Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (44 page)

T
hree years
after all is said and done...

T
HE TABLE WAS crowded
, full of old friends and new and their offspring.
Ingrid sat in the guest of honor's position with Rosa's youngest son, Emery, on her lap.

"I hope you had a wonderful birthday," Rosa said, leaning down to kiss her cheek as Lynch and Garrett retired to the duke's billiards room to discuss business.
Or more likely, to rest their eardrums.
Perry and Garrett's twin daughters, Grace and Ivy, had declared war over dessert upon Phillip, the ducal heir.
Baby Emery had joined in by squealing every time they caught his brother.

Perry went after her children with an aggrieved expression as the trio took off through the house.

Thank goodness.
The noise had been overwhelming.

"It's not really my birthday," Ingrid protested.
She couldn't remember which day she'd been born on, only the month.
Rosa had insisted she pick a day years ago, and so she'd chosen the twelfth of June.
Today.

It still didn't quite feel right though.

"Hush."
Rosa's frown scolded her, but her smile looked far too pleased.
She was up to something.
"Just enjoy the day.
And now, I do believe your husband wanted you in the library."
This was accompanied with a slightly arched brow and a knowing smile as Rosa took young Emery off her hands.
The boy had his mother's eyes, her personality, and her deviousness, and even though he was only one, he grinned at Ingrid over her shoulder as if he were in on the conspiracy.
"I'll go rescue Perry."

Ingrid snatched up her glass of dessert wine and drained it.
She enjoyed the revelry—it reminded her of what she'd missed out on growing up—but there was definitely a limit to the amount of hours she could sit through it.

The noise and light died down as she went to find her husband.
He'd vanished sometime during dessert, but she'd been so distracted that she hadn't noticed his removal, only his absence.

"Caleb?"
she called softly.
There was light limning the door of the library, and the faint fragrance of roses.
With a brief knock, she pushed inside.

Her husband was pacing in the middle of the room, carelessly crushing the red rose petals beneath his boot heels.
Byrnes turned at her entrance, hands clasped behind his back and his expression arrested.
His appearance never failed to light her up inside.
Here was her other half, the one person in the world who understood her and her need for independence.
She spent most of the day with him at their leased apartments where they ran the private detective agency they'd formed a year ago, but she never grew tired of his presence.

One look at the rose petals crushed all over the floor and the champagne bottle in its ice bath, and she arched a brow.
"Rosa?"

His mouth stretched into a smile and Byrnes cracked the champagne bottle with a pop.
Bubbles frothed over his hand.
"You doubt me, darling?"

"I know you," she admitted dryly, crossing the room to take the glass he handed her.
He'd only ever told her he loved her three times.
Byrnes was never careless with such words, nor was he prone to romantic notions.
Every now and then she wished he might be a little more romantic, but that was what made those three little words so cherished when they came.
"Roses and champagne aren't your style."

He chinked his glass against hers.
The smile faltered.
He actually looked nervous for a moment, then recovered admirably.
"Ah, but I'm quite happy to claim someone else's efforts."

Ingrid enjoyed the first sweetly bitter mouthful, but she couldn't take her eyes off him.
"You're up to something."

Capturing her fingertips, he drew her into his arms, setting his glass down on the nearest table.
The swish of her green skirts pressed against his thighs.
"You look beautiful tonight," he told her, turning serious again.

"
And
you're trying to distract me."

"You accuse
me
of being unromantic," he quipped back.
"Can't I compliment my wife?"

Firm fingers took her champagne glass and set it aside too.
Then his hands cupped her face and drew her closer.
Her entire body pressed against his, and Ingrid breathed in the subtle scent of his aftershave.

"Of course you can," she whispered.
"But don't think I'll forget that you're hiding something."

Byrnes smiled, his pale eyes growing lazy.
"Always a challenge, Ingrid.
Obviously I'm not trying hard enough."

The kiss took her breath away as he caught her hands and wrapped them around his waist.
Then his own hands captured her face and he drank in the taste of her breath, every soft gasp...
turning her into a molten puddle of quivering need.

Yes, romance definitely seemed like a suitable distraction.

Ingrid slid her hands inside his coat and pressed him back against the desk.
Byrnes caught her wrists.
"Ah, ah, ah."
He murmured, withdrawing from her.
"You are
not
going to ravish me on Lynch's desk."

She bit her lip, her gaze lifting to his.
"Do you think he'd notice?"

"Undoubtedly."
Byrnes put a finger to her lips.
"Later.
You're not going to distract me from my purpose."

Ingrid bit his finger.
"I could."

There was that smile, there and then gone again.
"This is important."

Ingrid rested her hip on the desk and folded her palms in her lap.
"You have ten seconds to convince me it's interesting.
Then I want my present."
A darting glance toward his erection told him precisely what she meant by that.

"Maybe this
is
your present," he replied, leaning his hands on either side of her hips and pressing closer.

"Continue."

