Mission_Improper

by Bec McMaster

  started eating him. She didn't know how old she'd

  been—four or five—but she would never forget

  that moment, or her screams when the rats scurried

  over Viktor's corpse and nobody came to help her.

  Firm hands cupped her cheeks, and suddenly

  Byrnes's face swam into view, breaking through

  her waking nightmares; those stark cheekbones,

  and the harsh slant of his dark brows. "Then I shall

  not ask."

  Ingrid let go of the breath she’d been holding.

  She’d expected him to push, but was thankful that

  he didn’t.

  “Let’s go hail that cab,” she said, and turned

  away.

  ELEVEN

  DEBNEY SHUDDERED, wrapping both hands

  around the flask of warm mulled blood that Ava

  had fetched for him. The bloodied gashes at his

  wrists and ankles where the chains had cut him

  were gone now, healed by the craving virus, but

  the night's events had shaken him.

  "I don't particularly wish to be alone tonight,"

  he'd told Ingrid, with shadows in his eyes, and so

  Ingrid had stepped into the steam cab with him and

  taken him back to Baker Street.

  Malloryn was at a ball, according to Isabella

  Rouchard, squiring his fiancée around town. It was

  the first Ingrid had heard about his engagement, but

  from the baroness's tone, she didn't like to press.

  Some things were easy to guess about the humans

  surrounding her, and judging from how often

  Malloryn wore Isabella Rouchard's perfume, she

  knew she was most likely correct in her

  assumptions. The woman was his mistress.

  Until Malloryn returned, she had nothing to do

  but sit and wait for Jack to help decipher the coded

  letter she'd found at Ulbricht's. At least Byrnes had

  returned to the Guild of Nighthawks, which gave

  her some peace of mind about his promised,

  “later.”

  "You've a visitor." Jack limped into the

  workshop with his goggles sitting high on top of

  his head.

  "Oh?" Ingrid asked, caught in the act of

  fetching a rug to wrap around Debney's shoulders.

  Crisp heels rang down the staircase, and

  Ingrid's heart leapt within her chest as she

  recognized that step and the purposeful swish of

  skirts. Rosalind Lynch, the Duchess of Bleight,

  swept into view, gowned in a deep purple that

  gleamed beneath the gaslight. As Jack's sister,

  Rosa shared the same coppery hair and the same

  stubborn mouth. Calculating brown eyes swept

  Ingrid from head to toe, and then Rosa came

  forward to press her lips to Ingrid's cheek.

  "My, my," Rosa murmured. "You look lovely

  in a gown. Or the remnants of one."

  "It itches, and I can't breathe," Ingrid replied.

  Rosa laughed. "There's my fierce verwulfen

  friend. I was wondering what this stylish young

  woman had done to you." She glanced down.

  "Though she made short work of your skirts, I'm

  afraid. Is that blood?"

  "Not mine."

  "It never is." Rosa looked amused. "Want to

  tell me all about it?"

  Guilt flared. No. No, she did not. Because

  whilst Jack might not bat an eyelid over Byrnes's

  reappearance in Ingrid's life, Rosa knew altogether

  too much. And fiercely disapproved.

  "Jack, will you keep an eye on the viscount

  for me?" Ingrid murmured, noting the curious look

  Jack gave Debney. Then she linked arms with

  Rosa, drawing the duchess back upstairs, toward

  the parlor. "What are you doing here?"

  "I cornered Malloryn at the Parkers’ ball,"

  Rosa snorted. "He told me where you were. You

  haven't been at your rooms for days, though I found

  Malloryn's invitation in your drawers and

  recognized the writing."

  "Some secret." Ingrid sighed. "And what were

  you doing going through my private documents?"

  Rosa looked amused. "The same thing you

  were doing when I was working undercover as

  Lynch's secretary. Trying to keep an eye on you.

  You haven't been to dinner in an age."

  Privacy, she'd learned, was practically

  impossible when it came to Rosa and her two

  siblings. All she needed now was young Jeremy

  showing up and lecturing her about getting

  involved in dangerous affairs. Which would be

  somewhat ironic, considering how many times she

  and Rosa had saved him by the skin of his teeth.

  But then, she guessed that turnabout was fair

  play. Rosa was family, and that meant more to

  Ingrid than anything in the world. Meddling in each

  other's lives seemed to be the price they all paid

  for the warmth and love that they shared. "I've been

  busy."

  "Clearly." Rosa looked around. "Malloryn has

  a mind like a steel trap," she warned. "Don't get

  caught in its jaws."

  "Brandy?" Ingrid ignored the warning,

  knowing that Rosa was only worried about her.

  "Would love one," Rosa replied, drawing off

  her gloves as she perused the parlor. One of her

  hands was entirely mechanical, and Ingrid noticed

  the easy way Rosa wore it these days, when once

  she'd hidden it behind a never-ending supply of

  gloves. Rosa's marriage to Lynch had brought

  about a newer, softer presence in her friend.

  "How's the baby?" she asked, because that

  was something else that had changed in Rosa's life.

