The Iron Duke (44 page)

The edges of Rhys’s mouth whitened—with shock, dismay, or anger, she wasn’t certain. But she’d felt all of them when Haynes had first named the admiral.

“We’re chasing that fleet. Yasmeen’s scouting ahead to contact them now. He’s in command?”

“Yes.” With a deep breath, she said, “The fleet left the Ivory Market almost at the same time as
Endeavour
.”

“And a Black Guard admiral is protecting the weapon during the journey back to England. Christ.” His face was bleak, his laugh short and bitter. “While the weapon turns up in the hands of one of Dorchester’s admirals. Instead of firebombing us at the Dame’s fort, he should have been protecting England from his own men.”

“Not all of them,” Mina said. “It can’t be all of them.”

“No. Most will fire a cannon when an admiral tells them to, though. And I could take two ships, Mina. Maybe three. But a fleet will outgun me thirty cannons to one.”

But they still had to try. She gripped his sleeve. “It doesn’t have to be another suicide run.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, but the grim set of his mouth betrayed his doubt.

 

 

Lady Corsair
didn’t slow as she approached the
Terror
later
that afternoon. As the airship passed directly overhead, Yasmeen leapt into the rigging and slid down the ropes. To her back she’d strapped a leather tube containing rolled maps and diagrams. With Mina, Rhys, and Scarsdale gathered round, she spread them out on the captain’s table.

She bent over the first map, depicting Morocco’s coast. “
Endeavour
isn’t behind the fleet. She’s—”

“With the fleet,” Rhys said. “We know.”

Yasmeen’s brows arched at his interruption, and she stepped back. “Ah, well. Since you don’t need me, I’ll just—”

Scarsdale grinned and pulled her up to the table again. “Show us.”

Mina looked with amazement at the amount of information Lady Corsair had gathered. Not only maps, but the names of each ship and number of guns they carried, their heading and speed, the formation of the squadrons.

“The fleet contains twelve ships aside from
Endeavour
,” she said. “Plus two dreadnoughts, and a skyrunner. Six are ships of the line, with two fifth-rates. The rest are gun brigs and cutters. The firebomb squadron is at the center.”

Rhys nodded. “Where’s the admiral’s ship?”

“His flag is flying on a first-rate in the center squadron—one hundred and twenty eight guns on three decks.
Endeavour
is nearest him. And they’re slow enough, you can catch up to them in a week.”

“But when we do . . .” Scarsdale shook his head. “Christ.”

His jaw tight, Rhys stared hard at the formations, as if willing them to change on the paper.

Mina frowned at them. “Are you planning to
attack
the fleet? Why? You’re on an English ship—”

“No.”

She should have anticipated that response from the Iron Duke. A response that completely missed the point. “
They
consider it an English ship. Famously so. And you’re under order of King Edward’s regency council to investigate the matter of this weapon.”

Mina watched in amazement as all three blinked and looked at each other.

Blue heavens.
“You’d forgotten?”

Rhys didn’t answer—or couldn’t. His hands braced on the table, he stood with his shoulders shaking and mouth compressed into a tight line.

Scarsdale began to laugh. “I believe the captain would say that it wasn’t forgotten, but that it never figured. He was never acting under the Crown’s power—only his own. That investigation bit with the council was just to allow you to come with us.”

“Well, then.” Flushing deep, Mina said, “Run up your flags . . . or whatever it is that sailors do.”

Regaining control, Rhys straightened and studied the fleet’s formations again. “Burnett might suspect that he’s caught when he sees the
Terror
. If he follows the Black Guard’s pattern, he’ll kill as many of us as possible before committing suicide. And this time, he has a first-rate ship as his weapon . . . and a fleet behind him.”

“It’s bad sport for a ship of the line to fire on a frigate like the
Terror
,” Scarsdale said. “He won’t do it; he’ll lose too much face.”

Yasmeen gave him a doubtful look. “And you’re certain he’ll care about that?”

“If it looks like he’s moving in to attack, we’ll strike colors and run up the white flag.” Rhys tapped his forefinger against the diagram. “But hopefully we’ll avoid him by signaling to this rear squadron first. Which is the commanding ship?”

