Duke of Pleasure

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  All three nodded. Hugh waved the men to the back of the house. They would be following his carriage, each in his own way.

  He turned to Alf. “Do I have your word?”

  She tilted her head. “Of course.”

  He took her shoulders and couldn’t refrain from a little shake. She was such a passionate thing, and he knew she had some affection for him. “They may beat me or even try and kill me. You must not intervene. This mission has only one goal: to rescue Peter. If you show yourself before they take me to him, all this will be in vain. We will have lost him.”

  She set her jaw, her big brown eyes serious, and for the first time he saw in her gaze all the years that she’d lived on this earth.

  “I know,” she said as she cradled his face in her palms. “We’ll bring back your son, safe and sound. Together.”

  “Be careful,” he said fiercely, and kissed her hard.

  He turned and went out the front door.

  The carriage ride to Crewe’s house seemed to take an age. He watched from the windows, though he couldn’t see either of his men or Alf.

  That was a good thing, he reminded himself. If he couldn’t see them, then any of the Lords watching wouldn’t be able to see them, either.

  When the carriage finally stopped, Hugh stepped out with the papers in a folder under his arm. He mounted the steps to Crewe’s house and knocked.

  The door was opened by Dowling, looking nervous. “You’re by yourself?”

  Hugh nodded. “Where’s my son?”

  Dowling ignored his question to peer at the street behind Hugh. “Come inside.”

  Hugh stepped into the house. Immediately two men came at him, one from either side, and took his arms. He didn’t resist. Dowling snatched the file away as the men found and removed the dagger in Hugh’s coat pocket.

  Dowling nodded to the bully on Hugh’s right.

  They led him farther into the house, down a hall, and into a sitting room.

  Exley was waiting there, drinking tea, and looking more like a cadaver than ever.

  He glanced up on their entrance. “Did he have the papers?”

  Dowling stepped forward, handing over the file.

  “Where’s my son?” Hugh demanded again.

  Exley flicked a finger without looking up from the file.

  One of the rogues holding Hugh punched him in the side of the head.

  He fell to his knees, his ears ringing. Hugh planted one hand on the floor to brace himself and stood up, glaring at the earl.

  “They seem to be all here,” Exley drawled after another minute. He finally looked up at Hugh. “Your son is… safe.” He smiled. “For the moment, in any case. Make any attempt at escape or at harming any of us and he won’t be, I can promise you that. Do you understand?”

  “I’ve already brought you the papers,” Hugh said calmly. “All I want is Peter back.”

  “Good.” Exley nodded at the toughs.

  Immediately a hood was thrown over Hugh’s head. He fought not to struggle, not to resist in any way, but it was hard. Especially when their next step was to tie his hands together in front of him with cord.

  They marched him through the house and out the back door—he could tell from the smell of the kitchens. Through the gardens and into the mews. He hoped his men and Alf could see him. A carriage was in the mews, and he was roughly bundled in.

  The carriage rocked as they set off, but then jolted to a stop not five minutes later. Hugh tensed and felt himself being shoved out one carriage door and into another without even touching the ground. The carriages must have been side by side.

  Immediately the second carriage pulled away.

  Had his men noticed the switch?

  He turned his head, inhaling, listening, trying to discover where they were in London.

  Once again they stopped abruptly, and once again they changed carriages.

  Now he could smell the rot of fishes. The river? Were they headed to the wharves?

  The carriage stopped for a third time, and Hugh prepared to stand.

  “Just a minute, Your Grace,” Exley said, and a hand pressed the hood to Hugh’s mouth and nose, while others held his arms and legs.

  He bucked. Despite the warning to submit. It was an instinctive reaction to the lack of air.

  He heard Exley’s laughter as his body jerked and his lungs seized, and he knew: he’d failed.

  He’d failed.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Black Prince rode far away from the castle and cut the belled jesses from the Golden Falcon’s legs. He tossed her into the air and shouted, “Go!”

