My Lady Quicksilver

Eight

“You’re certain the woman wasn’t in the archives?” Caleb Byrnes asked, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against the laboratory bench. Sunlight from the high windows bleached the tips of his brown hair and sparked off his very blue eyes. A cold bastard. And dangerous too. But at least Lynch knew he could trust him to do his job; Byrnes was a force of nature when it came to tracking his prey. Intense and furiously focused. Indeed, he liked it a little too much.

“Certain,” Lynch replied absently, slowly turning the page on one of Fitz’s books. A History of Biomechanics. Horrendously dull reading, but the diagrams were what he was interested in.

There was a distinct smoky flavor to the air, no doubt a previous experiment of Fitz’s that had gone awry. Scars and frequent little burn marks covered the battered workbench he leaned against. The rest of the men referred to this as the dungeon, and it was the frequent epicenter of explosions and small fires.

“You ever known ’is lordship to be wrong?” Doyle snorted.

Lynch flipped a page and then paused. He lifted the book and turned. “I only glimpsed her hand, but she had something like this designed into the mechanics.” He showed it to Fitz.

“A Carillion blade? That will help to narrow it down. There’s only a handful of craftsmen in the city who know how to forge one correctly.” Fitz’s thick eyebrows shot into his hairline and he smiled in rare anticipation. Burn marks turned the center of his left brow into a stubbly mess and the tweed suit he wore was acid-stained at the cuffs. A young rogue blue blood who had found his calling here, working with strange devices and inventions.

A fluttering started in Lynch’s gut. He was getting closer to finding Mercury. He knew it. “I want their names.”

“The problem is…” Fitz murmured, taking the book and peering at the diagram. “They belong to the Council.”

“How the devil does a revolutionary get work created by one of the master smiths?” Byrnes asked.

How indeed? Lynch’s mind raced. “What makes a woman hate a blue blood so much that she wants to destroy them all?” This was his forte, his genius, predicting his adversary’s moves and motives. “She’s come into contact with the Echelon, I’m certain of it. Perhaps the loss of her hand itself is key?” He frowned. He could have his men question the members of the Echelon about a young human woman who’d lost her hand, but that would start people asking questions he didn’t want them to. He needed to find her, not deliver her straight into someone else’s hands.

“You think one of ’em took her ’and?” Doyle frowned. “That don’t seem a strong enough motive to want to destroy ’em.”

“Who knows how people perceive such things? To some, such a loss might be reason indeed,” he retorted, pacing the small laboratory.

“If one of the Echelon cost her the hand, then someone helped her get a mech replacement,” Byrnes said. “I’m thinking a blue blood again. Master smiths don’t come cheaply and the only merchant’s who might be able to afford one wouldn’t have contact with them.”

“Maybe they weren’t asked to create it,” Lynch suggested.

“Again, that brings me back to a blue blood,” Byrnes frowned. “And it would have had to be done quietly or some rumor of it would have reached our ears. The master smiths don’t create mech parts, not for mere humans anyway.”

“No missing or kidnapped master smiths in the past twenty years?”

“I’ll look,” Byrnes promised.

A knock started at the door. All four of them turned.

Perry bumped the door open with her hip and dragged a wheeled chair into the room. Garrett slumped in the seat, looking completely indignant with the contraption.

“Here we are, sir. It took me a little longer than anticipated to fetch him,” Perry said.

“She practically wrestled me into it,” Garrett snapped. “I can walk.”

“Not until Doc says you can,” Doyle replied bluntly. “How’s your breathin’ been?”

“I’m fine.” Black heat swam through Garrett’s eyes. After such a grievous injury, his craving virus levels had increased dramatically, as if his body hadn’t been able to fight the virus off while it tried to heal.

Lynch exchanged a glance with Doyle. He’d have to keep a close eye on his second. Garrett’s CV levels were now around the sixty percent margin, but such an increase in a short amount of time might lead to brief losses of control. Garrett wasn’t used to fighting off such increased hungers.

“And your stitches?” Doyle asked.

“Itching like a sailor with the pox.”

“I cut them out this morning,” Perry replied, ignoring his glare as she wheeled him into place beside Lynch. “Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?”

