Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy

A
ll rights reserved
.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

T
his novel is
a work of fiction.
The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

M
ission
: Improper

Copyright (c) Bec McMaster

Kobo Edition

C
over Art
(c) Damonza.com

Print formatting: Athena Interiors and Marisa Shor at Cover Me Darling

Editing: Hot Tree Edits

L
ondon
, 1883

T
he invitation contained
an address and two words:
Come alone.

Caleb Byrnes had found it earlier that morning, in the middle of his bed in the Nighthawks Guild headquarters, a place that he'd previously considered impenetrable.
Not only were the Nighthawks comprised of rogue blue bloods—those afflicted with the craving virus, whose infection had
not
been sanctioned by the aristocrats who'd once ruled London—but they were also thief-takers and bounty hunters.
An intruder should have been heard, or smelled, or spotted before they got within five yards of the place.
And if they hadn't been, then the guild was protected with all manner of mechanical devices.
It was a virtual labyrinth.
To his knowledge, nobody had ever broken in successfully.

His curiosity was aroused.

Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the fact that the invitation smelled quite liberally of perfume.

Someone had just dared him.

Someone who knew enough about him to know what piqued his interest.

Someone female.

If there was one thing that Byrnes desired above all else it was a mystery, or a chase.
The hunt was everything to him, whether he was hunting miscreants over the rooftops of London, vampires causing mayhem, or women.

It was only once the chase was done that he grew bored, and considering that it had been a good year since he'd had a decent pursuit or case—that actress from the theatre, or the so-called Vampire of Drury Lane—he figured he was due.

Hence why he was here, at the address listed.

Lifting the invitation to his face, Byrnes breathed in the scent, and stared up at the nondescript Georgian townhouse in front of him that threatened to blend in to all of the others along the street.
If he hadn't owned preternatural senses, the perfume would have been subtle, that of lilies floating in the wind past him.
As it was he could make out the tiny trace notes of oils and chemicals, of solvents and preservatives, and something faintly musky that he couldn't quite identify.

Lifting his hand to knock, Byrnes paused as skirts swished behind him along the footpath.

"Goodness, Byrnes, is that you?"
Ava McLaren asked, coming directly to a halt behind him.

Not his intended pursuit, though Ava certainly could have delivered the invitation, as she too was a Nighthawk, and therefore had the means to enter his room.
The scent was wrong however.
Ava was engine oil, blood, and chemicals, masked by the faint trace of rose perfume she sometimes wore.

"Indeed it is."
Byrnes raked a glance over her, and missed nothing—including the gold-engraved invitation trailing from her fingers.
His eyes narrowed.
"What are you doing here?"

Three years ago, Ava had been the victim of a madman who performed clockwork experiments on women, a case that had left her with a thick, ragged scar down her chest, a mechanical heart, and a case of the craving virus.
Her parents had thought her dead, and there was no place in the world for a female blue blood such as herself, so she'd ended up staying at the guild and taking a position there in the laboratories with Fitz.
In three short years, she'd become quite adept at crime scene investigation, whereas Fitz still fainted at the sight of blood.

Had Ava received the same invitation?
The thought irritated him a little, for he'd thought this to be
his
mystery.
However, he saw Ava as a friend—one of the few he truly owned—so he pushed the thought away.

"Same reason, perhaps, as yours."
Ava lifted the invitation ruefully, juggling her parasol in her other hand.
"I received this but an hour ago.
It sounded urgent."

"Urgent?"

Ava offered him the piece of parchment.

To the Divine Miss McLaren.
An offer awaits you, if you dare.
Come immediately.

Ava's cheeks colored.
"I thought—perhaps—an admirer.
I was just curious...."

"You should be more careful," Byrnes said with a frown, turning it over to find the same address listed.
"What if it hadn't been?
What if someone with nefarious intentions sent this to you instead?"

"They still might have nefarious intentions," she suggested.

"Yes, but my virtue is nonexistent, and everyone knows it.
So I doubt they'd have invited me."

Ava rolled her pretty green eyes.
She was used to his humor, though she often told him it was lacking.
"I'm a blue blood, Byrnes.
There's not a lot that could kill me, and considering my heart is made of metal, perhaps not even a stake through that, hmm?
And you've taught me how to protect myself.
I deemed it an acceptable risk."

True.
Blue bloods were exceedingly difficult to kill, thanks to the craving virus, which could heal most injuries.
That didn’t mean that killing one was impossible, and Ava had already suffered enough in life.

Byrnes looked up at the building.
"They still might have dangerous intentions.
You should let me go first."

"I should," Ava said, swinging her parasol with a dangerous glint in her eyes, "but I'm not going to.
For goodness sakes, Byrnes, I'm not a debutante.
Besides, I have this—"

The parasol swung toward him, and Byrnes tensed, ready for anything.
"I'm not certain I've fully recovered from the last ingenious device.
What does this one do?"

Her eyes glittered, and she slid her hand toward some trigger on the handle.
The tip of it was pressed directly against his chest.
“Want to find out?”

"On second thought, I don't want to know," he replied, moving it swiftly away from him.

Ava laughed.
"Trust me.
Nobody wants to be on the receiving end of my electromagnetic discombobulating device.
Talk about sweeping men off their feet...."

