MISSION: IMPROPER
LONDON STEAMPUNK: THE BLUE BLOOD
CONSPIRACY
BEC MCMASTER
LOCHABER PRESS PTY. LTD
CONTENTS
Copyright
MISSION: IMPROPER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
THE MECH WHO LOVED ME
ALSO AVAILABLE:
About the Author
Acknowledgments
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever, without written
permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotation
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events,
locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Mission: Improper
Copyright (c) Bec McMaster
Kobo Edition
Cover Art (c) Damonza.com
Print formatting: Athena Interiors and Marisa Shor at Cover Me
Darling
Editing: Hot Tree Edits
ISBN: 978-1-925491-05-0
Created with Vellum
MISSION: IMPROPER
Three years ago, London society changed forever, with a
revolution placing the widowed Queen firmly on the throne her
blue blood husband tried to take from her. Humans, verwulfen
and mechs are no longer considered the lesser classes, but not
everybody is happy with the new order...
When Caleb Byrnes receives an invitation to join the Company of
Rogues as an undercover agent pledged to protect the crown, he
jumps at the chance to find out who, or what, is behind
disappearances in the East End. Hunting criminals is what the darkly
driven blue blood does best, and though he prefers to work alone, the
opportunity is too good to resist.
The problem? He's partnered with Ingrid Miller, the fiery and
passionate verwulfen woman who won a private bet against him a
year ago. Byrnes has a score to settle, but one stolen kiss and
suddenly the killer is not the only thing Byrnes is interested in
hunting.
Soon they're chasing whispered rumours of a secret project gone
wrong, and a monster that just might be more dangerous than either
of them combined. The only way to find out more is to go
undercover among the blue blood elite...
ISBN: 978-1-925491-05-0
ONE
London, 1883
THE INVITATION CONTAINED an address and
two words: Come alone.
Caleb Byrnes had found it earlier that
morning, in the middle of his bed in the
Nighthawks Guild headquarters, a place that he'd
previously considered impenetrable. Not only
were the Nighthawks comprised of rogue blue
bloods—those afflicted with the craving virus,
whose infection had not been sanctioned by the
aristocrats who'd once ruled London—but they
were also thief-takers and bounty hunters. An
intruder should have been heard, or smelled, or
spotted before they got within five yards of the
place. And if they hadn't been, then the guild was
protected with all manner of mechanical devices. It
was a virtual labyrinth. To his knowledge, nobody
had ever broken in successfully.
His curiosity was aroused.
Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the
fact that the invitation smelled quite liberally of
perfume.
Someone had just dared him.
Someone who knew enough about him to
know what piqued his interest.
Someone female.
If there was one thing that Byrnes desired
above all else it was a mystery, or a chase. The
hunt was everything to him, whether he was hunting
miscreants over the rooftops of London, vampires
causing mayhem, or women.
It was only once the chase was done that he
grew bored, and considering that it had been a
good year since he'd had a decent pursuit or case
—that actress from the theatre, or the so-called
Vampire of Drury Lane—he figured he was due.
Hence why he was here, at the address listed.
Lifting the invitation to his face, Byrnes
breathed in the scent, and stared up at the
nondescript Georgian townhouse in front of him
that threatened to blend in to all of the others along
the street. If he hadn't owned preternatural senses,
the perfume would have been subtle, that of lilies
floating in the wind past him. As it was he could
make out the tiny trace notes of oils and chemicals,
of solvents and preservatives, and something
faintly musky that he couldn't quite identify.
Lifting his hand to knock, Byrnes paused as
skirts swished behind him along the footpath.
"Goodness, Byrnes, is that you?" Ava
McLaren asked, coming directly to a halt behind
him.
Not his intended pursuit, though Ava certainly
could have delivered the invitation, as she too was
a Nighthawk, and therefore had the means to enter
his room. The scent was wrong however. Ava was
engine oil, blood, and chemicals, masked by the
faint trace of rose perfume she sometimes wore.
