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

by Bec McMaster

  A boy who'd ripped pieces of the carriage off him, when they were first assaulted that long-ago night. Nikolai had been screaming as the pain slicing through his lower leg almost made him vomit.

  "I'll get you out, Kolya. I'll get you out...."

  And then their father had cried out, a horrible animalistic noise, and Dmitri's head had lifted as the clash of swords fell silent. "I'll be back," he'd promised.

  But he never came back.

  The next thing Nikolai knew, Sergey had been lifting him from the shattered remains of the carriage, his face grim. "He betrayed you both," he'd said sadly. "But I will look after you. You are mine now."

  Nikolai couldn't say a damned thing.

  "Have you... come to see your sister off?" Lady Hollis asked, as if she sensed the tension roiling within him.

  Nikolai nodded curtly and stepped to the side. He'd wanted to kill this man the second he laid eyes upon him, until Irina had told him the truth.

  Looking at his face still made him furious. Where were you? You promised to come back. But those thoughts belonged to the boy he'd been. Not the monster he'd become.

  "Safe passage," he told them and pushed past, limping toward the palace doors, where Chiyoh watched him with knowing eyes.

  They didn't belong here anymore.

  And he didn't belong with them.

  But at least they'd have each other.

  "Goodbye, Russia," Charlie breathed as the airship’s balloon lifted them into the air. Gemma had wasted no time in seeing them aboard.

  "Good riddance," Byrnes said.

  "Come now, Byrnes, it wasn’t that bad. Nobody died," Charlie protested. "Nobody got eaten by vampires. We ruined all Balfour’s plans, rescued Malloryn, and—"

  "Got the girl?" Byrnes asked with an arch to his brow.

  Charlie shot him a smile. "Mission accomplished. Speaking of…." He reached inside his pocket and felt the locket Nikolai had given him. He hadn't had a chance to give it to her yet. "I have a little something for her. Do you mind?"

  Byrnes clapped him on the shoulder as he stepped past. "Happy for you, sugarplum."

  "Even if you didn't win your hundred quid off me?"

  Byrnes winked. "Who said I didn't win?"

  Charlie shook his head. He didn't even want to know what they'd started betting on.

  The wind rifled through his hair as Charlie made his way across the deck of the airship to where Lark watched from the bow. Her hair was gathered into a tight chignon, but strands of it kept escaping.

  She looked happy, and his heart squeezed in his chest to know he was partly the reason for it.

  "Hello, you," he mused, resting both of his hands on the rail on either side of her hips. She was wearing those bloody leather trousers again; the ones that caressed every inch of her ass.

  "Hello," she replied with a smile, tilting her face up for a gentle kiss.

  It had been too long since he'd tasted her mouth.

  All the fear and tension had twisted him into knots. Watching her cousin drive that sword down at her, and knowing there was nothing he could do, had been more than he could bear. Charlie captured her face between his hands and slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue tracing the curve of her lips. Gods, she was sweet. Her tongue touched his, a hesitant little touché, and then he was sinking into her, pressing her against the rail and sliding his hands down her back. Gripping her ass, he squeezed.

  "Charlie!" She sounded scandalized as she turned her face to the side and gasped. "Someone might see."

  "Let them."

  He claimed her mouth again, and this time she gave as good as she got. Hungry and indecent, and definitely something that needed to be moved elsewhere. Somewhere where he could get rid of all these blasted clothes between them.

  It was a long time before either of them came up for air, and someone—probably Byrnes or Kincaid—was clapping loudly.

  But first.

  "I have something for you." He reached inside the pocket of his waistcoat.

  "A present?" Lark arched a brow. "How on earth did you find time to get me a present?"

  "It's not from me."

  He pressed the locket Nikolai had given him into her hand, and Lark flicked it open.

  She gasped and looked up questioningly. "Who is this?"

  "According to Nikolai, it's his maternal grandfather. He said he was sorry he couldn't be what you wanted him to be, but he hoped this might make up for it."