Yasmeen pointed. “A second-rate,
Bellerophon
, was flying a rear admiral’s flag.”

“All right. Gather the crew. See if any of them have served under Burnett or in
Bellerophon
. I want to know what sort of ships they run.”

And if all went well, the admiral wouldn’t overreact when he saw them. But there was one other ship that needed to be accounted for. The Black Guard committed suicide rather than allowing themselves to be caught. No doubt they’d take as many others as possible along with them.

“What if
Endeavour
sees us coming, and fires up before we contact the fleet?” Mina asked.

“Then we fire on her, and take our chances against the fleet’s guns.” Rhys met her eyes. “That weapon can kill every nanoagent within two hundred miles. If it detonates, we’re all dead anyway.”

 

 

Never would Rhys have imagined that he’d soon resent his
ship. But as another week passed and the
Terror
’s demands prevented him from lying with Mina every night, his frustration mounted. She remained at his side throughout the day, but her nearness only increased his need. Finally he ordered Scarsdale to begin taking his meals with the warrant officers and sat with her alone, waiting until she’d eaten her meal before tossing her onto the bed and finishing his own. Afterward, she joined him again at the beginning of first watch, standing with him on the quarterdeck in her coat and trousers, the lanterns casting a soft glow over her features.

They would meet with the fleet tomorrow. A thousand times, Rhys considered whether to order her aboard Yasmeen’s ship, but if they fell under attack,
Lady Corsair
wouldn’t be any safer than the
Terror
. And he wanted Mina where she’d been the past two weeks—by his side. For almost a decade, he’d commanded this ship alone. Now he could hardly imagine standing on this deck without her.

He’d put half again the number of crew on each watch, and they were still hurrying about, readying the ship, checking every weapon. She observed them quietly.

“It’s more work than I ever imagined.” She glanced at him. “And you’re tired.”

To his bones. But there was work, and it had to be done. “Does that matter?”

“I suppose not.” With a sigh that he’d begun to recognize was her signal that she’d soon be heading to bed, she said, “Tonight, when you come to the cabin . . . just sleep.”

“I can’t. I have to shag you,” he said baldly.

Even by gaslight, he could detect the pink in her cheeks, and her sudden resolve. “Then I’ll take you. You rest.”

And long after midnight, she did, pushing him onto his back and climbing over him—but there was no rest. With her lips, she explored, and wrecked him with the heat of her mouth and the stroke of her tongue. She kissed him into desperate need, until they were both rigid and panting. And when her fingers smoothed the sheath over his cock, when her thighs parted over him, when she took him deep into her wet passage, the tightness and the friction held him in a mad grip. Insensate with pleasure, but not resting, no—she moved upon him, and he met her with heavy upward thrusts, seeking oblivion within her hot depths. But there was only exquisite awareness, of her every sigh and gasp as she rode him. Of the warmth and softness of her hands and mouth. Of Mina taking him all, kissing, biting, and losing control as he finally came deep inside her. Stiffening, she breathed his name on a shudder, then again on a hoarse cry.

Rhys.
He was to no one else. Only her. Whereas she was Mina to many, and inspector to more.

But no matter what name she went by, she was his. With her cheek pillowed on his chest, Rhys held her. He said into the dark, “Another fortnight won’t be enough.”

Aside from a hitch in her breath, only silence answered him. And after a long moment, the shake of her head.

“It has to be.”

The next morning, Mina went above decks early, her uniform coat brushed and her new boots at a high shine. She read the tension among the men, stiff in their uniforms and hats, but also among the seamen in their everyday slops. For the first time in two weeks, the captain wore a blue waistcoat and jacket over his shirt, topped by a neckcloth knotted so high it looked ready to choke him. The white ensign had been hoisted to the masthead, declaring that
Marco’s Terror
was a Royal Navy ship. Aside from His Majesty’s jack, Mina didn’t know the significance of the flags that flew beneath it, but hoped they’d make all the difference.

The fleet was already in view, the rear squadron visible even without the spyglass. Peering through it, Mina’s breath almost stopped. The stern of
Bellerophon
appeared enormous, twice as wide as the
Terror
, and with three more decks above the waterline. Some of her sails had been reefed—the squadron was slowing to obtain a better look at the
Terror
, Rhys told her—but Mina imagined that they must comprise acres of canvas when full.