"Indeed it is." Byrnes raked a glance over her,
and missed nothing—including the gold-engraved
invitation trailing from her fingers. His eyes
narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
Three years ago, Ava had been the victim of a
madman who performed clockwork experiments on
women, a case that had left her with a thick, ragged
scar down her chest, a mechanical heart, and a
case of the craving virus. Her parents had thought
her dead, and there was no place in the world for a
female blue blood such as herself, so she'd ended
up staying at the guild and taking a position there in
the laboratories with Fitz. In three short years,
she'd become quite adept at crime scene
investigation,
whereas Fitz still fainted at the sight
of blood.
Had Ava received the same invitation? The
thought irritated him a little, for he'd thought this to
be his mystery. However, he saw Ava as a friend
—one of the few he truly owned—so he pushed the
thought away.
"Same reason, perhaps, as yours." Ava lifted
the invitation ruefully, juggling her parasol in her
other hand. "I received this but an hour ago. It
sounded urgent."
"Urgent?"
Ava offered him the piece of parchment.
To the Divine Miss McLaren. An offer awaits
you, if you dare. Come immediately.
Ava's cheeks colored. "I thought—perhaps—
an admirer. I was just curious...."
"You should be more careful," Byrnes said
with a frown, turning it over to find the same
address listed. "What if it hadn't been? What if
someone with nefarious intentions sent this to you
instead?"
"They still might have nefarious intentions,"
she suggested.
"Yes, but my virtue is nonexistent, and
everyone knows it. So I doubt they'd have invited
me."
Ava rolled her pretty green eyes. She was
used to his humor, though she often told him it was
lacking. "I'm a blue blood, Byrnes. There's not a
lot that could kill me, and considering my heart is
made of metal, perhaps not even a stake through
that, hmm? And you've taught me how to protect
myself. I deemed it an acceptable risk."
True. Blue bloods were exceedingly difficult
to kill, thanks to the craving virus, which could
heal most injuries. That didn’t mean that killing
one was impossible, and Ava had already suffered
enough in life.
Byrnes looked up at the building. "They still
might have dangerous intentions. You should let me
go first."
"I should," Ava said, swinging her parasol
with a dangerous glint in her eyes, "but I'm not
going to. For goodness sakes, Byrnes, I'm not a
debutante. Besides, I have this—"
The parasol swung toward him, and Byrnes
tensed, ready for anything. "I'm not certain I've
fully recovered from the last ingenious device.
What does this one do?"
Her eyes glittered, and she slid her hand
toward some trigger on the handle. The tip of it
was pressed directly against his chest. “Want to
find out?”
"On second thought, I don't want to know," he
replied, moving it swiftly away from him.
Ava laughed. "Trust me. Nobody wants to be
on the receiving end of my electromagnetic
discombobulating device. Talk about sweeping
men off their feet...."
"After you, then," he said, and knocked on the
door again.
The second his knock died down, the door
swung inwards.
A butler appeared, impeccable in black.
"Good morning, Master Byrnes. Miss McLaren.”
Byrnes hadn't heard him so much as breathing.
“I believe you have the advantage of us….” He
didn’t like not being the one in the know.
“My name is Herbert. Please come in. You're
expected."
Herbert's eyes were far too watchful for a
mere servant, and the way he moved was...
disturbingly graceful. Then there was the pale skin.
Could just be a result of London's perpetual cloud
coverage, but it might also be sign of a blue blood.
Byrne's eyes narrowed, one hand dropping to the
knife sheathed at his side as he stepped past. If he
didn't know any better, he would have classified
the butler as dangerous.
"Oh, thank you," Ava told the butler, holding
out her parasol.
Byrnes intercepted it and tossed it toward the
fellow.
Herbert snatched the parasol out of the air,
moving faster than the eye could see. The butler
froze, then returned Byrnes's narrowed glare with a
bland one. "Let me put this away for you, Miss
McLaren."
Huh.
Byrnes didn't take his eyes off the man as he
stepped inside, until the fellow turned to the
coatrack.
Ava gave him a look. "Byrnes," she mouthed.
He let a smile stretch over his lips. "For a
rogue blue blood, Herbert, you seem to have
escaped the fate of the rest of us."
Which was either an offer to join the
Nighthawks, the Coldrush Guards that protected
the queen, or death. Although “offer” could be
considered too charitable a word. The aristocratic
Echelon had once guarded their blue blood status
as a privilege, reserved only for the best. They
didn't take kindly to accidental infections.