  "Too well behaved. He barely cries, he

  sleeps most of the night, he watches everyone and

  everything, and he wears this serious expression

  on his face most of the time. I fear Lynch had more

  involvement in Phillip's temperament than I."

  Rosa's smile softened her entire face, however, for

  baby Phillip was the light of her life. "It's only now

  that he's reached his first birthday that I'm starting

  to see a hint of stubbornness about him. He tried to

  strangle his father the other day, and Lynch spent

  ten minutes telling him about the importance of

  cravats in a man's life, and how Phillip was to

  keep his chubby little fists off them."

  "Did he listen?" A quiet yearning filled her.

  Ingrid adored Phillip, but it was a bittersweet

  sensation.

  "He stuck the end of the cravat in his mouth,

  and Lynch just sighed." Rosa nursed her brandy,

  reclining in the chair like the Queen of Sheba.

  "So," she said, throwing down the gauntlet,

  "Malloryn tells me you're working with Caleb

  Byrnes again."

  Which was the real reason that Rosa was

  making this early morning call. "Apparently I enjoy

  torturing myself."

  "Really?" Rosa's dark eyes locked on her. "It

  has nothing to do with bets made and...not quite

  paid up?"

  "I never should have told you about that,"

  Ingrid growled. "And I paid what was owed.

  Byrnes should have been more specific."

  Rosa's eyes narrowed. "How does he feel

  about thi
s partnership?"

  "Bloody ecstatic, by his own proclamations. I

  won't pretend that he's not interested in gaining

  some measure of revenge."

  "Of course he is." Rosa sipped her brandy.

  "Byrnes lives for the hunt, and you, my dear, are

  the one that got away."

  Which was nothing that she hadn't told

  herself. Ingrid threw back her brandy, then stalked

  to the liquor decanter to pour another. "Then he'll

  live to experience disappointment once again."

  "Ingrid," Rosa warned. "You're upset. I can

  tell."

  "That's because I was set upon by a vampire

  barely eight hours ago."

  Rosa sucked in a sharp gasp. "What?"

  And so Ingrid told her. As one of the

  councilors on the Council of Dukes, it wasn't as

  though Malloryn wouldn't have taken her into his

  confidence anyway, and she trusted Rosa a hell of

  a deal more than Malloryn.

  All of the color had leeched out of Rosa's

  face by the time she'd finished. "You're certain

  there were four of them?"

  "You're the one who taught me to count," she

  replied irritably. "And there's only three now."

  "Three's enough." Rosa scrubbed at her

  mouth. "Hell. Vampires loose in London. I never

  thought I'd see the day."

  "Well, they're not loose yet," she replied,

  softening a fraction. It was clear that Rosa was

  shaken. "And they're not quite in London.

  Ulbricht's manor was an hour's flight away. I'll let

  you know if I see them again though. Give you time

  to get Phillip out of the city."

  "What about you?" Rosa asked.

  Ingrid shrugged. "I survived one."

  "Ingrid." There was that tone again.

  "I'll be safe, Rosa. I promise."

  Thoughts and plans raced behind Rosa’s dark

  brown eyes. "I think you should—"

  "Enough, Rosa," Ingrid said softly. "Enough.

  Let's speak of other things."

  "Like

  Caleb

  Byrnes?"

  Rosa

  retorted,

  frustration twisting her mouth.

  "Not like Caleb Byrnes."

  Rosa crossed to her armchair, sinking onto the

  edge of it. "Fine then. No more talk of vampires or

  dangerous blue bloods. Come to dinner on

  Sunday," Rosa said, holding Ingrid's hands and

  squeezing them. "Promise me."

  "I'll try," Ingrid replied. "It depends on this

  case. But I'll send a note if I'm not going to be able

  to make it."

  "If you don't, then I'm going to think that

  something's wrong with you, and I'll only come

  looking for you again."

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Was I ever this

  painful?"

  Rosa reached down to kiss her cheek. "Yes,"

  she said, "you were even worse. Remember when

  you threatened to skin Lynch alive if he broke my

  heart?"

  But Ingrid smiled. Here, with Rosa, she

  belonged, and sometimes it was the only thing that

  made her feel whole. “I have no recollection of

  that at all.”

  Rosa drew away with a snort. “He does. Now

  the shoe is on the other foot. Be careful, Ingrid. I’ll

  see you on Sunday.”

  TWELVE

  A LONG FRUITLESS day of following up on

  smaller leads stretched behind Ingrid.

  Jack had retreated to what they were

  affectionately calling the dungeon to attempt to

  decode the scrap of letter that she'd found; Byrnes

  was off at the guild, coordinating the use of

  Nighthawks in tramping all over the Venetian

  Gardens; Gemma Townsend was reportedly setting

  up surveillance on Lord Ulbricht; and Ingrid had

  snatched six hours of sleep before checking in on

  Ava to see if there'd been anything else from the

  autopsy or the Doeppler orbs connection.

  Today had been a frustrating day. No results

  on any of the leads, but Ingrid knew from long

  experience that these hours spent laying down the

  groundwork often yielded a vital clue in the end.

