My Irresistible Earl

by Gaelen Foley

  That was all he had ever really wanted from life, but his simple dream had lost its glamour after her defection.

  He smirked away any hint of self-pity, but at the same time, couldn’t help wondering if the charming brown-eyed coquette had ever bothered to grow up. Perhaps she would merely use her widowhood to keep collecting men.

  That’s what they all did, he thought cynically, all those fashionable, independent widows. He and his brother warriors had bedded many of them. Hell, they practically passed them around.

  Of course, if that was what Mara intended to do with her newfound freedom, it could provide him with a very interesting opportunity tomorrow night to satisfy his long-standing curiosity about what it would be like to make love to her, at last, this one woman who had haunted him to the ends of the earth…

  “Sold!”

  The gavel banged, jarring him out of his distraction.

  The Roman vases went to a portly fellow who was being congratulated by his art agent. Then Jordan could feel the tension escalating, a lightninglike electric charge hanging over the whole crowd. His outward demeanor did not change at all in response, but his vigilance intensified.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer addressed the opulent crowd. “Next, we have for you today, from an anonymous seller, an extremely rare set of medieval documents. Just recently discovered, they have never, in all their five hundred years, been made available before.”

  The only sound in the grand hall was a gust of the March wind that brought a burst of raindrops spattering against the glass panes of the high, arched windows.

  “We place before you six scrolls, circa 1350, in excellent condition, attributed to the colorful court astrologer known as Valerian the Alchemist. Medieval enthusiasts will recall that, according to legend, Valerian was behind a plot to assassinate Edward the Black Prince—for which he was hunted down and duly punished by a group of loyal knights sent by the king. So the story goes.”

  The crowd chuckled at the auctioneer’s wry tone.

  “For this, he met a rather nasty end.”

  Never cross a Warrington, Jordan thought wryly, thinking of his brother agent, Rohan. For generations, the Dukes of Warrington had produced the Order’s fiercest killers.

  The Earls of Falconridge, by contrast, had usually been the thinkers of the lot, superior strategists, code-breakers, linguists, but as good with a weapon as any of the rest.

  “Sepia and oxblood on parchment, the scrolls are written in Latin and Greek, with many odd runes and alchemical symbols and other notations of an unknown nature in the margins. They are presented in what we believe to be the original hardwood case: oak with kingwood veneer and mother-of-pearl inlays. The case, still in very sturdy condition, is velvet-lined, with sterling silver hasps.”

  Rows of elegant onlookers craned their necks to try to get a better view of the find.

  “In all, we feel the Alchemist’s Scrolls represent a truly rare opportunity to own a piece of England’s history. This treasure would make an excellent addition to any serious scholar’s library, or for collectors and private antiquarians with an interest in the folklore of the occult, or any other aficionados of the current Gothic craze. The bidding today will begin at three thousand pounds.”

  The crowd gasped at the dizzying sum, but to the Prometheans, Jordan knew, that would be a pittance to give up for such an acquisition, especially if the secret cult members believed that Valerian’s bizarre spells and dark rituals actually worked.

  Then the bidding began, fast and furious.

  Jordan scanned the crowd continuously with all his acute concentration, mentally sorting, memorizing the numbers on the paddles of all those bidding on the Scrolls, stacking up long strings of figures in his head.

  He would check the names later in the registry book and determine from that point if they warranted further investigation. Of course, Mr. Christie would not like the invasion of his clients’ privacy, but he’d have no choice. Such was the reach and power of the covert organization Jordan served. The Order of St. Michael the Archangel answered directly to the Crown and did not take no for an answer from anybody else, at least not when it came to the defense of the Realm.

  Still watching everything with fierce intensity, he mentally discarded a few of the bidders from the outset. Not all the interested parties were necessarily villains.

  The representative from the still fairly fledgling British Museum. A pair of archivists from the Bodleian Library at Oxford. A few eccentric foreigners acting on behalf of their distant princes, and one pasty-faced author of gory gothic novels whom the Order had once suspected but had soon cleared.

