by Gaelen Foley
“Get rid of it,” Malcolm called to his bodyguard by the door, gesturing distastefully at the corpse. “And send in his replacement.”
“Replacement?” James echoed immediately as others also burst out with angry responses. “What about the vote?”
“We don’t have time for that!” Malcolm snapped. “Settle down! I have merely simplified matters by choosing a man who can at least fill in while the Council undertakes all its usual squabbling about successors.”
Shocked but low-toned protests still passed through the chamber while Malcolm’s hulking, silent bodyguard opened the door and beckoned to someone outside the room.
The others turned angrily to see whom Malcolm had invited into their midst in this flouting of all precedent. The brighter light in the corridor outside the chamber briefly illuminated a tall, sinewy silhouette.
As the newcomer stepped into the room and sauntered toward the table, they all got a better look at him—a man in his early forties, with dark, wavy hair, aquiline features, and pitiless eyes.
Great Lucifer. James stared in stunned recognition, a chill running down his spine. Had Malcolm lost his mind?
It was Dresden Bloodwell, the most feared assassin in the whole Promethean underworld.
“Welcome, my friend!” Malcolm greeted him, gesturing toward Rupert’s empty chair. “Join us.”
“Thank you.” The renowned assassin flashed a cold smile at Malcolm, glancing down indifferently at the corpse of his predecessor, merely stepping over it on his way to the table.
James sat in stunned silence while Malcolm’s bodyguard grabbed Rupert Tavistock by an ankle and began unceremoniously dragging the dead man away.
“Gentlemen,” Malcolm announced, “allow me to present Dresden Bloodwell, one of our most accomplished agents. Few in our organization have proved as worthy as he. He is going to mind our London post for us until a formal successor can be chosen by the usual methods.”
Dresden slid into the chair as if he belonged there, and bowed his head politely. “It’s an honor, my lords.”
Nobody said a word.
James exchanged another guarded look with Septimus, but neither his German friend nor any of the others dared protest, now that they had heard the name.
James felt slightly sickened. It was plain to him now that Malcolm was taking steps to strengthen his faction within the Council. But how he intended to keep control of this monster, especially once Bloodwell had been put in power across the Channel, James had no idea.
With that, Malcolm simply picked up with the meeting where he had left off. Keeping the tone banal, it was back to business as usual. But a deep uneasiness had descended on their gathering.
Well before the meeting had adjourned with Malcolm’s invitation to take refreshments in the dining room, James decided that something had to be done, and soon.
Their leader could not be allowed to persist in his quest for ever greater power. Having Niall murder Rupert right there at the table had clearly been intended as a warning to them all. In addition, choosing Dresden Bloodwell to fill Tavistock’s post was a plain unspoken threat, that Malcolm was fully prepared to have his assassin friend eliminate any man on the Council whom he could not coerce into obedience.
Something had to be done, and James knew it would be up to him to lead the others against Malcolm.
As the meeting adjourned, the members of the Council withdrew from the chamber, conversing among themselves in low tones. James went apart from the others to tell Talon, his bodyguard and assistant, that they would be leaving tonight. Talon bowed to him and went to make preparations for their departure.
Taking a moment to collect his thoughts before going in for refreshments, James leaned on the marble banister at the top of the stairwell outside the meeting chamber.
He glanced over grimly as Septimus joined him. Despite their friendly acquaintance, James did not intend to breathe a word of his true thoughts so long as he was under Malcolm’s roof. The very walls had ears—and now there was also Dresden Bloodwell to contend with.
“Falkirk,” Septimus greeted him, offering his hand.
“Glasse.” James shook it. “Congratulations on your victory over those three members of the Order. That is quite an accomplishment.”
“Ah, I cannot take full credit,” the German replied casually, turning forward and leaning his elbows on the railing beside him. “The task required ten of my best men against their two.”
“Two?” James countered. “I thought that you killed three.”
Septimus looked askance at him and did not say a word.
James froze, furrowing his brow.
Septimus smiled ever so slightly. “Why don’t you come and visit me in Bavaria, my friend? I have made the most intriguing new acquaintance. I’m sure you would like to meet him. I find him difficult to understand. The man is English, so perhaps you will have better luck with him than I. I would, of course, be glad to introduce you.”
James’s heart was pounding. He glanced around to make sure they were alone, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You captured one of the Order’s agents? Alive?”
His friend’s nod was barely perceptible. “He was their team leader. He got away when we killed the other two, but then, fancy that—he came back to get revenge on me.”
“Then he broke protocol.” James stared at him in amazement. “Revenge is against their code.”
Septimus shrugged. “It would have been better for him if he had heeded that. In any case, he did not escape.”
“Extraordinary!” James uttered under his breath. “Did you tell Malcolm?”
“Of course not. I thought I would talk to you first.” Septimus paused. “Do not delay, James. I do not think it likely that my, ah, guest will last much longer.”
“Was he hurt in the fray?” James asked quickly.
He smirked. “I’ve had my finest torturers at work on him for months.”
“Septimus!” James whispered, horrified. “Torturers? If he’s what you say, then he is too valuable to risk!”
