Another round of laughter behind the wall. Half the men here had earned that title.

Leo could almost picture the tight smile Morioch would be wearing right now. The duke despised rogue blue bloods.

“I’m well aware—as are you—that Leo Barrons entered Whitechapel earlier today. He is to be tried for treason and executed. I would encourage you to hand over the criminal with as little ceremony as necessary.”

Leo held his breath. He knew what Blade had said to him earlier, but a small part of him—still raw from Caine’s defection—wondered if the same would apply now.

“What’d ’e do?”

“That’s strictly Council business.”

“And now we got ourselves a little problem.” Blade’s voice carried in the night. He had the skills of a showman at times, modulating both voice and appearance to suit the moment. “You ain’t ’avin’ ’im.”

The breath went out of Leo.

“You weren’t certain, were you?” the duchess whispered in his arms.

“Shut the hell up.”

And she did. But he could feel her watching him, the trace of her gaze lighting up every nerve in his body until he felt raw.

“Don’t be a fool,” Morioch called.

“Oh, I ain’t,” Blade replied. “Gave me word o’ safe passage to Barrons earlier. You don’t want me to break me word.”

“What you need to remember, you little cur, is that you have a wife now. Don’t make me cut her throat in front of you, for I shall make that my priority if I’m forced to take the rookery.”

“Hell.” Morioch was insane to make a statement like that. Firelight danced over Blade’s grim expression. If one didn’t know him, one would think him entirely capable of anything in that moment.

“Did you just threaten my wife?” A knife couldn’t have been sharper than Blade’s voice. The murmur of the rookery lads behind him lifted to a dull roar, sensing the sudden predatory intensity of their leader.

Morioch shifted. “Look around you,” he snapped, trying to save face. “I’ve got a legion of spitfires.”

“You think that makes you safe? You just threatened my wife,” Blade repeated softly, his words distinctly clear of cockney now.

Dangerous. Leo had seen Blade like this before: eyes blackened with the craving, his hunger stirring to the surface. Utterly ruthless in that moment.

“Shut your saucebox and get out of my sight,” Blade said. “Go home to that fancy manor you got on Blakeley Square and pray that you got enough guards to keep me and my lads out. And if you ever”—he punctuated his words with a pointed finger—“threaten my wife again, I’ll make sure that the last things you ever see are these.” Holding up the pair of razors he wore at his belt, he flicked them open. Firelight flashed on the steel.

Morioch didn’t flinch, but his face tightened as he realized his error. He was, after all, standing in the aptly named Butcher Square. This was where Blade had carved out his legend in blood. “You have until morning,” the duke said, turning toward the carriage. “If your answer hasn’t changed by then, I shall be forced to dig Barrons out myself.”

The footman slammed the door behind the duke after he entered the carriage, the troop of metaljackets taking a uniform step to the side. Blade watched with glittering eyes as the carriage wheeled around, returning to the Ivory Tower. The metaljackets remained behind, falling into rank with a single, echoing step, then becoming silent as they faced the rookery.

“Come,” Leo demanded, his fingers digging into the duchess’s upper arms.

A flash of fire lit her eyes, like flame set to brandy. “Let me go. You and I both know this is foolishness. You’ll never keep me.”

A sudden surge of hot frustration licked at him. He rolled her onto her back on the roof, coming over her. The duchess sucked in a little gasp as all of his weight pressed her down.

“No.” He bit the word off, challenging her. Devil take him, but this was a madness he couldn’t deny. His hands softened on her arms and he rested on his elbows, staring down at her, at her beautiful treacherous face. “You had your chance. All you had to do was call for help.”

“I know you find this difficult to believe, but I don’t actually wish your death on my hands.” The snap of temper in her voice was like a lash. Was that a hint of guilt?

“No?”

“No.”

Truth? Or carefully planned lies? Leo rolled off her. “Why are you so bloody desperate to get back to the Ivory Tower?”

“Wasn’t it that milliner’s appointment I simply couldn’t miss in the morning?”

The duchess was back in her place. Lady Aramina at her coolest, arching a disdainful brow as if to deter some young buck.

The ache in his chest grew. Leo pushed to his feet and held out his hand to her. Whatever had begun between them that night at the Venetian Gardens was simply a mirage. She was his reluctant captive, and he had no intention of letting her go. One more staggering loss on top of the rest of them. He could almost feel his face shutting down, emotion blunting within him. Even the ever-present burn of the craving’s hunger was a distant thing tonight.

He didn’t think she’d take his hand, but something softened in her eyes as she absorbed the change in him.

“The gentleman returns,” she murmured.

“Hardly.”

But she caught his fingers, her slight weight barely dragging at him as he hauled her upright. She staggered a step or two, her palms splaying against his chest. That faint hint of seduction sucked at him again, especially as her lashes fluttered over her eyes and she slowly looked up at him. The pale gleam of her face was particularly taunting, for it wasn’t the Duchess of Casavian he stared at. Not in this moment. Just as he was comprised of two halves, split in two at this moment, so was she.

Mina.

He steeled himself.

“Come.” He pushed away from her. “I’d like to oblige your milliner, but I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule.”

Fourteen

“The best-laid plans…and all that rot…”

—Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel

After snatching a couple of hours of grainy-eyed sleep, Leo swung his legs off the edge of the narrow cot and sank his head into his hands. He felt worse than he had when he’d lain down, which felt like mere minutes ago and was probably hours.