  One of these leads would suddenly amount to

  something, and the entire case would open up.

  She just wished it would happen sooner

  rather than later.

  Ingrid dug her thumbs up under the arch of her

  brows to relieve the pressure in her aching head as

  she pushed aside her notes.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall, along with soft

  feminine laughter.

  "Are you coming?" Gemma Townsend called,

  popping her head in through the door to the library,

  where Ingrid had been meticulously going over her

  case notes.

  "Coming?" Ingrid looked up distractedly.

  "Where?"

  Gemma slipped inside the library, a fan

  dangling from one wrist and a rather daring ruby

  gown barely containing her figure. "Malloryn's

  letting us off the leash for the night," Gemma said,

  "while he sets his information networks to ferret

  out every secret Ulbricht ever owned. So a few of

  us thought we might as well see a bit of the town,

  get to know each other a little better." She shrugged

  one slim shoulder. "It's probably going to be our

  last chance for a while, for as soon as Malloryn

  discovers something, he'll have our noses to the

  grindstone. The man doesn't know the meaning of

  the word 'rest.'"

  Time to get to know each other.... It wouldn't

  hurt. After all, these people might hold her life in

  their hands one day.

  Ingrid looked down at the sheets of paper in

  front of her. Ulbricht. Vampires. Venetian

  Gardens. Orbs. Connection? She'd been staring at

  her notes for hours, and nothing was making sense

  anymore. Time away from this place would do her

  the world of good, and hopefully allow her mind to

  clear. "Who's going?"

  "Charlie's leading the expedition—it was his

  idea, after all. And somehow he's talked Kincaid

  into coming. Something about gaming hells, I

  believe. Then it's just you, me, and Ava."

  "No Byrnes?"

  "No sign of him," Gemma replied with a

  cheerful shrug. "I think he's still at the Nighthawks

  Guild."

  "Good." A weight lifted off Ingrid's

  shoulders. She needed a night away from him

  following the intensity of that kiss.

  The man was dangerous to her senses.

  "So... does that mean you're tempted?"

  Gemma asked.

  "Be more specific," Ingrid drawled, crossing

  her arms over her chest, and leaning back in her

  chair. "Where, precisely, are we going?" A night

  out on the town could mean anything, from the

  fighting pits in the East End to the automaton

  theatres in Covent Gardens. And Gemma reminded

  her of Rosa in some ways; flirtatious, worldly, and

  cynical. She could be leading them anywhere.

  Particularly astray.

  Gemma's smile was pure deviousness. "The

  Garden of Eden. Ava has an interest in plants and

  as soon as she heard wh
ere we were heading, she

  wanted to come and examine the... flora."

  Flora. Ingrid's eyebrows arched. "She does

  realize that plants are hardly the draw card to the

  Garden?"

  "Oh, I must have forgotten to mention that!"

  Gemma's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Want to

  come and watch her spectacles fog up when she

  realizes where she is?"

  Ingrid frowned, then pushed her way out of

  her chair. "I'll come, if only to keep the rest of you

  from leading her too far afield."

  "Excellent." Gemma spun toward the door,

  shooting one last glance back over her shoulder.

  "But I'm going to have to insist upon a dress,

  darling."

  "ANOTHER?" Charlie Todd blinked as he leaned

  on the table and stared her down.

  Ingrid allowed herself the faintest of smiles.

  "Give in before I drink you under this table."

  "I can hold me drink...." He blinked again.

  "Hell and damnation, are you even feeling it? You

  look so bloody cool and collected."

  "I'm verwulfen, Charlie," she replied,

  dragging her small cheroot case out of her reticule.

  "Alcohol burns through me like it's been set on

  fire."

  "B-burns through me too," he declared,

  finding his feet and swaying a little. "But not that

  bloody quickly. Here. I'll fetch another bottle." He

  wove away through the crowd, swaying slightly, as

  he joined Gemma at the bar.

  "Amateur," Kincaid sniffed, and threw back

  his glass. Considering the fact that he was purely

  human, his steadiness was impressive, as he wasn't

  far behind either her or Charlie. Seeing her

  considering look, and interpreting it correctly, he

  arched a brow. "Experience counts, love."

  "There's experience," she countered, "and

  then there's the type of man who's drunk enough in

  his lifetime to earn some sort of immunity."

  "Every man here's got his own demons," he

  said, stirring his finger through the sticky ring of

  brandy on the table. "And ways to deal with it. I

  had a few bad years a while ago."

  "It's not going to be a problem, is it?"

  Kincaid's blue eyes glittered as they locked

  on her. "Are you and Byrnes going to be a

  problem?"

  Touché. Ingrid shrugged as she lit a cheroot,

  and breathed it in. The last thing she needed was

  Malloryn getting wind of this. She needed the

  money too much. "That's none of your concern."

  "Not mine, no." His gaze slid sideways as the

  swish of skirts hurried up to the table. "But if I

  were a betting man, it might be someone else's."

  Ava slid into the seat beside Ingrid, breathless