No doubt the duke wanted to know about the Russian situation. Though his illness kept him indoors and out of polite society, Caine still hungered for control over the Council meetings Leo was forced to attend in his place.

Flipping his thumbnail beneath the wax, Leo broke the seal and jerked his gaze over the elegant gold writing. A meeting. At twelve. “Ballocks,” he muttered.

“My lord?”

The enormous longcase clock in the hallway ticked with impertinence, a pointed reminder that Leo had barely half an hour to make the meeting. “Send for the steam coach. Where’s Morrissey?” His valet would have to cut short his efforts today and be satisfied with simply laying out something for Leo to wear.

“I’ll ring for him, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Sailing up the stairs, Leo examined the letter again. A formal request for your presence in the face of a most unfortunate event… He could well imagine what that would be.

Fifteen minutes later, he left poor Morrissey trailing behind him with a bottle of cologne as he descended the stairs. The man had had to make do with a mandarin-collared black coat that negated the need for anything fancy, like a cravat, and a pair of tight black trousers. Leo swung out the door with his top hat and an ebony-handled cane that concealed a diamond-edged sword.

He’d barely had time for a shave, though he had managed to tie his hair back in a neat queue. His hair was longer than he usually wore it and he’d considered cutting it, but something stopped him. The duchess’s fingers making a fist in it as she tilted her mouth up to his, perhaps. Hardly the sort of thing a man was likely to forget.

She’d be there today. The thought fired his blood and left him tapping the top of the coach as he settled inside it and rested his elbow on the open window. At least there was one damned thing to look forward to.

* * *

“You’re late,” Morioch said, tapping his fingers on the polished mahogany table.

It stretched across the Council chambers, surrounded by nine seats. The prince consort sat at the far end, with the queen’s empty chair beside him and slightly behind. The queen herself was standing and staring through the windows out over the city. Maybe wishing for escape—or dreaming of it. The scent of laudanum often clung to her breath, and her eyes frequently held the distant gaze of someone in another world.

“I only received your missive a half hour ago,” Leo replied, handing his top hat and cane to the nearest footman.

Morioch’s lips thinned. “Can we call this session to order then?”

Leo smiled with a flash of bared teeth and took his time taking his seat. Only then did he let his gaze rest on the empty chair across from him. Goethe’s chair.

“We’re not all here yet,” Lynch murmured. The former Nighthawk master’s hair was dark and neatly combed. Wearing an unembellished gray suit with a black waistcoat, he fiddled with a gold pocket watch. His hawkish gray eyes pinned Morioch down as if he were a bug tacked to a lepidopterist’s board.

Seven months ago, Lynch had dueled his uncle for the seat of the House of Bleight and was proving both a formidable adversary for the prince consort and a loyal ally for Leo and his quiet revolution. With the recent fracture of the Council—the loss of three dukes within the last three years—Leo was grateful to have someone he could count on for sense. Granted, Lynch didn’t always side with him; the man was no puppet, after all, and they both had strong opinions, but it was still a relief to have someone else stand up against the prince consort’s sporadic cruelties and small bouts of what Leo politely termed madness.

A tall man stepped out of the corner, his blond hair gleaming with faint reddish highlights. He withdrew a large piece of black silk from his waistcoat pocket. Leo stiffened, though he forced his fingers to keep drumming on the table. Balfour was the prince consort’s spymaster—and the hand on the leash of the Falcons.

Shaking out the silk, Balfour draped it over Goethe’s chair and stepped back against the wall, hands clasped behind him.

Silence ruled the room, broken only by the queen’s startled gasp. A horrified expression crossed her face, her gloved fingers touching her lips. She hadn’t known.

Despite himself, Leo glanced at the Duchess of Casavian, who was sitting directly across from him. He hadn’t dared look at her when he entered; nobody could know about last night. The small mechanical jeweled spider she often wore tethered to her breast by a pin crawled across her shoulder. Mina sat perfectly still, her face so pale she might have been wearing rice powder. As if sensing his gaze, she looked up, her eyes meeting his. An expression of grief flickered through them as she glanced sideways—at the queen, perhaps—before she brought her expression under control.

Lynch was the first to break the silence. “When did this happen?”

“This morning, my reports tell me.” The prince consort leaned back in his throne-like chair. “Your young protégé Garrett Reed is working the case. A young woman reports seeing Goethe on the edge of Whitechapel before he was murdered by the Devil’s own hand—”

“Blade did this?” Lynch asked. “It seems highly out of character. Also, what in blazes was Goethe doing in Whitechapel?”

The prince consort’s satisfaction dimmed slightly. “So the young lady reports.”

“Mmm.” Lynch scratched his jaw. “Perhaps I’d best discuss it with Garrett.”

“I’m certain your man has it well in hand—”

“Of course, but we’re speaking about the murder of a duke and the possibility of war with Whitechapel.” Lynch’s voice became flat with authority. “We would want to be absolutely certain that the Devil of Whitechapel is guilty before we commit to this. I needn’t remind you what happened fifty years ago when King George attempted to extract Blade from the rookeries.”

“The mobs rose,” Leo murmured, “and the city burned, and despite all of our technology, we were forced back within the city limits.”

The prince consort’s lips thinned. “Time changes a great deal. Technology has improved. The presence of the Trojan cavalry sees to that.”

The enormous steel horses were sent out in force, their iron-plated hooves crushing through a mob like a threshing machine. They were the first thing the prince consort had insisted on creating nearly thirteen years ago after he overthrew the human king and became regent.