Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy by Bec McMaster Page B

don't like the new world order the queen has presented us with."
    "Names?"
    Debney's nostrils flared. "Caleb—"
    "Who are you protecting? Yourself? Your friends? Are they involved?"
    "I don't have any friends, curse you. Look around. I'm certain it hasn't escaped your notice that I'm distinctly short of a valet at the moment. I had to let my thrall go earlier this year too—I couldn't afford to pay her the pin money the queen insists every thrall must receive, thanks to her new laws, so Elsie had to return to her father. In the eyes of the Echelon I'm in dun territory. Creditors keep hounding me, and my so-called friends seem to have vanished off the face of the earth. My mother's dead, my brother wants nothing to do with me, and even though old Henslow and his wife are still here, I'm fairly certain I'm going to have to let them go by the end of the year too.
    "You know what?" Debney seemed to find some strength from somewhere. "Who am I protecting? Myself? What a joke. There's nothing to protect. Maybe if they killed me it'd be a bloody relief. I'll even do you a favor—consider it one for the road before we part. There's an invitation around here somewhere for a house party this weekend at Lord Ulbricht's country home. The bloody SOG are throwing some kind of party for young disaffected lordlings like me. I dismissed it, for I'm not an idiot—it's a recruiting drive if ever I've seen one, and I'd really rather not be caught between the ruling Council of Dukes and the SOG—but I'll give it to you. It's on the secretary there, I think."
    Byrnes examined him for a moment longer. They'd never truly been brothers and he despised most of what Debney was, but there was a sense of hopelessness in his half brother's face. This was the most impassioned Debney had ever been. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"
    "Why? Worried you'd be called in to identify the body? I'm sure such a thing would only be an inconvenience for you."
    Byrnes eyed the stiff way Debney sat. "I don't wish you ill. I've never wished you ill. It would... grieve me to see you dead."
    Debney raked a hand over his face, the sneer vanishing as something more akin to hopelessness filled his expression. "I'm not going to do anything suicidal. I'll leave that to you and your mad scheme to confront Ulbricht and his cronies." Looking up, his voice softened. "They're dangerous, Caleb. Those who speak out against them or threaten to reveal their secrets have a tendency to go missing. And we're talking about dukes and barons here, people in positions of power. If you think that your Nighthawk status protects you, then you're wrong."
    "I'm used to dealing with dangerous people," he replied, crossing to the secretary and rifling through the piled up invitations there. He finally found the one he wanted and tapped the invitation against his thigh as he turned back to Debney. "It's made out in your name."
    "Of course." Debney frowned, then understanding dawned. "You can't use it yourself ."
    "Why not?" Undercover work was one of his fortes. "Just how large is this gathering going to be?"
    "It doesn't matter how large it will be." Debney's gaze raked over him. "You're not.... You wouldn't fit in. They'd spot you from a mile away."
    Byrnes looked down at himself. "I mustn't have realized that my rogue blue blood status was emblazoned on my forehead. I might, however, need to borrow some clothes—"
    "It's not the clothes, or the fact that your infection was unapproved," Debney protested. "Christ, Caleb, it's the attitude, it's everything—even the calluses on your hands. You don't look like some idle aristocrat, and you never will."
    Which wasn't something that had ever bothered him. Byrnes arched a brow.
    "You look like you kill people for a living." Debney interpreted the look correctly.
    "Part of the job description sometimes. I don't do it for fun."
    Debney threw his hands up in the air. "Fine. Try your luck. I don't know why I should care. Just—if