“You seem to have risen beyond your means.” The duke was unimpressed.

Garrett held up a penny and then turned one more glass over until they were arranged in a row. “It’s simple, really. First you give the flat a chance. Let him win a game or two.” Slipping the penny under a glass he began to move them, slowly at first. A little faster. “Once he’s getting confident, you start playing a little faster…”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Watch closely, Your Grace. I’m trying to explain the rules of the game.” Garrett stilled his hands. “The coin is here, of course.” They could both see it through the glass. “It’s called misdirection. I want you to watch the cups. Not my hands. Now where is the coin?”

It was gone. The duke looked down. Each glass was empty. Garrett held his hands up with a smile.

“The penny is worthless.” Garrett shrugged. “I do, however, have your key. The one you used for the device. I slipped it from your pocket as we moved through the crowd. One of my associates has it now.”

The duke sneered. “A thief as Master of the Nighthawks? No matter. Keep your key. Hague has a copy of it.”

Only two of them. “Yes, but now that you’ve given the device to the prince consort, who is going to control Hague’s key? Yourself? Or the prince consort?”

This time the duke’s eyes met his. He wasn’t sneering anymore. “You little bastard, you think you can blackmail me into giving up Octavia? I own the prince consort. If he wants my technology, he’ll crawl at my feet if I will it. I have the prince consort in my damned pocket, you fool. If I want him to jump, then he’ll damned well jump. I own him. I own them all—they just don’t know it yet.”

“That makes you a powerful man,” Garrett murmured, a knot of nervousness twisting in his gut. This was the moment he began to move his hands a little faster, metaphorically speaking. “I never realized you were so ambitious.”

“Ten years ago, that bastard exiled me,” the duke replied. “Me. After all of our years of friendship—everything that I had done for him—he turned his back on me to retain the favor of the masses.”

Time to steer the duke away from this topic, make sure he didn’t realize the game. “You sound like a man who shouldn’t be crossed.”

“Just so you know what you’re dealing with.” Moncrieff flicked lint off his coat. “I’ll warn you this once: Octavia is mine. I shall make her suffer for all the trouble she caused me. You don’t think I know her best? I’ll lock her up, trapping her in her bedroom, all alone, until I wish to parade her in front of my peers. She’ll perform her duties as my thrall, giving me both flesh and blood rights, and I’ll remind her of your name every time I come to her bed. Sometimes, I might even walk her past the guild, just to let her know how close to freedom she is—how only a wall separates the pair of you…”

“And here I thought you wanted me dead.”

“Death is closure, Reed. No, I want her to have hope. And when she gets close to breaking, I shall take her out and remind her that you’re still out there. Alive. Free. I will make her hate you.”

“You’re truly an evil man,” Garrett replied, seeing for the first time the true monster beneath the duke’s polished veneer. Hague was his own brand of evil, but Garrett wasn’t certain who was worse. “I almost feel sorry for the prince consort. For those on the Council. For they’re next, aren’t they? For the slight they gave.”

“Let’s just say, I have plans for the Council.” The Moncrieff straightened. “I’d advise you to leave immediately and return to the guild. I promised Octavia that I wouldn’t harm you if you kept your nose out of this business, but I’m not generous enough to give second chances. You have five minutes to remove yourself.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I shall see you removed.”

“I see.” Garrett straightened. “You’re a dangerous enemy, Your Grace. Too powerful for a simple Nighthawk to take on and expect to win. I can’t duel you, I can’t kill you, and I have little doubt that if I went to the prince consort with the information that you sought to manipulate him, I wouldn’t survive to meet him.”

“Precisely. Your word against mine.” The duke glanced around. “And I like holding meetings such as this so publicly. Nobody can get close enough to overhear.” His smile gleamed. “Now get out of my sight before my mood becomes less generous. I’m done with you.”

