of the light.” Laughter erupted from her and she tried to restrain it with a slender, gloved hand. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen you in such a…such a state!” The laughter broke free and she bent over the desk, several coppery curls tumbling from her chignon.
The sound swept through him. Lynch froze, his mouth half open and his finger still pointing. She was laughing at him. The damned woman was laughing!
Looking up, Rosa dissolved into a fresh wave of giggles at the look on his face. The anger faded out of him as abruptly as it had come and he shook his head. Bloody woman. Lynch swore under his breath, marching toward his study. He slammed the door shut behind him, then paced to the bookshelf. She’d been right. The document had been here all along, neatly tucked beside his histories of the Chinese empire.
He could still hear her laughter through the door. Transfixed by the sound, he cocked his head and listened. Despite the situation, he couldn’t stop a smile from edging his lips. She was tempting the wolf every day and she well knew it. His prim little secretary had a wicked side.
With a sigh, he turned toward his desk and sat down. The polished mahogany gleamed in the late afternoon shadows. Lynch stared at it. He didn’t think he could recall the last time he’d seen it. The neatness disturbed him. The presence of its perpetrator disturbed him even more. He shot another heated look toward the door. The low- cut, dark green gown she wore hadn’t escaped his notice.
Seducing his secretary was completely beyond the pale, but damned if he wasn’t considering it. Scraping a shaking hand over his jaw, Lynch forced his body to behave. The brief, frenzied way he took himself in hand at night wasn’t helping. Mercury had ignited his dormant sexual desire and now he was even considering Mrs. Marberry as substitute.
Or not quite. Mrs. Marberry had her own unique effect; she was no woman’s substitute.
A commotion caught his attention and he stilled, turning with predatory interest toward Rosa’s study.
“Lynch!”
A rap came at the door, then Byrnes stuck his head in. The swarthy features were strained and spattered with blood. “There’s been another massacre in Kensington.”
“Where?” The mirth faded from Lynch completely as his third-in-command opened the door farther. Behind him Mrs. Marberry watched with wide eyes.
“It’s…75 Holland Park Avenue,” Byrnes replied grimly. He knew, as well as the others, what the address meant.
Cold spiraled through Lynch, taking him off guard.
“I had to kill him, sir. I couldn’t…I couldn’t get him off her.”
A short shake of the head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“You should have gone home,” Lynch told her, staring up at the mansion with simmering reluctance in his eyes. Every light along the street was lit and dozens of Nighthawks flooded the scene as early evening settled its mantle over the city.
Going home was out of the question. Rosalind needed to find the mechs behind these massacres as much as Lynch did.
Lord Arrondale was the Duke of Bleight’s heir, but she suspected there was more to this story than there seemed. Lynch had been icily composed on the way here, but he carried himself even more stiffly than usual. He’d checked his pocket watch several times in the carriage and spoken not a word. Grim tension rode his shoulders like a well-cut coat and the bleak, oh-so-expressionless look on his face made her instincts twitch.
“I’m quite all right, sir,” she replied, watching him with assessing eyes. They’d argued briefly about her coming with him, but he’d been too distracted to force his will on her. Rosalind had promised to make herself useful taking his notes, when in truth she was desperate to see if this was another mech attack. Her voice lowered. “Did you know Lord Arrondale?”
Lynch shot her a harsh, raw look, his pupils swallowing his irises and shadows carving deep planes beneath his cheekbones. For a moment she stared into the face of the demon within, and her breath caught behind the stiff boning of her corset.
“He was my cousin,” Lynch stated, turning back to look at the house once more.
The absence of that black-eyed gaze made it easier for her to breathe. Rosalind rubbed her knuckles self- consciously against her skirts. She knew he’d been born of the Echelon once, but she hadn’t bothered to search for more detail. As far as the world was concerned, Lynch had been cast aside as a rogue and made his own place in the world as a Nighthawk. There was never any mention of family or of his House, because none of it was important anymore.
The man he’d called Byrnes strode toward them, his dark features obscured by the shadows of early evening. He moved with a sinuous and deadly grace, the coldness in his blue eyes rivaling Lynch’s. Around his throat a red kerchief lingered and a long sword was strapped over his back. “The house is secure. I’ve had word sent to the Duke of Bleight.”
“When he arrives, have the men stall him and send word,” Lynch said. “Don’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know at this point.” Lynch shot her a fierce look. “If I tell you to get out, then don’t argue. Go straight out the back and find one of my men. Instruct them to get you back to Chancery Lane and protect you with their life.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Rosalind grabbed a handful of skirts and followed him, the synthetic skin that covered her mech hand pulling against the soft kid-leather insides of her gloves. Tonight she’d planned to let him catch a glimpse of it—just enough to make him think her hand was real. It wouldn’t stand up to intense scrutiny, but in the dark and at a distance…
Of course, he had other matters on his mind. Tonight might not be the best opportunity. Lynch held the door open for her. “Bleight despises me. There was some business when I was named rogue concerning Alistair and me. If he’s stricken by grief, I find it highly likely he’ll make some move against me—or go so far as to blame me. This could become quite a scene.”
Rosalind stared up at him, the hard body but a breath away from hers. She could scent the coppery wash of blood through the open door. No doubt Lynch could too. His jaw was tight with strain.
“Do you have your pistol?” he asked quietly.
She nodded.
“Don’t use it unless I tell you to.” Then he pressed his hand to the small of her back and propelled her through the door.
Inside, the hall was charged with silence. It almost felt as if the house were listening. Each creak of timber beneath her boot heel made her wince. Lynch’s presence behind her was almost comforting.
The firm hand in the small of her back directed her through another door. “This way,” Lynch murmured and she knew he could smell the death within.
As soon as she saw what lay on the floor, Rosalind stopped in her tracks. Her mind struggled to make sense of the mess, of the red pool that bloated the carpets and the frozen, screaming visage of the elderly woman dead on the floor. Half her throat had been torn out and gashes marred her lavender skirts. From the dark blue-red blood that covered her fingers, it was clear she’d tried to protect herself.
Firm hands slid over Rosalind’s shoulders and she relaxed into the touch. Death had never frightened her; she’d dealt it with little remorse, but that had been out of a sense of duty. Not personal. Not murder. This…this had been a woman just sitting down to her white soup, perhaps a smile on her face as she listened to her consort’s account of his day. Most consort agreements in the Echelon were business items, nothing more, but the woman had worn her good pearls and the scent of perfume lingered in the air. The silvery-blonde hair had been curled artfully over her shoulder, as if for a beau, and from the roses spilled out of the vase on the table, they’d perhaps been celebrating something.
Rosalind melted into the hard body behind her, feeling numb all over.
“Wait outside,” Lynch instructed quietly.
Rosalind turned, tripping on the carpet. Her worst fear—to be bloodied like that, torn apart by a rampaging