“James, you do not understand this man’s recalcitrance,” Septimus answered, shaking his head with an indifferent look. “The blackguard was at death’s door, and still, all my men were able to learn was his name—and even at that, we are not sure if it is his surname, his Christian name, a title he holds, or merely an alias.”
“What name did he give you?” James asked at once.
Septimus looked askance at him. “Drake.”
Chapter 6
Two weeks later, Daphne was upstairs in her sunny bedchamber, diligently writing letters to some of the ton’s known philanthropists about the plight of the Bucket Lane orphans, and the available building she wished to secure as their new home.
She was toying with the idea of including Lord Rother-stone on her list of possible donors, for everyone said he was as rich as Croesus, and besides, he had personally seen the dangers of the orphanage’s current location.
At least, that was the reason that she told herself she wanted to write to him. If she was strictly honest, however, she had come to mistrust her own motives where that man was involved.
Surely her urge to write to Lord Rotherstone could have nothing to do with her desire to jar him into remembering she existed!
The marquess had haunted her mind constantly since the ball, but to her growing frustration, “Lord Hellfire” had been absent from Society ever since.
Why she should care, she did not know.
She had only just met the man, and had mixed feelings about seeing him again: part thrill at the prospect, part fearful eagerness to see what the unpredictable marquess might do next.
She felt rather foolish, though, to recall his apparently idle promise of a dance, for by now, to her dismay, he seemed to have forgotten about her entirely.
Botheration. She did her best to keep putting him out of her mind, but it did not help knowing he had not left London, which would have made his neglect more understandable.
<
br /> Carissa, who always knew the latest on-dits, had reported that Lord Rotherstone had been seen about Town with two of his unspeakable Inferno Club friends.
This, Daphne gathered, was the long-awaited arrival of which he had received tidings on the night of the Edgecombe ball. According to the gossip mill, the three had been seen laying wagers at a prizefight, practicing at swordplay with frightful skill at Angelo’s, and perusing the horses on auction at Tatt’s. But they could not be bothered, it seemed, to rejoin polite Society.
Well! Daphne had to admit she was a trifle miffed. After the way they had flirted together at Edgecombe House, she was sure he would’ve been as eager as she to collect on that dance they had promised each other. But now, in light of his continued absence, she could only conclude that the worldly Demon Marquess had merely been toying with her, probably thinking her a naïve young miss.
Maybe Carissa had been right about him from the start.
Just then, thankfully, her maid’s light knock on the door interrupted Daphne’s fretful ruminations. “Yes?”
Wilhelmina poked her head in the door. “Lord Starling wants to see you, miss.”
She nodded. “I’ll be right there.” Happy to flee the chaotic emotions that thoughts of the marquess aroused in her, she left her room at once to obey her father’s summons.
It was on her way downstairs that she was suddenly struck by the ominous quiet filling the house. No banging pianoforte. No whiny bickering.
She paused on the wooden staircase, taking it in with an eyebrow raised in immediate suspicion.
Instead of clomping footfalls and boisterous laughter, she could hear the tame drone of her stepsisters practicing their French.
Leaning forward, Daphne could see through the arched doorway of the parlor. The chubby youngsters flanked their governess on the sofa, obediently poring over their French grammar. Penelope sat in her armchair near them, attentive but not hovering for once, minding her needlework. For once in their lives, they looked like a nice, respectable family.
Daphne furrowed her brow with an odd tingle of premonition. She got the strangest feeling trouble was afoot.
Oh, no, she thought all of a sudden. What if Papa had found out about that violent row in Bucket Lane? Maybe one of the Willies had let slip a careless word.
A knot of apprehension promptly formed in her stomach, but she forced herself onward, trying to hope it was nothing at all. Sometimes Papa would send for her when he could not recall the punch line of a joke…
But as she reached the bottom of the stairs and passed the parlor on her way to the study, Penelope glanced up from her sewing and met her gaze with a sharp look.
That piercing glance told her plainly that, yes, some kind of storm was brewing. In sudden alarm, Daphne rushed the rest of the way to her father’s study to find out what was going on.
When she stepped into the doorway of Lord Starling’s cluttered office, she found him gazing out the bay window, his hands loosely clasped behind his back.
“You wished to see me, Papa?” she forced out at once.
Interrupted from his musings, Viscount Starling turned to face her. “Ah! There you are, my dear. Do come in. Sit down.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Oh, and do shut the door, would you?”
Well, he did not look angry. With a wary glance, Daphne did as he asked, pulling the door closed behind her before advancing into the room. “Is something wrong, Papa?”
“No, no,” he replied with a distracted smile as she lowered herself into the chair across from his desk, as ordered. “My dear daughter.” He strolled around to the front of his desk and perched on the corner of it across from her.
Folding his arms across his chest, he gave her a thoughtful smile and said quietly, “I’ve had another offer for your hand.”
“What?” The blood drained from her face. “From whom?”
“Can you not guess?” he asked mildly.
“I have no…Who was it, Father?” she cried, alarmed by his knowing smile. “Don’t tell me Albert’s tried again—”
“The Marquess of Rotherstone.”