  Lark looked down again, rubbing her thumb across the tiny portrait. "My goodness." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They're almost identical. If Obsidian grew a beard—"

  "You could suggest it," he said, leaning on his elbows on the rail beside her. "I'm sure Gemma would love that."

  Lark fell silent, and her lower lip trembled a little. Charlie tucked his arms around her and hauled her in for a hug.

  "He’s my brother," she whispered. "My eldest brother."

  "Why don't you go and find him?"

  "Do you think—"

  "Yes. I think he would be very pleased to see this."

  She stared down at the locket. "I don't know why Nikolai gave this to me."

  "Because he knows he cannot be what you want him to be," Charlie said softly, knowing how much she'd wanted Nikolai to be more. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't love you."

  Her jaw trembled. "I'll never see him again."

  "Never say never. It's only six days from London by dirigible. Give him time to accept all of this, and I'm sure he'll be more welcoming next time."

  "Ha." Lark rolled her eyes, but it was halfhearted at best. "He practically threw me on the dirigible."

  "Maybe he knows the Blood Court is a dangerous place. Balfour vanished, and his wife is less than pleased with the turn of events. Maybe he wanted you to be safe."

  Lark looked up. "Do you think so?"

  "I do. I also think you're stalling. Go. Go and see Obsidian. Because Nikolai's not the only brother you have, my love. Do you want me to—?"

  "No," she whispered. "I have to do this myself."

  "Good. Talk to Obsidian and then come and find me." He kissed her gently on the lips. "Because we have unfinished business between us too."

  Lark rapped on the door to Gemma and Obsidian's cabin, her heart in her throat.

  "Come in," Gemma called with a laugh, as if she'd been up to something wicked inside.

  Lark hesitantly pushed the door open.

  Obsidian lay in bed, his skin pale and his eyes bruised, and from the look of it, Gemma had been sitting on said bed until she'd knocked. Giving her a wink, Gemma smoothed her hair.

  "Whatever can we do for you?"

  "May I speak with Obsidian?"

  Gemma's smile softened. "Of course. I'll go see how Malloryn is doing."

  She closed the door behind her, and suddenly Lark was alone in the room with the enormous ex-assassin. He dragged himself upright slowly.

  "You look a little better," she said nervously.

  He'd survived the injection of Black Vein, though it had taken its toll. Thin black veins still snaked through his cheeks, but he was alive. That was all that mattered.

  "It seems Ava has an answer as to whether her antidote works." He winced. "I wouldn't recommend it, however."

  Lark looked at the chair by the bed. "Do you mind...?"

  "Of course not." He cleared his throat. "You wanted to speak to me?"

  "I wanted to apologize." Lark wrapped her arms around herself as she sat. Charlie had offered to be here with her for this, but she'd insisted upon doing it herself. When one made a mistake, it was up to you to own it, Blade had always said. She was prepared to own it, even if there was a lump in her throat the size of Russia. "I told you that you couldn't be a Grigoriev. You don't look like the rest of us. There is no marque. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I fear I did."

  "I'd been expecting it," he replied, hauling himself slowly out of bed. Sunlight gilded the slope of his cheekbones and the fine golden tips of his eyelashes, a
nd his shirt hung limply, as if he'd lost a couple of pounds. "It's the not knowing that bothered me. I have Gemma now, and it's enough, but sometimes.... I cannot help but wonder who I am."

  "You are whom you have made yourself," she told him.

  The faintest of smiles quirked his lips. "That's what Gemma tells me. And yet.... I dream about it sometimes. About meeting my parents, or my siblings. It's like a feeling in which I finally have a sense of home. And yet, when I wake it all vanishes. They have no faces. There is no home. I can put myself together piece by piece, but I feel as though there is some part of the puzzle missing."

  Her heart ached. She knew that feeling. To be surrounded by dozens of people, and yet somehow alone.

  "I kept looking at your face the other night, after you made your announcement, and wondering if it feels familiar. Am I imagining it? Is some part of me still trying to place myself within your family? Is it because I knew Sergey? Do I see remnants of him in your face? Is there someone out there with my nose? My eyes?" He gave a baffled shrug. "I cannot trust my memories. Balfour twisted my mind into knots, and sometimes I don't know what is real and what is not."

