Demon Blood

him. Perhaps a bounder and, if so, probably an aristocrat—and he likely expected to be treated as one.
    Bully for him.
    She looked to the duke again. Like his companion, he wore a long black overcoat, breeches, and boots. A waistcoat buckled like armor over a white shirt with a simple collar reminiscent of the Horde’s tunic collar. Fashionable clothes, but almost invisible—as if overpowered by the man wearing them.
    Something, Mina suspected, that he did not just to his clothes, but to the people around him. She could not afford to be one of them.
    She’d never been introduced to someone of his standing before, but she’d seen Superintendent Hale meet the prime minister without a single gesture to acknowledge that he ranked above her. Mina followed that example and offered the short nod of an equal. “Your Grace. I understand that you did not witness this man die.”
    “No.”
    She looked beyond him. “And your companion . . . ?”
    “Also saw nothing,” the other man answered.
    She’d been right; his accent marked him as a bounder. Yet she had to revise her opinion of him. He wasn’t bored by the death—just too familiar with it to be excited by yet another. She couldn’t understand that. The more death she saw, the more the injustice of each one touched her. “Your name, sir?”
    His smile seemed just at the edge of a laugh. “Mr. Smith.”
    A joker. How fun.
    She thought a flicker of irritation crossed the duke’s expression. But when he didn’t offer his companion’s true name, she let it go. One of the staff would know.
    “Mr. St. John has told me that no one has identified the body, and only your footman saw his fall.”
    “Yes.”
    “Did your footman relate anything else to you?”
    “Only that his landing sounded just like a man falling from the topsail yard to the deck below. Except this one didn’t scream.”
    No scream? Either the man had been drunk, asleep, or already dead. She would soon find out which it was.
    “If you’ll pardon me, Your Grace.”
    With a nod, she turned toward the steps, where Newberry tested the camera’s flashing light. She heard the Iron Duke and his companion follow her. As long as they did not touch the body or try to help her examine it, she did not care.
    Mina looked down at her hands. She would touch the body, and Newberry had not thought to bring her serviceable wool gloves to exchange for her white evening gloves. They were only satin—neither her mother’s tinkering nor her own salary could afford kid—but they were still too dear to ruin.
    She tugged at the tips of her fingers, but the fastenings at her wrist prevented them from sliding off. Futilely, she tried to push the small buttons through equally small satin loops. The seams at the tips of her fingers made them too bulky, and the fabric was too slippery. It could not be done without a maid, or a mother.
    She looked round for Newberry, and saw that the black powder from the ferrotype camera already dusted his hands. Blast it. She lifted her wrist to her mouth, pushed the cuff of her sleeve out of the way with her chin, and began to work at the tiny loops with her teeth. She would bite them through, if she had to. Even the despised task of sewing the buttons back on would be easier than—
    “Give your hand over, Inspector.”
    Mina froze, her hackles rising at the command. She looked through her fingers at Trahaearn’s face.
    She heard a noise from his companion, a snorted half laugh—as if Trahaearn had failed an easy test.
    The duke’s voice softened. His expression did not. “May I assist you?”
    No , she thought. Do not touch me; do not come close. But the body on the steps would not allow her that reply.
    “Yes. Thank you, Your Grace.”
    She held out her hand, and watched as he removed his own gloves. Kid, lined with sable. Just imagining that luxurious softness warmed her.
    She would not have been surprised if his presence had, as well. With his great size, he seemed to surround her with heat just by standing so near. His hands were large, his fingers long and nails square. As he took her wrist in his left palm, calluses audibly scraped the satin. His face darkened. She could not tell if it was in anger or embarrassment.
    However rough his skin was, his fingers were nimble. He deftly unfastened the first button, and the next. “This was not the evening you had planned.”
    “No.”
    She did not say this was preferable to the Victory Ball, but perhaps he read it in her