Heart of Iron

Five

“I need some air,” Lena said, fanning her flushed face. The peacock feathers brushed against her lips, but she ignored them, her gaze following the handsome young Duke of Malloryn as he escorted the Duchess of Casavian out of the ballroom.

Both were heads of their Houses and members of the ruling Council of Dukes. And since the Duke of Goethe had retired barely five minutes ago, she could only presume that they were meeting to discuss something important.

Hopefully the Scandinavian matter.

Adele downed a glass of iced lemonade. “Is that wise?”

Green eyes met hers, the hard look in them turning wary for a moment. Lena squeezed her hand. “He’s not here. I checked.”

“Don’t blind yourself, Lena. Colchester’s not the only danger.”

Lena nodded. The room swept around her in a riot of color as the crowd danced. Around the walls loomed a dozen blue bloods, sipping at their blud-wein and watching the dance floor with predatory eyes. “You’ll be safe?”

“They’re not the only ones hunting.” Adele smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “I told you I need a patron.”

“Be careful.” Lena squeezed her gloved hand. The duke and duchess had disappeared. Giving Adele one last smile, she hurried after them.

The duchess had been wearing a deep aubergine gown that set off the color of her coppery hair. Lena exited the ballroom. Peering over the balustrade of the second floor, she raked her gaze across the white tiled entry below. An enormous staircase took up most of the foyer. Over a dozen men and women lined the stairs and the entry, gowned in a variety of brilliant colors. From the warmth of their skin and the dark, raven locks on a pair of them, they were most likely human, none of them high enough in rank to receive the gift of infected blood. Only those of good bloodlines and standing went through the blood rites at the age of fifteen. It was a sign of status, of prestige.

It took more than being a blue blood to be considered part of the Echelon. Any other unfortunate who was accidentally infected was considered little more than a rogue. Such blue bloods were either drafted into the Nighthawks, offered a place in the Coldrush Guards that protected the Ivory Tower and the Council, or were killed.

Humans could navigate the shadowy edges of the Echelon—like her—but they were never truly a part of it. They had their place, either as thralls or potential consorts, if their bloodlines were good.

Avoiding the soaring marble statue of an angel, she peered down the hallway. Two dozen of Lord Harker’s distinguished relatives glared down at her from the walls. Lena swept across the top of the stairs, her peacock green skirts rustling. There was another hallway on the other side.

She was just passing the enormous grandfather clock that held pride of place at the top of the stairs when a hush fell over the foyer.

Two footmen held each of the main doors open, their faces impassive. Blade strolled in, swinging an ebony-tipped cane. He tossed his top hat to a waiting footman and saluted the gaping group on the stairs. Another footman swept past with a tray of blud-wein, and Blade stole one, examining the foyer with interest.

Will stalked in at his heels, his shoulders straining the black coat he’d obviously borrowed. He wore a gray waistcoat, carefully brushed, and his boots had been scrubbed. Candlelight gleamed off the coppery highlights in his hair, and he towered over the hovering servants. Despite their training, two of them bolted out of his path like frightened rabbits. Will’s hungry gaze followed them as if he were considering giving chase.

Lena’s breath caught, the heat draining from her face. “Will,” she whispered. What the devil was he doing here?

Will stopped in his tracks, his head lifting like a lion scenting gazelle, the brilliant, burning amber of his gaze locking on hers. His lips curled in a threatening smile, and Lena took a step back.

“Later,” he mouthed.

She tore her gaze away, her heart pounding madly in her chest. For a moment she’d thought he was here for her, but that was foolishness. Not with the price on his head. What was he doing in the heart of Echelon territory? They considered his kind fit only to be caged or chained. If he’d gotten himself in trouble…

“Sir…Blade,” the butler recovered himself well. “Master Will. This way, if you care. Lord Barrons is waiting for you.”

Leo. Her half brother had something to do with this. Lena’s hands unclenched from her skirts. Why would Leo invite them here, when he could just as easily have visited Whitechapel? He was one of the few members of the Echelon Blade trusted enough to grant passage to Whitechapel.

The butler led them across the foyer and into one of the lower hallways. Just before he disappeared, Will looked up, shooting her one more blazing look. It scorched all the way through her, igniting a mixture of fear and nervous anticipation that she couldn’t quite name.

Heavens. She let out the breath she’d been holding and backed toward the second hallway. She had to get out of here before he found her.