“I’m going to bury you in the garden if you don’t leave off.” Garrett clapped a hand to his forehead in frustration, scraping his hair out of the way.

Perry snorted. “As if you could. Even when you’re at your best, I can have you facedown in the dirt nine times out of ten.”

“I only need once—”

“That’s enough,” Lynch said quietly.

Both of them fell silent.

“I need you on your feet,” he told Garrett. “If that means suffering through Perry’s ministrations, then so be it.”

“Besides…” A slow smile crept over Byrnes’s mouth. “She can’t help fussing, its part of her nature.”

“Was that an oblique reference to my gender?” Perry asked, her eyes narrowing to thin slits.

If he left them at this, they’d be at each other’s throats within a minute. Lynch held up a hand, staring them all down. “Concentrate,” he said, stabbing a finger toward the book. “Fitz, what’s the difference between enclave work and the master smiths?”

“Enclave work doesn’t have synthetic flesh,” the young scientist frowned. “It tends to tear in their line of employment.”

“She didn’t bother with it.”

“However the addition of the Carillion blade argues for master smith work. We all know a blue blood’s saliva has chemical components in it that can heal a cut—or the slash of a blood-letting knife—without transmitting the virus,” Fitz said. “That’s what they use to create bio-mech limbs. They can meld steel tendons or muscle sheeting with flesh by using a blue blood’s saliva. The interior of the bio-mech limb is grafted to a man’s body as if it belongs, each contraction of muscle creating flex in the steel hand. It’s truly an extension of the body.”

“And enclave work?” he asked.

“Far rougher. They don’t have access to a blue blood’s saliva. A hand relies on clockwork pieces inside it to drive the mechanism and hydraulic hoses in the arm to lift it. Mech—not bio-mech. Far less accurate.”

Lynch scratched at his mouth. “Its master smith work, I’m sure of it. She had full use of her fingers and hand.”

“Looks like we’ve got some smiths to question,” Byrnes said with a heated smile.

“You and Perry work together on that,” Lynch directed.

Perry shot him a look. She and Garrett always worked as partners; Byrnes preferred to work alone.

“You’re entering Echelon territory,” he said, though he rarely bothered to explain his orders. “You need someone to watch your backs. Keep it quiet—but I want to know if any master smith created something like this within…the last ten or fifteen years. The hand’s fully sized, so she had to be an adult by the time it was melded to her flesh.”

And keeping Perry away from Garrett would stop them being at each other’s throats. His head was pounding as it was. Lynch nodded sharply. “Dismissed.”

Later that afternoon, Lynch stripped his coat off and tossed it on the armchair in his study, which was now free of debris. Pausing, he looked around the room. Evidence of Mrs. Marberry’s meddling existed everywhere. Ever since he’d found her in here two days prior, she’d been making her presence known in myriad, subtle ways.

He’d been too busy to take her to task for it, but now he paused, taking a good hard look around the room.

The bookshelves were spotless and dust free, the orchid on the windowsill shifted to a warmer location. By the fireplace, all of the translations of an old Tibetan document he’d been making were gone and the desk was entirely clear of paperwork.

He turned on his heel and strode back through the door into her cheery, sunlit study. Steam drifted off the teapot on her desk and her head was bent as she carefully wrote something. Sunlight gilded the burning copper of her hair, tracing the fine downy hairs at her nape.

“Mrs. Marberry.” He leaned on the desk, looming over her.

The pen stilled. Rosa looked up slowly, as if she’d heard the very controlled way in which he spoke. Those solemn brown eyes locked on his. “Sir Jasper,” she replied in that composed manner that drove him beyond endurance. “What may I do for you?”

Shoving away from the desk—before he strangled her—he stabbed a finger toward his study. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Everything. My papers, my treatises, that bloody Tibetan document that is worth more than your life! All of it!”

She put the pen down. “The filing cabinet behind you is empty. I put all of your papers in there. If you look, you’ll find them all in order. As for the Tibetan document, I have no idea what you speak of.”

“The papers in front of the fireplace.”

“That pile of chicken scratchings that was spread all over the settee, two armchairs and the rug?”

“Yes.” The words came out between clenched teeth.

Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t think it was important.”

