by Gaelen Foley
“I-I like it well, Your Grace. But why on earth should I have been the lady of your house?”
He stared blankly at her. “Because of our childhood betrothal, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“What?” Serena could’ve fallen out of her chair.
He tilted his head, searching her face in confusion. “I assumed you must’ve recently found out about it. Isn’t that why you’ve been stalking me all Season?”
“I—” Routed, she turned red and had to defend herself against the humiliating charge before she could even process the questions exploding through her mind. “I have not been stalking you!” she cried.
“Of course you have,” he said in amusement. “There’s no point in lying, darling. I didn’t mind it, really. My only question was whether you were sorry to miss out on becoming the Duchess of Rivenwood or thanking your lucky stars to have escaped that fate.”
“I-I…” She stared at him, flabbergasted, and now even Azrael was starting to look puzzled.
“What’s this?” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Is it possible you truly didn’t know?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about!” she exclaimed, at a loss.
He blinked. “Our parents—well, your mother and my legal guardian—pledged us to each other shortly after you were born, Lady Serena. I was but a boy myself.”
Serena choked with astonishment.
Azrael frowned, drawing back a bit.
“I don’t understand,” he said, eyeing her with newfound suspicion. “If you didn’t know about this, then what are you doing sneaking around inside my bloody house? And why the deuce have you been staring at me everywhere for months?”
“Because I needed information!” she burst out. “And I was told you were the only person in the world who could help me.”
At last she’d found her tongue, but she was still beet-red at his blunt questions.
Azrael furrowed his brow, visibly on his guard now. “What sort of information?”
She hesitated, routed by this new revelation. She was to have been Azrael’s bride?
God, how many more lies of her mother’s would yet emerge?
“Were we really engaged?” she asked incredulously, still barely able to absorb it.
“Of course. I do not lie.” He paused, scrutinizing her through narrowed eyes. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “No. I despise liars.”
“Me too. Though sometimes…a little deception is necessary,” he admitted.
“Yes,” she forced out with a chastened look. After all, her incursion into his house had hardly been the most transparent example of honesty. “I truly am—sorry about this, Your Grace.”
He arched a brow at her, but shrugged off her apology. Looking away, he flicked a glance down at her cup. “Maybe you’d better finish that drink. You look like you could use it. For that matter, so could I.”
He rose and gave her some breathing room as he crossed to get himself a glass.
Serena watched him, still filled with lingering astonishment to think this strange man might’ve been her husband. How on earth had that come about?
And why had this supposed engagement been cancelled?
Innumerable questions burned in her mind, but given his famous dislike of speaking about anything to do with his father, it seemed wise to let him swallow a few mouthfuls of spirits before she attempted to ask him anything. She was still wondering how to phrase her opening question when Azrael spoke first.
“You’re lucky Raja didn’t eat you, you know.”
“Raja?”
“My cat.”
“Oh yes. We met.” She paused. “And, um, why do you have a leopard, Your Grace?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” He turned around with a devilish smile that stole her breath.
He drifted over to lean against the bedpost across from her. “He was a gift from some toady of my father’s, given to me as a cub because of the leopard on my coat of arms.”
“I see. And he gets his own room?”
“Are you jesting? He practically owns the whole house. I’m lucky he lets me live here, too. But that’s cats for you.”
A cautious smile broke across her face as she thought of Wesley sitting at home on the windowsill. Azrael held her gaze with an almost wistful smile, in return.
“Poor Raja,” he softly said. “He usually stays at my country house—I inherited an entire menagerie of exotic animals, I’m afraid—but his ablest keeper fell ill, and none of my other servants are quite comfortable taking care of him. I had no choice but to bring the cat here and look after him myself until he can be returned to the country.”
“I see. And is the leopard enjoying Town life, Your Grace?”
He flashed another rare smile. “The Netherfords presented him with a white leather collar made to look like a cravat, so at least he has a proper Town wardrobe now.”
Serena grinned.
“It is a shame, though,” he added in a softer tone. “He doesn’t belong here at all—not in London or England or even this half of the world. But this is the life that he has, so we have to make the best of it. I’m just glad he didn’t bite you. Not for your sake, of course,” he added with a teasing glance. “I should hate for him to get a taste for human flesh. They do sometimes, in India, I’m told.”
A small sound of dismay escaped her, and she drew back with a wince. But apparently she had got the recluse speaking on a topic he was comfortable with, for he continued.
“Everyone thinks it’s tigers that are most dangerous, you see, but the local hunters in India claim that leopards are craftier, more intelligent. This makes them considerably more deadly.” Azrael watched her, as though assessing her reaction to his words. “Plus, being smaller than tigers, which are enormous, leopards are better at hiding.”
“Indeed?” She wasn’t entirely sure they were only talking about leopards here.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I’ve heard they can crouch in the rafters of some villager’s hut and steal away a small person to eat before anyone even raises the alarm.”
Well, she mused, arching a brow, the eccentric didn’t disappoint.