But first, she had a little reconnaissance to finish. Find out what was going on between the Council members, if she could.

Then she was going to plead an attack of the vapors, which, considering how rapidly her heart was beating, shouldn’t be that difficult at all.

***

“Be ready for anythin’,” Blade murmured as they strode through the halls of Lord Harker’s mansion.

Will rolled his shoulders, his eyes darting through the shadows. Blade had no need to warn him. He’d been on edge ever since they got out of the cursed carriage. Coming here, into the very heart of society, was dangerous. He had to be ready for anything; no more surprises.

He’d already had his first surprise for the evening. Lena. Though he’d been expecting her, even relishing the opportunity, the sight of her temporarily struck him dumb. She’d always been well-dressed but wreathed in shadows, the gaslight picking out the soft curves and mysterious depths of her body… She’d been breath-catching.

Her hair tumbled over her shoulder in an elaborate cascade of curls, an elegant comb holding it up. Emeralds dripped into the deep vee of her green dress, drawing his gaze lower. He couldn’t wait to get her alone. Anticipation thrummed through his veins, alerting all of his senses.

He just didn’t know yet whether he wanted to throttle her—or kiss her.

A door opened and a swathe of golden light cut through the shadows. Will reined in his thoughts swiftly. No time for distraction. Best way to get his throat slit.

A man appeared, wearing crisp black from head to toe. He moved with the dangerous grace of a swordsman, his body lean and hard and his dark eyes cautious as he surveyed the darkened hallway. A diamond stud winked in his ear, and though he wore no weapons, an aura of dark violence hung over him.

Leo Barrons. Lena’s guardian and possibly the only blue blood Will could tolerate besides Blade.

“Blade.” Barrons offered his hand. His gaze examined the scene swiftly but Will knew he’d noted everything around them, from the pattern in the red carpets, to the fall of their coats. “Excellent timing. The prince consort should be arriving any moment.”

“The consort?” Blade arched a brow. “My, my, they must want somethin’ from me badly, if they’re bringin’ out ’is Royal Pastiness.”

Barrons’s lips quirked slyly, but he shook his head in warning. “The others are inside.” A cue for Blade to shut his mouth. Barrons stepped forward with a hand offered. “Will. You look like a mountain, as always.”

“Near eats me out of ’earth and ’ome,” Blade muttered.

Will eyed him coolly. “Got me own set of rooms now.”

“Aye, and yet you’re still in me bloody kitchens every time I turn ’round.” A wary smile; Blade was playing it up for Barrons’s sake—and the others inside—but he hadn’t forgotten where they were.

“Come in,” Barrons said, gesturing to the door. “I’ll send for some blud-wein. Will, do you want anything? Ale? Wine?”

Will gave him a long look. No chance in hell he’d be eating or drinking anything as come from this house. “Prefer to keep me wits about me.”

“Ah, the stoic bodyguard.”

“Somebody’s gotta watch Blade’s back.”

Both Barrons and Blade exchanged a look. Blade strode toward the door. “They won’t knife me ’ere. Ain’t the done thing. It’d be in an alley one night, when I’d least expect it. This is just games. Come on, Will. Let’s see what the Council wants.”

When Blade’d least expect it…like in the drawing room of a manor whilst a party was in full swing. Will stalked behind the pair of them, prepared to leap forward at a second’s notice. They’d taken his weapons at the door, but that was no matter. His body was a weapon.

Firelight spilled through the room, the shadows flickering. Will glanced up, his eyes drawn by the carved panels that lined the walls and the ornate ceilings. He’d never seen so much gilt in all his life.

And silk curtains. What a bloody joke. Half the people of London could barely pay the Echelon’s exorbitant taxes and yet here sat one of their lords, in a house that could probably feed Whitechapel for a year. Or five.

He wasn’t here to gawk at the furnishings. Will lowered his gaze, even as Blade turned on his heel, staring up. “Gor, will you look at that,” Blade said. “Ain’t the ceilin’ a sight to see? All them cherubs and clouds.”

“Thank you,” a cool voice said. “The manor’s been in my family for eight generations.”

Will’s gaze narrowed on the speaker. Lord Harker, he presumed. Standing by the fire, with his hands clasped behind him.

