Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,48

been thrown into the squalor of the East End and forced by circumstance to work her fingers to the bone just to put food on the table. She had never resented her sister for that fact, but she’d hated the circumstances. And now that she no longer had to work from dawn ‘til dusk or ration herself with food, she still found that she wasn’t quite happy.

She loved the Warren with the eccentric members of Blade’s adopted family but it was becoming abundantly clear that she had no place here. No future. Though she had a talent for clockwork and often pursued projects in her spare time for her old employer, Mr. Mandeville, she knew precisely what she wanted out of life.

A husband who loved her just as much as Blade loved her sister. At least four, fat, happy children who adored her, and a household of her very own in at least the fashionable end of town where it was safe.

The end of town where the man below had come from.

His voice seemed familiar and she had the sense she should know him. But what blue blood of the Echelon would dare come into Blade’s turf? Though it had been two years since he’d been knighted by the Queen, his distrust of the Echelon – and their distrust of him – had not lessened.

“You know why I agreed to the consultation,” Honoria muttered, stepping away form the man with a syringe full of blood.

Lena ducked back, but not all the way. She caught a glimpse of the man’s smooth-shaven jaw and firm mouth. He’d stripped his jacket off and wore only a shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his right arm to allow Honoria access to his veins.

“Because--”

“You saved my husband’s life,” she continued, in that abrupt oh-so-Honoria tone. “If you think there’s anything more to this, then you’re wrong.” Metal rasped against glass as she discharged the syringe into one of her vials. “Though you should have at least mentioned this earlier. Your skin’s quite ashen. People must have noticed.”

Lena could almost sympathise with the stranger. She’d been on the end of that tone many times over the years.

“Honor, I--”

“How long have you been injecting the silver nitrate for?”

“If you’d let me finish a sentence, I might be able to tell you,” he replied, in the most neutral tone of voice.

That he called her sister by the same name Lena did made her frown. That implied familiarity, perhaps more.

“My craving virus levels have been high for the last five years. I don’t know why. I’m barely twenty-nine.” At last a hint of frustration broke through in his voice. “I’ve been injecting the silver nitrate since it came on the market as a solution to bring my CV levels down.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” The stranger snapped then swore under his breath as Honoria fell silent. “Your husband’s hair is getting darker. His skin too. I’m sure others have noticed but I’m possibly the only one who might suspect why the effects of the Fade seem to be reversing in him. You found your father’s diary, didn’t you? He found the cure? The cure for the craving virus?”

A diary that their father had died to protect. Lena froze, her nails digging into the tiles on the roof. Very few people knew that fact.

“Or did you have it all along?” The stranger’s voice had softened. A hint of anger stirred in it.

Honoria came back into view, her skirts sweeping angrily against her ankles. “I had it,” she replied, tipping her chin up so that the spill of inky dark hair framed her pale, heart-shaped face. “Though there is no cure.”

“Liar.” The man slid off the table and stepped closer, staring down at Honoria. “Blade was virtually on the edge of the Fade. Another few months and he would have started evolving into a vampire. Like I am.”

This time Lena caught a full view of his face. Leo Barrons, the Duke of Caine’s heir. Virtually one step below the Prince Consort himself.

Once, years ago, Lena’s father had worked for his. Lena had grown up in Caine House, until Vickers had stolen her father’s patronage away. Or at least… she couldn’t quite remember what had happened. She’d been too young.

“You’re not quite at that level, yet.” Honoria snapped back. “Your CV percentage is sixty-five. You still have a year or two.”

“Until I start stinking of rot,” he replied tightly, grabbing Honoria’s wrist. “Like he did.”

“Let me go.”

Barrons’s jaw