by Olivia Drake
“Smugglers?” Gabriel said.
“Perhaps there’ll be a fine French brandy served at his house,” Uncle Nathaniel said with relish.
Lady Stokeford slapped him with her closed fan. “No more than one glass for you,” she chided. “We’ve a mission, and no room for drunkards.”
Bickell cleared his throat. “Ahem. ’Tisn’t smuggling, I fear. Rather, ’tis something far more sordid.” Earnestness on his ruddy face, he leaned forward, his ample belly resting on his scrawny knees. “’Tis devil worship.”
Silence reigned in the drawing room.
Then Gabriel burst out laughing. “Satanic rites? What nonsense.”
But Bickell’s face remained anxious. “Last May Day, two farm lads spied some gentlemen prancing around a bonfire on the beach. They cast off their black robes and danced—” Glancing at Kate and Lady Stokeford, the Runner bobbed his balding head. “Begging your pardon, ladies, but the rest is too indelicate for your ears.”
Gabriel gestured toward the door. “We’ll speak in my office.”
“No,” Kate said. The idea of fussy, aristocratic Sir Charles dancing naked on a beach was simply too absurd to be believed. “Lady Stokeford and I would like to hear these allegations.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” the dowager added, sitting up straight in her high-backed chair. “Kindly proceed, Mr. Bickell.”
He rubbed his bristled chin. “At the last winter solstice, a young woman vanished from a nearby village. Upon returning the next day, she swore she’d been drugged and misused by a band of men dressed in black robes.”
A chill coursed through Kate. Here was a far more serious claim. “Did she see their faces?”
“They wore hoods, miss, and devil’s horns. When she screamed, they forced her to drink a potion that made her pass out. She remembered naught else until she awakened in a field the next morning, some five miles from home.”
“Surely there was a hue and cry,” Lady Stokeford said. “Why were these villains not captured?”
“Begging your pardon again, milady, this female wasn’t any decent sort, but a poor serving girl in a tavern.”
“That shouldn’t matter,” Kate declared heatedly. “The poor have rights, too.”
“Of course,” Bickell said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
His hands clasped behind his back, Gabriel paced slowly, looking incongruous in the crimson livery and white wig.
“Devils and robed men,” Uncle Nathaniel said with a snort. “The chit imbibed too much, went off with a man, and feared being found out.”
“But if her story is true,” Kate said, “then something must be done.”
Bickell mournfully shook his head. “Without a warrant, I’ve no jurisdiction in these parts, miss. ’Tis a matter for the local magistrate.”
“Who happens to be Sir Charles Damson,” Gabriel said on a note of irony.
“This all seems rather far-fetched,” Lady Stokeford said, her eyebrows quirked in doubt. “Men cavorting on beaches. And a strange, garbled tale told by a tavern girl.”
“There’s one more thing,” Bickell said ominously. “There’s been whispers afloat in London about Damson’s club.”
Gabriel frowned. “One of the St. James Street clubs?”
“Nay, milord.” Bickell’s ruddy face settled into a grim expression. “’Tis said that Damson heads a secret society for certain gentlemen of quality. They call themselves...the Lucifer League.”
The Egyptian
Damson Castle brooded like a demon on a cliff overlooking the sea.
Peering out the window of the coach, Kate half expected to see a spiked tail twisting down the hillside. Pennants flapped atop the gatehouse, and a crenellated wall barricaded the massive stone keep. The fortress looked like a perfectly preserved example of medieval architecture, although Gabriel had said it had been recently constructed by Sir Charles.
The four towers pierced the gray flesh of the swollen clouds. The day had turned dark and gusty beneath a sky that threatened rain. Mercifully, the storm had held off, sparing the servants who rode outside.
Including one counterfeit footman.
Despite her warm cloak, Kate shivered. For all that Gabriel’s disguise had amused her, she also dreaded the ordeal that lay ahead. In a few moments, she must greet her father’s murderer with a smile.
“What a sinister place,” Lady Stokeford said with a grimace. “I’ve always said that a man’s home reveals much about his character.”