The others sat in a half circle around him. He knew who the woman must be. There was only one female blue blood in England, the Lady Aramina, Duchess of Casavian. Met her once, didn’t much trust the look in her eyes. Yet when the Council had held Blade’s life in its hands, she’d been the final vote, her choice sealing his fate. For whatever reason—whim or politics—she’d chosen to let him live.

One of the other men was tall, with a hawkish nose and neatly trimmed beard. Touches of gray flecked his hair, signs of a distinguished air, rather than age and feebleness. Manderlay, the Duke of Goethe. Another who had cast his vote in Blade’s favor.

Which left the last little lordling, who sat back in his Louis XIII chair, examining the play of light in his blud-wein. Rings glittered on his fingers and his collar had been left rakishly open. A half-empty bottle rested beside his booted feet. Will didn’t recognize him, but the griffin signet on his finger said that this was Auvry Cavill, the young Duke of Malloryn. The least likely threat, Will thought, turning his gaze back to Goethe. He knew who the most dangerous man in the room was.

All of them had voted in Blade’s favor. Will smelled politics in the air, stale as a moth-eaten coat. The prince consort must want something badly.

“How is your wife?” the Duke of Goethe asked.

“Curious. Stubborn. Same as ever.” A genuine smile softened Blade’s face.

“And how goes her experiments?” the duchess asked.

The only way she could have known of them was if she were having the warren watched. Will’s eyes narrowed. None of the three had shown any sign of surprise. Which meant the Council likely knew everything that went in and out of the warren.

Something Will’d have to see to when they got out of here.

“She likes to tinker,” Blade replied with a shrug. He played this game far better than Will ever could. “Thinks she’ll cure me one day.”

“Do you think she will?” The duchess sipped at her blud-wein. The firelight turned her coppery hair into a flaming corona around her head, but despite the brandy brown eyes and hint of color in her cheeks, her manner was as cool as winter. A little clockwork spider crawled across her shoulder, tethered by a fine steel chain to a pin at her breast. The glass dome of its body showed the exquisite brass cogs of its clockwork interior. He’d seen the type before. Flip them over and the belly was a watch.

“Keeps ’er amused and outta me ’air.” Blade’s smile held a knife-edge. “Everybody knows there ain’t no cure for the cravin’.”

“Yes, but her father was Sir Artemus Todd. Wasn’t he the genius who discovered all those weapons for Vickers, before you killed the duke? I hear Todd was close to discovering a cure even then. Perhaps your wife knew something of his work?”

Blade could be quite reasonable at times. But not when Honoria was concerned. He bared his teeth—some people might have called it a smile—but Will knew it was just the expression he wore before he cut someone’s throat. “Maybe she does. Like poisons that actually work on a blue blood, or a gun with bullets as explode on impact. But nothin’ of cures, princess.”

To her credit, the lady never even flinched. Instead, she picked up the clockwork spider, letting it crawl over and under her fingers. “I see your knighthood has taken none of the savagery from you.”

“Did you expect it ought?”

“Fifty years ago you were dangerous, Blade. Times change. Our resources have changed. If we wanted to get rid of you, we’d simply send the Spitfires in and burn the rookery to the ground.” The duchess poured more blud-wein into her glass and stirred it like tea. As if she weren’t speaking of war. “Right now, you’re…an inconvenience. Out of sight and out of mind. Like someone’s embarrassing, black sheep cousin who keeps showing up to balls.”

“If you’re tryin’ to grease me up for this favor you want o’ me, you ain’t doin’ much of a bang-up job, princess.”

The duchess stopped stirring, tapped the spoon against her goblet three times, then set it aside. Her almond-shaped eyes lifted, thick dark lashes fluttering against her smooth, pale cheeks. “Who said the favor we wished was from you?”

All eyes turned toward Will.

Leo grimaced. “I thought to warn you—”

The hair on the back of Will’s neck rose. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared back. “No.”

“You haven’t heard what it is yet,” the young Duke of Malloryn murmured.

“I don’t like you no more ’n Blade does. And I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you.” He eyed the handsome young peacock and bared his teeth. “A struttin’ tom like you? Why, I figure I could throw you a fair way too.”

Malloryn raised lazy eyes toward him. A quick flick of his wrist and a knife appeared, balancing on point on his finger. “You’d have to get close enough.”

“Auvry, that’s enough,” Barrons murmured. Their eyes met and Barrons straightened, his posture screaming out the silent challenge in the air between them.