"After you, then," he said, and knocked on the door again.

The second his knock died down, the door swung inwards.

A butler appeared, impeccable in black.
"Good morning, Master Byrnes.
Miss McLaren.”

Byrnes hadn't heard him so much as breathing.
“I believe you have the advantage of us….”
He didn’t like not being the one in the know.

“My name is Herbert.
Please come in.
You're expected."

Herbert's eyes were far too watchful for a mere servant, and the way he moved was...
disturbingly graceful.
Then there was the pale skin.
Could just be a result of London's perpetual cloud coverage, but it might also be sign of a blue blood.
Byrne's eyes narrowed, one hand dropping to the knife sheathed at his side as he stepped past.
If he didn't know any better, he would have classified the butler as dangerous.

"Oh, thank you," Ava told the butler, holding out her parasol.

Byrnes intercepted it and tossed it toward the fellow.

Herbert snatched the parasol out of the air, moving faster than the eye could see.
The butler froze, then returned Byrnes's narrowed glare with a bland one.
"Let me put this away for you, Miss McLaren."

Huh.

Byrnes didn't take his eyes off the man as he stepped inside, until the fellow turned to the coatrack.

Ava gave him a look.
"Byrnes," she mouthed.

He let a smile stretch over his lips.
"For a rogue blue blood, Herbert, you seem to have escaped the fate of the rest of us."

Which was either an offer to join the Nighthawks, the Coldrush Guards that protected the queen, or death.
Although “offer” could be considered too charitable a word.
The aristocratic Echelon had once guarded their blue blood status as a privilege, reserved only for the best.
They didn't take kindly to accidental infections.

"I still serve, Master Byrnes.
However, my particular skills were noticed by one who can bypass certain rules."

Which narrowed the field considerably.
The plot thickened.

"The others are gathered in the library," Herbert said, gesturing them toward the stairs.

"Others?"
Byrnes glanced up.
He could hear murmurs from above.

"The rest of the company, sir."
Herbert returned a bland smile that told him nothing.
"If you'll join them, I'll send for refreshments—"

"Do you know the purpose of this meeting?
Who's hosting it?
Who's—"

"All shall be revealed, sir.
Perhaps some blud-wein for the lady?"

"Please," Byrnes replied, then offered Ava his arm to escort her up the stairs.

"What do you think is going on?"
she whispered, her flyaway blonde curls brushing against his shoulder.

"I don't have a bloody clue," he replied.
"Who are the others?
What could they want with a pair of Nighthawks?
A case?"
He shook his head.
"No.
They wouldn't have requested your presence, and they would have applied for the commission through the guild master.
Plus I'm fairly certain Herbert could handle something like that himself."

"Do you think he's—"

"Very dangerous, I suspect."

That widened her eyes.
Ava gave a delicate sniff.
"Not a case, then.
I cannot smell any blood.
Only...
lilies."

Lilies.
His gut clenched, and his gaze raked the foyer.
That at least, boded well.
There was something mingled with the scent now though, something almost musky.
Byrnes frowned, as a slither of warning lit down his spine, but Ava tugged on his arm and drew him toward the library.
He lost whatever train of thought instinct had served up.

"You seem distracted," she noted.

"Something on my mind."
The curiosity was almost
itching
on his skin.
Who was the woman who’d delivered the invitation?
"Here we are."

Byrnes threw the doors open to the library, drawing the attention of three sets of eyes from within.
Two men eyed each other across the expanse of the room, one an enormous bruiser with black hair and evil blue eyes, and the other a young lad who bore evidence of the craving virus on his pale skin and the faint gilded tones of his hair.
The higher a man's craving virus levels, the more his skin and hair paled.
The distance of almost five feet parted the two men, and the lad looked both cocky and amused, as if he'd been picking a fight with the brute.

The woman leaning against the curtains rolled her eyes.
She was everything elegant, with loose black hair swept into a chignon, and a sweeping fall of violet skirts.
Beautiful, but ultimately uninteresting, as Byrnes could detect an Oriental perfume about her, not the one he was hunting for.

"So who the hell are you?"
The black-haired giant demanded, staring up at them from an armchair with his boot hooked up on his other knee.

"This would be Master Byrnes, of the Nighthawks," said the woman by the window, crossing her arms with amused disdain, "and Miss Ava McLaren, I presume?"

Byrnes and Ava exchanged a glance.
Ava looked a little discomfited by the strange man's animosity, but tipped her chin up.
"I believe you have the advantage of us—"

The lady strode forward, her skirts swishing about her legs as she clasped Ava's hand and squeezed it gently.
"My apologies.
You may call me Gemma Townsend.
Information is an interest of mine, and female blue bloods are so rare that I've made a note of them.
I believe you to be the third located in London proper?
The Duchess of Casavian, Lady Peregrine of the Nighthawks—and yourself?"

"There's one more," the lad muttered, "but she...
she ain't likely to be known."

Byrnes eyed him.
"Charlie Todd?"
He recognized the boy as one of the rookery lads who ran with Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel, though the little bugger had grown.
They were almost of a height now.

The young man grinned and shook his hand.
"The one and only."