Of Silk and Steam
Page 24
“Is it?” he asked. “She’s not the sort of woman to meekly submit to a consort contract.” Besides that, the number of obstacles in his way—Caine included—was hardly insignificant.
“You’re going to pursue her and you’re going to win her.”
“You should write propaganda pamphlets for the humanists,” he said dryly. “Or enlistment posters.” He stood, grateful that she had not railed against his barely formed decision. “Thank you,” he said as he made his way toward the door.
“You should know,” Chloe called, drawing his attention, “you’re not the only one looking, my lord. Especially when you’re not aware of her gaze. Though I should warn you… She doesn’t look at you like Cecilia looks at her lemon tarts.”
“Oh?” The words pleased him a little.
“She looks at you like a puzzle to be solved. Like a lion that has been staked near her and is threatening to tear its tether free. You are as much a threat to her as you are a fascination.”
“Why do I think you’re enjoying this?”
“I am. You’ve always been too certain of yourself.” Her eyes twinkled. “And it wouldn’t be worthwhile if it wasn’t a difficult pursuit, now would it?”
* * *
Gow was waiting for her as she descended the stairs that night. Mina peered at him from beneath the depths of the frothy black feathers that cascaded over her hair in a flirtatious little confection. She felt sick to her stomach, having spent most of the afternoon resting for the night ahead. She didn’t look it, though. The finest applications of tinted powders made her radiant, hiding the dark circles beneath her eyes.
No sleep for her this afternoon, though she’d tried, lying there with Boadicea snuggled to her chest, a warm contented purr rumbling through her. All she could see were the strategic marks she’d left on the queen’s arms, bruises in the shape of her hands. The thought almost brought up her gorge again.
“Something that might interest you, Your Grace,” Gow murmured, patting the file beneath his arm as she stepped onto the portico.
“One hopes.” Gravel sprayed as her steam coach was brought around, one of the liveried footmen leaping down from his perch and setting out the small footstool for her to climb. The other footman opened the door and stepped aside. “I daresay you wouldn’t have brought this to my attention at this precise moment unless it was important.”
Gow simply handed over the file.
Nobody could get close enough in the luxuriant blackness of the evening to overhear them, yet Mina turned, using her body to shield the file as she flicked it open.
And caught her breath.
Grainy photographs filled it. She couldn’t stop her heart from racing, a small, devilish smile curling over her painted lips as she flicked through image after image, one after the other.
Good Lord…
This was a blow that the Duke of Caine would never recover from. A way to finally earn justice for her father’s death—and the part that Caine must have played in it.
She snapped the file closed. “The photos are only a suggestion of kinship. I want proof.”
“As Your Grace wishes.” Gow took the file back and retreated into the shadows.
Clicking together the gold-filigreed jeweled claws that sat on the fingertips of her right hand, she gathered herself and swept toward the carriage.
No sign of weakness could be allowed tonight.
* * *
Midnight chimed on the clock in the entrance hall to Lord Abney’s London manor. Unfashionably early for her to arrive, as no decent ball truly started before midnight, but Mina was too full of nerves to care.
Taking a glass of champagne from the passing tray of a drone, she gestured for one of the loitering footmen to lace it with blood.
“Celebrating something?” a cool voice murmured.
Mina tipped her chin at the newcomers in welcome. “Indeed. Minor victories, Your Grace. Simply…placing a pawn where nobody shall see it coming for several moves yet.” Thought he was several moves ahead of her, did he? She drained the entire glass, smiling at the Duke of Bleight and his wife.
The woman at Lynch’s side was gowned in a spill of glorious green silk that set off the russet color of her hair. While not as dark red as Mina’s own hair, neither was that color the end of the similarities between them. Rosalind Lynch, however, would never truly know how much Mina knew of her past—and the secrets Rosalind was keeping. After all, Mordecai, the man the prince consort had executed, had never been Mercury, but Rosalind had been. Once. Mina tipped her chin in a slower salute toward the Duchess of Bleight, a mark of respect to a fellow humanist.
“That sounds ominous,” the woman replied, arching a brow.
“Let us hope your claws find other marks.” Lynch’s gaze dropped to the deadly filigreed jewelry Mina wore on her fingers.
“Trust me, Your Grace. You’ve no need to be concerned.”
Those cold gray eyes settled on her with an intensity that made her slightly uneasy, but then he smiled. “Oh, I’m not concerned. I never did take you for a fool.”
And no fool would attack a duke with ties to over four hundred Nighthawks. At least, not blatantly.
Something caught her eye over the Duchess of Bleight’s shoulder. Barrons. He moved through the crowd, standing head and shoulders above a pack of debutantes in simpering white. They fluttered their fans as he passed, heated gazes following his black-clad frame. The disparity should have made her laugh. He looked like a wolf stalking through flocks of helpless little swans. Instead her smile grew sharper and she barely glanced at the duke and his wife as she murmured, “If you’ll excuse me?”
This time she stalked him. Their eyes met and Barrons’s left eyebrow twitched slightly in question before he crossed to the stairs, leaving her to follow if she wished.
Mina made her way through the growing crowd, following the trail of steam that heralded one of the servant drones. The room was full of them. She claimed another glass of champagne from the flat tray on the automaton’s head, laced it heavily, and then followed Barrons to the gallery overlooking the main ballroom.
Her gown glimmered in the light as she climbed the stairs, each gold sequin rasping as it trailed over the marble steps. The full skirt cascaded like individual petals from her waist, golden at the interior and darkening to black at the tips of each petal. The bodice itself was sheer gold, the weight tugging at the delicate champagne-colored straps that clung to the very edges of her shoulders.