  "Did Balfour ever give you the proof he promised you?" she asked nervously.

  Just say it.

  Any hint of warmth fled from his expression as he turned to the desk. "He gave me something. Whether it's proof or simply another little game is a matter of conjecture."

  There was a cloth-wrapped package on the desk. He tugged the cloth open, revealing a shattered frame with a beautiful old parchment within it. Lark leaned closer. The paper must have been old, for it was darkened with age and—

  It wasn't paper.

  Lark jerked her fingers back.

  "It was the marque du sang Dmitri Grigoriev once wore on his back, though I have no way of knowing whether it was my back, or some poor bastard who's buried in a ditch somewhere." He stared down at the glorious tattoo, his face expressionless. "It's not a gift. Balfour knows I will wonder. He wants to torment me for my betrayal."

  "Then perhaps I can give you a gift," she whispered, taking his hand and dropping the locket into it. "I was wrong."

  Eyes the color of gray ice locked on her. "What do you mean?"

  "Please open the locket."

  Obsidian did, and then his gaze swiftly lifted to hers. "Who is this?"

  "Dmitri and Nikolai were born from my father's first wife. This is Nikolai's maternal grandfather. It's proof. You have your grandfather's nose. You have his eyes. In fact, I'm fairly certain if you grew a beard, there would be an uncanny resemblance. You're my brother. My eldest brother. You're Dmitri Grigoriev."

  The look of shock on his face made her heart ache, but this time, it was not in pain.

  "Then it's true," he whispered. "How did you get this?"

  She told him about Nikolai.

  And his eyes seemed a little bewildered. "I saw him. On the terrace. He didn't say a word."

  "Well, he's... not the same boy he used to be. He thought you were responsible for the attack on the carriage. All these years Sergey's been twisting him to his whim."

  "Hell." Obsidian rubbed at his mouth. "A brother. And a sister. I have a sister."

  She didn't know what to say.

  Because he wasn't the only one reeling from this revelation. And she wasn't very good in these types of situations.

  What would Charlie do?

  Lark acted before she could think her way through it, and threw her arms around him in a hug. It was terribly awkward and he froze for a second.

  "You had a family." She paused. "You have a family. If you want one."

  His arms slowly came around her and squeezed back. "I think I would like that very much." Then he cleared his throat again. "I'm not very good at this."

  "Hugging?" She let her arms slacken and they broke apart. "Me either. It gets easier with practice."

  A thought seemed to occur to him. "Oh, God. Gemma and Charlie are going to be related in truth now. They're going to be insufferable. It's going to be war on both fronts."

  Finally, she could relax. "Unless we form an alliance."

  A glint of interest came into his eye. "We could do that."

  Lark gave him a hesitant smile. "We just won't tell them."

  And suddenly everything was all right.

  Chapter 32

  "There. That's better." Leo Barrons brushed imaginary dust off Malloryn's shoulders, then stepped back and took a better look. "It's good to have you back."

  "It's good to be back," Malloryn said, somehow forcing a smile as he buttoned his borrowed cufflinks.

  Everything he wore belonged to Barrons. Borrowed finery. A borrowed skin. It felt like pouring himself back into the mold of a duke, but the edges were a little unrefined. There was damage there, cracks splintering through him, but as long as he kept his mask in place, nobody would know.

  Only Gemma, who'd woken him from sleep and nearly borne the consequences of such an action.

  He could trust Gemma not to reveal a hint of it.

  He could probably trust Barrons too, but it went against the grain to reveal how deeply the scars went.

  "Especially now Balfour is out there in the wild," Barrons said. "As much as I enjoyed the look on his face when Gemma and Obsidian ruined his Russian schemes, without anything to lose, he's suddenly very dangerous."

  "He's predictable," Malloryn said. "We ruined his London schemes last month, and now you've destroyed everything he built in Russia. He will come after me."