"You know I've been distracted lately."

Ingrid hesitated.
Of course she'd noticed, though she'd thought it the residual effects of his mother's passing last year.
"Ye-es...."

"I've been working on a gift for you," he said, and the laughter vanished from his face, leaving him darkly serious.

Once upon a time, she would have thought that she'd done something wrong when he looked like that.
She understood him now, however.
That closed-off expression and the tight way he pronounced his words meant that he was emotional and trying to rein it in.

"A gift?"
she teased, to lighten the mood.

"It's been perplexing me since the day we married.
I wanted to do something for you, but it hasn't been as easy as I'd hoped it would be.
In my arrogance I assumed I would be able to present you with this gift for our anniversary.
Let's just say, it took a little longer than expected.
Come."
He took her fingers and drew her to the polished walnut secretary, where he gestured her into the seat.
There was a creamy envelope on the secretary, as well as a box somewhat larger than a book.
It smelled like paper and ink and the faint chemical tang of photographs.

"What is it?"

"Not a puppy," he replied promptly.
"Or a diamond ring.
Or all of the other foolish ideas Rosa presented me with.
I wanted to do something special for you."

Ingrid looked up and he brushed his mouth against her cheek.
"It's the reason I disappeared for two weeks last month, darling.
I didn't go to Edinburgh with Garrett for that Ripper case.
I lied about that, but I hope you'll forgive me."

"Byrnes."
Her voice lowered, her heart starting a rapid pitter-pat.
She didn't know why, but she was suddenly nervous.
As was he.
She could see it in the tense line of his body.
"I thought we promised not to lie to each other."

"I didn't want to get your hopes up."
Then he let out an exasperated breath.
"I didn't want to get
my
hopes up.
Do you know how frustrating this case has been?
I honestly didn't expect this lead to go anywhere, as all the others haven't.
And if I'm being honest, this was a promise I made a long time ago to you."

"Case?"
Her spine straightened.
"You were working a case without me?
And what promise?"

"Bloody hell, Ingrid.
Just open the envelope."

Shooting him a sidelong glance under her lashes that promised future retribution, she obliged.
A pair of first class tickets aboard a steamer fell into her hand.
"Oslo?
But why...?"
And then she stopped speaking.
She was fairly certain she also stopped breathing.
Her heartbeat echoed in her ears.

Byrnes pushed the package toward her with a faint, nervous smile.
He rested his hip on the desk.
"I found them for you."

"Who?"
she whispered, but she knew.

"Your family, Ingrid.
I found them."

The world fell apart.
Tears blurred her vision, and she froze, unable to so much as speak.

Byrnes's hand clenched around hers comfortingly.
"Your legal name isn't Ingrid, which has been the bother all along.
It's actually Britta Ingrid Apslund.
Your Aunt Kristina, however, decided you were most certainly not a Britta when you were a one-year-old.
They called you Ingrid from that moment until your fourth year, when you were taken by the English raiders.
It's all there in the package.
I have photographs of your family.
I have your birth documents, your...
your bill of sale.
I even met your mother.
She's still alive, after all this time, and looks remarkably like you.
You have aunts, uncles, sisters, nephews and nieces—"

Ingrid couldn't bear to hear anymore.
All this time....
With trembling hands, she opened the box and lifted a pile of photographs out.
The top one showed a smiling woman resting a baby on her hip whilst another child clung to her skirts.
The man beside the woman was tall, with dark hair and light-colored eyes that—even through the sepia portrait—she knew were bronze.
The image seemed to suddenly open up a previously locked box in her memory.
She could almost hear his voice in her mind, reading to her before bed.
A deep, patient voice, and her favorite book,
The Snow Queen
.

With a gasp, she clapped a hand to her lips, but her tears were more difficult to contain.
"My father."

"Yes."
Byrnes kissed her forehead.
His voice lowered.
"He was killed by the hunting party that took you.
Your mother searched for you for years, but there was nothing to find.
The English raiders were good at their job, and some of them were even rogue blue bloods.
They didn't leave any scent, or any trail.
She never knew what had happened to you, but she never gave up hoping."

She couldn't stop herself from crying harder.

"Ingrid?"
Byrnes gathered her into his arms, where she sobbed against his chest.
"You're starting to make me nervous.
You're happy about this, yes?"

In response, she simply nodded wetly against his shoulder.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do to make you happy, darling."
His strong arms drew her tight into a hug that shielded her from the world.
"I would even resort to flowers and poetry if I thought that would put a smile on your face."

She couldn't help laughing at the thought.
Dashing the tears from her eyes, she pushed away from him just enough to try and gather herself.
"I should make you write me a poem, just to see if you would."

He grimaced.
"I'd pay Garrett to do it.
He's better at that sort of thing than I am."

"I don't want empty words, Caleb."
Ingrid tugged at his lapels, trying to compose herself.
"Just you.
Always you.
You always know exactly what I need."