“You’re going to pursue her and you’re going to win her.”
“You should write propaganda pamphlets for the humanists,” he said dryly. “Or enlistment posters.” He stood, grateful that she had not railed against his barely formed decision. “Thank you,” he said as he made his way toward the door.
“You should know,” Chloe called, drawing his attention, “you’re not the only one looking, my lord. Especially when you’re not aware of her gaze. Though I should warn you… She doesn’t look at you like Cecilia looks at her lemon tarts.”
“Oh?” The words pleased him a little.
“She looks at you like a puzzle to be solved. Like a lion that has been staked near her and is threatening to tear its tether free. You are as much a threat to her as you are a fascination.”
“Why do I think you’re enjoying this?”
“I am. You’ve always been too certain of yourself.” Her eyes twinkled. “And it wouldn’t be worthwhile if it wasn’t a difficult pursuit, now would it?”
* * *
Gow was waiting for her as she descended the stairs that night. Mina peered at him from beneath the depths of the frothy black feathers that cascaded over her hair in a flirtatious little confection. She felt sick to her stomach, having spent most of the afternoon resting for the night ahead. She didn’t look it, though. The finest applications of tinted powders made her radiant, hiding the dark circles beneath her eyes.
No sleep for her this afternoon, though she’d tried, lying there with Boadicea snuggled to her chest, a warm contented purr rumbling through her. All she could see were the strategic marks she’d left on the queen’s arms, bruises in the shape of her hands. The thought almost brought up her gorge again.
“Something that might interest you, Your Grace,” Gow murmured, patting the file beneath his arm as she stepped onto the portico.
“One hopes.” Gravel sprayed as her steam coach was brought around, one of the liveried footmen leaping down from his perch and setting out the small footstool for her to climb. The other footman opened the door and stepped aside. “I daresay you wouldn’t have brought this to my attention at this precise moment unless it was important.”
Gow simply handed over the file.
Nobody could get close enough in the luxuriant blackness of the evening to overhear them, yet Mina turned, using her body to shield the file as she flicked it open.
And caught her breath.
Grainy photographs filled it. She couldn’t stop her heart from racing, a small, devilish smile curling over her painted lips as she flicked through image after image, one after the other.
Good Lord…
This was a blow that the Duke of Caine would never recover from. A way to finally earn justice for her father’s death—and the part that Caine must have played in it.
She snapped the file closed. “The photos are only a suggestion of kinship. I want proof.”
“As Your Grace wishes.” Gow took the file back and retreated into the shadows.
Clicking together the gold-filigreed jeweled claws that sat on the fingertips of her right hand, she gathered herself and swept toward the carriage.
No sign of weakness could be allowed tonight.
* * *
Midnight chimed on the clock in the entrance hall to Lord Abney’s London manor. Unfashionably early for her to arrive, as no decent ball truly started before midnight, but Mina was too full of nerves to care.
Taking a glass of champagne from the passing tray of a drone, she gestured for one of the loitering footmen to lace it with blood.
“Celebrating something?” a cool voice murmured.
Mina tipped her chin at the newcomers in welcome. “Indeed. Minor victories, Your Grace. Simply…placing a pawn where nobody shall see it coming for several moves yet.” Thought he was several moves ahead of her, did he? She drained the entire glass, smiling at the Duke of Bleight and his wife.
The woman at Lynch’s side was gowned in a spill of glorious green silk that set off the russet color of her hair. While not as dark red as Mina’s own hair, neither was that color the end of the similarities between them. Rosalind Lynch, however, would never truly know how much Mina knew of her past—and the secrets Rosalind was keeping. After all, Mordecai, the man the prince consort had executed, had never been Mercury, but Rosalind had been. Once. Mina tipped her chin in a slower salute toward the Duchess of Bleight, a mark of respect to a fellow humanist.
“That sounds ominous,” the woman replied, arching a brow.
“Let us hope your claws find other marks.” Lynch’s gaze dropped to the deadly filigreed jewelry Mina wore on her fingers.
“Trust me, Your Grace. You’ve no need to be concerned.”
Those cold gray eyes settled on her with an intensity that made her slightly uneasy, but then he smiled. “Oh, I’m not concerned. I never did take you for a fool.”
And no fool would attack a duke with ties to over four hundred Nighthawks. At least, not blatantly.
Something caught her eye over the Duchess of Bleight’s shoulder. Barrons. He moved through the crowd, standing head and shoulders above a pack of debutantes in simpering white. They fluttered their fans as he passed, heated gazes following his black-clad frame. The disparity should have made her laugh. He looked like a wolf stalking through flocks of helpless little swans. Instead her smile grew sharper and she barely glanced at the duke and his wife as she murmured, “If you’ll excuse me?”
This time she stalked him. Their eyes met and Barrons’s left eyebrow twitched slightly in question before he crossed to the stairs, leaving her to follow if she wished.
Mina made her way through the growing crowd, following the trail of steam that heralded one of the servant drones. The room was full of them. She claimed another glass of champagne from the flat tray on the automaton’s head, laced it heavily, and then followed Barrons to the gallery overlooking the main ballroom.
Her gown glimmered in the light as she climbed the stairs, each gold sequin rasping as it trailed over the marble steps. The full skirt cascaded like individual petals from her waist, golden at the interior and darkening to black at the tips of each petal. The bodice itself was sheer gold, the weight tugging at the delicate champagne-colored straps that clung to the very edges of her shoulders.
