by Gaelen Foley
Likewise, quaint black streetlamps cast golden circles of illumination at regular intervals along the cobbled streets of their aristocratic neighborhood.
Still, she found the night eerie.
Dead leaves whisked down the street, whirling past her feet. Above, billowy, dark clouds played hide-and-seek with the moon, while just a few stars peeked out impishly. It was cold—nearly cold enough for a flurry, she thought, glancing at the sky through the eyeholes of her mask.
She shivered and hurried on, pulling her thin domino more tightly around her. Crossing the street, she headed for the tall wrought-iron gate surrounding the dark, quiet park in the center of the square.
The genteel garden park at the heart of Moonlight Square was generally kept open to the public during the day, but at night, only residents had access. Each family had been given a key.
Serena pulled hers out of her pocket and, ever so quietly, unlocked the cold metal gate, then stepped through it onto the graveled path. Cutting through the park reduced her chances of being seen on the way to the duke’s party.
Heart racing, the wind rippling through the folds of her long cloak, she pulled the gate shut behind her. The lock clicked back into place. She dropped the key into her pocket again and moved on.
With her black domino flowing out behind her, she strode down the shadowed path that wound through the park’s sculpted acres. The gravel and dead fallen leaves crunched softly beneath her anxious strides.
She tried not to think about the history of their pleasant garden park, how, a century ago, it had served as a public hanging ground. If any place in London were likely to be haunted on a night such as this…
She gulped, scowled at herself for letting Toby’s ghost tales unsettle her, and pressed on, more jittery with every step closer to her destination. But she knew she could easily pass through the party unnoticed.
The duke would be preoccupied with his two hundred guests, and even if he looked right at her, how could he guess who she was with her face masked?
This was no time to lose her nerve. She’d never get a chance like this again.
She focused on the more pleasant details of the night to calm her fears: the earthy smell of autumn from the leaves that piled here and there beneath the big trees, the homey scent of fireplaces burning to ward off the night’s encroaching frost.
Halfway through the park, Serena passed the gazebo where Toby had sat her down that dreadful day five months ago and explained, with tender difficulty, the painful things he’d learned about her family. Like a fool, she’d assumed that the reason he had asked her to meet him there was because he’d finally worked up his nerve to propose. And she’d been prepared to accept!
What a rude awakening, she thought.
Instead, he had shaken her world to its foundations with the news that: one, her parents had been involved in some very dark things when they were young; two, she’d once had a sister who had died before Serena was born; and three, the man she’d called Papa all her life wasn’t her real father.
She still felt dizzy from it all, just looking at the gazebo. The quaint structure gleamed an ethereal pearl white in the full moon’s glow.
Seeing it now only made her all the more determined to find the answers to the whirlwind of questions that had sent her till-then-orderly life spinning, for her mother refused to talk about it.
Well, too bad, Serena thought.
These mysteries and lies had already cost her not only the match she’d expected to make, but had also wrecked her once-close bond with her mother, upended her whole understanding of her place in the world, and robbed her of her peace of mind.
If Papa was not her real father, then who the devil was?
It seemed a simple question, and she had a right to know, but Mama would not give her an answer. She had shut down like Serena had never seen her do before.
No doubt she had her reasons, but her silence was cruel—and had left Serena no choice.
Tonight, she was determined to learn something, anything, that would help her start putting all the scattered puzzle pieces of her life back together—on her own, since nobody would tell her the truth.
Upon reaching the far side of the garden park, she let herself out through the opposite gate, then took a few wary steps across the pavement, staring up somberly at the five-story mansion across the street.
Unlike the joined terrace houses lining the streets of Moonlight Square, the giant houses on the corners stood alone, every one of them owned by a duke.
Rivenwood House loomed, a great square block with muffled music pouring out the open front door. Orange light gleamed in the windows, revealing the silhouettes of countless guests.
Seeing the place, Serena deigned not to try her luck at the front door, but padded down the alleyway nearby and sneaked onto the ground through the back gate. Heart thumping at her trespass, she kept her stare fixed on the back of the mansion as she walked down the grassy, silvered path through the duke’s gardens.
The closer she got to the house, the more people she encountered. Now she could hear the orchestra playing inside. She glimpsed masked couples whirling about through the large upper windows of what was obviously the ballroom.
It was brighter closer to the house, the night lit by burning torches and a smoky bonfire, where servants were roasting chestnuts for guests who wanted this old-fashioned autumnal treat. She moved at a casual stroll to avoid calling attention to herself, passing like a shadow among shadows in her black cloak.
Costumed guests mingled here and there, some gentlemen smoking near the fanciful stone fountain, a group of ladies laughing together beneath the barren trellis.
Then she came to an open section of the grass where an odd choice of garden features had been erected. Serena arched a brow at the makeshift ruins of a faux stone circle like a miniature Stonehenge, a few of the boulders picturesquely toppled.
The strange sight, so out of place in one of London’s most fashionable neighborhoods, reminded her afresh of Toby’s words about the Rivenwoods’ occult preoccupation.