The blood pumped through his veins. He shut his eyes and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, silently counting to ten. “That document was written in blood,” he said, “by an ancient Tibetan scholar. It is irreplaceable. They say the origins to the craving virus are hidden within its transcriptions. What did you do with it?”

When he opened his eyes, hers were as wide as saucers. Her lips trembled and a sharp stab of guilt threatened him, before the slight twitching at the corners of her mouth made him realize she wasn’t scared. She was trying not to laugh.

“Mrs. Marberry!”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so wicked. I placed them very carefully on one of the remaining bookshelves, out of the light.” Laughter erupted from her and she tried to restrain it with a slender, gloved hand. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen you in such a…such a state!” The laughter broke free and she bent over the desk, several coppery curls tumbling from her chignon.

The sound swept through him. Lynch froze, his mouth half open and his finger still pointing. She was laughing at him. The damned woman was laughing!

Looking up, Rosa dissolved into a fresh wave of giggles at the look on his face. The anger faded out of him as abruptly as it had come and he shook his head. Bloody woman. Lynch swore under his breath, marching toward his study. He slammed the door shut behind him, then paced to the bookshelf. She’d been right. The document had been here all along, neatly tucked beside his histories of the Chinese empire.

He could still hear her laughter through the door. Transfixed by the sound, he cocked his head and listened. Despite the situation, he couldn’t stop a smile from edging his lips. She was tempting the wolf every day and she well knew it. His prim little secretary had a wicked side.

You wanted someone who wasn’t scared of you.

With a sigh, he turned toward his desk and sat down. The polished mahogany gleamed in the late afternoon shadows. Lynch stared at it. He didn’t think he could recall the last time he’d seen it. The neatness disturbed him. The presence of its perpetrator disturbed him even more. He shot another heated look toward the door. The low-cut, dark green gown she wore hadn’t escaped his notice.

Seducing his secretary was completely beyond the pale, but damned if he wasn’t considering it. Scraping a shaking hand over his jaw, Lynch forced his body to behave. The brief, frenzied way he took himself in hand at night wasn’t helping. Mercury had ignited his dormant sexual desire and now he was even considering Mrs. Marberry as substitute.

Or not quite. Mrs. Marberry had her own unique effect; she was no woman’s substitute.

A commotion caught his attention and he stilled, turning with predatory interest toward Rosa’s study.

“Lynch!”

A rap came at the door, then Byrnes stuck his head in. The swarthy features were strained and spattered with blood. “There’s been another massacre in Kensington.”

“Where?” The mirth faded from Lynch completely as his third-in-command opened the door farther. Behind him Mrs. Marberry watched with wide eyes.

“It’s…75 Holland Park Avenue,” Byrnes replied grimly. He knew, as well as the others, what the address meant.

Cold spiraled through Lynch, taking him off guard. No. “Alistair?”

“I had to kill him, sir. I couldn’t…I couldn’t get him off her.”

No. The thought was the merest whisper. The world narrowed around him and he swallowed hard. “And Lady Arrondale?” Somehow his voice came out low and cool. Emotionless. When inside he felt as if the world had exploded.

A short shake of the head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You should have gone home,” Lynch told her, staring up at the mansion with simmering reluctance in his eyes. Every light along the street was lit and dozens of Nighthawks flooded the scene as early evening settled its mantle over the city.

Going home was out of the question. Rosalind needed to find the mechs behind these massacres as much as Lynch did.

Lord Arrondale was the Duke of Bleight’s heir, but she suspected there was more to this story than there seemed. Lynch had been icily composed on the way here, but he carried himself even more stiffly than usual. He’d checked his pocket watch several times in the carriage and spoken not a word. Grim tension rode his shoulders like a well-cut coat and the bleak, oh-so-expressionless look on his face made her instincts twitch.

“I’m quite all right, sir,” she replied, watching him with assessing eyes. They’d argued briefly about her coming with him, but he’d been too distracted to force his will on her. Rosalind had promised to make herself useful taking his notes, when in truth she was desperate to see if this was another mech attack. Her voice lowered. “Did you know Lord Arrondale?”

