Mina Wentworth and the Invisible City Part 4

"How do you bear it?"

"By searching for other options to give them."

Not just hoping that they'd find something better. Creating something better. "What will you propose?"

"To start with, building schools similar to the Creche. If the children don't have to work to eat, if they don't need a job, that's already a lot fewer who might lose a position as more of my factories install automated machines, and a lot fewer jobs that are needed overall. Then I'll put books in front of them, so they can grow up and invent ways to make more money for me."

She grinned. Rhys took care of his people, but it couldn't be said that he was driven by altruism. "Is that your plan for next session?"

"Yes." He slipped the wide straps of her chemise over her shoulders, down her arms. "But if I can't convince Parliament to pay for it, I'll do it myself. I'm already drawing up the plans."

With a soft sweep of his thumbs across the tips of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her nipples hardened into beads. She drew a ragged breath. "You haven't said anything."

"It took me a while to get to it. There are a lot of problems to look at, everyone demanding that we solve them now, but all of these children growing up without an education or a creche will be one h.e.l.l of a problem in ten or fifteen years if we don't do something about it soon." His hand flattened over her stomach. "I promised that I'd make this a better place for us, for our children-and for Anne. It was after knowing her, seeing what the Creche has managed to do, and speaking with your father . . . I finally had a better idea of how to go about it."

Could she possibly love this man any more than she did? It seemed impossible. Yet her heart, already so full, seemed to stretch infinitely bigger again. It didn't matter that, at the root, his motivations were only to fulfill a promise to her, only to benefit him. She knew he would cross any line for her. He'd killed, he'd burned cities-and at a word from her, he'd do it again.

But this was more than that. Now Rhys fought for something that he never had before. He was willing to change the world for the better . . . simply because he loved her.

It was incredible-and humbling. But he wasn't humbled. Rhys was arrogant enough to believe he could change the world, and was determined to actually do it.

Arrogance and determination. He could have ruined her with them. He loved her instead, and used them to make everything he touched a little better.

Rhys moved behind her. "Where were you hurt this morning?"

Of course he hadn't forgotten. "Beneath my right shoulder."

His hands gentle, he turned her so the lamp on the bureau illuminated her skin. His silence weighed heavily in the room.

"Is it bad?" She didn't think it would be. She hadn't felt so much as a twinge for hours.

"It's almost completely gone."

Which meant it had been bad enough that the bruise hadn't yet disappeared. When she faced him, that terrible tension filled him again, whitening the edges of his lips, tightening the skin over his cheeks.

She could wash her hair later. Mina put her gla.s.s aside.

His lips found hers, softly at first but quickly demanding, taking. Oh. This what she'd waited for, but now that he touched her, the antic.i.p.ation only sharpened. Her fingers pushed into his hair, her thumbs running over those small gold hoops that drove her mad whenever she saw them. With a hungry growl, Rhys lifted her against his broad chest. Mouth fastened to hers, he carried her across the room, pausing once to collect a square parchment envelope from the vanity. His tension never receded, and she knew that this time would be fierce, hard-pure possession.

By the blue heavens, she couldn't wait for it.

Rough fingers stripped away her short pants and chemise. Face rigid with control, he laid her, naked, on the edge of the bed. Standing, still dressed, he pushed between her thighs, spreading them wide. His left hand tore at his breeches while he glided gentle fingers between her soft folds. Already so wet, so ready, his touch electrified her. Panting, she rocked her s.e.x against his hand. His fingers breached her entrance, and her slick channel contracted around him. Oh, blue. Mina cried out, her head falling back. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard his tortured groan.

Parchment crackled. He smoothed the oiled sheath over his thick length, pressed the broad head against her burning flesh. With a heavy stroke, he pushed deep.

Sweet heaven. Her body bowed with the force of his possession, hands bunching in the coverlet. They froze together, locked in the moment-as they had every time since they'd married. No matter how frantic their coupling, the moment he was fully embedded, Rhys looked down, as if capturing her, and she looked up at him, taking in his stark beauty, his rough need. She had the barest second to realize that he hadn't even tied the sheath, but held it on with his fingers wrapped at the base of his shaft, as if his need to come into her had been so great that every triviality had been tossed aside. His hands trembled now as he tied the strings, each tug teasing the sensitized flesh stretched around him, making her wetter, hotter, making it almost impossible to remain still until he finished. His callused thumb stroked over her c.l.i.t. Urgent pleasure stole her breath. Her body tightened.

He surged forward. Again, again, his hands braced beside her shoulders and his mouth devouring hers, until she cried out, convulsing around him. He raised her knees alongside his ribs and drove harder, pushing away reason, pushing away every sensation but the heat of his skin, his thick intrusion, her clamping flesh. He pushed until she shook uncontrollably, ecstasy wringing little sobs from every breath-until he was shaking with her, and the tension finally left him.