Solemn for once, Uncle Nathaniel regarded her and Kate from his seat across the coach. “Mind you two don’t wander away on your own. ’Twould seem this fellow and his companions are ruffians of the worst ilk.”
The Lucifer League.
Kate remembered that Meg had heard gossip about the sordid club and had even broached an innocent query to Sir Charles himself. The baron had confirmed the group’s existence while denying any association with it. But was it real? Kate wondered. Or merely an exaggeration?
The coach rattled over the drawbridge and into the castle yard, where several other carriages discharged their occupants. As they waited for a position near the front door, Kate gazed up at the tall, square keep, wishing she were back at Gabriel’s house. That fine example of Tudor restraint had exuded a warmth and coziness that reminded her of Larkspur Cottage. She had fallen in love with the place, from the wild gardens and the sweep of green lawn, to the quaint rooms and the practical furnishings.
In a flash of avarice, she’d coveted Fairfield Park. She couldn’t fathom how Gabriel could spend his life wandering when he owned such a beautiful house.
The coach inched forward and then stopped before the entrance to the keep. As the door swung open, Gabriel in his white wig and crimson livery stood smartly at attention. Lady Stokeford stepped out, followed by Kate. Gabriel stared straight ahead, without so much as a flicker of a glance at the ladies.
A gust of wind tossed a flurry of raindrops that struck Kate like icy pinpricks. Shivering, she let Uncle Nathaniel lead her and Lady Stokeford up the broad stone steps. Looking back, she saw Gabriel leap up to the driver’s seat and sit beside the coachman, a dour servant with swarthy features.
At a glance, Ashraf looked like any other coachman in livery. Kate didn’t quite trust the man, but they would need him to fetch Barnabas Bickell when the time came.
Then the great doors opened, and the small party walked into the keep. In startling contrast to the medieval exterior, the modem foyer would have suited the finest mansion. The plastered walls had been painted a marbled russet color, an elegant backdrop for the many gilt mirrors and lighted torchères. Great sprays of orchids decorated the side tables. As a dramatic focal point, a curving staircase with an iron balustrade soared upward without any apparent support.
Kate’s gaze riveted to the man who stood greeting several guests on their way upstairs. Sir Charles Damson cut a dapper figure in a peacock-blue coat and yellow waistcoat, his starched white cravat perfectly tied. He looked like the consummate gentleman of fashion.
A hard knot of rage pressed on her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. This man had ordered Papa’s death.
Spying them, Sir Charles excused himself and made his way across the green marble floor. The flaxen curls of a choirboy framed his fine, pale features. His affable smile sickened her.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go through with the scheme.
He bowed over her hand. “My dear Miss Talisford,” he said effusively. “How very delighted I was to receive your note. I had quite given up hope that you would attend my humble gathering.”
Kate’s throat felt paralyzed. Her ears buzzed, and for a horrid moment, she feared she might fly at him in a frenzy, clawing that smooth, cunning, aristocratic face.
Sir Charles didn’t seem to notice her agitation. “Where is your dear sister?”
He looked straight at her, awaiting her answer. To avenge Papa, she must play her role to the hilt. Drawing strength from the
thought, Kate withdrew her hand and coerced a smile. “Meg remained at home, of course.”
“Alone at Larkspur Cottage?”
He didn’t know they’d moved to Stokeford Abbey. “She’s staying with ... friends. Do let me introduce my uncle, Nathaniel Babcock.”
Ever the gracious host, Sir Charles turned his attention to the couple standing beside her. “It’s a pleasure,” he said. “I didn’t expect this lovely lady.”
Placing a proprietary hand on the dowager’s arm, Uncle Nathaniel gave her a look of soulful devotion. “This is my betrothed bride. Lucy, the incomparable Lady Stokeford.” The slight narrowing of Sir Charles’s eyes betrayed his recognition of Gabriel’s family name. Kate pressed her gloved fingertips into her palms. Would the baron suspect their purpose here? Or would he shrug off the presence of Gabriel’s grandmother as mere coincidence?
