Page 12 of To Catch A Rogue
Meddling bloody males, that's what it was.
But there was no point ignoring him. This was his house, after all.
Lark turned the tap off, trying to contain her nervousness. Blue bloods had no personal scent, but Blade could read her like a book.
"Come in."
The door opened, revealing a figure dressed in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a vibrant red velvet waistcoat that fit his lean form like a glove. An unlit cheroot dangled from his long, elegant fingers as he rested one arm against the doorjamb. Blade didn't smoke in the house anymore now that he was married. Honoria didn't approve. But he often carried a cheroot, just to smell it on occasion.
"Blade," she greeted.
A shabby old cat wove around his boots, and Blade leaned down and picked him up. Puss was getting on in years, and his rookery jaunts were limited now to the Warren and the bricked yard out back, but as his yellow eyes locked on her and he purred, a new scar across his face showed there was still some fight left in the old bugger.
"Have you been fighting again?" she cooed, scratching the tom under his chin. "What did I say about picking fights these days?"
"The ol' man about town's got to keep up 'is swagger," Blade said, "or all the other toms'll think they can just slink on in and steal 'is turf."
"You would know."
Blade moved so fast she barely saw it, clipping the edge of her ear. "I ain't that old. Yet."
"Aren't we celebrating your fifty-sixth birthday next month?" Lark asked innocently. He looked barely thirty, but that was thanks to the craving virus.
Nobody was quite certain what a blue blood's natural life expectancy was, but some were nearing their second century.
"Bloody children," he growled, rolling his eyes. "Smart mouths on the lot o' you. When you're a blue blood, fifty ain't that old."
Lark sighed. "You ain't here for the chatter. What d'you want?"
Blade set his fingertips under her chin and tilted her face up. "Any reason you're wearin' a rut in the floorboards? ’Eard young Charlie was askin' for you."
Here it came.
Lark pushed away. Growing up in the Warren felt somewhat akin to having half a dozen grumpy, overprotective uncles who meddled in everything she did. It drove her halfway to Bedlam as a young girl, and yet, there was a part of her that wished she could curl up in Blade's lap again and tell him everything.
The Devil of Whitechapel was the most feared man in London, but she'd never felt safer than in his arms.
"Aye. It's Charlie," she replied, running her fingers through the bathwater absently.Careful now. "He wants my help with a dangerous job."
"Dangerous?" Blade's voice sharpened. Charlie was Honoria's younger brother, and any threat to Honoria's peace of mind or happiness would be met with a knife.
Lark spilled the little she knew.
"The Duke o' Malloryn, eh?" Blade scrubbed at his mouth as he set the cat down. "Thought ‘e was in Norway, makin’ nice with our Scandinavian verwulfen friends. They been ‘oldin’ council meetin’s for the last two weeks, ‘til ‘e gets back, and Lynch’s been coverin’ ‘is duties." He narrowed his green eyes on her. "But that ain't what's got you sweatin'. What's wrong?"
"The job's in Russia."
Silence.
She risked a look over her shoulder.
"No." The word was definite. Final. "When I took you and Tin Man off the streets, 'e sold me 'is loyalty on one condition: I protect you. I keep you safe, and 'e'd lay down 'is life for me if need be." Blade's voice softened with menace. "Well, 'e did. Workin' for me cost 'im everythin' in the end. I owe 'im, Lark. And I always pay me debts. You ain't goin' to Russia."
Until that moment, she hadn't realized her decision had been made.
Lark tipped her chin up. She loved him, truly she did, but.... "How are you going to stop me?"
Blade stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The sound it made echoed like a jail cell slamming shut. "You really want to play that card?"
