The Iron Duke (25 page)

If she’d just been angry, Rhys wouldn’t have let her walk
away. But she was afraid. And Rhys needed to take that fear from her, but he couldn’t force it away. Right now, she didn’t believe he could—or maybe that he
would
—protect her. He’d have to change that.

But hell if he knew when he’d get the chance. A short walk through London streets wouldn’t prove anything, not tonight. And she didn’t need him for that any other time. She had Newberry.

So he was second to a red giant. No, not second. Rhys didn’t even make a showing on her list. For short moments, she seemed to appreciate him, would offer a laugh or a smile. And he’d felt her sexual response before the fear had swallowed it.

And by God, she fascinated him. He admired the hell out of her. But he knew that admiration wasn’t returned. Whatever she saw in him, it wasn’t enough to overcome her fear. The only thing she needed him for, the only thing she was interested in, and the only thing he had to offer her was the
Terror
, and the possibility of finding her brother.

She had no other use for him. And though it hit at his pride, Rhys couldn’t blame her. He’d been a man driven by purpose once—but for nine years, he hadn’t had much of one. Nothing to attract a woman who couldn’t be bought.

But now he had two things to drive him: finding the
Terror
, and taking away her fear.

He knew the course he’d take for the first. He hoped that walking into her home would give him a better idea of how to accomplish the second.

Leicester Square had obviously seen better days, but its inhabitants seemed determined not to let it go the way of the town houses where they’d battled the ratcatcher. Some had attempted to scrub away the smoke and paint their houses in pale colors. Almost every window pane appeared intact. A few pink blooms poked through the high fence that surrounded the garden at the center of the square.

Number Eight stood five stories tall, with all of the windows on the third and fourth floors shuttered. A simple casement sat over the front entrance, though a pale outline against the yellow stone suggested that it had once featured a pediment and columns—probably having rotted or sold off.

When they arrived, a steamcoach was pulling away from the entrance. Scarsdale met them at the front steps and gestured toward the departing carriage.

“I’m afraid several of the ladies have left. Apparently, it’s the height of indecency for a soused bounder to burst through the front entrance carrying a bleeding street urchin.”

“Oh, blast.” The inspector palmed her forehead and looked to Rhys with widened eyes. “I forgot the League meeting. Perhaps you shouldn’t—”

“I also killed your butler.” Scarsdale’s mournful confession interrupted her. When both Rhys and the inspector turned to stare at him, he continued quickly, “His fault, I assure you! He didn’t come to the door quickly enough, and I caught him full on when I kicked it open. He fell and his head burst to pieces.”

“Lovely. Just lovely.” With a dismayed shake of her head, she started for the door. “And after Mother worked so hard on him.”

Rhys finally caught on. “An automaton?”

“A piece of art, more like.” Scarsdale looked at the blood soaking his waistcoat. “I’ll wait for you out here.”

Christ.
Rhys hated gatherings of any sort, but a gathering of ladies seemed pure torture. “Why?”

“I’m not fit company.” Scarsdale’s voice lowered. “You’ll be introduced to them. You’ve no reason to talk first.”

Hopefully he’d have no reason to talk at all. What would he have to say to them?

He joined the inspector in the foyer, where a blond maid knelt on the floor, picking up gears from out of a jumble that might have resembled a man. Her mouth fell open when she saw him.

The inspector smiled, a wry little twist of her lips. “Sally, let me introduce you to the reason you’ve spent all of today washing the blood out of my skirts.”

“It was a pleasure, inspector. My lady.” She bobbed her head, staring at Rhys, but not daring to speak to him. “It wasn’t nothing at all.”

Nothing at all.
Bullshit. When Rhys stepped on a ship, he could immediately determine whether the crew was shorthanded or simply lazy by the state of the repairs and cleanliness. A house was no different—and this house was severely understaffed. All the work was done well; there just weren’t enough people to do all of it. Adding a blood-stained dress to this woman’s daily duties wasn’t “nothing at all.” It was a burden, and had probably felt like a heavy one.

