Burning Up

a pirate all along, and the story was just designed to bolster faith in the king and his ministers after the revolution. That story and bestowing a title on Trahaearn had been two of King Edward’s last cogent acts. The crew had been given naval ranks, and Marco’s Terror pressed into the service of the Navy . . . where she’d supposedly been all along.
    The Iron Duke had traded the Terror and the seas for a title and a fortress in the middle of a slum. She wondered if he felt that exchange had been worth it.
    The gatekeeper glanced at her. “And the jade?”
    At Mina’s side, Newberry bristled. “ She is the detective inspector, Lady Wilhelmina Wentworth.”
    Oh, Newberry. In Manhattan City, titles still meant more than escaping the modification that the British lower classes had suffered under the Horde. And when the gatekeeper looked at her again, she knew what he saw—and it wasn’t a lady. Nor was it the epaulettes declaring her rank, or the red band sewed into her sleeve, boasting that she’d spilled Horde blood in the revolution.
    No, he saw her face, calculated her age, and understood that she’d been conceived during a Frenzy. And that, because of her family’s status, her mother and father had been allowed to keep her rather than being taken by the Horde to be raised in a crèche.
    The gatekeeper looked at her assistant. “And you?”
    “Constable Newberry.”
    Scratching his beard, the old man shuffled back toward the gatehouse. “All right. I’ll be sending a gram up to the captain, then.”
    He still called the Iron Duke “captain?” Mina could not decide if that said more about Trahaearn or the gatekeeper. At least one of them did not put much stock in titles, but she could not determine if it was the gatekeeper alone.
    The gatekeeper didn’t return—and former pirate or not, he must be literate if he could write a gram and read the answer from the main house. That answer came quickly. She and Newberry hadn’t waited more than a minute before the gates opened on well-oiled hinges.
    The park was enormous, with green lawns stretching out into the dark. Dogs sniffed along the fence, their handlers bundled up against the cold. If someone had invaded the property, he wouldn’t find many places to hide outside the buildings. All of the shrubs and trees were still young, planted after Trahaearn had purchased the estate.
    The house rivaled Chesterfield before that great building had fallen into disrepair and been demolished. Made of yellow stone, two rectangular wings jutted forward to form a large courtyard. Unadorned casements decorated the many windows, and the blocky stone front was relieved only by the window glass, and the balustrade along the top of the roof. A fountain tinkled at the center of the courtyard. Behind it, the main steps created semicircles leading to the entrance.
    On the center of the steps, a white sheet concealed a body-shaped lump. No blood soaked through the sheet. A man waited on the top step, his slight form in a poker-straight posture that Mina couldn’t place for a moment. Then it struck her: Navy. Probably another pirate, though this one had been a sailor—or an officer—first.
    A house of this size would require a small army of staff, and she and Newberry would have to question each one. Soon, she’d know how many of Trahaearn’s pirates had come to dry land with him.
    As they reached the fountain, she turned to Newberry. “Stop here. Set up your camera by the body. I want photographs of everything before we move it.”
    Newberry parked and climbed out. Mina didn’t wait for him to gather his equipment from the bonnet. She strode toward the house. The man descended the steps to greet her, and she was forced to revise her opinion. His posture wasn’t rigid discipline, but a cover for wiry, contained energy. His dark hair slicked back from a narrow face. Unlike the man at the gate, he was neat, and almost bursting with the need to help.
    “Inspector Wentworth.” With ink-stained fingers, he gestured to the body, inviting her to look.
    She was not in a rush, however. The body would not be going anywhere. “Mr.—?”
    “St. John.” He said it like a bounder, rather than the two abbreviated syllables of someone born in England. “Steward to his grace’s estate.”
    “This estate or his property in Wales?” Which, as far as Mina was aware, Trahaearn didn’t often visit.
    “Anglesey, Inspector.”
    Newberry passed them, easily carrying the heavy