Malloryn shrugged—and the knife disappeared. “You’re no fun anymore, Barrons.”

“Let’s at least remain civilized long enough to give some credence to our claim of being gentlemen.” Barrons eased gracefully into a chair by the fire, hooking his ankle up on his knee. Despite the appearance of relaxing, his lazy-lidded eyes examined the room.

“And you’re the ones as want somewhat,” Blade replied, sinking into one of the other chairs. He tested it, impressed with the padding. “Never treat with a man as ’olds a blade to your throat. That’s what I always says.”

Will stayed on guard. A sound in the hallway alerted him. Three separate footfalls, all moving with purpose toward the room.

The door opened and a pair of the elite Coldrush Guards entered first. As part of the prince consort’s retinue and custodians of the Ivory Tower, they were taken from their families when it became clear they’d been infected, put into the strict tower camps, and trained to kill. Will sized the pair of them up. One of them returned his stare with a wary surveillance. Not fear. But marking him as a potential adversary.

The man who followed them towered over the guards. With thick brown hair and glassy, almost-colorless eyes, he strode into the room as if he owned it. His long red coat swirled around his hips, and a gleaming metal breastplate protected his chest.

Will had always thought the prince consort was an older man. He was surprised to find that he was perhaps younger than Blade. Ascending to the Regency nearly thirty years ago, he’d steered the young human princess through the treacherous waters of the Echelon after her father had been overthrown. To consolidate his power, he’d then married her when she came of age, ten years ago.

The fact that he’d been the one who’d overthrown the human king wasn’t something that was generally mentioned in polite company.

“Your Highness.” The men stood and bowed.

The prince consort strode to the fire, holding out his hands to warm them. He looked up, his icy blue eyes examining Will. “So this is the Beast of Whitechapel?”

A growl sounded low in Will’s throat. Both the Coldrush Guards straightened, hands resting on their pistols.

The prince consort’s lips crooked up, just slightly, and Will forced himself to relax. Bloody games. Testing him to see what manner of man—or monster—he was.

The prince consort examined the room. “Have they told you why you’re here?”

“You want somewhat from me,” Will replied. No wonder they’d wanted him and Blade to come here. A meeting could have been set up anywhere in the city for them if it had involved only the Council. But the prince consort was another matter.

“I have a proposition. An…opportunity for yourself.”

“How very kind of you,” Will drawled. “Lookin’ out for me interests like that.”

Another oily smile. “Well, yes, also an opportunity for us. But I’ll state it plainly. I don’t intend to use you without your knowledge. And you will be ably compensated.”

Like he’d ever given a damn about money.

The duchess spoke up. “There’s talk that the French are in discussions with the Illuminist fanatics from New Catalan. It’s an uneasy concept, to say the least.”

Verwulfen were a blue blood’s natural enemy, the only creature dangerous enough to kill a blue blood and do it easily. But in the eyes of the Illumination, any supernatural creature was an abomination that needed to be eliminated. The tales of New Catalan’s Inquisition was enough to make even the bravest shudder.

“And how am I to help?” Will asked.

“We’re not the only country with an interest in the proceedings across the Channel,” Barrons replied. “If the Illumination gains a foothold in France, they’ll have access to the northern waters, plus all France’s airships. We’re considering an alliance with the Scandinavians to prevent that. We have ships—the dreadnoughts—and the Scandinavians have their dragon-ships and air fleet.”

Bloody hell. A husky bark of laughter erupted from his throat. “You think the Scandinavian clans would ally with you? The Butchers of Culloden? Let’s not forget what’s been done since. All them verwulfen trapped in cages and bought and sold like f*ckin’ slaves.”

Blade caught his arm as he took a half step forward. A caution. Will shook it off, trying to focus through the red-hot flare of rage. The beat of it thundered in his blood, echoing dully in his ears.

“Culloden was a long time ago,” the prince consort replied coolly. His guards had stepped forward as if fearing an attack, but he settled into a chair and flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve.

“It weren’t that long ago to some of us.”

“Culloden was a mistake.” The words came from behind, from Barrons. All heads turned in his direction and he shrugged, as if admitting a truth they were too embarrassed to claim. “You cannot slaughter an entire race without consequences. Wiping out the Scottish verwulfen clans was only ever going to incite anger. But it was done by our forefathers and there is nothing we can do about it, Will.”

