The Iron Duke by Meljean Brook Read Free Book Online Page A

injustice of it. “I don’t know his name, but he isn’t a stranger to me now, some hypothetical individual who lives across the globe. Nor is he to you—and odds are, he is here because of some connection to you.”
    His eyes narrowed, and although humor glinted within them again, it was a cold and dangerous light. Mina suppressed the urge to step back and draw her weapon.
    “Then find out who he is and why he’s on my doorstep . . . and I will make whoever did it sorry they caught my attention.”
    She had no doubt he would. And although Mina had every intention of solving both the mystery of the man’s identity and his death, now she had even more reason not to fail.
    She didn’t want to be the one who attracted the Iron Duke’s notice.
     
     
    Rhys could think of many reasons to kill a man—but only fear kept someone from owning up to what he’d done. Whoever had dropped that body onto his steps was a bloody coward.
    He had no use for cowards, especially those who turned and ran. Did they think he wouldn’t chase after them?
    The inspector had best be quick about finding the direction to go. He hadn’t intended to let her investigate the man’s death, but Rhys wouldn’t have allowed her to take the body if he hadn’t believed she’d be successful. Hell, if not for her examination of the corpse, he might not have realized it had fallen from an airship.
    An airship. Idiots. If the coward had been just one man—or several men—sneaking onto his grounds, he’d have dealt with them quietly. But they’d come after him in an airship . . . and so his response would be in kind.
    As soon as he learned who they were.
    Holding his frustration in a tight grip, Rhys left the house and stalked the grounds until his temper cooled. Almost an hour passed before he returned and found Scarsdale in the library, already soused. Rhys poured a brandy for himself, his gaze searching the corners of the large room. He hated the size of it. When he’d built the house, he’d filled it with giant chambers, thinking he would enjoy the space after years of sleeping in cramped quarters and ducking beneath low decks. Instead, he was always on edge.
    Scarsdale wasn’t. Sprawled on the sofa, the bounder lay with his eyes closed. “Cyclops Cushing swore revenge after you stole Cerberus out from under him, but he didn’t strike me as stupid enough to throw a man on your house.”
    His words slurred. Even with a gun pointed at him, Scarsdale wouldn’t climb higher than the first yard arm of a mainmast. If he’d guessed the dead man been dropped from an airship, Rhys was surprised he was still coherent.
    But though liquor loosened the navigator’s tongue, it never impaired his sense. Rhys couldn’t claim the same. He set the brandy on his desk, untouched.
    Scarsdale struggled into a half-sitting position. He covered his left eye with his empty glass and opened his right. “Then again, I’ve heard that Cyclops caught the pox from a Dutch whore, and he wasn’t smart enough to bug up. Once a pox crawls from your jewels to your brains, it might make a man stupid enough.”
    “Even with a pox, Cushing wouldn’t have dared this.” And most of Rhys’s enemies wouldn’t have murdered someone he didn’t know—they’d make it personal. Not tossed a stranger off an airship like disposing a piece of garbage.
    “Then what of the Black Guard?” Scarsdale suggested. “Maybe they’ve caught on to how you’ve cut off their smuggling route out of Wales.”
    Perhaps. But even if the Black Guard had realized he’d paid for the submersible that terrorized the slaver ships in those waters, until all but the most desperate mercenaries refused to sail along the coast, Rhys didn’t think they’d retaliate. Whoever the members of the Black Guard were, they’d remained secretive about their activities and their purpose—and threatening him would be akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Unless they’d changed tactics, they