Lynch shot her a harsh, raw look, his pupils swallowing his irises and shadows carving deep planes beneath his cheekbones. For a moment she stared into the face of the demon within, and her breath caught behind the stiff boning of her corset.

“He was my cousin,” Lynch stated, turning back to look at the house once more.

The absence of that black-eyed gaze made it easier for her to breathe. Rosalind rubbed her knuckles self-consciously against her skirts. She knew he’d been born of the Echelon once, but she hadn’t bothered to search for more detail. As far as the world was concerned, Lynch had been cast aside as a rogue and made his own place in the world as a Nighthawk. There was never any mention of family or of his House, because none of it was important anymore.

The man he’d called Byrnes strode toward them, his dark features obscured by the shadows of early evening. He moved with a sinuous and deadly grace, the coldness in his blue eyes rivaling Lynch’s. Around his throat a red kerchief lingered and a long sword was strapped over his back. “The house is secure. I’ve had word sent to the Duke of Bleight.”

“When he arrives, have the men stall him and send word,” Lynch said. “Don’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know at this point.” Lynch shot her a fierce look. “If I tell you to get out, then don’t argue. Go straight out the back and find one of my men. Instruct them to get you back to Chancery Lane and protect you with their life.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Rosalind grabbed a handful of skirts and followed him, the synthetic skin that covered her mech hand pulling against the soft kid-leather insides of her gloves. Tonight she’d planned to let him catch a glimpse of it—just enough to make him think her hand was real. It wouldn’t stand up to intense scrutiny, but in the dark and at a distance…

Of course, he had other matters on his mind. Tonight might not be the best opportunity. Lynch held the door open for her. “Bleight despises me. There was some business when I was named rogue concerning Alistair and me. If he’s stricken by grief, I find it highly likely he’ll make some move against me—or go so far as to blame me. This could become quite a scene.”

Rosalind stared up at him, the hard body but a breath away from hers. She could scent the coppery wash of blood through the open door. No doubt Lynch could too. His jaw was tight with strain.

“Do you have your pistol?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

“Don’t use it unless I tell you to.” Then he pressed his hand to the small of her back and propelled her through the door.

Inside, the hall was charged with silence. It almost felt as if the house were listening. Each creak of timber beneath her boot heel made her wince. Lynch’s presence behind her was almost comforting.

The firm hand in the small of her back directed her through another door. “This way,” Lynch murmured and she knew he could smell the death within.

As soon as she saw what lay on the floor, Rosalind stopped in her tracks. Her mind struggled to make sense of the mess, of the red pool that bloated the carpets and the frozen, screaming visage of the elderly woman dead on the floor. Half her throat had been torn out and gashes marred her lavender skirts. From the dark blue-red blood that covered her fingers, it was clear she’d tried to protect herself.

Firm hands slid over Rosalind’s shoulders and she relaxed into the touch. Death had never frightened her; she’d dealt it with little remorse, but that had been out of a sense of duty. Not personal. Not murder. This…this had been a woman just sitting down to her white soup, perhaps a smile on her face as she listened to her consort’s account of his day. Most consort agreements in the Echelon were business items, nothing more, but the woman had worn her good pearls and the scent of perfume lingered in the air. The silvery-blonde hair had been curled artfully over her shoulder, as if for a beau, and from the roses spilled out of the vase on the table, they’d perhaps been celebrating something.

Rosalind melted into the hard body behind her, feeling numb all over.

“Wait outside,” Lynch instructed quietly.

Rosalind turned, tripping on the carpet. Her worst fear—to be bloodied like that, torn apart by a rampaging blue blood. Pausing by the door, she held on to the frame and glanced over her shoulder.

Lynch knelt by the woman’s side, his gaze hooded and his mouth a stark line. With a sigh, he reached out and held his palm over the woman’s face, then slowly closed her eyes. His hand hovered there, as though to hide the dead woman’s face. Then he clenched his fist and dragged it tight against his chest.

The privacy of the moment struck Rosalind. She hesitated at the edge of the dining room. He knew the woman. There was so little in his expression she might have thought him uncaring, but something about the aura of grief around him almost physically hurt.