Now the reveal. Where’s the penny, Your Grace? Garrett smiled, reaching inside his coat. “I’m not quite finished with you yet. Do you see this?” He held up the small brass disk with its clockwork cogs. “This is called an ECHO recording device.” Garrett wound it back to the start and inserted the small gramophone into the slot at the top. A tinny rasp sounded.

The next words were the duke’s. “…own the prince consort. If he wants my technology, he’ll crawl at my feet if I will it…” Garrett stopped the recording. “I believe I know several people who might be very interested to hear your words.”

The duke’s jaw whitened with tension, the blue of his eyes vanishing. His nostrils flared. “You think you can defeat me with such childish tricks?”

One flick of the duke’s cane sword sent the ECHO tumbling to the floor. The duke stepped on it and ground it beneath his heel, then shoved the tip of the cane into Garrett’s chest, forcing him back a step. Moncrieff bared his teeth in a smile.

“You pathetic little shit.” He shoved and Garrett took a step back, shooting a glance at the crumpled device. The Moncrieff slowly lowered the cane sword. “I would kill you now. But it isn’t quite the done thing at an exhibition one is hosting. See yourself out,” he snarled. “I have guests to attend to.”

Giving Garrett his back, he stalked toward the milling crowd. Garrett followed, not quite finished with the duke.

A dozen heads turned their way. He saw Lynch in the crowd, moving the Duke of Malloryn and the Duchess of Casavian into place at the stairs. On the other side, by an Egyptian exhibit, Barrons tipped a glass of blud-wein back and saw him over the rim. Instantly he smiled at something his companion said and excused himself, gesturing to an elderly gentleman who stood beside Byrnes.

In front of him, Moncrieff strode through the crowd. Garrett struggled to keep up, his shoulders striking first one rich lordling, then another. Despite their protestations, he paid them no mind. The prey was in front of him, climbing the stairs toward where the prince consort resided with his nervous queen, holding court along the gallery.

At the top of the stairs, Perry stood between Mrs. Carver and her sister. Their eyes met and Garrett gave her a smile. The world didn’t exist for him in that moment. Just her. Nearly done.

Lynch paused halfway down the stairs, stopping Moncrieff in his tracks. “Did you get what we needed?”

Garrett nodded and slipped a hand inside his waistcoat pocket. The Moncrieff glanced behind him, his brow furrowing when he saw who stood there. “What the devil is going on?”

“I was trying to explain,” Garrett announced, climbing the steps with slow deliberation. The duchess looked interested now, turning to see what had caught Lynch’s attention. The Duke of Malloryn echoed her movement. “How easy it is to gull a flat. You see, I kept telling you to keep an eye on the glass with the penny. But all the time, my hands were moving behind the scenes.” He tugged out a second ECHO and swiftly rewound the clockwork.

The instant he stopped, it clicked into motion and the duke’s tinny voice echoed out. “…have the prince consort in my damned pocket, you fool. If I want him to jump, then he’ll damned well jump. I own him, I own them all—they just don’t know it yet…”

The Moncrieff’s face drained of color.

Check. Mate. Garrett met the duke’s gaze with vicious satisfaction.

The Duchess of Casavian took several steps down the stairs, her embellished cream skirts swishing around her feet as she reached for the device. She looked up, a devious little smile curling over her red-painted mouth. “Oh, Moncrieff. Bested by a pup. And a rogue, at that.” She laughed.

The duke’s hand slid over the hilt of his sword. Garrett stepped past him, shooting him another deadly look. “I did try to warn you about the rules of the game. You weren’t paying enough attention, Your Grace.”

Perry’s eyes were wide as she stared down at him. For Garrett, none of the others existed. He climbed toward her, reaching out to cup her face. “You’re free. I have him over a barrel.”

Perry’s lips quivered, then her gaze slid past him toward the duke. “Don’t turn your back on him yet, Garrett.”

The duke looked furious. His black eyes raked over the group, seeing no sign of any potential allies.

