Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (31 page)

"
W
E HAVE A problem
," Byrnes said, striding into the house on Baker Street with Kincaid thrown over his shoulder.
The bastard was out cold, and heavy as hell.

Ava looked up from the brass spectrometer she'd been fiddling with in the parlor.
"You're bleeding."
Her eyes widened when she saw Kincaid.
"What happened?"

"Think you can pack his nose?
It might be broken."

"I— Of course.
My examination rooms, if you please."
With a swish of skirts, Ava headed for the small room that she'd claimed as her own.

Fabric rustled.
The baroness and Gemma Townsend both appeared in separate doorways, each looking extremely elegant.
The baroness was clad in dark green, something sleek and luxurious with feathers and fur, and Miss Townsend wore a frothy rose monstrosity.

"What happened?"
Gemma demanded.

"A little tête-à-tête with the enemy.
She disapproved of Kincaid's manners.
I tried to tell her he had none."

"Is that supposed to be amusing?"
Gemma asked.

"Byrnes has the worst sense of humor," Ava muttered.
"Put Kincaid down in here."

Byrnes complied, laying the heavy oaf down on Ava's examination table.

"That nose is definitely broken," Ava muttered, tilting Kincaid's chin to the side to examine the mottling bruise on his throat.
Her fingertips were gentle as she made her assessment.

Byrnes looked Gemma up and down.
"Are we going to a ball or something?
I had the distinct impression that this was a house of spies."

Gemma peered down her nose at him.
"Don't you pay attention to anything?
It's Malloryn's engagement party tonight."

"Ah, the Hamilton girl."
He shot a look at the baroness.
"Why are you going?"

"It's not as though he loves the girl."
The baroness snorted.
"And please, Byrnes, we're all adults here.
Miss Hamilton trapped him into a proposal.
This is hardly going to be a marriage of like minds, but one of duty."

"Someone trapped Malloryn into marriage?"
The thought actually amused him.

"He's been a proponent of the Thrall Bill, which enforces proper treatment of thralls and swift execution of those who think they can simply force a girl down and drink her blood."
Baroness Schröder peered at Kincaid.
"When Miss Hamilton caught him out in the garden with blood dripping down her throat and a sudden audience, it wasn't as though he could pretend it was a setup.
Malloryn had to offer marriage or see the entire bill flung in his face.
It was rather neatly done, actually.
I'd commend the girl on her swift wits if she hadn't just earned herself a cold marriage bed and her husband's undying hatred."

"Wouldn't want to be in her shoes," he agreed.
"I really need to speak to Malloryn.
Right now, if possible."

Gemma blinked.
"He's at his home."

"And the engagement party is...?"

"In his garden."

"You cannot just walk into an Echelon party," the baroness protested.
"You smell like blood!"

"As if half the lords there won't smell like blood!"

"Yes, but they...
they...."
The baroness faltered, gesturing at him.

"You look like you kill people for a living," Ava supplied, peeling Kincaid's eyelid back and shining a bright light into his eye.
"Most of the Echelon look like the only thing they've killed is a mink.
Or a lemon tart."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
He looked down at himself.
"I'm dressed appropriately.
I hardly look like some murderer."

"It's not the clothes, Byrnes," Gemma said.
"It's your eyes.
Or the look in them."

"Well, I'm not going there to make friends," he replied, circling the table.
There wasn't much he could do about his eyes.
"How's Ingrid?"

"She went out after you, but came back an hour ago," Ava said.

"What?
You let her go out in
that
condition?"

Ava shot him a steady look.
"It wasn't as though I could stop her.
What did you want me to do?
Arm-wrestle her into submission?
And she's fine, Byrnes.
Not even a scratch.
She just went upstairs to clean herself up."

"And Kincaid?"

"His pupils are responsive, and his breathing is normal.
I assume he'll come out of it soon, though he's going to feel rather sore and sorry for himself for a while."
Ava winced.

"A wee woman in a very tight dress kicked him in the face several times."

Ava blinked.
"A what?"

"Some kind of vampire, that isn't a vampire."
Byrnes held his hand up to his chest.
"This high."

"You found Ulbricht's mistress," Gemma Townsend breathed.

"She found us.
And I'm absolutely certain Ulbricht's on her leash, not she on his."

"This will put Kincaid out of action for weeks!
What were you doing at the time?"
the baroness demanded.

"Getting punched.
Repeatedly."
He shrugged when he saw their faces, heading for the door.
"What?
She was fast.
Did you not hear the part about her being some sort of vampire?"

"How did you escape?"
Gemma followed him to the door.

"She offered me a promotion.
I thought about declining, but decided she might tell me more if I played coy.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to check on Ingrid, then talk to Malloryn."

The baroness
tsked
under her breath.
"The carriage is coming around in fifteen minutes.
At least have a shave and clean yourself up.
He'll be annoyed if you show up looking like this."

"I thought annoyance was Malloryn's general state of being."

