It ended as suddenly as it had begun, leaving her confused and trembling slightly in her puddle of towels.

“What are you doing? I paid you your kiss!” Mina shoved at his chest, her eyes blazing with heat as she ducked under his arm, away from him. Heart hammering, she clutched the towel close to her, meek defense against the turbulence he wrought. If he touched her again…

Barrons reached out and slid one finger in the crevice between her breasts, tucking her sagging towel back into place. “That one,” he said, with a dangerous smile, “that one I stole.”

Damn him. Lust surged through her veins—pure, unadulterated lust—and with it came the heat of the craving, the world falling into shadows as her vision became nothing more than every shade of black and white. Her eyes had darkened with the hunger, she knew, and so would he. “Shall I name the punishment for theft, my lord?”

“Do you want to take it back? I’ll let you, you know.”

Of all the things he could have said to her… Mina’s lips parted in surprise, her eyes slowly narrowing at his teasing tone.

All too late she realized the danger. For he knew now that he affected her. She would never again be able to dismiss him with hostility or coldness, for he’d seen inside her soul, seen that little spark inside her that yearned for heat, for touch, for passion. Every ounce of control she’d ever wielded in their encounters slipped away like grains of sand through her fingers, leaving her utterly helpless.

Do you want it back?

Yes.

“Keep it,” she said instead. “And know that the debt between us is doubly paid.”

“Very well.”

Mina frowned. She’d expected an argument—or another attempt at seduction. “I don’t understand.”

“But then you never have understood my motives.” With one last oblique smile, he tilted his head toward her, then stepped away and left her to dress in peace.

Four

Steam leaked through a grate in the road, eerie in the early hours of the morning. In the east, faint hints of silver brightened the sky, but here on the very edges of Whitechapel, shadows seemed to stretch out and linger, each alley lost to pervading darkness.

The message had arrived but an hour earlier, long after Leo had seen the duchess into the hackney she’d insisted upon. A dozen theories sprang to mind about its meaning. He was playing deep and dangerous games these days, and a message from Blade, the infamous Devil of Whitechapel, could only mean one thing.

Revolution. The downfall of the prince consort.

Leo tucked the collar of his coat up around his jaw and started across Butcher Square, ignoring the vagrants flipping jacks in a nearby gutter. Their eyes lit on him, then moved back to the jacks, but he knew he’d been cataloged as surely as he knew his own name. One of the whores there eased back into the shadows and vanished, no doubt to bring word of his passing, or at least the passing of a seemingly rich young lord in this section of the city.

The cut of his coat was stark and unembellished, but the quality of it named him one of the Echelon or a minor blue-blood lord, no doubt. He didn’t bother to disguise himself. There were enough blue bloods who would seek distraction in this part of the city, drawn by the no-rules excitement of the Pits, where men bled on the pale sand as they fought each other for coin, or the easy virtue of toffers, those whores seeking a way out of the East End and into warmer, more sumptuous beds.

Ratcatcher Gate loomed ahead of him. A man met him there, his flat green eyes narrowed and a sleeveless leather jerkin revealing the heavy metal spars of his mechanical arm. Leo was taller than most men, but this one had several inches on him and outweighed him immeasurably. Thank the devil he had permission to be here. In a duel or knife fight he had no match, but here in the rookeries, they didn’t like to fight by what they termed “gentlemen’s rules.” Blade had set Leo on his backside often enough over the years for him to learn a healthy respect for the way they fought here.

Of course, he’d returned the favor.

“Rip.” He nodded. “Got Blade’s message. What’s the matter?”

His brother-in-law wouldn’t have sent for him unless it was urgent. The Devil of Whitechapel preferred to deal with his own problems rather than involve anyone else, and usually he dealt with them with swift, bloodied justice.

Blade was the only rogue blue blood who’d ever stood against the Echelon and survived. Fifty years ago, he’d escaped his execution in the Ivory Tower and made his way to Whitechapel where he’d roused the mob against the metaljackets the Echelon sent after him. It had been a massacre, but it had proven one thing to this part of London and to the Echelon—they were not invincible.

The king at the time had ceded Blade the rookeries and the Echelon pretended the matter was inconsequential, but everybody knew the truth. The human classes had adopted Blade as some kind of hero, and aristocratic children went to bed with their nannies whispering horrific stories about him in their ears. The myth was almost larger than the man himself these days.

“Think you oughta see it yourself,” Rip replied, his deep voice pitched barely loud enough to hear. He uncrossed his massive arms from over his chest and jerked his head. “Charlie, you watch the gate. You make sure nothin’ gets in, you understand?”

A cocky young lad shot them both a smile and a wink, leaning surreptitiously against a barrel under the shadow of the gate’s overhang. Leo stiffened momentarily.

“Charlie.” The boy nodded.

For a moment they stared at each other. The boy’s eyes were blue, but the shock of familiarity he felt when he saw that face… Like looking in the damned mirror.

“Are you certain he’s capable enough?” Leo asked, stalking after Rip.

“Lad’s almost a man now,” Rip replied. “And this ain’t the sort o’ place to pander to the weak. A boy tends to grow up fast.”

Leo bit off his reply, guilt souring his mouth. Who was he to demand what Charlie did or didn’t do? He’d given up his rights to that years ago when his own actions had infected the boy with the craving virus. Charlie might be his younger brother by blood, but Honoria—Blade’s wife and Leo’s half sister—had made it more than clear that he had no say in the boy’s future.

“Startin’ to look more ’n more like you as he ages.” Rip glanced at Leo. “That could be dangerous.”