  The bird wheeled and tried to return to his arm, but he threw pebbles at her until she at last screamed her grief and flew away.

  He watched until he could see her no more. Then he returned to his father and presented him with a still-bleeding chicken heart.

  The Black Wizard smiled. “Well done, my son.”…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  She’d failed.

  Alf slid down a balcony roof, jumped to a stack of crates, and hopped down to the cobblestones, desperately scanning the carriage she’d been following from the rooftops. It was drawn by a pair of blacks, the one on the right missing half an ear. The carriage was the second one they’d tossed Kyle into. Now it was stopped, the horses standing with their heads lowered, dozing, and the driver smoking a pipe. Her worst fears were confirmed when she ran around the back and saw the interior was empty.

  She’d lost Kyle.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Alf turned in a circle, searching the street, searching the crowd. He’d been hooded. Had they somehow left the carriage without her seeing? Bundled him into one of the buildings along the way? Should she retrace the carriage route?

  But what if they’d pulled that trick again? What if they’d put him into yet another carriage? Or a wagon under a blanket? He could be halfway to Bath and she none the wiser.

  “Fucking hell!”

  She began jogging back the way she’d come. Maybe Talbot or Jenkins had been more observant.

  But that hope was dashed when she turned a corner and saw Talbot peering under a tarp on a cart, ignoring the swearing driver.

  Talbot turned and saw her and started in her direction. “Do you know where he is, miss?”

  She shook her head bitterly. “I lost him in the second carriage they put him in.”

  “Better than Jenkins and me,” Talbot said bitterly. “We followed the first until we saw it was empty.”

  Jenkins came jogging toward them, his brow damp with sweat and his face grim. “Nothing. I looked in all directions at the crossroads. There wasn’t even a carriage in sight. We’ve lost him.”

  She closed her eyes, trying hard to think. “Where would they take him?”

  “I don’t know, miss,” Talbot said.

  “Well we can’t just stand here,” she growled, hands on hips. She made a decision. “Right. Back to Kyle House. We’ll consult with Riley. Maybe send out Bell and some footmen to St Giles. I have contacts I can direct them to. At least try and get some information.”

  “That’s a good idea, miss.” Jenkins began walking swiftly. Alf had to jog to keep up with the two men. “I’ll work at the cypher. It seems strange that the earl reacted so violently to the theft of the papers. Other than the cypher, they all seemed innocent enough.”

  Alf nodded, feeling bad for taking out her worry for Kyle on the two men. “We ought to send word to Lady Jordan as well. The more minds the better.”

  But when they returned to Kyle House, they found Iris already waiting in the library.

  She looked up as Alf and the two former soldiers entered. “Is it true what Mr. Riley tells me? That Peter…”

  Alf nodded once. “Yes. Kyle brought the papers to Exley, and we followed them when they took him away, but…” She shook her head. “We lost them. We lost him.”

  “Oh.” Iris
sat suddenly in Kyle’s chair, her face paper white. “Oh.”

  “We don’t know where they may’ve taken him,” Alf said, feeling restless and useless. “Where they might have Peter.”

  Iris suddenly looked up. “But I might help.” She fumbled in her pocket.

  “What do you mean, my lady?” Talbot asked.

  “I solved the cypher,” Iris said, drawing her copy out of her pocket. “It was quite a lovely little puzzle and it did take me a while, but around seven this morning I remembered Polybius and his checkerboard, and after that it was quite easy, really.”

  She pointed to a strange little diagram she’d drawn beside the two columns of numbers:

  “You see? Each letter is composed of two numbers. So, for instance, A is 61 and CAT would be 636194. It’s quite clever.” Iris glanced up from her cypher and seemed to realize that none of them—with the possible exception of Jenkins—had any idea who Polybius was, let alone what she was talking about.

  Iris cleared her throat. “The point is, it’s a list of names. But at the bottom, you remember those longer numbers?”

  “Aye,” Alf said, looking over her shoulder.

  Iris smiled. “That’s a location.”