“And the Manchester Pits? Where they throw us in with wild dogs and bears to bait? Or pit us against each other for blood sport?”

“They are private enterprises,” the prince consort replied, his fingers slowly drumming on the armrest. “Most of them owned by humans, actually.”

Which meant he didn’t give a damn. Will knew what it was like to be trapped behind bars, or cut open for the pleasure of a crowd. And yet there was nothing to be done… Verwulfen were outlawed in Britain and capturing them and using them as slaves was not only legal, but encouraged.

Staring at the prince consort with his pale bloodless face, Will could barely control the surge of anger that boiled in his gut. “What do the Scandinavian clans think o’ your policies?”

The prince consort’s fingers stopped tapping. “Do you know what they do to blue bloods in Scandinavia?” A tight little smile eased over his mouth. “As I am willing to overlook certain things for the greater good, so are they. This threat from the Continent is of far greater concern than a few individuals.”

Will shot a look of pure hatred toward the man. “Then I ain’t inclined to be obligin’. You’ll have to use someone else.”

Turning on his heel, the heat of fury burning in his cheeks, he jerked his head toward Blade. As far as he was concerned, this audience was over.

“Not even for ten thousand pounds?” The prince consort barely raised his voice, but Will heard it.

He laughed darkly. The Echelon. Thinking they could buy a man for his weight in gold.

He had one hand on the door handle when Barrons spoke up. “What if the terms were ones that interested you?”

“You can’t buy me. Not even you, Barrons.”

“What if the price was a change in the law?”

Will froze, hand on the doorknob.

As if encouraged, Barrons stepped closer, his boots sinking into the plush carpets. “If you help us sign this treaty with Scandinavia, then we would be willing to make certain changes to the law. No more cages or headhunters, Will. We would outlaw pit-fighting if you wished it.”

His breath caught in his chest, and he turned on his heel. The five blue bloods stared at him without expression. The sight gave him the impression that this had been the trap all along. “Why do you need me so much? Sounds like you’ve almost got it signed.”

“There are opposing factions in each camp,” Barrons replied with a grimace. “The Norwegian clans are furiously adamant that they don’t need us, and there are one or two Council members of our own who oppose this.”

Will took another look around. Not only councilors who’d voted for Blade to live then, but the ones who wanted this treaty to succeed. “And I’m to woo the Norwegian clans?”

“They’re old-fashioned,” the prince consort replied. “And crude. But they’re also a loud voice in the Riksdag. We would like to show that our two species can live amicably.” His smile widened. “And you are a perfect representative. You would appeal to them immensely.”

“I think ’e just called you crude,” Blade muttered.

Will ignored him. “If I can win the Norwegian clans over and see the treaty signed, then you’ll revoke the law that outlaws verwulfen?”

The prince consort nodded.

“I’ll want that in writin’,” Will said. “And witnessed.”

A slight narrowing of the prince consort’s eyes. “Agreed.”

“That ain’t all. I want the pits outlawed. All verwulfen that are caged or slaved are to be set free and given equal rights as humans…or blue bloods.”

Another nod.

“And the price on me head is lifted, you understand? I come and go as I please.” No more skulking about the city, running the rooftops at night. Free to go where he wanted. Free to walk the city streets without people trying to kill him—or cage him.

The prince consort waved a negligent hand. “Would you like that in writing too?”

Will bared his teeth. “Absolutely.”

***

“That were well done,” Blade said, hauling himself up into the steam carriage with a grunt.

Will nodded past him to Rip, who wore a coachman’s livery and heavy cloak. Beneath that cloak lurked an armory of weapons, as well as the heavy, mech arm that would damn him in this company. At the back of the carriage hovered Tin Man, another of Blade’s men. Light gleamed off the metal cap that was meshed to his scalp. He couldn’t speak, but he was damn good with a blade.

“Take ’im home,” Will said, clapping Tin Man on the shoulder. “Make sure he gets there.”

Blade poked his head through the window. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Takin’ care of a promise I made.”

“Alone?”

“I’ve got safe passage,” he retorted. “Might as well use it for the night.”

A long pause. “Be careful.”

“Always.” He turned on his heel and strode back toward the ball. Despite the overwhelming presence of blue bloods, a small smile played about his lips.

This time Lena was his.