Rhys looked at the inspector’s jacket, soaked through with the urchin’s blood. “I’m afraid you’ll have more tonight, Sally. My fault, too, for not reaching the boy before the inspector did.”

“I cannot wait, Your Grace.” The maid made a breathy short sound that ended in a little squeal. “But I don’t see how you’re at fault, sir. She’s awful fast. Too fast, sometimes.”

“Yes, she is.” She’d outraced him twice.

The inspector glanced at him. He read the gratitude in her expression before she continued down the hallway. Clever woman. She couldn’t give the maid more help, but she could give her the Iron Duke’s acknowledgment.

But despite her urging him that morning to attend her mother’s meeting, she seemed reluctant to show him into the parlor. Hesitating outside the door, she stiffened her shoulders and took a deep breath, as if bracing herself.

Conversation dimmed when she entered the room, then stopped altogether when he followed her.

Seven of them around the parlor, all looking to him. Images crowded into his brain, memories of other women all looking, some with arousal and hunger, others with amusement and disdain, but all expecting to touch. He forced them away. Those women weren’t here. The ladies in this parlor were curious and excited, but not one dared to approach him, let alone reach for him.

But for one. A white-haired woman in dark spectacles rushed across the room—but not, Rhys realized, toward him. She was taking in the inspector’s appearance, horrified, making certain that the blood on the inspector’s jacket wasn’t her own.

“Dear heavens, Mina! Are you well?”

Mina.
Triumph shot through him. Yes, that fit her. And he’d use it—but not here. Not yet.

She didn’t immediately answer the white-haired woman. Hesitating, she glanced at the other women in the parlor before simply saying, “I’m well, Mother. It is only on my clothes.”

So the woman was her mother, Lady Rockingham—but Mina wouldn’t be relaying the news about her brother here, he realized. Not until the other ladies left. With luck, that wouldn’t be long.

The countess stepped back, looking to a pregnant woman sitting at the edge of a blue chair. “Felicity, dear, will you assist her upstairs?”

Mina seemed ready to protest. Her mother glanced back at her, and the inspector’s mouth snapped shut. “Yes, Mother.”

The pregnant woman—Felicity—made her way over to them, somehow maneuvering around furniture without ever taking her gaze from his face. When she reached the two ladies, she gave a sharp look to Mina before gesturing to the countess and then to Rhys. When Mina frowned at her, Felicity leaned to hiss something into the inspector’s ear.

A moment later, Mina’s brows lifted, and she flushed. Awkwardly, she took her mother’s hand and pulled her closer to Rhys. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to my mother, the Countess of Rockingham?”

He hated these rules. Apparently so did Mina, if she’d forgotten to introduce them—and even now she winced slightly, as if realizing she’d said something wrong. Rhys could have told her that he couldn’t remember the proper response, anyway—Scarsdale’s always seemed to be long and effusive, and not worth memorizing—but the inclination of his head and his “Well met, my lady,” seemed to do the trick. A brilliant smile lit the countess’s small face.

“Your presence delights us, Your Grace. May I introduce you to my friends?”

Blast.
And Felicity was drawing Mina away, out of the parlor. He’d rather be heading upstairs to watch her change clothing, but Rhys recognized that he was well and trapped.

With another inclination of his head, he walked with her to the first sofa, and almost stumbled over a table that moved into his path. Christ, the whole room was full of them. Topped with nutcakes and coffee and driven by some of the quietest clockworks he’d ever seen, they waddled in a wide oval that brought them to every sofa and chair on their circuit, and within reach of any lady who desired the refreshment.

Brilliant, and completely nonsensical. Even ladies could get up off their asses and collect food from a table.

“Please pardon the servers, sir.” The countess smiled sweetly. “They provide a bit of amusement, and so our meetings are not all about what is bleak and dreary.”

Ah, yes. Marriage reform.
God help him. Each lady she introduced to him seemed friendly and intelligent enough, but in no time he felt surrounded, bombarded on all sides by their enquiring looks and their well wishes.
Damn Scarsdale.

