My Lady Quicksilver (London Steampunk #3)

My Lady Quicksilver (London Steampunk #3) Page 19

“Sir?” Perry shut off the boilers and knelt on the edge of the driving seat, peering into the darkness intently.

“Mercury,” he snapped, gesturing to the park. “I saw her in the trees. Get after her.” He drew sticky fingers away from his side. No point running after her himself. Frustration soared through him.

Perry leaped down into the street and sprinted toward the park.

Skirts rustled and then Rosa was sliding under his arm to help hold him up, her dark eyes raking his face. “What’s going on?” She looked down and paled. “You’ve torn your wound open.”

“It will heal.” He stared after Perry. On the other side of the park an engine hissed to life as a steam carriage pulled away from the curb. “Damn it.” He’d bet his last penny that Mercury was in that carriage. Perry would lose her and he didn’t know how to drive the carriage himself in order to give chase.

Rosa pressed her gloved hand against his side. “You need to sit back down and rest.”

“It won’t kill me,” he said absently.

“No, but you’ll end up bedridden for days at this rate,” she replied tartly.

That caught his attention. Lynch looked down in bemusement as his secretary clucked and scolded him back into the carriage. Her expression was furious as she tugged his undershirt back up and reexamined her bandaging.

“Of all the rotten timing,” she muttered under her breath. “It doesn’t look too bad. The bleeding is slowing. However, if you move suddenly again, I shall be most put out with you. Sit there and don’t move until we reach the guild.”

One didn’t argue with a woman with that kind of tone. Lynch sank back into the leather seats.

Perry arrived at the door, breathing hard. “Lost them, sir. They had a driver waiting—a man wearing similar cologne to what Garrett prefers. Looked like he was wearing some sort of half mask over his lower face. And a tall woman on the back of the carriage, like a footman. She helped hustle the masked woman into the carriage.”

“Not your fault.” Lynch’s eyes narrowed in the direction Mercury had disappeared into. “They planned this meeting.”

But why? Nothing had come of it. Mercury had meant to be seen. Was she sending him a message? A taunt? Or was her presence in connection to the death of Alistair?

“Do you want me to track them?” Perry asked.

“You can do that?” Rosa’s head jerked up.

“Perry can trace scents even I can’t,” he admitted, then turned back to Perry and shook his head. Most of the men would be returning to the guild. There was no way he was sending Perry after the revolutionaries on her own—not so soon after nearly losing Garrett.

“When we return to the guild, I want you to take three of the men and see if the scent trail’s still alive,” he murmured, easing back in the seat. “Don’t confront them and don’t be caught alone. You can give me your report in the morning.”

Whatever Mercury’s purpose, for tonight he had other concerns he was forced to prioritize.

Lynch hadn’t been able to examine the body or the house and knew Bleight would never allow either now.

Fitz had stitched the wound in his side and they’d propped him here hours ago. Staring across the dark shadows of his study, Lynch silently ran through what he knew of the case. He’d examined both Haversham and Falcone himself. There’d been no sign of needle marks, no toxins or poisons in either of their cups and no evidence in the house to suggest a reason behind this insanity.

Just that sticky sweet smell he’d noticed in both houses.

He could only assume that Alistair’s bout of insanity would be the same.

Scraping his hair out of his face, he stared at the desktop. His mind felt dull tonight—grief, most likely. He could barely think. Every time he chased a thought, it skittered away, dissolving into mist. The confrontation with Mercury kept leaping to the forefront of his mind, despite the need to focus on Alistair.

Why had she appeared tonight? Had she tracked him from Alistair’s house? Was she involved with his death? If she was… His fist clenched. There would be no mercy if she was.

A sharp rap at the door sounded.

Perry. He could tell by the way she waited for his response. “Yes?” he called, glancing at the clock. She’d been gone only three hours. This wouldn’t be good news.

Perry slipped in through the door, a light rain misting her hair and eyelashes. “Lost them,” she said. “I got a trail on them for several streets, then it started to rain.”

“Which direction were they heading?”

“The docks by the East End.”

Lynch sat back in his chair and eyed the way she clasped her hands behind her back. “You have something else to report.”

Perry sighed. “When I lost the trail, I went back to Holland Park Avenue. I managed to pick up a scent from the man wearing cologne in the opposite alley. He never approached the house, but I assume he was watching for you.”

“Not involved in the attack then,” Lynch muttered. “Which means their interest was in me. But why?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.” She took a deep breath. “There’s something else. The taller woman is verwulfen. I’ll swear it.”

Interesting.

“I’ve sent two of the men out to check the registry, to see if they can identify a woman,” she said.

The treaty with Scandinavia had introduced a change in the laws, freeing all of the verwulfen in the Empire from slavery. Yet, all newly freed verwulfen were required to register at each city and town they passed through.

“Excellent.” The pieces were starting to fall into place. Lynch had always been patient; the spider’s web was starting to tingle, the trap slowly drawing in on Mercury. A flutter of anticipation stirred in his gut.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “Clock off and get some rest. You did well tonight.”

Perry didn’t quite smile at the rare praise, but she nodded and took her leave.

Slowly his gaze focused on the desk in front of him and he realized there was a piece of folded vellum popped beside his inkwell.

Scent wafted off the paper—Rosa’s scent, reminding him of spring days and sunshine, of laughter and linen sheets. Despite his mood, he felt his shoulders ease. He’d wanted a secretary who wasn’t afraid of him, though he had no idea what to do with her.