  “Oh,” Alf breathed. Hope suddenly rushed into her breast. She looked up and caught Talbot’s eye. “Have the carriage brought around.”

  “Yes, miss!” The big man was already rushing out the door.

  She turned to Jenkins. “Find three footmen to guard Kit. We’re going to need Riley. And we’ll need to arm ourselves.”

  Jenkins raised his eyebrows. “We, miss?”

  She nodded. “I’m going, too.”

  “I don’t know that the duke would want you putting yourself in danger, miss,” Jenkins said gravely.

  “Well, he’ll just have to tell me that himself after we rescue him, won’t he?”

  She was out the library door and rushing up the stairs while Iris was still protesting. She had her daggers hidden on her body, but her swords were still under the bed in the servants’ room.

  Five minutes later she was back down the stairs, buckling on her swords. Iris and Kyle’s men were gathered in the hallway.

  Riley looked intently at her. “You know how to use those, miss?”

  Alf raised her chin. “Yes, I do.”

  The three men—all former soldiers and older than she—exchanged glances. Then Jenkins nodded. “Good enough.”

  Alf turned to Iris. “Please send word to Copernicus Shrugg, the King’s secretary, about what has happened and where we think the Lords of Chaos have taken Kyle.”

  “I’ll send a man on horseback at once,” Iris said, and then blurted, “dear God, be careful.”

  She hugged Alf hard.

  Alf squeezed the other woman back, inhaling her delicate rose scent. “Can you take care of Kit while we’re gone?”

  “Of course I can.” Iris stepped back with tears rimming her eyes. “Now go.”

  They ran out the door and down the steps and into the carriage. Jenkins and Talbot sat on one bench, she and Riley together across from them.

  The carriage rattled into motion.

  Alf sat tensely, watching out the window as the carriage rumbled through the streets. The address Iris had deciphered was east, by the river, and she wondered now if they should’ve tried to take a wherry. Exley had a head start. They might not even arrive in time, before…

  But it was too late to second-guess herself. Better to make a plan and stick to it.

  She glanced at the others in the carriage. Riley was jiggling his leg up and down, but he shot her a quick grin when he caught her eye. Jenkins was stoic. Talbot had his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, and appeared to be whispering to himself.

  “Likes to pray before we go in,” Riley murmured, tilting his head at Talbot. “He’s a religious sort.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, fingering her long sword.

  “You’re the Ghost, aren’t you, miss?”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her brows raised.

  The Irishman grinned as he swayed with the carriage’s movement. “He was taken with you, miss, right from the start.”

  Across from them Jenkins cleared his throat.

  Riley flushed. “What? You know it’s true.”

  Jenkins sighed. “Yes. It’s most certainly true.” He cleared his throat. “We were all quite pleased when we realized you were the Ghost, miss. Quite pleased indeed.”

  Alf bit her lip and looked down because she didn’t want to cry in front of these seasoned soldiers—not after she’d assured them that she was capable of handling herself in battle. But she was unaccountably touched by their words. By their acceptance.

  In that moment she realized that she might have a place, here among them. Here with Kyle and his sons. In his life. In his bed. Perhaps even in his heart.

  If she could find the courage within herself to ignore Ned’s long-ago advice and let herself become close to someone else. Let herself rely on someone else.

  If they could get Kyle and Peter out alive.

  She drew in a breath, straightening and bracing herself. There was no point in returning to Kyle House or even St Giles if they didn’t rescue Kyle and Peter safe and sound. There wasn’t anything left for her there.

  So she’d just have to make sure they succeeded.

  HUGH GAGGED AND desperately fought down the urge to vomit. He still wore the hood, and if he expelled the contents of his stomach he might choke to death. He could hear the sound of oars and feel the sway of the river.

  And his arse and shoulders were wet.

  He was definitely lying in the bottom of a boat.

  The boat thudded against wood, and someone kicked him in the ribs. “Get up.”

  He clumsily rolled to his knees and then stood. Rough hands grasped his elbows and helped him out of the boat. At least they didn’t want him at the bottom of the Thames.

