My Lady Quicksilver

“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… ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">