A clatter of sound as he scraped the plates out of the way and dragged the white tablecloth from the table. Kneeling down, he folded the woman’s hands over her chest and then carefully draped the tablecloth over her. It stained with red immediately, the edges soaking up the pool of blood beneath the woman’s hair. Lynch slowly turned, emotionless once more.

“Lady Arrondale,” he said, as if in explanation. Brushing past her, he strode along the hall, ignoring each door and tributary. Little spatters of dark blood trailed along the checkerboard floor and paintings hung haphazardly as if something had smashed up against the wall. By the stairs, a large smear of blood puddled on the marble tiles and the carved mahogany railing had been destroyed, splinters littering the floor.

Byrnes appeared at the top of the stairs. “He’s up here. I didn’t think it appropriate to leave him like that. Not with Bleight on his way.”

Lynch nodded, taking the stairs two at a time. “How did you kill him?”

Byrnes peered over the rail. His cerulean eyes were almost bright with hunger, as if they saw something she didn’t. Long dried blood clung to his right hand and his black sleeve was wet with it. “I couldn’t get him off Lady Arrondale. She was still screaming by that stage—somehow she’d locked herself in the dining room and someone heard her cries for help. I was coming back from interviewing the head of the master smith guild and overheard the commotion. From the look of the house, Arrondale killed everyone else, then went for her.” His lips thinned. “I put my gun to the back of his shoulder and pulled the trigger to get his attention. Unfortunately, it was too late for Lady Arrondale.”

Lynch glanced over the rail, assessing the bloody marks on the floor and the shattered paintings along the hall. “Just once?”

“I didn’t have time for a second shot. He turned on me and I went down. Somehow we ended up there—” Byrnes pointed at the spot below. “I’d lost the pistol by then.” He looked up, hard gaze locking on Lynch’s. “I had to rip his heart out of his chest. He was trying to gut me.” A shudder. “Christ, he was strong.”

Lynch surveyed the scene one last time then turned. “Show him to me.”

They’d taken the body to the main bedroom upstairs. The cloying scent of blood stained the air and Rosalind swallowed hard as she stepped inside. Someone had dragged a sheet over the body and Lynch strode to it, twitching it aside. His large body blocked her view and for that she was grateful. She’d seen enough macabre sights tonight.

Dropping the sheet, he turned, candlelight washing over his too-smooth features. “I want your report on my desk by morning. You’d best leave. If Bleight sees you, he’ll want your head—”

A shout sounded outside. They all spun toward the window and Lynch pushed past, twitching aside the curtains. “Go,” he said. “Out the back and return to the guild. Take a small guard.”

“Surely the duke wouldn’t attack anyone,” Rosalind murmured. Bleight was a vulture who sat on the council and circled for prey, but her dossier said he was once of the most cautious of the Council, choosing to pick his fights and rarely proclaiming them.

Lynch shot her a hard look as Byrnes left the room. “Don’t leave my side. Try to be inconspicuous.” He swore under his breath, grabbing her arm. “I should never have brought you here.”

“Lynch!” someone roared. The sound came from inside the house.

Lynch’s grip tightened, then he cursed again and started toward the door.

“Get your goddamned hands off me, you cur!” The voice was sodden with rage. “Lynch! You bastard, where’s my son? Where’s my bloody son?!”

Lynch stepped up to the rail by the stairs. “Release him.” His voice rang through the entry.

Rosalind hovered in the shadows as much as possible. Below her, the old Duke of Bleight threw off the restraining grip of two Nighthawks. His own men, in their dashing red livery, had followed him in and the hallway looked like a sea of red and black. The black outnumbered the red, but not by much.

Dozens of blue bloods. Rosa’s eyes narrowed fractionally, her gaze raking the hall. No faces she recognized. Her shoulders relaxed.

“You bastard!” Bleight bellowed. “You vengeful prick! You’re behind this! You wanted everything he ever had!”

Lynch stepped forward, tugging at the soft leather gloves he wore. “Your Grace,” he said sharply, “perhaps you’d care to discuss this in private? Your son’s body has been removed to the bedroom. If you’d like—”

“I’ll discuss nothing with you,” Bleight hissed, starting up the stairs. “Get out. Get out before I kill you.” The old duke’s hand lowered to rest on the hilt of his sword. His pale face was even whiter with stress, his eyes glittering with malice.