  "Then we'd best prepare."

  "I'd consider Jelena to be the more dangerous of the two," Gemma said with a shudder from where she sat on the divan. "She's obsessed with Balfour, and hates Malloryn with a passion."

  Malloryn stared in the mirror, fixing his cravat. It suddenly felt too tight. "Jelena survived?"

  "Nobody's seen or heard from her, so it has to be assumed," Gemma replied. "The Iron Maiden was empty when we went back to check."

  The wintery chill of absolute dread shivered down his spine.

  If he'd been human, he would have broken into a sweat.

  Ears ringing, he tried to blink his way through the sudden panic, realizing Gemma and Barrons were still speaking. Their voices sounded so far away that he could barely piece them together.

  "I'm sorry?" he asked, breaking free of the moment, though the clammy feel of it clung to his skin.

  Barrons was gone, and only Gemma remained. He'd somehow lost time.

  "He's gone," Gemma murmured, taking hold of his hands. "I told him I wanted to speak to you privately."

  She'd seen.

  Malloryn fought the urge to cover his tracks, but was there any point? And if this had happened once, then how was he going to prevent it again?

  He had to trust someone, or else he'd never be able to hide it.

  "What happened?" he demanded brusquely, his heart pounding fast enough to choke him.

  "You vanished." She squeezed his hands. "One moment you were there, and the next you were gone. I could see it in your eyes. What do you remember?"

  "You were taking about... her."

  He couldn't say her name.

  "I won't ask," Gemma said softly, "unless you ever wish to discuss it."

  And I won't ever wish to discuss it.

  But he was grateful to her for the care she took with his dilemma.

  "You haven't asked about your wife," Gemma said, changing the topic of discussion abruptly as she fixed his cravat.

  He could lie and say he hadn't given Adele a single moment of thought, but when he'd been trapped in the Iron Maiden, he'd tried to hold on to his sanity by thinking of his home, and with that, invariably, came thoughts of the woman firmly ensconced in his life.

  "Adele's probably spending my entire inheritance as we speak. Is she wearing black yet?"

  "I sent her a letter and forged your signature," Gemma said. "You had urgent business in Norway."

  He drew back. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank
me just yet. You don't know what I wrote in that letter."

  Malloryn's eyes narrowed. She'd been almost insufferable since he announced he was getting married. "I swear to God, if you've planted some starry-eyed suggestion in Adele's head...."

  "I made it sound as pompous and arrogant as I possibly could, because I needed her to believe it was real. And then I said, 'Thinking of you, Sincerely, Malloryn.' Because every woman likes to believe her husband's thinking of her."

  It was worse than he'd expected.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The last time Adele and I spoke, I told her to make her own arrangements, because I certainly intended to. She probably thinks I'm ensconced in a house with some buxom Norwegian opera singer right now. In that sort of context 'thinking of you' develops a slight sense of nastiness."

  Gemma paled. "Oh, no."

  "Oh, yes. That's what you get for meddling."

  "I just wanted to see you happy," she protested.

  "With Adele? Adele Hamilton?" The woman had trapped him into marriage. It wasn't any sort of bloody love match. "The one consolation I have right now is that Adele is too coldly practical to ever believe me invested even slightly in her. I cannot break her heart, Gemma, because she doesn't have one. It's an arrangement, nothing else."

  Gemma shook her head. "Even coldly practical women have hearts, Malloryn."

  "As long as Adele keeps it well hidden, or directs it elsewhere, then I have no qualms."

  "Well," she said with a sigh. "It's good to see your recent ordeal hasn't changed you. I was slightly worried you might be pathetically grateful to the lot of us for coming all this way to rescue you, but you seem to be the same old Malloryn."

  His jaw tensed. I am pathetically grateful. I'm barely bloody holding it together. "And it's good to see you unchanged from your recent promotion to head of the Company of Rogues."

  Gemma shuddered. "I'm never doing it again. It was horrible, being in charge and knowing everyone's safety depended upon me. Everyone kept accusing me of turning into you. I don't know how you do it."