She looked to Rhys, aghast. “Burnett’s
Vitruvian
is larger than that?”

“Yes.”

Though she looked, Mina still couldn’t see anything other than a mast—her view blocked by a ship in the rear squadron. High above them, the dreadnoughts floated like great fat beetles. Though far ahead of the fleet when she’d first come above decks, the skyrunner had turned around, begun flying south.

“When will we be close enough to signal?”

“We have been.” He nodded to the colorful pennants hoisted on a halyard. “Those tell them we’re here by order of the king, and that we’ve requested communications with the fleet. Now that we’re close enough to read, we’ll soon have a response.”

It was an endless wait. Her heart pounding, she watched the other ship. Why hadn’t they responded? “What do you think is happening?”

“They’re relaying our signal to Burnett in the center squadron.”

And he must have responded. The dreadnoughts changed heading, as if intending to come round in a wide, slow circle. She spotted a flash of color from
Bellerophon
.

“We’ve been asked to hold our position while they verify our papers.” Rhys lowered the spyglass. “The skyrunner is coming.”

Not as quickly as
Lady Corsair
would have. Rhys called for the men to prepare the
Terror
for tethering to the airship. They raced about hoisting sails and dropping sea anchor, and then waited, ready, for an endless time. Finally, a young aviator captain came down with a small escort, all in blue coats and white breeches, and backed up by redcoats. They stayed on the cargo platform until Rhys invited them aboard; the marines remained topside and visible from the other ships while Mina accompanied Rhys and the aviators to the cabin.

Slightly plump and red-faced, with a short blond beard, Captain Seymour seemed the type who tried for severity, but whose amiable nature thwarted him. He read the regency council’s decree and carefully inspected the seal, lips firmed and nodding.

“This looks in order,” he declared in a flat bounder’s accent. “But I say, Your Grace, this is highly unusual. What of Captain Haynes?”

“He was killed and dumped from an airship onto my house.”

Mina read the man’s dismay. Not just surprise, she thought, but sincere grief. “Haynes was a friend of yours?”

“Yes.” Still staggered, he looked to Rhys. “What happened, sir?”

“Haynes was headed to the Gold Coast to meet up with the fleet. Dame Sawtooth found him first, and used him in a weapon demonstration. After he was taken to London,
Lady Corsair
brought us to the Gold Coast in search of
Marco’s Terror
.”

“I’ve just made the same run, though in both directions,” Seymour murmured, as if steadying himself with routine thoughts. He read the regency council document again. “He was killed by the weapon mentioned in this decree?”

“The same sort of weapon. Admiral Baxter was assassinated shortly thereafter—by a different party. And that is the Black Guard we’re pursuing.” Rhys stopped. “We’ll have Haynes tell you himself.”

Seymour kept firm as the wax cylinder began playing, except to verify that the voice was Haynes’s—but at the mention of Sheffield and Admiral Burnett, horror and disbelief passed over his face, and was mirrored by his lieutenants.

Recognizing that he was lost for words, Mina told him, “
Endeavour
is the auctioned weapon. And it is headed for England, where it will destroy everyone infected with nanoagents.”

Seymour shook his head. “Burnett’s always been zealous in his protection of England—sometimes uncomfortably so.” His lieutenants were nodding, as if they’d also experienced the admiral’s passion firsthand and too close. “He wouldn’t do this. Captain Haynes must have been mistaken.”

“And so we might be,” Rhys said. “And that is why we must speak with him.”

With an abrupt jerk of a nod, Seymour said, “Yes, well. Everything here is in order. And so I will signal to the fleet.”

Before he could turn to go, Mina asked, “Captain Seymour. The run you recently made between London and the Ivory Market—were you carrying a civilian passenger? Mr. Sheffield, perhaps?”

Seymour didn’t answer. His face pale, he bowed stiffly to her, and took proper leave of the captain. Mina exchanged a glance with Rhys; he’d also thought Seymour’s nonanswer was confirmation enough. And it wasn’t difficult to guess that Admiral Burnett had ordered the skyrunner to carry the man back to England.