But first, Gow.

The man was waiting for her in her study, wearing a pair of slim-fitting trousers and a tweed coat. He was such a quiet, unassuming man that the eye practically begged to skip over him. His was a face that would blend into any crowd.

“Your Grace.” He bowed as she locked the door behind her. “To what extent may I be of service?”

The House of Casavian’s man-of-affairs, he’d served her father before he died and now herself. It wasn’t until after her father’s death, however, that she had become fully aware of the extent of Gow’s resources.

First things first.

“I have a task for you,” she said, wasting no time on polite necessities.

“Of course.”

“I want you to find out everything you can about Leo Barrons.”

A slim eyebrow rose. “The Duke of Caine’s heir?”

“Yes.”

“Personal, professional, financial?” he mused.

“Everything,” she replied, her eyes narrowing slightly and the ghostly impression of a pair of lips haunting her own for a moment. Distracting her from the question that had begun to circulate in her mind while she traveled home—the question of why he’d been at the Venetian Gardens so soon after disembarking from the dirigible from Saint Petersburg. Certainly not for her.

“Most importantly…” she continued, “I want to know what his weaknesses are.”

* * *

The Warren lay directly in the heart of Whitechapel, a large house with heavy brick walls lining the accompanying yard and lights gleaming in the top layer of windows. The lower floor of the house was full of cobwebs and dust, the timber floorboards so creaky they threatened to break beneath each step, but upstairs was a gleaming haven of light and warmth, the scent of beeswax, elegant furnishings, and modern conveniences like hot water.

The only people who saw the upstairs were those Blade allowed within his refuge. He didn’t think it wise to advertise precisely how well he lived to those that were potential enemies.

Dawn spilled through the polished windows of the small parlor as Blade ushered Leo inside. A young woman sprawled asleep on the daybed in front of the fireplace. Blade crossed to her side. Her eyelashes fluttered as Honoria slowly woke.

She was heavy with child now, her cheeks and upper arms fuller than Leo had ever seen them. The last few times he’d visited, she’d been in confinement. Leo crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, nodding at her when she noticed him. “You look well.”

Honoria struggled to sit upright. “It’s ghastly,” she said. “I cannot believe I fell asleep again.” Her face softened as she smiled at Blade. “I was waiting for you to return.”

Blade curled onto the daybed at her side, sliding a protective hand around her shoulders. He was often given to improper displays within the sanctity of the house, regardless of whether it was just Leo in attendance or all of his men. “I tol’ you not to wait up.”

“I told you I would,” Honoria replied, a hint of stubbornness entering her voice.

An old argument, no doubt. Leo crossed slowly to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the warmth and ignoring the pair of them as much as he could. He never felt so much an outsider as he did when he was at the Warren.

“What was the problem?” Honoria asked.

Blade swiftly told her the details and Honoria made a small, distressed sound. “Not Goethe. He was such a gentleman.”

There was a sharp rap at the door. Rip’s wife, Esme, the housekeeper, popped her head inside. “Excuse me.” Her gaze slid over Leo and she nodded a greeting. “But there are a pair of Nighthawks at the door.”

“Which ones?” The Nighthawks served the Echelon as thief-takers. The group was comprised of rogue blue bloods, those whose infection with the craving hadn’t been sanctioned by law. A rogue was offered only two choices: join the Nighthawks or the Coldrush Guards and serve, or be executed.

“Guild Master Garrett Reed and his wife, Lady Peregrine,” Esme replied.

“Rather quick on yer ’eels, ain’t they, Barrons?” Blade nodded to Esme. “See ’em in.”

She disappeared and Honoria shared a concerned glance with Blade. “At least Garrett’s our ally.”

“Aye.” Blade’s eyes met Leo’s. “Could become awkward for ’im, were this to be an official visit.”

“Let’s not make it official, then,” Leo replied, leaning against the mantel. “There’s nothing for him to see.”

Blade usually liked playing games, but not at the moment. His hand curled over Honoria’s knee, a frown darkening his brow. Anything that brought Nighthawks—or bodies—into his territory when his wife was in such a sensitive condition roused the darker side of his nature.

Garrett strode inside, handing his hat and coat to Esme. She took them, though a dry glance at Blade showed what she thought of this duty. Esme’s role of housekeeper seemed to be more of an honorific than the actual role of a servant. It had taken Leo months to understand her precise position here.

On Garrett’s heels came Lady Peregrine. Her hair was clipped at her chin, but it was a soft pale blond now, where once she’d dyed it a harsh black. Not the only change about her. She wore knee-high boots and tight black breeches. A lush lace bustle with a hint of skirt covered the indecent curves of her bottom, and her buttoned-up coat no doubt hid her armored corset. It was a feminine version of the harsh Nighthawk armor she’d once worn.

Leo glanced toward the window, schooling his features. Perry was hardly the sort to draw praise in a world where the Echelon was populated with diamond-bright beauties, but what he found attractive was that sense of strength. It was something all the fluff-buttoned debutantes in the world couldn’t own.

Something that the Duchess of Casavian did, however. He was wise enough to realize that he appreciated a woman with a headstrong nature and a high intellect.

He frowned, tapping his fingers on the mantel. Last night came to mind again. He’d thought he’d finally slipped through Mina’s barriers to the woman within, but in the end she had been able to resurrect those barriers with ease, leaving him to catch a bare glimpse of the heat within her. The kiss…the kiss had almost driven him out of his mind, and some part of her had liked submitting to him, but not altogether. The moment she’d stood up in the bath, with bubbles dripping down that glorious body, she’d disappeared again, like a valve closing.