Then he shed his clothes, came up on the bed, and savored her slowly again.

Chapter 4.

Mina loved mornings. She loved waking up to Rhys's furnace of a body against hers, to his exquisitely slow possession. She loved reading the newssheets over breakfast with him, loved talking with him-and usually, she loved teasing Anne, whose surly scowl in the morning was only matched by her mischievous grin after she'd fully wakened. She loved riding with Anne to the Blacksmith's in the Narrow, and then loved her time alone as she traveled the remaining distance to headquarters.

This morning, Mina kissed Rhys farewell over an early breakfast eaten hastily in bed. She climbed into the waiting steamcoach alone. Traffic was light, and the steamcoach made good time-good enough that she could first stop at Leicester Square, and see Anne before she and Mina's father left for the day.

Though Mina visited her parents often, even after eight months she still couldn't decide whether to knock or to walk through the front door. This time, she chose to walk in. A new wind-up butler waited in the foyer, as tall as her shoulder-and naked. Her mother must not have been satisfied with his performance yet, and had left his gears exposed so that she could tweak and adjust him as necessary.

A new blue rug ran the length of the hall. After her parents had paid off their debt to the Blacksmith, her mother's automatons had provided a large and steady income, supplemented by her father's position at the Creche-but like Mina, they found it difficult to spend, fearing that it might all disappear again. Aside from hiring another maid and an a.s.sistant for Cook, they'd barely undertaken any improvements to their home, and had only made the most critical repairs.

The rug told Mina that some of their fear must have eased. Good. Perhaps within a year or so, when she learned to throw away money like a d.u.c.h.ess, they would let her spend Rhys's money on them, too.

She heard a noise from the top of the stairs and looked up. Sally had paused to glance over the banister, her dust rag in hand.

"Good morning, Sally." Mina smiled up at the young maid. "Are they still at breakfast?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

It still felt odd to be addressed as "Your Grace" in this house. At the mansion, everything felt new, and the "Your Grace" had been a part of that newness. But Sally liked to say it, and took pride in knowing that her inspector was married to the Iron Duke, so Mina wouldn't stop her.

She continued on to the dining room. Sitting close together, her mother's pale blond hair against her father's dark, her parents glanced up from the newssheets as she entered. Mina's smile faltered.

No place had been set for Anne. Even if the girl had already finished up and excused herself, the servants left the plates until the family had all departed the room.

"Oh, dear." With mirrored eyes made from mechanical flesh, her mother read her face too easily. "Tell us what has happened."

Nothing. Please let it be nothing. "Anne hasn't come down?"

Now her father stilled, carefully watching her face. "Anne?"

"She spent last night with you."

"No."

A tight knot formed in her stomach. Fear? Anger? Mina didn't know. "And the night before?"

"We haven't seen her since Sat.u.r.day," her father said.

Their regular day to visit the Creche together-three days past. That left two nights unaccounted for.

Why?

Her mother said quietly, "Anne told you otherwise?"

"Yes. She sent me a gram, and I didn't . . ." Mina hadn't verified the truth of it. Should she have verified it? She'd expected that Anne might have different ideas about living with a family than Mina did. But this meant Anne had lied. Why? Was she in trouble? "Did she seem all right on Sat.u.r.day?"

Her father nodded. "Perfectly well."

With a sick ball of worry in her gut, Mina turned to go. "I need to look for her."

Her mother called, "And what of Viscount Redditch? His murder is all over the newssheets-along with a tale of a bra.s.s wheel that kills men in their gardens."

d.a.m.n those journalists. But Redditch would have to wait. Mina shook her head, but her father said, "I'll ask at the Creche, Mina. Most likely she's there, and simply didn't want to worry you. I'll let you know if she's not."

"But-"

"Where would you go to find her?"

She looked to her father again. Anne had been due at work today. It was still early, but it was Mina's best bet. "The Blacksmith's."

"Your husband can be there in a quarter of the time it will take you. You are five minutes from headquarters. Send him a wiregram."

"And if she's not there?"

"Where would you look next?"

The Creche. She flattened her lips in frustration.

"If it's the Creche, I am already headed there-and the children won't talk to you. But they won't think anything of it if I ask after her."

Why was her father always so reasonable? And worse, he was right. Creche children might as well have lived in a silent, invisible city. They never saw or heard anything-especially when they were protecting their own.

Blast it all.

"All right," Mina said. "I'll be in my examination room for a few hours, then at Portman Square again. Please let me know right away whether she's there-and let Rhys know, too. I'll send him a gram as soon as I arrive at headquarters."

Then try to focus on work. She couldn't do anything to find Anne that Rhys and her father wouldn't. That was part of being a family, too-relying on them, trusting them.