She stared at him in utter disbelief, her mouth agape.
A wreath of smiles broke out from her father’s face, but a wave of dizziness had rushed over Daphne. She gripped the wooden arms of the chair, and for a long moment, she could not speak at all.
Her father, meanwhile, was experiencing no such difficulty. “Congratulations, darling! This time you’ve made a superlative conquest! I always knew you’d make a brilliant match…” Her doting papa kept talking proudly, praising her for her beauty, charm, and cleverness to have snared such a mighty peer of the realm, but in her state of shock, Daphne barely heard a word.
His voice seemed muffled to her, deafened as she was by the thunderous pounding of her heart.
The Demon Marquess wanted her for his bride?
How could this be?
She was utterly stunned. The room was spinning, crazed confusion charging through her veins.
There must be some mistake!
Two weeks of dreamy wondering about him turned into panicked confusion. Of course she wanted to see him again, but this was considerably more than she had bargained for! How could he think to marry her after one short conversation?
Yes, yes, of course, she knew that every Season, marriages were often arranged on less—but that happened to other girls, not to her! Never to Daphne Starling!
She had always been in charge of her own life!
“Father!” she burst out at last, interrupting his soothing monologue on what a wonderful life she was going to have as the Marchioness of Rotherstone, how she was going to be the envy of the ton.
“Yes, my dear?” He frowned as he studied her. “I say, you look a trifle peaked. Do you want some tea? The smelling salts?”
“No!” she cried, then she threw up her hands in bewilderment. “How—?”
“Well, it was very simple, my dear.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Lord Rotherstone came up to me at White’s, introduced himself in a very gallant fashion, and asked for a meeting. I agreed—of course, I remembered you had asked about him at the Edgecombe ball, so I suspected instantly.” He smiled. “You seemed to have some affinity for him, and the admiration he expressed for you, in turn, was certainly genuine. The reasons he gave for his choice of you were respectful, logical, and appropriate.”
“What did he say about me?” she asked swiftly, leaning forward in her chair.
“You see? I knew you were not indifferent to him,” her father teased.
Daphne stared at him, unable to speak.
She suddenly found her heart at war with itself. Half of her was besieged by wild joy at the thought that this man who had obsessed her thoughts since she had first laid eyes on him was not just interested in her, but deemed her worthy of sharing his title and his name.
The other half, however—quite the more sensible part of her—felt a huge indignation on behalf of all womankind at being left out of all discussion on the matter.
Men!
Oh, but he was a sly one. By going straight to her father, Lord Rotherstone had leapfrogged over all her self-determination, and had already taken control of her life without her even being aware of it.
What immediately came to mind was the memory of how he had so smoothly taken the Carew brothers in hand, steering them as he willed, thanks to his superior charisma, his dominating intellect. Now it appeared he had worked the same dark magic over Papa, causing her father to go along with this match without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Well? What have you to say in answer to this grand news?” he asked.
“I-I barely know where to begin, Papa. I was not thinking of marriage…”
“Which is why I had to think of it for you,” he countered dryly.
“But Papa—” Her head was whirling as she cast about for words. “I am happy as I am! I like my life just the way it is, don’t you see? I have a very nice life,” she cried, �
��and I-I don’t see why everyone is pushing me to change it! Yes! I have my home here, and my work with the children, and my books, and my friends, a-and I don’t need a man to make me happy!” she declared with a sudden, impassioned flourish.
He looked at her in amusement.
“Well, what about his awful reputation?” she exclaimed, finally beginning to rally from her shock.
“We discussed it,” he clipped out. “I am satisfied with Lord Rotherstone’s explanations.” A hint of secrecy appeared in the lines of age around her father’s eyes, but if the marquess had confided certain things in his future father-in-law, male affairs that Daphne was not to be privy to, the viscount gave no sign.
“After several lengthy interviews and a thorough study of all his documentation, I find Rotherstone to be a man of sound character. Otherwise, I never would have agreed to this match.”
“Well, I don’t agree to it!” she declared. “I find this all completely underhanded—on both your parts! Why didn’t he come and speak to me about it first before going to you?”
“Oh, your silly modern notions of romance,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Lord Rotherstone proceeded in quite the proper way, as honor demands. Indeed, this is the correct way that a gentleman proposes, Daphne. Do not reproach him for adhering to the dignified traditions of our class. Now then,” he continued. “We hope to conclude the match before the year is out—”
She gasped. “So soon?”
“Why wait? You’ve already refused three suitors. Yes, I know—the first was too old for you, the second drank too much, and the third, well, Albert Carew was never worthy of you. But you can find no such faults with the Marquess of Rotherstone. He is young, handsome, wealthy, honorable, intelligent, a chap that any father would be proud to call his son-in-law. Not even you, darling, need wait for any finer offer than this. I daresay you will be the envy of all your female friends once it’s announced.”
“But, sir!”
“Tut, tut, child. As your father, I have a duty to see my daughter well settled in life, and you will live like a princess under Lord Rotherstone’s roof. Just think of all the good you’ll be able to do in your lofty new position,” he added shrewdly. “This is an extraordinary opportunity for you to advance your work among the needy.”