“I believe the prince consort will be most interested in this,” the duchess said, tapping the ECHO against her cheek. She tipped her chin to Byrnes and the pair of Nighthawks that had materialized at the Moncrieff’s side. “Arrest him. For collusion against the Crown.”

They took one step toward him, the duke bristling with fury. “You lay one hand on me and I’ll remove it,” he snarled, then turned his attention to the duchess. “You’ll regret this.”

“I doubt it,” Lady Aramina said, holding up the key that Garrett had slipped to Byrnes.

“Whoever owns the cure, owns the Echelon.” Garrett lifted his voice. “Isn’t that correct, Your Grace?”

All of the Council members shifted uncomfortably.

Those black eyes turned on him. “You insolent little prick.” The sword slid free of its sheath with a steely rasp, but Barrons stepped forward.

“Are you offering challenge, Moncrieff?” Barrons asked. “To the Master of the Nighthawks?”

Garrett’s eyes locked on the duke. Do it. He’d been holding himself back, but the sudden urge to spill the duke’s blood was almost overwhelming.

Perry squeezed his arm in warning. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

“Master Reed’s not of the Echelon,” Lady Aramina stated. “The duke cannot offer challenge.”

Moncrieff’s eyes glittered as he surveyed them. Finally his gaze locked on something—or someone—just past Garrett’s shoulder.

Footsteps echoed on the marble as all eyes turned to the aging Earl of Langford. Perry’s grip tightened on Garrett’s arm, her face draining entirely of color.

“I offer challenge,” the earl said, one hand sliding to the hilt at his side. He never looked away from the duke. “You gave your word that you would care for my daughter.” His nostrils flared. “I failed her once. I won’t ever let you touch her again.”

Perry let out a small gasp. Garrett slid his fingers through hers and squeezed, but he never took his eyes off the duke.

“Father,” Perry whispered. “I won’t let you do this.”

Her father glanced at her, his blue eyes sad. “I’m sorry, Octavia. So sorry I didn’t believe you.” His hand closed around the hilt of his sword. “I must make things right.”

Perry lurched forward, slamming the sword back into its sheath and holding his hand there. “No! Dying won’t make anything right!”

“I don’t intend to die,” he replied.

“Come, old man,” Moncrieff called. “No one else can challenge me. Let my steel taste blood today.”

Perry looked up into her father’s face, silently pleading with him to say no. The earl gently removed her hand from the sword hilt. “Let me do this,” he said. “Let me make amends.”

Only Garrett saw the stubborn change come over her face and recognized it for what it was. There was a moment where he could have stopped her. The “no” even formed on his lips, but something held his tongue. Perry needed to do this. She needed to prove to herself that she could, and only he, with his own nightmares, understood precisely why.

Perry threw her father’s hand off and grabbed the hilt. Steel screamed as she withdrew it, spinning on her heel to face the Moncrieff.

“So be it,” Perry whispered, staring at the duke. “I challenge you to the death.”

Twenty-five

“Octavia!” Her father, of all people, reaching for her shoulder.

She threw him off, stepping out of his way with a subtle grace. All of her attention was locked on the duke. Somewhere deep inside, she’d always known it would come to this point. She needed it. To bury the past, once and for all. That was why she’d taken her father’s lessons and used Lynch to hone her skills.

The duke’s gaze flickered between her and her father. He didn’t want this, she realized. No, he wanted to kill someone else, someone that she loved. If it couldn’t be Garrett, then her father would be enough to twist the blade deep inside her.

“I was born of the Echelon and I am a blue blood,” she called out. The entire Echelon knew it after last night. The girl who’d seen her eyes at the ball had spread the rumors, no doubt. “Thus I have the right to challenge you.”

“She states the law,” the Duchess of Casavian added.

“She’s a woman. I’m not dueling a bloody woman,” the duke snapped.

“Are you afraid?” the duchess asked mockingly, and Perry glanced her way.

Perhaps not an ally, but the duchess seemed to have some sort of disagreement with the duke. And perhaps she understood what it was like to be a female blue blood in this world.