  He saw no sign of James Falkirk, the Promethean magnate they knew to be holding their captured agent, Drake Parry, the Earl of Westwood. No matter. Word would travel back to Falkirk soon enough—which was the point of all this.

  Before long, the bidding on the Scrolls had reached the dizzying sum of seven thousand pounds, to the amazement of all. Jordan doubted the bids could go much higher.

  Time to end this ruse. Now. Meeting Sergeant Parker’s gaze across the room, he gave his eyebrow a casual scratch.

  He did not look over again, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Parker note the signal; the sergeant turned and went immediately to one of Christie’s employees near the back of the grand room.

  Parker discreetly passed the Christie’s man a note that Jordan had earlier prepared; the employee read it and looked up with a blanch.

  Parker withdrew, leaving the premises, as ordered, to protect himself from being identified in the future.

  The Christie’s employee, in turn, hurried up the aisle toward the front of the room, looking rattled by this unforeseen turn of events.

  Meanwhile, the suspected Prometheans were so engrossed in getting their hands on the Alchemist’s Scrolls that none of them even noticed the worried-looking fellow approaching the podium.

  The employee went to the auctioneer’s head assistant, posted beside the display table, where the Alchemist’s Scrolls were arrayed.

  The auctioneer’s helper looked at him in question, took the note, and read it; Jordan saw his face turn grim.

  It was now this fellow’s unenviable task to slip the note to the auctioneer, who was in the middle of raising the bids to a stunning eight thousand pounds.

  “Oh!—oh, dear,” the auctioneer stammered, once the note was in his hand. He whispered a question to his helper, who nodded in reply. “This is—most unprecedented.”

  They both glanced at the note again, then the auctioneer turned back haplessly to the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentleman, I-I regret to announce this item has just been unexpectedly withdrawn from auction.”

  Outbursts immediately erupted from several points around the room.

  “The owner has had a change of heart and no longer wishes to sell!” he cried.

  “What is the meaning of this?” someone shouted.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is entirely unanticipated. We sincerely apologize for this inconvenience. We beg your pardon, truly, but I’m afraid this is a-a circumstance beyond our control! I, er, I am being told,” he hastened to add, “that anyone wishing to inquire further about the Alchemist’s Scrolls may contact the seller through Mr. Christie’s offices. A private sale may yet be entertained.”

  “Altogether irregular!” one of the Bodleian archivists cried.

  “I say! This is an outrage!”

  Jordan watched the crowd shrewdly, taking note of every fuming face in the room. His men also watched the clients’ reactions and shadowed those few who stormed out.

  He longed to follow them himself, to track down and expose every last one of the evil bastards. But given his high visibility as a member of the peerage, Jordan had to be careful about preserving his cover.

  Instead, he let his men follow the people who were quickly slipping out. The lads would watch where they went and what they did from here on, reporting back to him later with any inform
ation. Then all of those individuals would be investigated further.

  The poor auctioneer, meanwhile, was beside himself. “Again, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I am so very sorry. Perhaps another of the rare and ancient manuscripts on offer today may capture your interest. The next lot is also of medieval vintage, er, a richly illuminated Book of Hours, mid twelfth century, from a monastery in Ireland…”

  Jordan took a small pencil out of his breast pocket and began quickly jotting down in a blank part of the catalogue the numbers of the paddles he had memorized.

  Anyone looking at him would have thought he was simply making a note to himself about the various items in the sale, but he was just being careful to get all the numbers down before he should begin to forget them.

  Though it took all his self-discipline to remain where he was, leaning idly by the wall, he made himself appear all the more innocuous by joining in the bidding on the Irish Book of Hours.

  Hours later, when only Christie’s staff was left at the auction house to clean up and sort out their business, Jordan packed up the scrolls and left in an unmarked coach to return them to the vault at Dante House. Three of his armed men rode in back and on top of the carriage in case the Prometheans tried to take the scrolls by force.