"I still serve, Master Byrnes. However, my
particular skills were noticed by one who can
bypass certain rules."
Which narrowed the field considerably. The
plot thickened.
"The others are gathered in the library,"
Herbert said, gesturing them toward the stairs.
"Others?" Byrnes glanced up. He could hear
murmurs from above.
"The rest of the company, sir." Herbert
returned a bland smile that told him nothing. "If
you'll join them, I'll send for refreshments—"
"Do you know the purpose of this meeting?
Who's hosting it? Who's—"
"All shall be revealed, sir. Perhaps some
blud-wein for the lady?"
"Please," Byrnes replied, then offered Ava his
arm to escort her up the stairs.
"What do you think is going on?" she
whispered, her flyaway blonde curls brushing
against his shoulder.
"I don't have a bloody clue," he replied. "Who
are the others? What could they want with a pair of
Nighthawks? A case?" He shook his head. "No.
They wouldn't have requested your presence, and
they would have applied for the commission
through the guild master. Plus I'm fairly certain
Herbert could handle something like that himself."
"Do you think he's—"
"Very dangerous, I suspect."
That widened her eyes. Ava gave a delicate
sniff. "Not a case, then. I cannot smell any blood.
Only... lilies."
Lilies. His gut clenched, and his gaze raked
the foyer. That at least, boded well. There was
something mingled with the scent now though,
something almost musky. Byrnes frowned, as a
slither of warning lit down his spine, but Ava
tugged on his arm and drew him toward the library.
He lost whatever train of thought instinct had
served up.
"You seem distracted," she noted.
"Something on my mind." The curiosity was
almost itching on his skin. Who was the woman
who’d delivered the invitation? "Here we are."
Byrnes threw the doors open to the library,
drawing the attention of three sets of eyes from
within. Two men eyed each other across the
expanse of the room, one an enormous bruiser with<
br />
black hair and evil blue eyes, and the other a young
lad who bore evidence of the craving virus on his
pale skin and the faint gilded tones of his hair. The
higher a man's craving virus levels, the more his
skin and hair paled. The distance of almost five
feet parted the two men, and the lad looked both
cocky and amused, as if he'd been picking a fight
with the brute.
The woman leaning against the curtains rolled
her eyes. She was everything elegant, with loose
black hair swept into a chignon, and a sweeping
fall of violet skirts. Beautiful, but ultimately
uninteresting, as Byrnes could detect an Oriental
perfume about her, not the one he was hunting for.
"So who the hell are you?" The black-haired
giant demanded, staring up at them from an
armchair with his boot hooked up on his other
knee.
"This would be Master Byrnes, of the
Nighthawks," said the woman by the window,
crossing her arms with amused disdain, "and Miss
Ava McLaren, I presume?"
Byrnes and Ava exchanged a glance. Ava
looked a little discomfited by the strange man's
animosity, but tipped her chin up. "I believe you
have the advantage of us—"
The lady strode forward, her skirts swishing
about her legs as she clasped Ava's hand and
squeezed it gently. "My apologies. You may call
me Gemma Townsend. Information is an interest of
mine, and female blue bloods are so rare that I've
made a note of them. I believe you to be the third
located in London proper? The Duchess of
Casavian, Lady Peregrine of the Nighthawks—and
yourself?"
"There's one more," the lad muttered, "but
she... she ain't likely to be known."
Byrnes eyed him. "Charlie Todd?" He
recognized the boy as one of the rookery lads who
ran with Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel, though
the little bugger had grown. They were almost of a
height now.
The young man grinned and shook his hand.
"The one and only."
The Nighthawks occasionally had dealings in
the rookeries, and ever since the corrupt prince
consort had been dethroned, Blade had become a
common sight around town. The Hero of the
Realm, the commoners called him, thanks to his
part in the revolution that overthrew the prince
consort. More like the devil, Byrnes thought
privately. But Charlie was Blade’s ward, and had
passed on information before. Trustworthy enough,
which, considering Byrnes’s trust in others only
went so far, meant a lot.
"More fuckin’ blue bloods," the dark-haired