Then Mina returned, and he stopped cursing his friend and stared at her, instead. She wore some kind of pale blue frock, and with her hair still tight at her nape, exposed all of her neck and half of her collarbone.

No armor. No buckles. Only a few layers of cotton and ten feet of parlor separated his mouth from her breasts. Without meeting his gaze, she took a seat on an already crowded sofa, and lifted a nutcake from the waddling server. Her pregnant friend sank into the sturdiest chair in the room, leaving Rhys standing beside the fireplace with her mother—who was watching him.

And what had she seen on his face when her daughter had come in? God knew. The Blacksmith could detect a man’s lies. Maybe her mother saw just as much from behind those dark lenses.

He couldn’t begin to fathom what a mother would
think
of his reaction, though. Such relationships were alien to him. But reading the determined set of her mouth was easy enough—Mina’s mouth looked exactly the same.

So it came, the question he’d dreaded—the one he couldn’t answer with a single word. The countess turned to him and asked, “And do you support marriage reformation, sir?”

A damned nuisance, not knowing whether he could lie to her. He opted for the truth.

“I know little about marriage or families, and so thoughts of reform occupy little of my time.” That wouldn’t be enough, he knew. They would want to pick apart every bit he
did
think about. Perhaps he could head them off, however, by offering it wholesale in a form they likely already knew. “But after speaking with Detective Inspector Wentworth this morning, I found that my opinion aligns closely with hers.”

Every gaze in the room turned to Mina, who looked back at Rhys in dismay. The countess pursed her lips before saying, “My daughter is famously reluctant to share her views.”

Mina sighed. “You are experienced in matters of marriage, Mother. Not I. And very likely, I will never be. Whatever is decided here and put into your bill will hardly affect me, and so I leave it in the hands of those to whom it will matter the most.”

Amused, Rhys shook his head. She hadn’t been so reluctant to offer her opinion this morning. And she hadn’t stopped at her own chances of marriage, but had focused instead on the laborers—women who, thanks to her occupation, she probably met with more often than these ladies ever did.

And if he was to be put on the spot, then he would drag her in with him. “You better know the women this bill will most affect. Yet you don’t have any opinions to share?”

She set her jaw. After a brief silence, her pregnant friend came to her defense. “Mina has been the reason behind some of the most important provisions, Your Grace.”

He looked to Felicity. She was like another Newberry, he realized, but in a parlor rather than on the streets. So he would need to fulfill this role for Mina, too.

Or better yet, keep them both out of parlors.

But he appreciated the woman for her defense now—especially as it gave him a deeper look beneath the inspector’s armor. “How so?”

“The English laws written before the occupation do not protect women. Even the Horde’s had more protections. Yet they put those old laws into effect, as if two hundred years hadn’t passed.” Felicity shook her head. “And Mina would come from her job with shocking stories of women who had been abused and cheated by their husbands. And even more shocking, that nothing could be done according to the laws. We hope to add those protections.”

His admiration deepened. He’d put her on the spot, and she came out looking better for it. He wouldn’t have.

But that morning, she hadn’t seemed satisfied with the steps taken. Curious, he wondered, “And those protections are not enough for you, inspector?”

With another sigh, she looked to her mother. “No,” she said quietly.

So she couldn’t lie, either. She was trapped, just as he was.
Good.
“Will you tell us what you would change, then?”

Her jaw clenched again. After a short silence, her mother prompted, “Mina?”

Anger filled the look she threw at him, hot and sharp as a poker. “There should be a provision to make it easier for a wife to divorce her husband.”

“Mina!” The countess gasped, and was echoed by the other women. Each of them looked at the inspector in horror.

Goddammit.
Damn his mouth, and damn Scarsdale for leaving him to cock this up. He’d done this to her. He’d sought payment for his discomfort, and only at this moment did he realize that the price was unequal.

He was only discomfited by having to talk here. But Mina would be affected by what she said.

Even her friend seemed surprised. “You would advocate for divorce in a bill designed to promote marriage?”

“I would advocate for
choice
.” Her back rigid, she stared somewhere over Rhys’s shoulder. “My mother is blinded by one privilege that most people do not have.”