The Iron Duke (12 page)

She ignored the drunk’s muttered “jade whore”—but the rough hawking noise warned her. Mina spun to the side just in time. The glob of spit flew past her cheek and splattered against the bricks.

Almost sick with anger, Mina balled her fists, turning to stare at the drunk. Cheeks ruddy, he returned her glare through bleary, hate-filled eyes. A dockworker, his prosthetic arms and shoulders had been reinforced with pneumatic tubes. Strong, but slow—and probably why he hadn’t hit her.

And she’d have loved to thrash him, but had no time. Trahaearn’s steamcoach engine had started up—

A dark figure suddenly blocked her view, then whipped around. The drunk slammed into the bricks beside her, Trahaearn’s hands fisted in his jacket. The man’s feet dangled six inches above the ground.

Gone was the maddening detachment. Fury paled the duke’s skin and sharpened the angles of his face, as if an icy lathe had passed over his features.

The drunk shouted before abruptly falling silent, recognizing Trahaearn—or just recognizing the danger he was in.

Trahaearn said quietly, “Pay for it.”

The command sent unease shivering down her spine. Despite her own anger, Mina couldn’t let him do anything to this man. And they had more pressing problems, anyway.

This drunk didn’t matter. Andrew did.

“An apology is enough,” she said.

The drunk’s eyes widened as he looked from her to Trahaearn. “Is she your woman?”

The duke’s gaze raked over her, settling on her face. “Yes.”

No
, Mina thought, her heart sinking. How fast would his answer get around? But it wasn’t worth fighting over now.
Only Andrew.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.” The man’s lips trembled before widening into a grin. He chuckled. “I see. You’re still giving it to the Horde, eh—”

The drunken laugh cut off when Trahaearn faced him again, his expression darkening.

“Apologize to
her
.”

The humor drained from the man’s face. “You’ll have to strike me dead, sir.”

Smoking hells.
Would he? Mina grabbed Trahaearn’s arm, her fingers wrapping around biceps of steel. She couldn’t pull him away.

And she could see Newberry coming, making his way down the Narrow with the ice chest in his hands, but she couldn’t ask the constable to wrestle the duke back. She had to stop this
now
.

“Trahaearn. Please.” She felt him tense, and hoped that meant he’d heard her, or was reacting to her holding on to him—not that he was preparing to kill the man. “We’ve more important matters to attend to.”

His jaw clenched. The drunk’s prosthetics scraped over brick as he lowered the man to his feet. “Get gone.”

He didn’t wait to see if the man listened. He turned to Mina. His hand lifted to her face, tilting her chin as if searching for bruises.

“Baxter,” she reminded him. “Will he be at the Admiralty in town, or the shipyards at Chatham?”

“Chatham.” He let go of her chin and started for the steamcoach.

“You’re headed there now?”

“Yes.”

All right, then.
She glanced over at Newberry as he drew even with her. “Give that chest to the duke’s driver, then return to the Blacksmith’s. Use his wiregram to let Hale know that we’ve identified the body as Roger Haynes off
Marco’s Terror
. I’m leaving for Chatham to speak with Admiral Baxter.”

A flicker of shame and disappointment crossed the constable’s face, but his “Yes, sir” was as steady as always.

She turned for the steamcoach. Trahaearn was already seated inside the carriage, but the driver was at the door, holding it open—clearly waiting for her.

Tagging along next to her, Newberry said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your side, sir, when that cur turned on you—”

“You followed my orders, Newberry. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” She paused at the steamcoach door and looked back at him. An ill-fed puppy looked less mournful than Newberry did. “Hurry along, constable—and catch up with us at Charing Cross station. Chances are, the train will depart late, and you’ll be able to accompany us.”

He brightened. “Yes, sir.” Looking into the carriage, he added, “Thank you, sir.”

The duke gave a short nod. Mina clambered into the coach and took the bench across from him—then immediately wished she hadn’t when his gaze settled on her, and didn’t move away.

He smiled slightly. His focus shifted to her lips.

“We’re alone, inspector,” he said softly.