And there was no one better to rely on than Rhys or her parents. With both helping her, Mina didn't have anything to fear.

But she felt it, anyway.

The gram from Mina had long since crumpled in his hand by the time the two-seater balloon was ready. Throwing the engine to full, Rhys launched into the air and aimed the nose toward the Narrow, trying not to let the worry overwhelm his sense.

He knew the simplest explanation was the most likely: Anne had lied. But he'd lived through too much, had seen too much, and could too easily imagine other possibilities. Like Mina, the girl had Horde blood, and many people who'd lived during the occupation couldn't look past that fact. She might have been attacked, hurt. Slavers abducted people from London for the skin trade or to work in the Lusitanian coal mines, and a tinker was always valuable. Most slavers wouldn't risk taking someone wearing the Blacksmith's guild mark-but although it wasn't common knowledge that the Blacksmith was away from London this week, someone might have known.

They might not have known Anne belonged to Rhys, too. Or they had known-and that was why they continued sending grams, trying to cover their a.s.ses before the Iron Duke came for them. He already had a man heading to the wiregram station where Anne's messages had originated from, trying to discover who had sent the grams. Except for government offices and some of the newer, wealthy residences, everyone had to use a station to send a message, and they could easily be traced. But reason told him that most likely, Anne had sent them herself.

G.o.d, what could have kept the girl away?

Mina must be terrified. Rhys's chest ached with the need to go to her, but he knew the only thing that could stop her fear would be to find Anne.

It would be the only thing to ease his worry for the girl, too.

The balloon roared in over the Narrow, where the Blacksmith's warehouse sat up against the north bank of the Thames. Empty but for the stone rubble that piled at the front of the buildings and into the street, the Narrow would later be crowded with dockworkers and laborers hoping to pick up an odd job for the day. If Rhys hadn't found Anne by then, he'd pay every one of them a year's wages to search every borough around London.

He set the two-seater down directly in front of the Blacksmith's door, and didn't bother to lock it down. No one would dare steal the balloon from him.

Eyes widened as he walked into the smithy. Rhys wasn't a stranger here-in the past ten years, he'd met with the Blacksmith too often for that-but he'd always sent a gram first. Still, his unannounced arrival didn't explain the unease he saw on several faces. His gut tightened. They knew Anne was his, and they knew something. What was it?

Rhys scanned each work station, looking for her, listening for the sound of her voice over the noise of the exhaust fans, the pounding of metal. She wasn't here, but there were two more floors above this one. If necessary, he'd tear the smithy apart looking for her.

The floor supervisor came toward him, pushing her welding goggles up over short dark hair. Lottie's face was set, her eyes hard, and she folded her gray arms of mechanical flesh across her ap.r.o.ned chest. She offered him a short nod, but no greeting.

"He's not here," she said simply. "Come back when he is."

Rhys wasn't looking for the Blacksmith. "I'm searching for Anne the Tinker."

"I know. You won't find her here. She doesn't come back until the Blacksmith does."

Lottie sounded as if she preferred that Anne never returned. His girl. He unclenched his jaw, evened out his anger into steel determination. "Why?"

"She broke the guild's rules. He decides whether to erase her mark."

"What did she do?" Whatever Anne had done, he'd fix it.

"You don't have a mark, I don't say."

G.o.d d.a.m.n her and their f.u.c.king rules. "Where is she now? Here?"

"She doesn't come back until he does. Where she is until then is none of my business."

But Lottie obviously knew.

She knew and was keeping Anne from him. A red haze swam in front of his eyes, and for a brief moment he considered slamming her against the wall, his hand around her throat until she talked. He'd start a war with the Blacksmith, but if it meant finding Anne, he'd risk it. There wasn't a single line he wouldn't cross.

But he wouldn't have to cross any lines yet. He took a deep breath, pushed back the anger. His gaze swept the room before he started for the exit. He stopped at the door.

"I have a heavy purse." His voice carried across the smithy. "And I'll give it to the first person who tells me where Anne the Tinker is."

And he went outside to wait.

Five minutes later, he was heading north to Whitechapel and the Creche. Mina's gram had said that Rockingham would be looking for Anne there, too, but Rhys needed to see for himself. His gaze swept the streets below, searching the upturned face of every dark-haired child he pa.s.sed.

With stone walls rising thirty feet high, the Creche covered an area roughly half the size of Rhys's estate. From above, gardens made a patchwork of the northwest corner. Well-kept buildings sat in rows, and formed narrow streets within the Creche. He'd never been inside-this was the children's sanctuary, with few adults allowed past its gates-but as a boy, he'd been in one much like it during the Horde occupation. They'd fed him, taught him to listen, but not much more than that.