Playing her part in the ruse, Lady Stokeford gazed rapturously at Uncle Nathaniel. “We’ve known each other since Nathaniel was a brash young cavalier, determined to charm all the debutantes. Who would have guessed all those years ago that we would end up marrying?” Turning to the baron, she smiled brilliantly. “You must forgive us, Sir Charles, for behaving like lovebirds. Nathaniel only just made his offer to me two days ago.”
“Two days, three hours, and thirty-seven minutes,” Uncle Nathaniel declared. “I couldn’t bear to leave my beloved, so I persuaded Kate to include her. A young lady needs a female chaperone.”
“You’re wise to watch over her, my lady,” Sir Charles said. “You’re one of the famous Rosebuds, are you not?”
“Oh, la. That was long before your time.” Looking around with bright-eyed attention, Lady Stokeford stepped across the foyer to examine a small figurine of a seated, cross-legged man with a strange, cone-shaped hat. “What an unusual object. What is its origin, pray tell?”
“It’s an ancient Hindu god from Java,” Sir Charles said. “The statue is fashioned of volcanic stone.”
“Oh, my. And there’s another one,” she said, pointing to a bronze sculpture of Oriental origin. “Are you perchance a collector?”
“Yes, there are many more artifacts scattered all over my castle.” The penetrating glance Sir Charles cast at Kate made her skin crawl. “Miss Talisford, in particular, will enjoy seeing them.”
“Then you don’t mind if we have a look around?” Uncle Nathaniel asked.
The baron shaped his thin lips into a pleasant grin. “Explore to your heart’s content. I want all of you to feel right at home here.”
Gabe did his best to be unobtrusive, a task that proved more difficult than he’d anticipated.
Led by the housekeeper, he and the cartman wrestled the trunks upstairs and deposited them in the appropriate bedchambers, first his grandmother’s and then nearby, Nathaniel Babcock’s, both situated in the east wing. Kate, however, had been assigned a large, airy bedchamber in one of the towers at the opposite end of the castle.
Gabe heartily disliked the arrangement. Had Damson separated Kate from her chaperones on purpose? What the bloody hell did that bastard have in mind for her?
Gabe let down the trunk with a loud thump in the dressing room, startling the apple-cheeked maid. Betty started to curtsy, then checked herself, casting him a frightened glance. He hadn’t wanted to include her in the scheme, but Kate and his grandmother needed a maid. Back at Fairfield Park, he had lectured the girl so sternly she still looked petrified.
So much the better. The last thing he needed was a servant with a babbling tongue.
Rain drummed on the windows as he went out into the bedchamber, taking in the room at a glance. The circular walls and pale rose draperies made the place look like a scene out of a damned storybook. A gauzy white fabric veiled the four-poster bed, and he imagined Kate lying there asleep, her wild curls spilling over the pillows, her body soft and warm.
And naked.
The fantasy was so real that he heard her voice. A second later, he spied her speaking to Mrs. Swindon near the door.
He walked toward them, keeping his head lowered, though his gaze remained concentrated on Kate. She stripped off her pelisse, revealing the deep green dress that showed off her fine figure. His pulse leapt in utter disregard for his guise as footman.
As he approached, she flicked a cool glance at him, but continued talking to the housekeeper. “I prefer to be closer to my uncle and Lady Stokeford.”
“I fear ’tis impossible,” Mrs. Swindon said in an obsequious tone. “Begging your pardon, but I had a time locating a chamber for her ladyship.”
“Perhaps she could share mine, then.”
The housekeeper shook her head, the strings of her mobcap fluttering around her common, earthy features. “I fear such an arrangement would offend the baron. He gave orders that no one was to be so inconvenienced.”
Gabe wanted to snap out his opinion of Damson’s mandate. Compressing his lips, he stepped past the pair and went out onto the small landing.
“Whitcombe,” Kate called after him, using his predetermined alias. “Fetch me a tea tray, please.”
Gabe bowed. The request would give them a chance to speak in private. He relished the prospect.
The housekeeper followed him out, closing the door. He stepped back to allow her to precede him down the winding stone stairs. “How polite you are,” Mrs. Swindon said, giving him an unmistakably coy glance over her shoulder. “Unlike some of these what think themselves so high and mighty.”