  No such threat materialized, however. The roaches had fled back under their rocks and into their dark corners as soon as the scrolls had been withdrawn from the auction.

  By now, most of them probably realized they had walked into a trap. They’d be hiding in trembling expectation of a lethal visit from the Order.

  Darkness had already fallen, though it was only six o’clock; Dante House looked particularly sinister in the moonlight that late-winter evening as his carriage arrived.

  To the rest of the world, the darkly eccentric Tudor mansion on the Thames was the home of the debauched Inferno Club—but this was only a façade designed to keep the outer world at bay.

  In reality, the three-hundred-year-old Dante House was a compact fortress in disguise, with an elaborate underground lair where the Order could carry out its covert business unseen by prying eyes. The old stronghold was full of hidden passages, false doors, and mysterious hiding places. Built right on the Thames, it allowed for stealthy comings and goings, thanks to the small, hidden rowboat dock behind its secure river gate.

  When Jordan went in, the pack of mighty guard dogs greeted him.

  Virgil, his handler and head of the Order in London, appeared quickly, hearing his arrival. The old Highland warrior took the enemy’s medieval treasure from him with naught but a terse greeting. “I trust it all went smoothly.”

  “Yes, sir. I collected a considerable list of leads. We had quite a showing.”

  “Anyone I’d know?” Virgil asked dryly.

  Jordan shrugged. “Not Falkirk, unfortunately.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he’d show his face in such an open forum. But word will travel back to him ere long, and then we’ll see. What about Dresden Bloodwell?”

  Jordan shook his head. “No sign of him. Not surprised. The man’s an assassin. He’s too canny to walk into a trap.”

  Virgil nodded. “It would seem he’s gone to ground ever since that night you and Beauchamp nearly had him.”

  “That was weeks ago,” Jordan agreed, nodding. “I still can’t figure how he slipped through our fingers that night. Or where he’s been ever since.”

  “In due time,” Virgil assured him. “Give your list of leads to Beauchamp, by the way. Lad needs something to occupy his mind.”

  Jordan furrowed his brow. “Still no word from his team?”

  Virgil shook his head grimly, then said, “I’ll take these down to the vault. Well done, lad. Your full report by morning.”

  “Is Rotherstone here, sir?” Jordan asked, as Virgil turned away to take the scrolls below.

  “What, the lovesick husband?” The Highlander snorted. “Of course not. He’s at home worshipping the Divine Daphne.”

  Jordan’s lips twisted. To be sure, life had turned rather strange ever since his deadly fellow agents had become married men. Max, the Marquess of Rotherstone, was enraptured with his lovely Daphne and their newfound domestic bliss.

  As for Rohan, the Duke of Warrington had recently been summoned to the Order’s base in Scotland, called before the Elders to explain how one of their star agents could have possibly married a young lady with Promethean bloodlines.

  Jordan didn’t envy his rugged friend the interrogation, but no doubt, for Kate, Rohan would have gladly endured far worse.

  “Afraid you’re going to have make do with this one,” Virgil added, nodding toward the hallway as Beauchamp strolled into the room.

  “Make do?” the younger agent retorted. “I’d say he’s improved his lot!”

  Sebastian, Viscount Beauchamp, the Earl of Lockwood’s heir, was the leader, or Link, of his three-man team. He and his mates were only about twenty-eight, but Jordan had already seen the younger warrior prove his mettle.

  Beau’s breezy attitude and all that cocksure roguery disappeared in the face of danger. He was a damned fine fighter, thoroughly cool and competent under fire.

  Reminded Jordan of himself a bit.

  But even a rake like Beau would have known better than to let Mara Bryce get away.

  Tossing his guinea gold forelock out of his eyes, Beauchamp came to stand near Jordan, arms akimbo, his feet planted wide. “Enjoy your auction?”

  “Invigorating,” Jordan replied with a wan half smile. “What have you been up to this evening?”

  “Not a blasted thing. Fancy a call at the Satin Slipper?”

  “Didn’t you just go there last night?”