“I say, Your Grace, doesn’t it worry you to keep a killer like that in your house?”
“I’ve worked hard to train him not to be a killer ever since he was a cub. Still, you’re quite lucky. You should not have been snooping,” he added, gesturing at her with his glass.
To her relief, his tone was mild, his frown merely chiding; he looked more curious than cross about her trespass.
She attempted the slightest hint of a charming smile and looked up at him through her lashes. “I said I was sorry.”
He snorted. “It was your beau’s book that gave you away. You left it on my library desk.” He took another swallow of his drink, his stare unreadable. “I do wonder what the gentleman would say, though, if he knew where you were right now. In this bedroom. With me.”
The frank way he pointed out their situation made her gulp silently. She would be ruined forever if anyone ever heard about this.
“Come, you remember your suitor, my lady,” he said, cynically prodding her for a reaction. “I know there are so many to keep track of, but I refer to the little rumpled chap with the spectacles and curly hair. Your favorite. The folklorist?”
Stiffening, she looked away. “I take it you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“He jilted me.”
“What? No,” he said. “Not possible.”
She sighed. “It’s true.”
He leaned toward her with an incredulous look, as though scanning the depths of her eyes for deception. “I don’t believe you.”
She shrugged with a frown.
He straightened up again, scowling, puzzled. “Pardon, I don’t understand. You’re one of the most desired young women in the ton. How could you have been rejected by th-that skinny-necked worm? Is he blind, mad, or stupid?”
Startl
ed and flattered by his indignation on her behalf, Serena nevertheless turned away with a pang. “Do not speak ill of him in my presence, if you please.”
“Really?” Azrael cocked his head. “You still have feelings for this fellow?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but he had no choice but to end our courtship. His parents would’ve cut him off.”
Azrael scoffed and muttered something about a sniveling excuse.
“Lord Toby was a friend long before he became my suitor,” she said. “And, the fact is, I owe him.”
“For what?” he demanded with a puzzling display of lordly indignation on her behalf.
She paused, realizing he had just given her an opening to broach the subject that had brought her here tonight. “He at least told me the truth when my own flesh and blood gave me only lies.” She hesitated. “In fact, Your Grace, that’s the real reason I’m here.”
“Well,” he murmured, “at last she comes to it. Do go on, Lady Serena. You have my full attention.”
Pulling over a wooden chair, he twirled it backward and sat down astraddle it. He rested his arms across the chair back, then took another swig of his brandy. “Begin, please. I’m all ears.”
Serena debated how to start. “As you know, Lord Toby has a literary hobby as a folklorist. Last year, his publisher released the book you have in your library, Volume One of his Collection of English Folklore.”
“Yes.”
“He is fascinated by all the old peasant superstitions from around the British Isles. He collects them, writes them down so they won’t be lost. From ghost tales and supposed encounters with supernatural creatures to fairies and bogarts and will-o’-the-wisps.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I read it.”
“Well, he’s working on Volume Two, to be published next year. For his new book, Toby wished to include a chapter on various legends surrounding the many ancient barrows and burial mounds dotting the countryside.”
With those words, Azrael’s easy air of curiosity instantly changed to a guarded expression.
Serena forged on. “This past spring, his research on this topic led him to a village in Buckinghamshire called Owlswick. I…think you’ve heard of it, Your Grace.”
His face had darkened at the name. He sat back, as though pulling away from her. “What of it?”
“Toby told me there is a large barrow near this village, which the people there swear holds a curse.”
Azrael said nothing.
“He asked the locals of Owlswick what made them so sure this curse was real. The story they told shocked him to the marrow.”
“I daresay it would,” Azrael murmured, staring at her. “He had better not put any of that into his book.”
She glanced at him uncertainly. “He told me he would not, for my sake. Since the tale concerns my family. And yours.”
He flicked a wary glance over her. “What else did he tell you?”
“Well, the peasants of Owlswick informed him that many years ago, on regular occasions, there was a wild group of aristocrats who traveled out to certain lesser estates they owned in the vicinity. They’d come thundering in from London and all parts of the country to participate in revels there of…an unsavory nature. Things well beyond the bounds of common decency. And apparently—forgive me—your sire was the ringleader of this group.”
He stared at her, unblinking. No sign of denial.
She swallowed hard, unsure what she had expected. Protestations of innocence? Assurances it was all made up? He just sat there, steely-eyed.
“The peasants told Toby there were rumors that your father’s coterie of rakehells and wild ladies was a splinter group that broke off from the Hellfire Club after the authorities discovered that dreadful bit of business decades ago, made arrests, and forced it to disband. After all, Owlswick isn’t too far from West Wycombe, where all that originally took place.”
Azrael studied her in silence.
“Toby said that, even to this day, the peasants were still frightened to speak about the visitors’ activities on account of the curse these wayward nobles brought down on themselves.”
“Hmm.”
