The Iron Duke (48 page)

“But your report told me that I only had to wait for the
Terror
to return, and I would have Haynes’s recording, and testimony from the men on the
Terror
and in the fleet.”

“None of it named Dorchester, sir.”

“Not yet,” Hale said. “But we’d have found enough, and that would have led to more, and finally tightened the noose. Dorchester beat me to it.”

And took Rhys and the crew. “But how is the Iron Duke in Newgate?”

“Dorchester was waiting at his docks this morning, with his steelcoats lined up, and under naval authority, charged him with piracy, treason, and murder.” Hale shook her head. “Of course, he underestimated the public’s reaction. Now Dorchester has dug his heels in and taken over Newgate. He has his steelcoats guarding the gallows outside the entrance, where he insists the hanging will take place.”

Mina couldn’t dredge up a dram of fear. A hanging simply wouldn’t happen. If he brought the Iron Duke up to that gallows scaffolding, the crowd would surge—steelcoats or not. “Is he mad?”

“I don’t know what he’s thinking. But I won’t assume that he’s mad.” She held Mina’s gaze. “
All
of the crew is in Newgate, charged with piracy. Your mother and father left for the prison earlier, hoping to apply for your brother’s release. I don’t know if they’ve returned since the mob has formed.”

They’d be all right. They’d take care of each other. “How do we stop a mob?”

“I don’t mean to stop them—just to keep them at Newgate and from burning the rest of London. And if we cannot stop this hanging, then I hope to God that
they
do.”

“So we’re off to Newgate, then.” Mina turned to Yasmeen. “And you?”

“I can’t be known to associate with London coppers.” Though she grinned, her gaze was serious. “I’ll pay a visit to the Blacksmith. If I ask nicely, he’ll bring more against the steelcoats than your opium darts. Perhaps he already is.”

Mina frowned. “What?”

“Come now. You don’t think he’s just been building mechanical whores?”

She looked to Hale. After the Horde’s occupation, most of London’s citizenry thought it bad enough that the police carried guns. If the Metropolitan Police ever used anything like steelcoats, the outcry would have been long and loud. There was simply too much fear that so much power in the hands of a single entity would be used to suppress them.

But they viewed the Blacksmith differently. And even those who feared his appearance never seemed to fear that he’d crush them, any more than they feared that the Iron Duke would.

“We’ll accept all of the help we can get—especially if it means that fewer people in that mob will die,” Hale said, and turned to regard Yasmeen. “Will you take me to him?”

 

 

“I say, when they built this new prison, I didn’t expect the
accommodations to be so fine. Much finer than the last prison I was in, to be certain.”

Scarsdale had to raise his voice over the hiss of the steelcoat’s boiler. Seated in a chair beside Rhys, the bounder wore irons around his wrists, and was forced to lean forward with his elbows on his knees to accommodate the chain that fastened his irons to the steel loop set into the floor with mortar.

The warden’s reply was just as loud, but less cheerful. In apologetic tones, he said, “Thank you, my lord. We try to make certain that our more esteemed guests can stay in relative comfort. Without a doubt, you are both our
most
esteemed thus far.”

After a pause, the warden added, “Your Grace, are you certain that you would not like my men to find a bench for you?”

Crouching on the stone floor, Rhys looked up from his own chains, his own steel loop. His chair’s legs had splintered out from beneath him when they’d brought him and Scarsdale to the warden’s office ten minutes before, but he didn’t mind the floor. He’d have more leverage when he finally decided to stand.

“No,” he said.

Sweating, the warden looked over Rhys’s shoulder to the steelcoat guarding the door. Anger flashed across the man’s expression, but he remained behind his desk.

Good man.
There was courage, and there was stupidity. An unarmed man attacking a steelcoat only qualified for one of those descriptions. Rhys had made a similar decision when they’d come into dock, and found Dorchester and his steelcoats waiting for him. He could have ordered his men to fight their way through, but the cost of their lives would have been too high of a price to pay.

And Dorchester wasn’t worth dying for. They’d take him down and leave this prison another way—not with the blood of a warden on their hands.