  Yet.

  He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. How far they’d rowed down the river. He could feel stone under his feet as he stumbled up the river steps. He was led down a gravel path, up more steps, and into a building.

  “Welcome, Hugh Fitzroy, Duke of Kyle.” That was Exley’s voice, echoing oddly. “You wanted to know about the Lords of Chaos. Our members. Our business. Our private, sacred ceremonies.”

  The hood was pulled from his head by one of his guards.

  Hugh blinked. He stood in what had once been a church, by the look of the carved stone pillars marching in parallel rows. But there were great gaps in the ceiling and jagged, blackened beams outlined against the blue of the sky.

  Exley stood in front of what looked like a crude stone altar—certainly not the one original to the church. He was highlighted by a beam of sunlight, his arms raised in a parody of a blessing. Surrounding both him and Hugh was a circle of men in black robes, their faces entirely covered in animal masks, at least a dozen in all.

  Exley grinned a ghoul’s grimace. “Are you glad to have your wish fulfilled?”

  Hugh tested the ties on his wrists. “Where is my son?”

  The earl’s grin dimmed a little. “You grow repetitious, and I assure you, you are not the important one here.” Exley raised his arms again, his voice louder. “Lords of Chaos, welcome! We have had a winter of travails, a time of testing. Only the strongest, the most intelligent, and the most ruthless Lord is fit to lead our body.”

  The earl paused to gaze at his audience. His upper lip curled. “Sir Aaron Crewe thought himself capable of leading us. Yet he brought the prying eyes of Kyle down upon us by his folly in murdering the Duchess of Kyle.”

  The masked figures hissed their disapproval.

  Exley raised his hand to quiet them. “Never fear, my Lords. I have dealt with Crewe as I have dealt with Chase, another who sought to contest my leadership, for I—I am your rightful leader, your Dionysus!”

  Exley made a slight bow as the Lords cheered. “Today, my Lords, we ce
lebrate. We celebrate a new Dionysus and we celebrate the destruction of our enemy. We are all-powerful, my Lords. Not even a duke—the son of a king!—may seek to bring us to our knees.”

  The man was mad.

  Exley snapped his fingers, and a robed man wearing a mole mask led Peter into the ring of figures.

  Thank God. He was alive. Hugh felt his throat close.

  Peter had no such problems.

  “Papa!” he shrieked. “Papa! Papa! Papa!”

  The man in the mole mask must not have been expecting such a strong reaction from a little boy, for Peter wriggled from his grasp and ran to Hugh.

  Hugh knelt and swung his bound hands over the boy’s head, hugging him close. Peter was crying, his face a wet, hysterical mess.

  The man in the mole mask clutched at the boy’s shoulders, trying to tear him from Hugh’s arms.

  “Get your bloody hands off my son!” Hugh growled, backing away. He picked Peter up and clutched the boy to his chest.

  Two other Lords started for him.

  “Come now, Your Grace,” Exley crooned. “Don’t be foolish. Let my men take the sweet little boy. It will be far more pleasant in the long run, I think. For both of you.”

  Hugh looked at Exley. Looked at that damned mockery of an altar behind the earl.

  He had Peter in his arms, and yet Alf and his men weren’t making an appearance.

  They had lost him.

  There was no rescue.

  And he knew what the Lords of Chaos did at their revels to sweet little boys.

  He couldn’t give Peter up, couldn’t back down, couldn’t escape.

  He was going to have to do this alone.

  Hugh bent his head to his son’s wet face and whispered in his ear. “I love you, Peter.”

  Then he put his head down and charged the man in the mole mask.

  Mole Mask hadn’t been expecting his charge. Hugh hit the man in the belly with his shoulder and head and knocked them all to the ground. Peter was screaming, terrified. Hugh rolled, putting his son underneath him, and felt the blows as the other two Lords piled on top of him. He grunted, elbowing and kicking as best he could while still shielding Peter. Somehow he had to make it through the ring of robed men.