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

by Bec McMaster

  "Are you following me?" she demanded, the second she reached him.

  His lip curled. "One could ask the same. Every time I turn around, there you are."

  Her eyes narrowed. Did she dare believe him?

  "I had business at the ball last night," he finally said, holding a glass full of blood as he surveyed the room like a king from on high. "Questioning you was a bonus."

  "And the incident that happened afterwards?" she challenged. "We never did make it to Sergey's."

  "So I heard."

  "Were they your men?"

  He glanced down at his glass. "If they were my men we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. We'd be elsewhere."

  Locked up in some dingy cell somewhere, no doubt. "Then some of your Wolves are disobeying orders."

  "Not once I get my hands on them," Nikolai said coldly. "You shouldn't be here. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

  "Would you even care if I was?"

  His eyes darkened. "Not particularly. But if anyone saw that tattoo on your back, there would be questions. Let the Grigorievs stay dead."

  "Why? So their murderer can stay on his throne?"

  He sent her a dangerous look. "And just what do you know of their murder?"

  "You tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine." Silence rang in her ears. "I thought so."

  "You've brought friends," he said, watching Obsidian maneuver through the congregation. "Just what are you up to?"

  "Exploring the delights that can be found on offer here," Lark replied. "Why else would anyone be here? Why are you here? Looking for your rebellious Wolves? Or looking for a pet?"

  His lashes hooded his eyes. "I'm not fond of leashes."

  "Or collars?"

  Resting one hand on the balcony, he turned to her. "Your friend looks like a dangerous man."

  For some reason, he seemed interested in Obsidian.

  "He is. He was forged into a weapon by the man you know as Vladimir Feodorevna, his memories stripped from him." She hesitated. "Do you recognize him?"

  "Should I?"

  Lark's shoulders slumped. "No. No, you shouldn't."

  And if anyone were bound to recognize Dmitri Grigoriev, it would be Nikolai. She'd been almost seven, while Nikolai had been thirteen. He'd adored his older brother, following in his footsteps like a shadow.

  "You should leave," Nikolai suddenly said. "This place is dangerous for you. I can get you out the back door without being seen."

  "Thank you, but we're here for the auctions."

  He searched her gaze. Shook his head. "You cursed little fool. This is where the House of Swans shows its teeth. You're not safe here. The auctions can get bloody."

  "It's a good thing I brought my best knives then."

  He snagged her arm as she turned to leave. "The highest bidder doesn't always win. Just remember that. Others can challenge for ownership, though it's often a fight to the death. If you mean to challenge, then you must intend to finish it."

  Lark's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"

  The curtains suddenly opened behind them, and a blue blood in a scarlet cloak wearing a white, eyeless face mark appeared from the alcove. "There you are," he said to Nikolai. "Come. Fyodor wishes to speak with you."

  How long had he been there?

  How much had he heard?

  Nikolai tipped his head to her and said loudly, "Unfortunately, your proposition doesn't interest me. I wish you well, but I'm not interested."

  Then he was gone, vanishing into the crowd as if she were a stranger.

  "Well?" Charlie asked, as she slunk down the stairs.

  She accepted the leash he held. "Nothing. He has no interest in me or my cause. But I also don't think his men attacked us last night."

  Charlie's eyes softened. "Then he's not worthy of you, Lark. You have a family. You belong to us. And we will never forsake you."

  The pair of them stared at each other.

  Lark cleared her throat. "Have you been practicing, or are you getting better at being charming?"

  He flashed her a quick smile, but there was a commotion happening on the stage. The music fell silent, except for a sudden burst of drums that caught everyone's attention.

  A man appeared, removing his golden, expressionless mask as his teeth glittered in a smile. He introduced himself as Count Fyodor Berensky.

  "And now, for the highlight of the evening," he cried, "our auction. Tonight we have a rare specimen all the way from England. Such gilded hair, and a sweet, innocent face. You'll be begging to corrupt...."

  Lark started pushing through the crowd, her heart skittering madly as she saw Gemma and Obsidian moving into place.