The warden
or
his crew.

“Where are my men?”

“In the yard, sir. There wasn’t room in the cells,” he said.

And he must not expect them to stay here long. Rhys didn’t expect that they would, either.

As if discomforted by the silence, the warden cleared his throat. “Is there anything that I can have brought to you while we wait for the Lord High Admiral? We dine modestly here, but—”

“Absinthe?” Scarsdale looked hopeful.

“I don’t think so, my lord. Nothing stronger than wine.”

“Wine will do.”

“And for Your Grace?”

“Water,” Rhys said.

“Yes, yes.” He could hear Scarsdale’s grin. “A big mug of water. A man of his size possesses a burning thirst, and needs an awful lot to douse it.”

Looking grateful to be of some use, the warden went to the door and called for a tray. He stopped by the window returning to his desk. Rhys didn’t need to see outside to know what was happening.

Neither did Scarsdale. In a low voice, he said, “The mob’s quite loud now, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you imagine that your inspector is out there with them?”

Mina had best not be. For now, the crowd had focused on him, but as Newgate remained closed and they became frustrated, they might turn on each other. She’d be the first target.

So he needed to escape from here soon.

The door opened, and a secretary brought in their drinks. Rhys set the water in front of him. Scarsdale’s chains wouldn’t let him raise the wineglass to his lips.

He heaved a sigh. “I say, warden. Will you release my chain from that loop?”

The warden hesitated, looking toward the door.

As if he’d forgotten the steelcoat was there, Scarsdale swiveled around as far as he could. Shaking his head, he looked to the warden again. “Bother, man. I’ll still be in irons and chains—and you’ve got nothing to fear from me, regardless. I’m just a navigator, and a drunk to boot.” He jerked his chin toward Rhys. “It’s
him
you have to worry about. And look, he can put a glass to his mouth without bending over so far that he could see up his own arse. No need to release him.”

“All right.” Keys in hand, the warden came around the desk, muttering, “You can’t do much with that lumbering sack of metal watching over you.”

“Quite right,” Scarsdale agreed.

Soon the heavy steps of another lumbering sack of metal sounded from the hall—but this steelcoat didn’t come in, waiting outside the door. An escort, then. So the lighter steps would be Dorchester’s.

 

 

Even using Newberry’s bulk as a wedge to push through
the crowd, it was almost an hour before Mina forged close enough to
see
the prison at the corner of Old Bailey and Newgate. The few windows built into the gray stone didn’t weaken its imposing face, but revealed the walls’ impenetrable thickness. When Mina stood on her toes, she could see the gallows platform and the steelcoats’ thick, rounded helmets. The prison’s arched portcullis gate stood behind them, visible through the smoke rising from their boiler packs.

The shouts from the crowd had raised in volume, become more regular—almost a chant. They suddenly swelled, and a small surge moved through the mob near the prison’s southwestern corner. The steelcoats’ rifles fired. Screams followed, and the shouts began again, cacophonous, deafening.

Her father would be there—up at the steelcoat line on Old Bailey, with the worst of the wounded. Mina shouted for Newberry to begin pushing along the buildings containing the mob. Circling to the side of the prison and finding a narrow space to cross would be easier than fighting through the enormous crowd gathered in front.

For fifteen minutes, she followed him, almost clinging to his back through the roughest spots. All around them, people were climbing up steps, onto windowsills, onto carts and coaches, all hoping for a better view. Every crate had been turned over and supported at least two men.

Mina stopped. Wearing welding goggles and a hat, a small girl was clinging to a lamppost, looking over the crowd. A tinker’s tattoo circled her wrist.

“Anne!” Mina’s shout brought Newberry to a halt, but the girl didn’t hear. She tried again.
“Tinker Anne!”

The girl looked round, pushing up her goggles. Her eyes widened.

Oh, blue heavens.
“Newberry! Bring that girl here.”

He didn’t need to. Anne scrambled down from the post and wriggled through bodies and legs like an eel. Mina drew her behind an abandoned lorry topped by thirty men and women, and with almost as many urchins huddled beneath.