  “So? You like the blondes, right? They have this new girl you really ought to—”

  “Gentlemen,” Virgil interrupted, arching one shaggy orange eyebrow. “Falconridge has to write his report, and as for you, my lad, you will start work on the list of suspects he collected at the auction.”

  “What, tonight?” Beau protested.

  “You’ve got something better to do?” Virgil inquired.

  “Not anymore, it would seem,” he said with a harrumph, then he plucked the list of names out of Jordan’s hand. “Fine!”

  Virgil eyed Jordan in sardonic amusement. “That should keep him out of trouble for a while, eh?”

  Beau glanced up from the list with a wicked look. “Don’t count on it.”

  Jordan shook his head, but in truth, the older fellows had come to view Beauchamp as a sort of rascally younger brother—just so long as the rogue obeyed their one command and kept his hands off Miss Carissa Portland, Daphne’s best friend.

  Max was not about to let one of their own agents toy with his wife’s alluring young companion.

  Carissa Portland was adorable: red-haired and feisty, loyal to a fault. The petite redhead buzzed around London like some sort of opinionated little fairy queen. Even Jordan had been tempted by her brave nature and sharp mind, but he had soon realized it was useless.

  His doomed obsession with a certain brunette conspired, as always, to wreck his dismal love life. Carissa Portland could be no more than a sister to him; but then again, she gave Beau no encouragement, either, looking daggers at him every time they met.

  At least her open loathing seemed to take the younger agent’s mind off his cares.

  Jordan was concerned about Beau. Indeed, they all were.

  Despite the fact that the viscount wore the same devilish glint in his green eyes as always, Jordan could sense the coiled tension in the man even as the wait for his missing teammates dragged on.

  No one had heard from Beau’s team in months. They’d been given an assignment in the Loire Valley, and they should’ve at least checked in weeks ago.

  Beau was trying to hide the fact that he was beside himself with worry. Thus his recent visits to the Satin Slipper, that dreadful, low whorehouse that was all the rage of late among fashionable gentlemen of the upper class.

  Jordan had gone a
long with him once or twice just to give the younger agent some moral support. He could understand the man’s need to blow off steam.

  Of course, Beau’s arrival at that place had nearly started a riot among the girls.

  “Just let me know how much detail you want on these bastards,” Beau murmured as he scanned the list.

  “The usual who, what, where should suffice until we can home in on the likeliest subjects,” Jordan said. “I’m sure some of these names are aliases, but at least it’ll give you a place to start.”

  “Lucky me.” Beau slid the list into his waistcoat pocket. “So, with your auction concluded, what now?”

  “Now we wait,” Virgil answered grimly.

  Jordan nodded at Beau. “We expect James Falkirk to contact us soon. After the auctioneer’s announcement, he’ll know how to get in touch with us through Christie’s offices. Then, hopefully, Virgil will be able to set up a trade—the Alchemist’s Scrolls in exchange for Drake.”

  “Or whatever’s left of him,” Beau muttered in a dark tone.

  “Don’t you worry about Drake,” Virgil grumbled though he did not quite manage to hide his pain at the thought of one of his boys being captured and tortured like a dog for months on end, until he barely remembered his own name. “Lord Westwoood is one of the shrewdest, hardest men this organization has ever recruited. If he can just stay alive and keep his mouth shut a little while longer, we will get him back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jordan offered in a low tone of assurance to his handler.

  But the situation was indeed dire. The latest indications suggested that Drake had been so badly tortured by his captors that the Prometheans had damaged his mind—particularly, his memory—and might have even driven the poor man mad.

  If any lunatic possessing Drake’s deadly skills as an agent were not worrisome enough, they now had reason to fear that Falkirk might have actually turned him.

  According to their sources, Drake’s first prison had been in a Promethean dungeon in the Alps, but he had been moved. To the best of their knowledge, the more gentlemanly old Falkirk was currently in charge of him, and this gave them hope that at least Drake’s treatment had become more humane. But even kindness could serve as a weapon in the hands of a Promethean master.