to take the edge off. Mercury had done this to him, left him on edge, and now his body hungered for release.
“What’s your given name?” he asked bluntly.
“That’s highly informal, sir.”
“You’ll find I rarely bother with formalities. I’m not going to bark ‘Mrs. Marberry’ whenever I want you. It’s a mouthful.”
A slight hesitation. “Rosa,” she said, her full lips forming the word softly. “My name is Rosa. And you?”
He’d already turned toward the desk, determined to get away from that lingering scent. “Me?”
“What should I call you?”
“Sir Jasper will be perfectly fine.”
Lynch gave her his back and Rosalind finally had a chance to take as deep a breath as she could in the unfamiliar corset. The other night hadn’t done him justice, with the darkness and the red glow of the enclaves. She’d realized then his great height and cold, penetrating stare. They said fully grown men broke into confessions when he looked at them and women quivered at the knees.
What she hadn’t expected to find was a coldly handsome man, his dark hair cropped neatly and raked back out of his face with an impatient gesture. His jaw was darkened with stubble and a pinched line swept his dark brows together in what seemed a permanent frown.
Rosalind examined him, little goose bumps prickling over her skin. The other night had left its mark on her body. She’d long since thought herself impervious to men, especially dangerous ones, but she’d dismissed Lynch as merely another blue blood and that had been foolish.
Her gaze slid over his broad shoulders as he clasped his hands behind his back. Shoulders she’d dug her nails into, her lips caressing the smooth skin of his throat. A little flutter of excitement started low in her belly, tempting her. She sucked in a breath, her fingernails digging into her palms. This was what she hadn’t dared admit to her brother or Ingrid. Lynch might be attracted to Mercury against his will, but the truth was a delicious irony, for she too had been caught in the trap.
Rosalind stole a calculating glance at the room as she took a step forward. Tonight, she’d be able to recall almost every little detail. Her gaze slid to the wall with that damning map. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what all those little pins meant, because they were the location of dozens of humanists hidden in the general populace. Some had been discovered and arrested, but a great deal of those pins were humanists who were blissfully unaware that their identity had been compromised.
The map told her a great deal about the Nighthawk. He was patient, for one thing. He was also clever enough not to flush them out of their holes. The red string became a spider web, and Rosalind had the feeling that he was the one who’d woven it.
Just waiting for a little fly, a certain revolutionary, to get caught in its sticky web.
Thank goodness she’d decided to risk infiltrating the guild. Now she knew the trap was there and could warn people, or perhaps use it for her own gains.
“Sir Jasper,” she forced herself to say. “That is rather a mouthful too.”
The Nighthawk shot her a hard look over his shoulder as if surprised she’d spoken up. Those icy gray eyes stole her breath, leaving her feeling as if the room had faded away and there was nothing beyond the two of them.
A horrible, uncomfortable feeling for it gave her the impression that he could see every little secret she was hiding. And she was damned good at hiding her secrets.
Light played over the straight, hawkish slant of his nose. “Lynch, then.”
“When would you like me to start?” Rosalind toyed with her gloves, a habit she’d never broken herself of.
“Would you like to discuss your wages first?” His gaze dropped to the fiddling of her fingers and Rosalind forced them to stillness.
“I already asked your man, Garrett.”
“Then as soon—” His head lifted, stark, gray gaze tracking something beyond the door. A hint of dark shadows flashed through his eyes, signs of the hunger within, the voracious predator that lurked beneath the sophisticated skin of every blue blood. The craving.
Rosalind stilled. There was a gun strapped to her thigh fitted with firebolt bullets that exploded on impact, and a sheath of needles at her wrist that were dipped in hemlock. But the creeping fear still prickled at her skin.
Lynch might look and act like a gentleman, albeit a brusque one, but she would never forget what he truly was.
The door slammed open and an older man with a bald head and leather jerkin stormed in. He saw her and stopped, ruddy color infusing his cheeks. “Beg pardon, miss.” A faint Irish accent. His blue eyes shot to Lynch. “Didn’t know you ’ad anyone ’ere.”
“Doyle, this is my new secretary,” Lynch replied, stillness emanating from him. “Mrs. Marberry.”
“Another one?” Doyle arched a brow. A brisk nod in her direction, then he returned his attention to his master. “This just came in. More bad news.” He tugged a letter from within his jerkin and tossed it at Lynch.
Lynch snatched the missive out of the air. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Park Lane,” Doyle replied. “It’s a bloodbath. Lord Falcone slaughtered ’is entire family. Women, children, thralls…all of the servants. Lord Barrons wants you there now.”
As the Duke of Caine’s heir, Barrons would be reporting directly to the ruling Council of Dukes, despite their friendship. Lynch frowned. “This is the second incident in a week. Byrnes has barely begun to go over the facts of the Haversham case.”
“Seems it weren’t an isolated incident after all.” Doyle shrugged.
“Curse it.” Lynch spun on his heel, pacing the rug. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I don’t think that excuse will suit ’is Royal Pastiness,” Doyle replied bluntly. “Not with nob’s gettin’ their hands all bloodied. Might be different if it were just us rogues.”
Division in the blue blood world? She went very still, her mind racing. All along she’d thought the enemy was one, but if she could use this information to somehow turn the Nighthawks against the Echelon then she would have a powerful weapon on her hands.
The men seemed to have forgotten her for the moment. “Excuse me,” Rosalind asked. “But what is going on?”
Lynch shot her a piercing look that went straight through her. “A murder scene, Rosa. Now we’ll see whether you are suited for the job. Fetch that writing case and follow me. I’ll need to see the bodies while they’re fresh.”
Rosalind ground her teeth together as the carriage shot around another corner. The strap dug into her hand and she clutched the writing case to her chest so as not to lose it.
Lynch rolled with the sway, his long legs eating up the interior. He sat opposite her, rifling through a sheaf of papers and frowning occasionally. Though he largely ignored her, the occasional quick glance scoured her like fire. She didn’t like being in here, trapped so closely together. He was too large, the force of his presence dominating the space.
It didn’t help that, in the dark confines of the carriage, all she could remember was what that hard body felt like pressed against her own. The taste of his mouth and the depth of his longing as he had kissed her startled something into life deep within her. Hunger. Newly awakened and barely sated. A desire for flesh, for sin, for wet kisses and the hard stroke of his body over hers.
She’d told herself to forget the memory, but it lingered on her skin like some textural apparition. She’d been a fool to kiss him. A fool—even now—to want more.