The bench seemed to fall out from under her bottom. Somehow, she’d walked right into this—but she wouldn’t let him make good on his threat to kiss her. “Your driver is just outside, sir.”

“Outside, yes. So we’re alone.”

Damn him. “If you make a move toward me, I’ll shoot you with enough opium to lay out an ox.”

“Would you wake me up when we reached Chatham?”

“I’d leave you in the gutter by the station.”

“Then I’ll wait until we’ve boarded the locomotive.” He grinned. “I always hire a private car.”

“And I always wear my weapons.”

His laugh was low and deep. As if making himself comfortable, he stretched his legs out and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. His breeches pulled tight over his thighs. His gaze still didn’t leave her face.

She forced herself not to avert her eyes, and not to fidget under that piercing stare.

They only had a drive across town to Charing Cross, then a journey east to Chatham. Not far, measured in miles . . . but Mina suspected that this was going to be a very long trip.

Rhys wasn’t sorry that Newberry caught up to them, though it meant he wouldn’t be alone with the inspector—and might not be again for a good length of time. Someone had taken
Marco’s Terror
. Where Rhys went next depended on what Baxter had to tell them. If that destination wasn’t London and Rhys didn’t return with her, Newberry could watch over the inspector until she reached home.

And he wished to hell that he’d realized earlier why the red giant always followed her. Never again would Rhys leave her without protection—and very soon, she’d have more than a constable looking out for her. When he made it common knowledge that Wilhelmina Wentworth was
his
woman, that connection would protect her better than fifteen constables could. No one would dare touch her.

No one but him.

He sat in the chair across from her as the locomotive gave a loud hollow whistle. The car rattled around them before slowly pulling out of the station. He hated traveling this way. There was no escaping the clacking, the great puffing engine, the vibration of the floors, the sickening rush as the landscape raced past the windows.

He focused on the inspector, instead, though she didn’t want him watching her. But Rhys liked the way she looked, particularly when her expression suggested that she’d prefer to have a gun aimed at his head rather than sit across from him in a private railcar. He liked the severe roll of black hair at her nape, and how the style didn’t conceal any of her face. He liked the line that formed between her black brows when she frowned at him. He liked the angry pinch of her lips, and the anticipation of watching them soften. He liked her small hands, and that she hadn’t hesitated to use them to defend herself in the lift—and he’d liked the feel of her fingers squeezing his cock even more. He liked the snug fit of her trousers when she sat, the way they clung to slender legs that could wrap around his back, holding him tight inside her.

So Rhys watched her, and imagined her riding him all the way to Chatham.

Or he would have, if she hadn’t interrupted his imaginings with her questions, as if she still had a role in this, as if her investigation still mattered.

It didn’t. Someone had taken the
Terror
. Whoever had killed Haynes belonged to Rhys now. But he answered her questions anyway, because he liked her voice, the full strength of it.

Had he met Haynes?
Yes.
Why hadn’t Rhys recognized him?
The man’s face had been smashed.
Where was his ship?
It was supposed to be in the Caribbean.
What will happen to the crew?
That depended on who took the ship.

At that point, Rhys had to force his thoughts back to shagging her—hard and rough. If he dwelt on the
Terror
being taken and a good captain tossed like rubbish onto his house, he wouldn’t be able to stop his fury from boiling over; it was too hot and too new. But his need to possess the inspector was hot and new, too, so he used it ruthlessly to combat his rage.

They were almost to Chatham when he recalled that her brother was aboard.

Thoughts of the
Terror
and of shagging receded. For the first time since the Blacksmith had told him who’d landed on his front steps, Rhys
looked
at her—and he didn’t see anything. No anxiety, no panic. But he remembered her voice when she’d spoken of the boy . . . Andrew. He remembered the softness, the worry, and how he’d been certain that she missed her brother.

She must be terrified. Desperate. But she concealed every bit of it, just as he held back his rage.

Except it didn’t burn so hotly now, and suddenly his anger wasn’t all that drove him. A part of him began to focus on easing her fear. Not just taking the
Terror
back, not just making someone pay. The inspector needed something, too—to find out what had happened to her brother. Rhys could give her that.