The noise of the crowd forced her to shout. “What are you thinking, tinker? This is no place for you!”

The girl’s smile wavered. “The Blacksmith’s coming, inspector! I wanted to see his walker up against the old suits!”

So did Mina. But she shook her head. “You have to go, Anne. If this mob riots, you’ll be taken down first. Do you understand? Some will care that you’re a girl, and you’re young. But there’s too many that won’t!”

“
You’re
here.”

“It’s my job to be here. Go home, Anne, so that I know you’re safe!”

An apologetic cough came from beside her. “Through these streets alone, sir?”

Mina looked to Newberry. Damn it all. He was right—running alone through London wouldn’t be any safer than remaining here. All right, then. “Newberry, turn your back to us. Unbuckle your overcoat and spread it open.”

As soon as he did, Mina hauled off her own coats and untucked her shirt before unbuckling her armor. It was too big for the girl, but would do the job. Within moments, she had the girl covered and her jackets refastened.

Newberry, bless him, survived the experience.

She bent toward Anne again. “Now, you stay with us—but especially with Newberry. If we’re separated, if the mob comes at you, you run. And if you can’t run, try to hide beneath something, like this lorry. Roll into a ball and protect your head and belly. All right?”

Face pale, the girl nodded.

“Good.” Mina smiled to reassure her, then abruptly straightened when a noise began penetrating the clamor of the crowd.

Heavy, like steelcoats, but not in rigid formation. And intermittently, a thunderous boom—accompanied by a tremor.

The crowd quieted. Still loud, but many of them turning their heads, murmuring and wondering instead of shouting. Mina looked to Newberry. From his great height, he could better see over the mob.

“What is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see anything yet, sir.”

“Inspector.” Anne tugged on Mina’s sleeve, her eyes bright. “That’s the Blacksmith.”

 

 

Though the man had charged Rhys with piracy, treason,
and murder—despite his having acted under the regency council’s order—Dorchester wasn’t insane. Rhys had briefly wondered so at the docks, but the emotion burning in the man’s eyes wasn’t madness. Dorchester was furious.

Rhys could allow him that—and was why he allowed the man
this
. He’d killed an admiral and had blown a first-rate to pieces, both on what must seem to be little evidence that Burnett had been Black Guard. And the proof of
Endeavour
was gone, as well.

He’d struck the Royal Navy and the High Lord Admiral a severe blow. The man obviously meant to strike one back by bringing him and his crew here, but Rhys cared little if he spent time in a prison.

He did care that Mina was probably in a mob outside—and that the people who formed it would be hurt on his behalf, simply because a man couldn’t manage his temper.

Or his arrogance. Dorchester came in carrying one of the Horde’s freezing devices, but otherwise unarmed. He must have felt safe with Rhys crouching low on the floor, practically on his knees.

Rhys remembered many men who’d thought that position gave them power. They’d forgotten that Rhys had teeth.

With a drunken grin, Scarsdale showed his own teeth. “Quite a snappy jacket, Your Grace. You must be furious that we sunk your ship—expensive, aren’t they?—and that your Black Guard admiral went down with it, but all of England is better off for it. So let us go on, then.”

“Better off?” Dorchester seemed to taste the words. “No.”

“Well, to be sure, the Royal Navy’s fleet isn’t better off with a first-rate at the bottom of the ocean. But in England, yes—everybody’s better off
not
dead. You realize that’s what
Endeavour
and Burnett would have done?”

“Not everybody,” Dorchester said. “Just the infected.”

Fuck.
Rhys didn’t glance at Scarsdale, but he knew by the bounder’s sudden silence that he’d had the same realization: Dorchester wasn’t just furious. He was Black Guard.

Did Mina know? She undoubtedly did. Returning to London more than a week ago after picking up Fox, she’d have delved straight back into the investigation, tying up loose ends . . . no doubt she’d have followed one of those to Dorchester.

So she’d know who had him now. Not just an angry man, but one who would kill himself and everyone around him to avoid discovery. Well, Dorchester had all but announced himself now. So Rhys assumed he planned to act soon.