  "Ava," Gemma mouthed at her, before craning her neck to see the stage.

  "Can you see her?" she asked Charlie, who stood at least two inches over most of the crowd.

  "Nothing as of— Hey!"

  Something snatched at the leash on her wrist.

  "Here he is, ladies and gentlemen," Berensky called as two burly footman started hauling Charlie toward the stage.

  Lark shoved her way through the crowd after him, her heart crashing against her ribs. No! This wasn't supposed to happen like this. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "He's not for sale! He's mine!"

  But someone hauled her out of the way, and she was helpless as Charlie was dragged onto the stage.

  Chapter 21

  "Jesus Christ." Gemma appeared at Lark's side. "They knew. They knew we were here."

  Obsidian handed Gemma's leash to Lark. "Get her out of here," he told Gemma. "I'll start bidding."

  Shouts echoed through the room. She heard a cry of five hundred rubles. Then six hundred.

  "How much does Obsidian have on him?" Lark demanded. The bidding was going too high, too fast.

  "Not enough," Gemma whispered.

  Obsidian must have realized that too.

  There was a knife in his hand, held low, along his thigh. He started moving with shark-like grace toward the stage, but Lark's gaze flashed over the gathering. There had to be over fifty blue bloods here.

  "He'll blow our cover," she whispered. "And while he might be good, he's not that good. They'll tear him to pieces."

  The auctioneer's voice lifted. "...and that is thirteen hundred rubles. Do I hear fourteen hundred?"

  The bidding mounted, with Charlie looking frantically at her.

  "We'll never outbid them," Gemma said. "We're going to have to cut our way out. Get ready—"

  "No. Wait."

  What had Nikolai said? Had he been trying to warn her of the trap about to close about them?

  Glancing up at the balcony from where he watched impassively, her mind raced.

  The highest bidder doesn't always win.

  "We don't need to cut our way out," she said, resting her hand on the hilt of her dagger. "We only need to cut down one, and we can still maintain our cover."

  Gemma pressed a hand to the listening device attached to her necklace. "Did you hear that, Obsidian? Wait. Lark's got a plan."

  "Sold to Lady Kirinov," called the auctioneer.

  Of course it was the bitch in the watered blue silk.

  Polite clapping broke out.

  Lark started pushing her way through the crowd, her gaze locking on the woman who sauntered onto the stage.

  One of the footman grabbed her before she could make it, and Lady Kirinov shot her a vicious little smile as she accepted Charlie's leash.

  His cheeks were pale, his eyes black with the craving. He was about to cause a scene himself.

  "Wait!" Lark said, breaking the grip of the footman restraining her and pushing her way to the front of the crowd. "I offer challenge. He belongs to me."

  Muttered whispers broke out behind her.

  The auctioneer paused.

  Lady Kirinov shot her an incredulous look. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

  "Bitch, you bleed blue, just like anyone else here."

  Lady Kirinov shoved Charlie's leash
back at the auctioneer. "Oh, I'm going to enjoy this. Clear the stage. And fetch my sword."

  "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Gemma demanded, as Lark prepared herself.

  Lark whirled both knives in her hands, watching as Lady Kirinov swung her sword overhead as if to intimidate. She was wielding a Caucasus shashka with a gurda blade, which meant it was shorter than a typical sword, had no guard, but was extremely sharp. The mountain tribes of the Caucasus used to use them, and some Cossacks had adopted them. Lady Kirinov was probably drawn to its lighter weight, which meant she'd be fast.

  "I know what I'm doing," she said.

  "Obsidian could intercede."

  "No, he can't. I offered challenge. I'm locked into it now."

  Obsidian tugged his sleeve up and withdrew a steel armguard. "Wear this. It will give you an extra defense."

  Lark allowed him to strap it to her left forearm. It didn't entirely fit, but with her sleeve pulled down over the top of it, it worked.

  "She's wearing a gown and a corset," he continued. "Push her, but stay out of her reach. Let her wind herself. Her slippers will be precarious on the marble floors too."

