of my life dressed like a boy!" she protested.

  "In incredibly tight trousers." He rolled his eyes. "Do you know how difficult it was in those last few years to try and pretend I wasn't noticing just what your ass looked like in buckskin breeches?"

  He grabbed her by the elbow and steered her back to the main room. "As intriguing as this discussion has been, I think we'd best focus on what we're here for. Why don't we finish it later? When we're alone?"

  She hated that she felt like she'd just been thrown into deep water, while he was coolly navigating the terrain like a professional.

  "There's Gemma and Obsidian," she murmured, as if to prove she had complete control of herself.

  "Gemma looks like she's having the time of her life."

  "And Obsidian looks like his collar's a little too tight."

  "Can't blame him. Did she just—?"

  Lark elbowed him in the ribs. "Try not to drool."

  "You are jealous." He sounded delighted as he leaned down and kissed her neck. "You do realize Gemma's like my sister? Indeed, she could give Honoria a run for her money when it comes to giving a lecture."

  "Honoria doesn't look like that."

  "No, and that's disgusting." His hand slid over her ass. "Just remember.... Buckskin breeches. Or better yet, nothing at all."

  He was still laughing when a woman wearing wet blue silk sauntered directly into their path, the eyes behind her mask locking on Charlie. "What a delicious piece of flesh you own," the woman breathed. "He's so tall. So broad through the shoulders."

  Gemma had warned them about this.

  Pets belonged to whoever held their leash, but there would be some blue bloods here that attempted to make a play for what belonged to others.

  Blood might be spilled, and she'd be expected to hold her own if she was to try and prove herself one of the Blood.

  "He's not for sale," Lark told her.

  The woman reached out and cupped Charlie directly between the legs, and Lark had a knife at the woman's throat before she knew it.

  "Get your fucking hands off him before I cut your throat," she snarled, and the woman laughed and moved away, shooting the pair of them a suggestive look over her shoulder.

  "Fuckin' jaysus," Charlie breathed.

  "Are you all right?" It was one thing to make him blush herself, quite another to have someone touch him so explicitly when he couldn't even protest.

  "I've never really wanted to hit a woman before, but that was close." He cupped his groin. "Blood and ashes, she dug her nails in."

  Lark stroked his sleeve. "Do you
want me to go find her?"

  He shook his head, caressing her side. "No. Best not make enemies. I survived and everything's still there."

  "Maybe I'll kiss it better later." The words were out of her mouth before she could retract them.

  Charlie froze. A sultry look came into his eyes as his hand softened on her skin. "Maybe I'll let you." He winced. "That is not helping the situation."

  "Oh, it's a situation now, is it?"

  He looked like he wanted to eat her alive. "I've never seen you like this before. I like it."

  "Of course you do."

  She laughed, but as she threw her head back, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure and froze.

  Nikolai Koschei leaned on the balcony overlooking the room, wearing black from head to toe. His gaze appeared bored until it locked upon her.

  She had the feeling he hadn't recognized her until now.

  Nikolai turned to murmur to the beautiful Japanese woman at his side.

  Charlie followed her gaze. "Isn't that interesting? The head of the Chernyye Volki just happens to show up. It's almost as if he's dogging our steps."

  "Or involved in this conspiracy up to his neck." Lark tugged the leash. "Come with me. I'll see if he'll reveal something to me."

  Charlie had told her about last night's rescue. It made her head ache. Some of the Wolves were not to be trusted, but some were? She didn't know what was going on within the ranks of the Chernyye Volki, but it intrigued her.

  Had Nikolai demanded she and her friends were not to be touched?

  Or was she hoping for too much?

  "Yes, Mistress," Charlie said, though his eyes glittered angrily as he signed, "Be careful."

  "Always."

  She wove her way through the crowd, then slipped the leash from her wrist and handed it to Charlie at the bottom of the stairs. "Stay here where I can see you. I don't think he'll speak if you're there."

  Then she climbed the stairs, her gaze clashing with Nikolai's.

  The tall Japanese woman at his side murmured something in his ear. Nikolai nodded, and she slipped down the stairs, passing Lark on the way.