Gabe shrugged. It was best to say as little as possible.
“Loyal to your mistress, are you? I like devotion in a man.”
He could think only that he was angry about the room arrangements, and alarmed that Kate would be so isolated. Already, he had gleaned the names of the guests, noblemen he had known from his London days. Apart from a few ladies, they were men of unsavory reputation, knaves and scapegraces, aristocrats with nothing more productive to do than gamble and drink and whore.
And join secret clubs like the Lucifer League.
The thought enhanced his disquiet. At first, he’d doubted the club’s existence—until he’d heard about the abducted girl. That was exactly the sort of titillating antic sought after by jaded noblemen. If Damson or one of his cohorts dared to lay a hand on Kate ...
They reached the bottom of the stairs. “The kitchen is this way,” Mrs. Swindon said in a chipper tone. “I’ll show you.”
“I’m sure I can find it,” Gabe said. “You must have other guests to attend to.”
“Nonsense. Your mistress was the last arrival.”
The housekeeper smiled lustily at him as they started down the passageway. A full-figured woman in a gray dress that was cut a tad too low for her station, Mrs. Swindon eyed him with frank interest, her gaze roving up and down as if he were a choice cut of beef.
“A pity Miss Talisford has given you orders,” she went on. “I’d hoped to invite you into my private sitting room for a spot of tea.” She winked at him in blatant invitation. “You look like a man I’d like to become better acquainted with.”
He forced a smile. “Perhaps another time,” he said as they descended a small staircase.
‘Tomorrow, then.” Tilting her head, she gazed keenly at him. “How fine your manners are. You must have had some education.”
His muscles tensed. Had he betrayed himself? Surely she was only making conversation. “My father was a schoolmaster,” he improvised.
Thankfully, they entered the kitchen and she could ask no more. The huge room was a madhouse of dinner preparations, with scullery maids and house boys scurrying here and there, and a French chef snapping out orders to the undercooks. Several footmen polished silver in the butler’s pantry.
Flashing him an avid parting smile, the housekeeper swept into an adjoining room. Remembering the instructions he’d gleaned from Ashraf, Gabe found a teapot and cup in a cupboard, along with the tea leaves. He poured hot water from a steaming kettle on the hob. But when he reached for a tray of steaming rol
ls that had just come out of the oven, the chef threatened him with a dripping ladle. “Merde! Zat is for ze master’s table.”
Seeing a dark-eyed maidservant peeling a mound of potatoes, Gabe cajoled her into fetching him bread and butter and cake. She trotted eagerly to the pantry, bringing him the items and introducing herself in a broad country accent as Sally.
He politely thanked her and turned away. Instead of taking the hint and returning to her duties, Sally continued to gaze adoringly at him as he buttered the bread and arranged it on a plate. Her blushing attention irked Gabe, but he didn’t have the heart to be cold.
Abruptly her face paled as she looked past him. Sally snatched up a potato, but it slipped through her fingers and bounced onto the flagstones, rolling away under a worktable.
Gabe turned to see who had frightened her so. Every muscle in his body went rigid.
A scowling man strode through the kitchen, eyeing Sally as she scrambled after the potato. The buzz quieted as everyone from the cooks to the kitchen boys watched the newcomer. A palpable fear hung in the air.
Although clad in a tailored suit and starched cravat, he looked nothing like a gentleman. He had a wiry build and narrow, skull-like features. His leathery face had a misshapen nose, obviously broken at one time, and deep-set black eyes. In his hand, he brandished a long willow switch.
Figgins.
Averting his head, Gabe fought back rage as he watched Damson’s minion out of the corner of his eye. But Figgins didn’t notice him. Towering over the girl, he raised the whip.
“Clumsy lout! The baron don’t pay ye to stand idle, nor to waste his food.”
As the switch came whistling down, Gabe reacted without thinking. He snatched up the plate, swung around, and lurched into Figgins. Thrown off balance, Figgins staggered against a worktable. The bread stuck to his black suit for a moment and then fell, leaving behind several greasy smears of butter.
Gabe wished he’d used a knife. Keeping his face lowered, he bent to collect the ruined bread. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