  Lark nodded.

  And then the auctioneer was calling her forward.

  "First blood?" he asked Lady Kirinov.

  "Death," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "I want to slit her throat and drink her blood."

  "No rules," the auctioneer decreed, stepping back and raising his hands.

  The first blow swung at her like lightning.

  Lark danced on light feet, deflecting it with the tip of her left blade. Lady Kirinov had a longer reach, but only one weapon. Lark couldn't meet a direct blow, and so she didn't.

  She only had to make sure they didn't make contact with her.

  Steel whirring, she crouched low and deflected. Tap, and the sword skewered the air an inch from her side. There was an opening there, and Lark took it, her right knife slashing across Lady Kirinov's wrist.

  Then she was rolling in, slamming her elbow into the back of the woman's head as Lark danced past her.

  Rage gleamed in Kirinov's blackening eyes. This was what she wanted. The rise of the woman's hunger would grant her a rush of blood and speed, but it would also make her reckless.

  The sword blurred as it slashed toward her.

  Lark rolled her knife as they met, and the sword slid harmlessly past her. But Kirinov was ready this time. She turned the lunge into a backhanded slash, and the edge cut through the front of Lark's coat, bringing with it a sting.

  Then she was fighting for her life.

  She lost herself in the movements, attention locked on the sword. Steel rang on steel, and sparks spat as she drove the sword into the marble and kicked up, the heel of her boot slamming into Kirinov's lovely teeth. She poured all the rage she'd been brewing for Sergey into every movement.

  The woman screamed as she staggered backward, spitting a tooth. Blood splattered on the marble.

  The sharp edge whistled past her ears, and Lark barely blocked with the arm guard. The tip slashed through the muscle in her upper arm. Lark ducked under the blow, and there was a second opening.

  She lunged forward, driving her knife between the other woman's ribs.

  Kirinov gasped, and Lark hesitated, unused to following through. The sword skidded down her armguard, and skated along her unprotected upper arm. Lark screamed, and it was just the motivation she needed.

  She twisted the knife, feeling it catch on the woman's ribs.

  Her left arm was on fire, but she used it to hold Lady Kirinov's sword arm in place and then drove her knee up into the woman's elbow. This time, it was Kirinov's turn to scream.

  No time for mercy. She'd learned that lesson. To the death, they'd said.

  Lark slashed her second blade across the blue blood's throat as the sword clattered to the ground. Blood spattered across the floor, and the predator within her could suddenly smell it.

  All color drained from the room.

  Blood. She just wanted blood.

  This woman had meant to hurt Charlie.

  This entire cursed room would have watched and not said a thing.

  She used her rage, stabbing again and again, until she rode Lady Kirinov to the ground. The woman's chest was a bloody, gaping mess, gore spattered across the beautiful sky blue of her gown. Her mouth gaped, breath rattling through her lungs.

  "Finish it," said the auctioneer.

  Blue bloods were almost impossible to kill.

  Head or heart, and she'd practically macerated the heart.

  Lark put the tip of her knife beneath Lady Kirinov's chin and jammed the blade up into her brain.

  And then it was over.

  Lark looked up at the bloodthirsty crowd. "Is there anyone else who wants to try and steal what belongs to me?"

  Nobody moved.

  Clapping echoed through the room, bringing her back to the here and now.

  The world spun around her, leering faces flashing into view and painted lips drawing back to reveal teeth. Lark shook her head. The hunger roared through her with raking teeth, demanding more blood. It would be so easy. She could practically hear their hearts beating, and blood dripped from the knife in her hand.

  Then Charlie was at her side, twisting her arm to look at the bloodied slash in her coat. Safe. He was safe. She could pull back now, let the hunger subside.

  Color flooded back into the world. With it came pain. Jesus, it hurt.

  "Just a cut," she panted. "I'm fine."

  "It's more than a cut." He looked furious. "You need blood."

  "In the carriage. Not here."