Below them a half dozen men stiffened at the implied threat. Rosalind straightened as her vision narrowed on the duke. She could almost feel the cool ring of sweat around her garter, where it held her pistol in place.

The sword hissed as it cleared its scabbard. Below, a pair of Nighthawks leaped toward the stairs but Lynch took a commanding step forward, holding up his hand. “I’ll leave, Your Grace. But if you would consider having some of my men remain, to examine the—”

“Get out!” Bleight swung the sword, cool gaslight glimmering off the razor edge of the blade.

Lynch ducked and the sword sheared through the elegant railing at the top of the stairs and stuck. Bleight snarled, yanking it free with a force that belied his evident age.

Lips thinning, Lynch stepped back, his hands held in a placating manner in front of him.

What the devil was he doing? Why did he not fight back? Rosalind had seen him in action; the duke didn’t stand a chance.

Swinging wildly, the duke slashed forward as Lynch stepped out of the way, his back hitting the wall. Lynch’s gaze met hers for a moment and narrowed in warning. Rosalind just had time to realize she’d stepped forward, her hand dipping automatically into her pocket when Bleight followed the direction of Lynch’s gaze.

“Is she yours?” the duke asked in a soft, threatening voice.

This close, Rosalind could see the darkness of his pupils threatening to overtake his irises. Her corset tightened and her fingers clamped around the smooth grip of her pistol through the slit in the bottom of her pocket. If he made one move toward her, she’d blow his head off.

“Don’t,” Lynch warned. For a moment, she thought he referred to the duke, then she realized that his stark gaze was locked on hers.

Reality flooded in. Kill the duke and she’d be executed by dawn. Rosalind’s finger rubbed the trigger hesitantly. Trust that Lynch knew what he was doing? Or take action? She hovered on the precipice, staring into the mad duke’s eyes. She’d never stop him in time if he attacked her; a blue blood was simply too fast.

Her hand slowly withdrew and she took a shaky breath. Trusting Lynch went against all of her instincts, but she had no choice.

Bleight turned on her with a snarl, the sword cutting through the air. Rosalind threw herself backward, tripping over her skirts and tumbling to the floor. The sword gleamed eerily in the bluish light as it arced toward her.

Then Lynch was between them, slamming his body hard against the duke’s. A sharp hiss of pain filled the air and blood spattered her face. The pair staggered into the railing, which gave with a sharp crack.

“No!” She snatched at Lynch’s cloak, her fingers closing over air, and then they were gone.

The dull smack as they landed dragged her to the edge. She peered through the broken gap of rail as Lynch smashed his elbow into the duke’s face. Somehow he’d gotten the upper hand and forced the duke’s sword hand to the floor. Grabbing Bleight by the throat, he crouched over him with a snarl.

Around them, both the Nighthawks and the duke’s men had danced back, clearing a circle. One of the red-clad guards stepped forward and Lynch looked up, baring his teeth. “Enough!”

Looking down, he smashed the duke’s hand to the tiles. The sword clattered free, and as he stood, Lynch kicked it away. He staggered back, clapping a hand to his side.

Blood dripped on the floor.

Rosalind shoved to her feet, hurrying for the stairs. The moment when he’d leaped in front of her flashed before her eyes. He’d taken the blow meant for her.

She couldn’t quite name the emotion that gripped her. Lynch shot her a quelling look and Rosalind slowed, her steps flagging. She couldn’t see how badly he was bleeding against the black of his leather body armor. Nor could she ask him, not now, in front of the duke and his men. Any sign of weakness and Bleight would be on them.

“We’re going,” Lynch commanded. He nodded sharply to his men. “I want all preliminary reports completed by morning.” Gesturing her to his side, he put his free hand in the small of her back—an almost protective gesture—and ushered her close to his body.

Bleight struggled into a sitting position, spitting blood. “I’ll have your head for that—”

Lynch turned swiftly and the duke flinched, some of his men stepping forward with their hands dropping to their weapons. All eyes were upon him as he glared down at the duke. “If you ever make a move against one of mine again, you’ll face me in the atrium. I swear it.” Then Lynch shoved free and, taking Rosalind by the arm, ushered her to the door.