The Iron Duke by Meljean Brook Page A

privates would encourage him, but— Oh, blue heavens .
    She’d fired back. Though she’d been outgunned, she’d challenged the Iron Duke.
    So she was a fool. And now she would stay out of his way—she’d run, if necessary—until he forgot about it.
    She was already unlocking the gate when Trahaearn stopped the lift on the third level. His hand clamped over the steel before she could slide it open.
    His voice was low. “I warn you, inspector. The next time I have you alone, I’ll have you. Your mouth, at the least—and more, if you offer it.”
    She wouldn’t. “We’ve both lived many years in London, and our paths never crossed. After today, I cannot imagine we’ll meet again or have reason to be alone.”
    “You’ll go wherever there are dead bodies.” He released the gate. “I can arrange for several to be found.”
    Mina choked on a laugh. He would be like her mother, sending out letters until the recipients gave in. She hoped he did use bodies, then. With every one, her resolve would harden against him.
    Pushing aside the grating, she abandoned the lift and came upon Newberry standing in the middle of a large room, blushing a fiery red and unable to meet her eyes. Frowning, Mina looked round and saw why.
    The devices in this room weren’t sold in the public shops, but by special arrangement. A low chair supported a rubber phallus attached to a piston, which would pump when the user pushed on a pedal. A similar device sat next to it, designed to function with the woman in a standing position. Various others obviously took two people to operate, with suction cups and pistons driven by complicated gear mechanisms.
    Trahaearn stopped beside her, his gaze once again cold and disinterested as it skimmed the equipment. She truly, truly hated that look.
    “That one might serve your needs, Your Grace,” she said, and Newberry made a noise like a skewered eel when she gestured to a life-sized automaton featuring a rubber vagina and hips that swiveled. Though Mina felt sorry for the poor man, she could not resist pointing to another device. “But I suggest you do not try that one. A man hung himself on a similar machine last year. His mother suspected his wife of murder, but he’d simply been too eager, and strapped himself in before she returned from the market. Before the wife returned, that is. Not the mother.”
    Without expression, Trahaearn turned away from her. “The Blacksmith’s laboratories are in this direction.”
    Could a man who boldly propositioned a woman in a lift so quickly become a prude? She frowned, looking after him, but another wretched sound had her swinging around to check on her assistant.
    “ Breathe , Newberry. If you faint in the Blacksmith’s laboratory, only the stars above know what might be grafted to your body when you wake up.”
     
     
    Mina didn’t know when the Blacksmith had come to England. Years before the revolution, rumors had begun to circulate that a man in London could manipulate the advanced Horde technology that had created the nanoagents, creating mechanical flesh from it—advanced technology, which was forbidden outside of Xanadu, the Horde capital. But perhaps those rumors had just been wishful thinking, like the tales of a Horde rebellion that would destroy the empire from within.
    The rumors of a Horde resistance had proven false—but the Blacksmith might very well have been the source of the other tales. Before the fires of the revolution had cooled, he’d already carved out his territory in the Narrow, and defended it fiercely.
    But he rarely had to fight for it. Instead, his weapons included the incredible amounts of money from his shops—much of which he poured into the Crèche and the industrial guilds—and the unwavering loyalty he earned by offering prosthetic repairs and replacement parts for less than most blacksmiths could. For those laborers who couldn’t afford even his rates, he traded on favors. There were few people who had passed