So she still did have a role in this—and he had reason to keep her close.

With a shriek of brakes and another bone-shaking rattle, they drew into the Chatham station. Rhys watched her face as she stepped down from the car, and saw that her first glance was in the same direction as everyone else who journeyed from London—up, where the sun hung high in the brilliant blue sky, rather than shining like a dull coin embedded in a shark’s belly. Her lips parted and her face softened, and Rhys vowed that he would see that expression again.

Preferably when she looked at him, and preferably when she was under him.

Then her focus shifted, and he followed her gaze to the airships tethered over the river. Nearly fifty, and most of them the navy’s rigid dreadnoughts—too slow and too heavily armed to be maneuverable, and with their engines, too loud to have sailed over London unnoticed. But there were others who might have, skyrunners that carried a few passengers or light cargo over short distances.

Rhys knew all of the skyrunners’ captains, however, and all of them would have refused to take on a job that might bring the Iron Duke to their ships. All but one.

Lady Corsair
hovered across the Medway. Yasmeen had some balls, tethering her airship at a naval dock. And if the price was right and the gold paid in advance, she’d have dropped a dead man onto Rhys’s house.

But then she’d have climbed down a ladder, shared a drink with Scarsdale, and told them both who’d been fool enough to pay her upfront.

Not Yasmeen, then. But she might have heard something useful.

“Do you recognize any of them?”

He glanced at the inspector, who was still looking over the array of airships. “All of them. But there’s only one that interests me. We’ll talk with her captain after we see Baxter.”

The inspector’s mouth twisted, as if she didn’t want to smile, but couldn’t completely stop herself. “I suspect that you’re a useful man to have around a port, Your Grace.”

He was. “Have you visited Chatham before?”

“I’ve never been farther from London than Dartford before, and that only the once.” A faint blush stole under her skin when Rhys narrowed his eyes at her, when Newberry’s mouth dropped open. She turned toward the platform exit. “And so I’ll let you lead the way.”

Christ. No farther than Dartford.
Not that unusual for buggers living in London, Rhys knew. Most never left town, not even the once. But the knowledge put heavier weight on her conversation with the tinker girl. A blacksmith could go anywhere . . . and the inspector never had.

So he’d renew his offer. When she accepted it, he’d take her a hell of a lot farther than a shipyard town in Kent.

Chatham wasn’t a bad start, however. The town had grown in the past five years, since the Royal Navy had begun rebuilding its shipyards in England, and the boom had spilled over almost at their feet. Between the busy railway station and the cabstands, a tent city had sprung up—part market, part carnival. Started by locals taking advantage of sailors passing through, and their numbers increased by Londoners who’d run as far from town as their money would take them, they sold music and sexual favors, clockworks and grilled meats. The inspector would have seen better—and worse—in London, but she hadn’t seen it under blue skies, hadn’t heard it without the noise of engines and traffic. Every color appeared deeper, brighter. Every sound clear and true. Hell, Rhys enjoyed it, too, and so he took the long way around.

Blacksmiths repaired singing birds and steamcarts next to a stall selling live chickens. An old woman in a ragged shawl balanced on a tree stump, proclaiming that the end of the world neared, and their doom rode on the backs of steam-powered horses. Behind her, a miner danced on the pulverizing hammers grafted to his legs. His audience laughed and threw pennies when he activated the pneumatics, juddering and singing through the steps.

The tent barkers pitched their attractions, yelling invitations to look inside tents to see the Human Ape, a result of the Horde’s breeding experiments, to see an old man open up his chest and reveal his clockwork heart, to see the lost sketches from the great Leonardo da Vinci’s pen. Even the stoic Newberry laughed at the last—anyone in possession of a genuine da Vinci sketch wouldn’t be displaying that treasure beneath a tent in Chatham and charging pennies.

He turned to catch the inspector’s reaction, and saw that she’d paused along the path beside the next tent, her head cocked to listen. A crude drawing of a human with misshapen teeth and taloned hands illustrated the sign out front. Rhys drew closer. A garbled hiss from behind the striped walls lifted the hairs at the back of his neck.