She must always remember she was dealing with no ordinary man. Stay on your guard.
With this inner warning, she forced herself to slow her pace to an idle saunter, her pulse hammering away so loudly she thought it might rattle his windows in their casements as she approached his house.
Determined to brazen it out, she glided up the outdoor stairs to the flagstone terrace off the back of the house. Here more guests in various costumes clustered, leaning against the carved stone balustrade. The music grew louder, the laughter, the incessant chatter of voices.
She lifted a glass of wine smoothly off the tray of a liveried footman posted near the French doors leading into the house. She took a sip as she stepped over the threshold, strolling into his house as though she had every right to be there.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. As she blinked rapidly behind her mask, her immediate impression was surprise at the medieval-inspired, neo-gothic décor.
The effect was slightly disorienting, for the inside of the house did not match the outside at all.
The famous architect Beau Nash had designed Moonlight Square along neoclassical lines, with grand Greco-Roman symmetry, smooth and regal Palladian features.
Indeed, the exclusive neighborhood had rules on acceptable paint colors and such, but these only applied to the homes’ exteriors. Inside, residents could do as they liked with their homes, and Rivenwood certainly had, sparing no details in the rich, faux-medieval style.
From the fluted pillars and pointed arches to the plaster-beamed ceilings, ornate wood carvings, rich red and dark blue draperies, and the gargoyles peering down from the corners here and there, it was like walking into an old castle or a small medieval church.
The contrast was decidedly confusing, and yet, once she started getting used to it, she decided that she liked it.
He was certainly different.
The neo-gothic space had b
een decorated with simple charm well suited to the occasion of a Hallowe’en ball. Small flowers and garlands of mossy forest greenery were strung up and twined about everywhere.
On shelves and tables sat small flickering lanterns made from hollowed-out turnips, like the ones children carried from door to door on All Hallows’ Eve when they went begging for treats, warning of tricks if they were not rewarded.
The whole effect turned the Rivenwood mansion into a medieval fairyland, and Serena walked through the place with a fleeting sense of wonder. It made her feel as though magical things might happen here…
She fought to stay focused on her task, however. She had come not to fall under Azrael’s enchantment, but to seek information.
Clear, simple facts.
Proceeding forward through the house, she came to the lofty entrance hall. All the houses had them, but Azrael’s had been transmogrified into a long, narrow great hall that belonged in a castle, with a vaulted ceiling two stories high.
Ornately carved wooden galleries above overlooked the crowded space, and at the far end, opposite the front doors, an Ecclesiastical Gothic screen with double pillars and pointed arches framed a grand staircase softened by a red carpet runner.
Halfway up, a landing split the staircase, and it continued up in both directions. Serena gathered that the ballroom was up there somewhere.
But in the “great hall” where she stood, the dark oak-paneled walls were hung with knight helmets, a few antique shields arranged with crossed swords, and old, tattered banners and ancient battle pennants—though she doubted they were authentic.
Everything within these walls seemed fanciful, and that intrigued her all the more about the master of this place. She secretly adored people with imagination. Nonconformists. Those who didn’t play by the rules.
She spotted him just then standing by the wall: the enigma, tall and tense, looking uneasy at his own party, though his smile was polite.
Even surrounded by people, Azrael had a solitary air about him. What a strange being he was, she mused. In the world, but not of it.
Well, how could he be normal, when his sire named him after the blasted archangel of death? she mused. Terrible thing to do to a child.
Yet it seemed to suit him somehow.
His long, smooth, flax-blond hair was pulled back in a simple queue. He wore formal black-and-white evening attire. An antiqued gold half-mask in a vaguely Roman style obscured the upper half of his patrician face.
Pity, that. She loved his almost Nordic-looking cheekbones, high forehead, fine nose, and the crisp line of his jaw. But even these did not compare to his mesmerizing pale eyes.
She had so relished the disconcerted flicker she had often seen in their silver depths when, once again, the duke caught her watching him over these past months. She sensed that he did not know what to make of her, and that suited her very well indeed.
At least it made them equal, for she certainly didn’t know what to make of him.
Why she felt so drawn to this strange man, this mysterious presence who had first shown up when she was a child, she could not say.
Perhaps there was a droplet of pity amid her wariness of him. He always seemed so alone.
Even now, from the moment she saw him, she felt the pull of his familiar fascination. Goblet in hand, he was exchanging pleasantries with some of his guests when he happened to look over and see her—as though he’d felt her stare.
Serena froze. She almost relaxed when his gaze glided past her, but then it came rushing right back, landing on her with an owl’s swiftness.
Her pulse jolted. She gulped and, at once, turned away, ducking her head to let the loose draping hood of her cloak hide her face completely.
Wobbly-kneed, she moved on, resisting the urge to flee with undue haste, for that would only draw his further attention.
Instead, she wove on through the crowd with measured paces, telling herself he couldn’t have recognized her. She’d only imagined it, surely. She took one more glance over her shoulder at him before stepping into the next room.
He was gazing after her, unreadable behind his tarnished gold mask.
