Only Blade’s most trusted knew the truth: that Leo’s father had not been the Duke of Caine, but a gentleman scientist to whom Caine had given patronage years ago. Sir Artemus Todd was dead now, but he’d left his mark on the world in the form of three legitimate children—and Leo.

Not that Leo thought of that bastard as his father. If anyone ever discovered his secret, the prince consort would use it to see him hang.

“That could be dangerous,” Leo replied quietly. “For both me and the boy.”

“Blade’s tryin’ to convince ’im to try a beard and let his hair grow long.”

“And what does Honoria think of this?” he asked dryly.

“It were ’er idea.”

Leo didn’t quite know what to think of that. She’d never truly forgiven him for what had happened to Charlie, though she welcomed him in her home and had even shared the cure for the craving virus with him when his own CV levels had grown high. She called him brother, but Leo had never truly understood why she’d helped him in the past.

It was easier with Lena, his younger sister. Despite the careful distance he tried to maintain, Lena insisted on dashing a kiss against his cheek as a greeting and sent him playful gifts each year for Christmas, despite the fact he didn’t celebrate such a thing. Christmas meant little to any of the Echelon, those who’d been excommunicated from the church as soulless devils, but he had to admit that a part of him looked forward to her gifts each year. Using her skill with clockwork, she’d created a marching toy soldier for him last year. He didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do with it, but he’d set it out on display in his study—a little proudly.

“’Ere we are,” Rip murmured, shouldering beneath an archway into an alley.

Tight grounds for an ambush. Leo’s gaze flickered over the rooftops and spotted two of Blade’s newly sworn men there in the shadows. The scent of blood washed over him, and he found the cause of it in the middle of a small group of men gathered in the alley.

Blade knelt over a body, torchlight gilding the stark bones of his face. His hair was darker now than it had been when they first met three years ago—thanks to Honoria’s cure for the Fade—but other than that, he’d barely aged.

A trace of scarlet gleamed at his throat: a cravat in bold, embossed silk. His coat was black leather, its split tails separating as he knelt. No doubt beneath it would be a waistcoat in crushed velvet of some lurid color. Leo knew his brother-in-law too well.

“You sent for me?” Leo tugged at each finger of his gloves and slowly removed them.

Blade straightened, his shadow stretching out behind him. “Got meself a little problem,” he said and stepped aside. The body at his feet was dressed in fine silk slacks, a crisp black coat, and—

Hell. Leo froze as he realized who it was. A pair of bloodied ribs gleamed in the lamplight, the heart missing. “Goethe,” he said, meeting Blade’s green eyes.

“Aye.” Not a hint of warmth gleamed there. “Ain’t nobody know ’ow ’e just up and appeared, ’ere in the ’Chapel. Or who killed ’im.”

Leo took a measured step closer. “I can answer that, at least.”

Blade gestured his lads to step back out of the way. Rip stayed, but then over the years he had earned the right to be here.

“Falcons,” Leo murmured quietly. “At the Venetian Gardens last night. I saw it happen.”

“Falcons?” Blade rubbed at his mouth, looking tired. “Christ Jaysus, do you know what you’re suggestin’?”

“Aye. I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“And the body turns up ’ere. ’Ow convenient.”

“He’s setting you up as a scapegoat.” The prince consort had wanted Blade dead for years.

Blade snapped his fingers, gesturing to Rip and one of the new lads. “Get rid o’ the body. Make sure it can’t never be found.”

“We’ll ’ide it in Undertown.” Rip wrapped a cloak around Goethe’s body, hiding the garish signs of murder from view. Henley, Blade’s newest gang member, grabbed the duke’s boots and they hauled him up and vanished with him.

Not even a proper burial. Leo’s gaze lingered on them long after they’d vanished. He’d liked Goethe. The man played his own games on the Council—they all did—but at least he was honorable. For years Goethe had been sunk in grief over the loss of his consort. Only recently had he begun to eschew the dark clothes he preferred and actually attend societal events.

The night before Leo departed for Moscow, Goethe had even gotten top-hammered with him at the opera. All Leo could remember from that night was some ribald jest about the soprano, a rousing game of backgammon that he’d won, and the headache he’d traveled all the way to bloody Russia with.

“The dead don’t care, you know?” Blade clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“I know.” He looked down at the blood splashed on the cobbles. “For all he did, it seems a shame for him to just…disappear like that.”

“Come and break your fast with your sister. We’ll share a few glasses o’ blud-wein to Goethe’s memory. Like as not, we’re the only ones who’d give a proper damn. The bastard and I ’ad our differences when we were younger, but ’e’d earned me respect.”

“I don’t know if that’s wise. I’ve things to do—”

“They’ll wait,” Blade said. “And I’ve the feelin’ there’s more to this than’s been said.”

Leo could have denied it. Devil knew, Blade was aware that he couldn’t force Leo to his will. Not the way he did with the rest of his men. An uneasy truce existed between them, two men both too well aware of their own positions of power.

Keeping that truce, that balance maintained, was an art form, and so Leo nodded. Besides, Blade was an ally that he never underestimated, and in the past few months they’d both signed on to an undertaking they strongly believed in.

Removing the prince consort from power.

Treachery of the worst sort—or heroics, depending upon whether one was a member of the Echelon or not.

Or simply a man who feared the depths the prince consort could sink to, if left unopposed.

* * *

Mina shipped herself into Casavian House inside a trunk full of fine gowns from Madame Chevalier’s, along with a note for her maid. When the maid opened the trunk inside the duchess’s rooms, Mina straightened out of the mess of froth and lace, causing a scream.