Be careful what you wish for.

Well, she certainly didn’t fear him, and he had to admire her ingenuity with the flask of blood. He also admired certain other aspects of her person but those were better left unthought of.

Flicking open the letter with his thumbnail, he ran his gaze across the sheet. Moonlight glanced over his shoulder, giving him just enough light to understand the slanting script.

Dear Sir,

They say that cleanliness is next to godliness, which explains your lack of reverence. I have therefore taken it upon myself to save you from sinning. You’ll find your papers filed in my office; sorted, alphabetized, and ironed flat.

I would appreciate it if you could keep them this way, though I have low hopes. With all due respect…

Your servant,

Mrs. Marberry

She must have written it prior to this afternoon. And he in his blustering state had not noticed it.

Lynch traced the curl of her name, his lips softening. Blasted woman. She had an audacity that astounded him.

She had also managed to distract, if only momentarily.

Lack of reverence indeed. He knew precisely who lacked reverence, whether he and his kind had been excommunicated or not. The admission spoke of her middle-class upbringing; the Echelon had long since turned its back on a church that disavowed them for being demons. As if in retaliation, faith was becoming a surprisingly strong counterpoint amongst the poor and middle classes these days. They had no churches—the Echelon had torn them down—but he’d heard of secret gatherings in shadowy places.

Lack of reverence. His eyes narrowed and he put the letter down, reaching for his drawer to try and find where she’d put his paper.

Bloody woman.

“You didn’t think to ask me if you should make an appearance tonight?” Rosalind snarled, striding along the dark, damp passage.

“Finding someone of your height to play Mercury were your suggestion,” Ingrid reminded her. “Keep his lordship from suspecting you, eh?”

Rosalind’s lips compressed. “He was injured.”

“Exactly. I could smell the blood on him when he come out of that mansion.” There was a long moment of silence and Rosalind realized that Ingrid was wondering why she would care. “Knew he couldn’t give chase,” the other woman muttered. “Perfect opportunity to dress Molly up in a cape and mask. We just took advantage of the situation.”

Which was precisely what she would have done in Ingrid’s situation. Rosalind slowed as she neared a door. What the hell was wrong with her? Lynch hadn’t been injured, not badly… Though she felt an odd discomfort at the thought of his blood on her fingers. The ruse with Molly would assuage any doubts he might own if she slipped up by accident. Act. Don’t react, Balfour had always said.

Holding the flickering gas lamp high, Rosalind slipped through the door. “I just wish you’d have given me some warning,” she murmured.

Shadows melted away from the encroaching light, revealing enormous man-shaped statues in the dark. Light gleamed on steel, reflecting back off the empty glass eye slit of the creature in front of her.

“One hundred and twelve,” Rosalind said, staring down the rows of automatons. “And not enough.”

“Calculations indicate each of our Cyclops are worth four of the Echelon’s metaljackets,” Ingrid said with a shrug. She tucked a cheroot between her full lips and struck a match. Red phosphorus burned in the cold, dark cellars, then Ingrid shook it out.

The other woman disdained the chill, wearing naught more than a gentleman’s shirt rolled up to the elbows and a pair of tight, men’s breeches. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back tight into a chignon that left her high cheekbones bare. Sucking back on the cheroot, she blew the sweet-scented smoke through the room, running a bare hand over the steel-plated arm of the Cyclops.

Rosalind sighed. “And they have over a thousand of those.”

“We’ll make enough.”

“Eventually.” At that, her lips thinned. Ever since the mechs had abandoned the humanist cause and vanished, the secret production of the Cyclops had ground to a halt. She could be patient—she would be—but she was fast running out of options. And now that Lynch had discovered her supply smuggling route out of the enclaves, she had even fewer. “Have you finished inquiring in the enclaves for a blacksmith?”

“Mordecai’s evidently beaten us to it. Not a mech amongst them will offer us help.”

“Then we look elsewhere. Kidnap one of the Echelon’s master smiths.”

Ingrid choked on her cheroot. “Are you insane? The Echelon has them locked up tighter than a virgin’s drawers.”

“Then where?” she snapped, spinning on her heel and staring at the silent, motionless giants. Based on the metaljackets’ blueprint, they’d been designed so that each heavy breastplate opened wide for a human to haul themself inside and manipulate the metal monster from within. It gave them a greater dexterity and manipulation, with a human’s reactions safely guarded behind the thick steel body armor. Coupled with the cannons that were fitted to each arm, they could belch Greek fire accurately up to twenty feet.

“I need men to wield them,” she continued. “And men to build them. I don’t have either at the moment.”

“You’ve always been patient enough to wait.”

“That was before Jeremy vanished!” Cursing under her breath, Rosalind slapped her hand against the nearest Cyclops. Pain stung her palm, bringing with it a clarity she knew she needed. She was failing—failing her brother, failing Jack and Ingrid by this odd softening toward her enemy, and failing Nate’s final dream to restore human rights in Britain. Somehow, speaking of him tonight to Lynch had stirred her guilt to tormenting levels. “Did you circle the guild?”

“Aye. No sign of Jeremy’s scent. I’ve been in the city too—”

“Ingrid!” she snapped, turning on her friend. “You take too many risks. One look at your eyes and every blue blood in the city would know precisely what you are.”

As if to spite her, Ingrid lifted her gaze, those metallic golden irises catching the light. “The laws against verwulfen have been revoked. And there’s enough trickling in from Manchester and the Pits for one more not to be noticed.”