"Oh, you've seen nothing yet," the baroness told him grimly.
"Right now, he has a prickle in his drawers, and it's called Adele Hamilton.
You don't want to cross him, Byrnes.
Not right now."

I
n the end
they wouldn't all fit in the carriage together, so Byrnes went on ahead, pacing outside Malloryn’s as he waited.
Although he didn’t entirely approve of Ingrid’s decision to come along, he had to trust that she knew her body.

And he strongly suspected he wouldn’t have won the argument to see her stay behind anyway.

The carriage arrived, dispersing the baroness and Gemma, who gave him a wink, and then Ingrid.

Or someone who looked like Ingrid, wearing an enormous gown.

It was bronze silk, with black lace slashing across the bodice and a trim little black velvet jacket that showed off her divine curves.
The color framed her eyes perfectly, and it wasn't too girlish.
No, this screamed silk and sensuality, grace and elegance.
A little black hat draped over her left brow, cocked on an angle, and a tumble of long golden-brown curls dripped over her other shoulder.

Quite frankly, Byrnes felt like she'd punched him in the chest.

"Will I do?"
Ingrid gave a slow twirl, her skirts flaring out around her.

He could barely speak.
This— Her— She was absolutely, stunningly beautiful.
"You'll do," Byrnes replied, his words clipped.
Then he looked away, out over the garden party at the back of Malloryn's house, searching desperately for some composure.
Someone had stolen it completely.
Or no, set it alight, and was stomping on the flames.

"I don't believe I've ever seen you speechless."
Ingrid's laugh was breathy.
Leaning against him, she fussed with his collar, for all the world like a society debutante.
However, the look in her eyes as she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes was hardly innocent.

"You're enjoying this," he accused, leaning into her warmth.

"I enjoy anything that involves ruffling your feathers."

"Consider them ruffled."
I'm having a hard time not dragging you off into the house and having my way with you
.
One glance down revealed that she was having difficulty with her breathing too.
For quite a different reason.
"Does this mean you’re considering my proposal?

Ingrid hesitated.
“We’ll discuss it later.”

He swallowed the flare of nervousness this statement wrought in him.
“The bust doesn't seem to quite fit."

Ingrid rolled her eyes, tugging at the lace that barely hid her bountiful assets.
"Of course you'd notice.
It’s an old dress."

"Perhaps I could help with that?"

Ingrid rapped his knuckles with her fan.
"Not now," she cast over her shoulder, making her way down the stairs onto the lawn.
"Malloryn."

Duty before pleasure.
Byrnes followed at her heels.

"Let's separate," she said, twirling a finger.
"All the quicker to find him."

"I'll take the left."

“Done.”
Ingrid sauntered toward a table loaded with sandwich platters.

Pasting a smile on his face, Byrnes tipped his head to some woman wearing a peacock on her head, then nearly collided with another young woman in gold.

"Pardon," he said, searching over her shoulder for the duke.

The pretty brunette gave him a curious look as he stepped past her, and the two men at her side were both clad in scarlet uniforms, shocked looks on their faces.

Two seconds later the baroness intercepted him.
"Do you know who that was?"
she hissed.

"No."

"The queen."

Byrnes looked back.
"Well, what do you know?
She's smaller than I expected."
He wasn't the sort of person who had much truck with the elite.
"Found Malloryn yet?"

"Good God, you're like a blundering ox.
This way."
They turned, then the baroness froze.

There was a young blonde wearing peacock blue in their way.
"Baroness Schröder," she said, tilting her head like one adversary to another.

The baroness drew herself up.
"Miss Hamilton.
What a delight.
Ah, this is my, ah, my—"

"You're not on the guest list," the young woman told Byrnes with a suspicious slant to her eyes.
"In fact, I've never seen you before."

"How do you know?"
Byrnes stole a glass of champagne for himself, and one for Ingrid.
He couldn't see her anywhere.

"Because I wrote the guest list myself."

The bride.
Just his luck.
He was caught between two snarling felines, both aware of the tomcat caught between them, despite what Baroness Schröder had said.
Girls of good breeding politely pretended that their fiancé's mistresses weren't their fiancé's mistresses.
Unfortunately Miss Hamilton seemed to have missed that particular etiquette class.

"Long day?"
Byrnes asked the young woman.

"It's the moment I've been waiting for," Miss Hamilton replied.
"All my life."

Sounded like it too.
"My commiserations."

The baroness sucked in a shocked gasp.
"Byrnes!"

"Quick!
I see Malloryn over there waving at us."
He gave the baroness a little push in the back and she stumbled forward, blundering between two young lords in stockings.
Darting a glare over her shoulder, she took the opportunity he'd presented her with and disappeared.

Shrewd green eyes locked on him.
"Who
are
you?"

"Someone who knows your fiancé well.
Call me Byrnes.
And this"—he finally spotted Ingrid's hat bobbing through the guests—"is Miss Ingrid Miller, my fiancée."

Ingrid summed the girl up in one glance.
"Why hello, darling," she said, catching on swiftly, though with a slight questioning arch to her brow.
"I found him."