Free Heart of Iron by Bec McMaster Page A

flickering. Will glanced up, his eyes drawn by the carved panels that lined the walls and the ornate ceilings. He’d never seen so much gilt in all his life.
    And silk curtains. What a bloody joke. Half the people of London could barely pay the Echelon’s exorbitant taxes and yet here sat one of their lords, in a house that could probably feed Whitechapel for a year. Or five.
    He wasn’t here to gawk at the furnishings. Will lowered his gaze, even as Blade turned on his heel, staring up. “Gor, will you look at that,” Blade said. “Ain’t the ceilin’ a sight to see? All them cherubs and clouds.”
    “Thank you,” a cool voice said. “The manor’s been in my family for eight generations.”
    Will’s gaze narrowed on the speaker. Lord Harker, he presumed. Standing by the fire, with his hands clasped behind him.
    The others sat in a half circle around him. He knew who the woman must be. There was only one female blue blood in England, the Lady Aramina, Duchess of Casavian. Met her once, didn’t much trust the look in her eyes. Yet when the Council had held Blade’s life in its hands, she’d been the final vote, her choice sealing his fate. For whatever reason—whim or politics—she’d chosen to let him live.
    One of the other men was tall, with a hawkish nose and neatly trimmed beard. Touches of gray flecked his hair, signs of a distinguished air, rather than age and feebleness. Manderlay, the Duke of Goethe. Another who had cast his vote in Blade’s favor.
    Which left the last little lordling, who sat back in his Louis XIII chair, examining the play of light in his blud-wein. Rings glittered on his fingers and his collar had been left rakishly open. A half-empty bottle rested beside his booted feet. Will didn’t recognize him, but the griffin signet on his finger said that this was Auvry Cavill, the young Duke of Malloryn. The least likely threat, Will thought, turning his gaze back to Goethe. He knew who the most dangerous man in the room was.
    All of them had voted in Blade’s favor. Will smelled politics in the air, stale as a moth-eaten coat. The prince consort must want something badly.
    “How is your wife?” the Duke of Goethe asked.
    “Curious. Stubborn. Same as ever.” A genuine smile softened Blade’s face.
    “And how goes her experiments?” the duchess asked.
    The only way she could have known of them was if she were having the warren watched. Will’s eyes narrowed. None of the three had shown any sign of surprise. Which meant the Council likely knew everything that went in and out of the warren.
    Something Will’d have to see to when they got out of here.
    “She likes to tinker,” Blade replied with a shrug. He played this game far better than Will ever could. “Thinks she’ll cure me one day.”
    “Do you think she will?” The duchess sipped at her blud-wein. The firelight turned her coppery hair into a flaming corona around her head, but despite the brandy brown eyes and hint of color in her cheeks, her manner was as cool as winter. A little clockwork spider crawled across her shoulder, tethered by a fine steel chain to a pin at her breast. The glass dome of its body showed the exquisite brass cogs of its clockwork interior. He’d seen the type before. Flip them over and the belly was a watch.
    “Keeps ’er amused and outta me ’air.” Blade’s smile held a knife-edge. “Everybody knows there ain’t no cure for the cravin’.”
    “Yes, but her father was Sir Artemus Todd. Wasn’t he the genius who discovered all those weapons for Vickers, before you killed the duke? I hear Todd was close to discovering a cure even then. Perhaps your wife knew something of his work?”
    Blade could be quite reasonable at times. But not when Honoria was concerned. He bared his teeth—some people might have called it a smile—but Will knew it was just the expression he wore before he cut someone’s throat. “Maybe she does. Like poisons that actually work on a blue blood, or a gun