  Not now, so close on the heels of the hunger's grip. She was on edge as it was.

  The shock of Lady Kirinov's blank staring eyes flashed through her mind. Lark was no killer. She'd defended herself in the past when she'd had to, but the idea of deliberately taking a life made her feel a little ill now the rage sloughed off her.

  "Let's get out of here." He hustled her off the stage, handing her over into Gemma's arms.

  "A delightful performance," the auctioneer called, "though I daresay Lady Kirinov would disagree. Let us bring out Lot 2."

  It was the Silent girl who'd served her that first morning.

  Two footmen dragged her kicking and screaming silently onto the stage, clad in the same voluminous white gauze that Gemma wore. Nadezhda's voice had been stolen from her, and somehow it made this worse, for she could not even beg for her life.

  Their eyes met, and Lark's stomach plunged. Someone had set this up. Someone had known who worked in their house and deliberately taken her.

  The auctioneer gave her a smirk as the mute young woman implored him with her hands. "Perhaps this time, we'll have an uncontested bidding."

  The bids started pouring in.

  Every blue blood in the room was roused by the smear of blood on the floor as several footmen dragged Lady Kirinov's body out by her ankles. If they got their hands on the girl, this wouldn't end well.

  "Come on," Charlie said, gesturing to her. He stood several feet away, protected by Gemma and Obsidian.

  Lark turned back again, helpless to resist.

  The girl was terrified.

  Lark started to reach for her knife, but Nikolai appeared out of nowhere, his hand locking on her arm. "Don't you dare," he told her. "You can fight only once."

  "Watch me."

  "You cannot save them all."

  "And so you save none?" she challenged him.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked as he looked away, and he tapped the ash from his cheroot. "It's been a long time, Irina. You forget the rules of this country. This world. The softhearted are punished here. If you show your throat then they will tear it out."

  "This world is not all bad. I remember my father," she whispered. "He believed that to be strong was to stand for your convictions, no matter how much it cost you. A powerful man protected those who could not protect themselves."

  Nikolai's fingers fro
ze on his cheroot. "In the end, it cost him his life."

  "You could save her."

  "What would I do with one of the Silent?" he asked scathingly.

  "Please." Lark squeezed his wrist. "The Kolya I knew would have stood against such an injustice. He wasn't afraid to confront such bullies."

  "That Kolya died and all that remains is this ragged shell."

  "Please."

  The girl was begging, pleading, as Count Berensky dragged her away.

  "If you fight for nothing, then you live for nothing," she said. It was one of their father's favorite sayings.

  Nikolai breathed out a wreath of smoke, dropped his cheroot, and ground it with his boot heel. "I swear I'm starting to regret ever laying eyes upon you again."

  "If you save her, then I will tell you anything you want to know."

  Their eyes met.

  Lark could feel in him the hunger to know the truth, barely reined in by his cautious nature. She saw it in him, because she recognized it in herself. It was what had driven her to reveal such potentially fatal half-truths the second she realized who he might be.

  "I will hold you to that deal."Nikolai pushed past her. "You have something I want, Berensky."

  The count froze, turning around incredulously. He laughed when he saw who faced him, and gave a sharp jerk on the leash, so the girl fell prostate at his feet. "Ah, the Crippled King wishes to give challenge, does he?"

  Titters of laughter spread throughout the congregation.

  Nikolai leaned on his cane and returned Berensky's stare. "I give challenge."

  Berensky's laughter faded. He tossed the leash to one of his friends and strode forward. "You insolent pup. I'll take your challenge. If you win, you get the girl. If I win, I'll put you on a leash for the night and take payment for your arrogance out of your hide."

  Nikolai unsheathed the sword within his cane, tossed the sheath to Lark, and began to strip out of his coat. "Agreed."

  "Remind me not to ever cross your brother," Charlie murmured as Nikolai stood over the fallen body of Count Berensky, dragging his gloved fingers along the blade of his cane sword and flicking Berensky's blood contemptuously across the man's face.