None of them spoke as a sharp silence descended. Very surprising, considering recent developments. Then—
“They’re called the Heirs of Albion,” Lesperance said.
“Nathan!” Astrid Bramfield exclaimed, and Graves looked alarmed.
Yet it couldn’t be stopped now. “A very powerful group of Englishmen,” Lesperance continued. “They want the entire world as part of the British Empire, no matter the cost. But Astrid, Graves, and I are going to stop them. With the help of the other Blades of the Rose.”
“Lesperance, enough,” growled Graves.
Astrid Bramfield was at Lesperance’s side in a heartbeat, alarmed and concerned. Though she still held her pistol pointed at Gemma, her other hand cupped Lesperance’s face with tender anxiety. “What are you doing, revealing such secrets? This woman is a stranger.”
Frowning, Lesperance murmured, “I don’t know. I only know that we can trust her.”
“But she’s a
journalist,”
was Astrid’s reply. Her words fought against a sense of betrayal by one held so deeply within her heart. As Gemma had seen thousands of miles agoin the Northwest Territory, the connection and bond between Astrid Bramfield and Lesperance was palpable, enviable.
She’d never had that connection, that bond. And never would, given the choices in life she had made.
Gemma shouldered aside that familiar loneliness. “Don’t blame him,” she said quickly. “It’s an … ability I have. To get answers.”
“Ability?” Graves repeated, raising an eyebrow.
She did not want to dwell on something that might derail the entire conversation. “But Mr. Lesperance is right. You
can
trust me.”
“There is no such thing as a trustworthy reporter,” retorted Astrid Bramfield.
“You
did
say you were after a story,” Graves added, somewhat more gently.
Gemma thought quickly. “I can write about these Heirs of Albion and expose them. Stop whatever it is they plan on doing.”
Astrid Bramfield, despite her refined English accent, gave a very unladylike snort of disbelief. “It would not be so easy as that.”
If Gemma was to find an ally, it would not be with this tough, guarded woman, so she turned to Catullus Graves. He watched her carefully, commingled caution and interest in his expression.
“Exposure in a national newspaper can bring even the most powerful men down,” she said, meeting his gaze. Even behind the protective glass of his spectacles, his eyes were a dark pull. He observed her as if not entirely certain to what species she belonged.
“Astrid is right,” he answered. “If it was simply a matter of publishing an exposé, such a thing would have been done long ago. A few printed words would not even dent the Heirs’ armor. They are above trifles such as exposure and public opinion.”
“Surely no one is
that
powerful.”
“Miss Murphy,” he said, holding her gaze, “you have no idea.”
The gravity of his words, the seriousness of his handsome face, shook her like the deep tolling of a bell. Which meant she needed to know more.
“What could they possibly have at their disposal that gives them so much influence?”
Again, that tense silence fell, and Gemma could feel them all struggle against it, against her question.
“Magic,” Astrid blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She stabbed Gemma with an angry scowl.
Over the course of her life and professional career, Gemma had been the recipient of more than one angry scowl, and Astrid Bramfield’s could not upset her. Gemma was much more interested in what the Englishwoman had just revealed. “Magic,” Gemma repeated.
This was not a question, and so no one spoke.
With a deliberate gesture, Gemma put her derringer onto a nearby table, then gave it a small shove so that it moved out of her immediate reach. Now she was entirely unarmed.
Graves saw the move for what it was: a sign of faith. Theatrical, but effective. He tucked his own revolver into his belt, never taking his eyes from