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  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