“All the mansions they once used as their pleasure grounds have long stood abandoned. Doesn’t that seem strange?”
“Very,” he said, but his dry tone made her think he was only humoring her.
She continued anyway. “Toby was at least able to coax some information out of the villagers, though. He can be very disarming.”
“I’m sure,” he drawled in a low tone that almost made her wonder if he was a wee bit jealous of her ex-beau.
She shook off the startling question and continued, forcing her attention on the vital topic at hand.
“The villagers told him the decadence that went on at those parties was as scandalous as one can imagine. The people involved already had everything in terms of worldly wealth and power, but it wasn’t enough for them. Eventually, they began seeking some sort of control over, um, supernatural forces, as well.”
Azrael sighed wearily, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, go on.”
“The peasants described the group’s activities from that point onward as dabbling in some dark form of witchcraft.” She shook her head. “This was all kept hidden, of course, but some of the bolder local farmers would spy on the visitors out of concern for the profane goings-on there. Others from the village would be hired on as temporary servants while the owners were in residence, and they saw things, too. Things that frightened them.
“They gave Toby their firsthand accounts describing what they’d witnessed. Lords and ladies of the ton engaging in…occult rituals, possibly satanic in nature. But they only gave him two names—Dunhaven and Rivenwood.”
Azrael said nothing, merely took a drink.
Serena was shocked he hadn’t denied any of it. He didn’t even look surprised.
“Tell me,” he said, “who all have you and the lad spoken to about this?”
She blinked at the question. “Toby only spoke of it to me, and, I believe, to his parents, a little. I confronted my mother about it, but she would tell me nothing, so I eventually tracked down my old childhood nurse to see what she might be able to tell me, but she did not want to speak about it either.”
“Anyone else? Friends? Father? Chaperone?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said. He considered, then took a drink. “So what did our dear Lord Toby make of this wicked story?” he asked after a moment.
“Well, the whole thing spooked him terribly, of course.”
“He believed it?”
“Oh, he lives for such tales. All that superstitious talk about witchcraft and devilry, contacting dark spirits and supernatural mayhem. He swallowed it whole, of course. Even some nonsense about blood sacrifice.”
“Hmm. And you?”
She scoffed. “To me, it sounds like nothing but a bunch of rich, bored aristocrats with jaded appetites and too much time on their hands attempting to amuse themselves with silly, make-believe magic. Mere entertainment, just another passing novelty until they grew bored of that, too, and moved on to the next idle pleasure.”
“Hmm,” he said again.
“Unfortunately, Toby learned that these misguided revelers felt compelled to continually increase the risk and daring of their exploits, until finally, they resorted to vandalism, I’m afraid, and broke into the barrow.
“Not only did they open the ancient burial mound, they robbed the dead pagan king inside of his grave goods, and then held some sort of disgusting ritual inside, because the place was supposedly built upon the ley lines, or some such foolishness. They supposedly wanted to harness the site’s mysterious energy,” she said, quoting Toby.
Azrael rested his chin on his forearm, which was propped along the chair back. He did not look the least bit shocked, and his calm about it all disoriented her.
Still, it was a great relief to be able to tell someone about it at last. Someone who’d understand.
She was just happy that, so far, he hadn’t got angry at her for mentioning his father.
“According to the peasants, it was the group’s trespass, breaking into the barrow and disturbing the slumber of this ancient clan chieftain that awakened whatever pagan curse, evil spirits or what-have-you, was lurking inside the barrow. They freed it—so the tale goes—and this ‘power’ they had sought to contact followed them out, soon after which, the group’s members all soon discovered they were cursed.”
“This part of the story I know,” he said with an idle nod. “One man was killed in a duel a few weeks later. Another’s ancestral pile burned down about a month after that. Half his servants were killed in the blaze, his wife hideously scarred.
“One’s heir murdered his valet,” he continued, “and had to flee to the Continent to escape the hangman. But his ship sank in a storm in the Channel before he ever reached Calais. The following year, one of the female members leapt to her death off a Cornish cliff.”
“Nor did our families go unscathed,” she pointed out. “Your father was murdered, and as it turns out, I once had a…” Her voice faltered as a wave of sorrow crept over her.
“A sister who died,” he said in a soft tone.
“Yes!” She drew in her breath and stared at him, shocked. “You knew?”
Azrael shrugged.
“Well, I didn’t!” she exclaimed.
Toby’s most painful revelation that day had been that, before Serena was born, her parents had had a two-year-old daughter, little Lady Georgette, who had apparently drowned in the ornamental lake at her family’s estate near Owlswick.
An estate Serena hadn’t even known her parents owned.
Why she had never been told about her dead elder sister, she could not imagine.
But that wasn’t even the worst family secret. Merely the saddest.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Azrael said quietly after a moment.
“Well, I’m sorry for yours,” she countered. “It must have been awful for you, seeing that.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
She bit her lip, knowing she was now on dangerous ground.
But he still seemed placid enough. Silent.