She stepped out of his line of view into what proved to be a dining room. The offerings of a feast were laid out on the vast oak table and massive sideboard.
The ham and puddings, tartlets and cakes, fruits and cheeses all looked and smelled delicious, but her stomach was in knots.
Worried their keen-eyed host might grow curious and come after her, she pressed on through the far doorway into the next crowded room to put more distance between them. She passed through a large sitting room, where people dressed as all manner of things were playing cards or engrossed in conversation.
Everyone seemed to be having a good time. At least his first social event looked like a success—even if he had waited until October, when much of Society had long since left Town for the countryside.
It was a start, anyway, she thought in amusement, calming down again. Holding an acceptable Society gathering probably wasn’t easy for bachelors, she supposed.
Local gossip had it that Azrael’s one known actual friend, the newlywed king of the rakehells, Jason, the Duke of Netherford, had suggested he hold the party. His fellow duke—also a resident of Moonlight Square—had reportedly helped him prepare for it, along with his bride, Felicity.
Serena was not an intimate acquaintance of the new Duchess of Netherford, but she and Felicity were friendly enough.
Personally, she had thought the girl was mad for marrying Netherford when she’d first heard about it. He was known to be a very bad boy. But in the end, Serena had to give Felicity credit. It hadn’t taken her very long to bring the rogue to heel.
In any case, Felicity was obviously here somewhere tonight, so Serena stayed on her guard, careful to avoid running into her friend, lest she recognize her.
Drifting on, observing everything around her, Serena peered into the next room and felt her pulse quicken with excitement as she arrived at the duke’s library. Surely this was the best place to start her search for answers in earnest.
Better still, the room was empty at the moment. She quickly shut the door and glanced around, eager to get to work.
Where to begin?
From the rich, dark rug to the painted coffered ceiling, the library was a beautiful room in the same fanciful neo-gothic style as the rest of the house. Oaken bookshelves with pointed arches. Heavy, medieval-inspired furniture. A dark wooden mantelpiece, ornately carved, and stained glass insets in the windows.
She strode toward the shelves, unsure what exactly she was looking for—hopefully, she’d know it when she saw it—when, suddenly, a full-length portrait on the wall caught her eye.
She stopped and turned to face the man in the portrait. My, my. Are you the reason no one’s in here? Have you chased everyone away, Your Grace?
To be sure, that haughty, gray-eyed stare could’ve turned the Thames to ice.
The grand personage in the portrait was Azrael’s murdered father.
“Even your mother was afraid of him.”
She took a step closer, gazing up boldly at the portrait. Well, you don’t scare me, she thought.
He’d been a handsome man. The late duke had the same pale silver-blue eyes, champagne-blond hair, and sharp, patrician features as his son. He was portrayed in court dress, a ceremonial cape of some sort flung over one shoulder.
An array of jeweled badges, brooches, and the insignias of various knightly orders were displayed across the duke’s chest. She studied them carefully. Some looked familiar, some didn’t. It was hard to say.
In the lower corner of the portrait she saw what she assumed was their family crest: a black leopard rampant on a red shield.
Then she noticed something in the peculiar background of the painting.
The late duke was shown standing in a Renaissance-looking setting, but through the velvet-curtained window behind him could be seen the pyramids of Egypt, of all things.
>
Furrowing her brow, Serena assumed the duke must’ve visited it on Grand Tour as a lad.
Well, I can see why someone would want to murder you, anyway, she thought. He looked every bit the cruel, unpleasant man her nurse had described.
She did her best to shake off the paralyzing hold of the elder Rivenwood’s icy gaze, irked at herself. Lud, she was acting as superstitious as Toby now.
Get on with it. Determined to be thorough, she began speedily scanning the bookshelves. For the most part, the collection seemed fairly typical. Standard classics of philosophy and literature, dusty tomes in several different languages—Latin, Greek, even a few in Hebrew, along with the usual French, German, and Italian, though most were in English.
She noted volumes of poetry and large leather-bound folios with colored prints of fine engravings; books full of architectural drawings; informational volumes about various topics, such as Improvements to Rural Properties Explained; and, of course, no shortage of diverse histories.
Suddenly, Serena spotted a book whose gilt title stamped upon the brown leather-bound spine gave her a jolt of recognition.
A Collection of Old English Folklore, Volume One, by Lord Tobias Guilfoyle.
She pulled it out with no small measure of amazement. What is this doing here?
Toby’s first literary work had been published just last year. Which meant that only the current duke could’ve added it to the family collection.
And it wasn’t as though her former suitor’s debut book had been some great popular success.
Toby had told her that only about a thousand copies had sold, according to his publisher. Azrael must’ve deliberately sought it out for some reason.
Hmm. Glancing around again, Serena considered the various odds and ends on display about the bookshelves more closely: small statues, curiosities from foreign lands, a dried piece of coral, a few fossils of insects and leaves.
There was a lacquered Chinese puzzle box. An impressive geode split open to reveal glistening purple amethyst crystals inside—but no telltale evidence anywhere of whatever dark business the late duke had got her parents tangled up in before she was born.
