Duke of Secrets (Moonlight Square, Book 2)

by Gaelen Foley

  There was no way she was going anywhere with him. But she had to be clever about this. He was dangerous.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Father,” she ventured, playing for time, “whose blood is that?” With her free hand, she gestured at his knife.

  The other tightly clutched her pistol.

  “Oh—er, I had to defend myself, I’m afraid. Azrael told you he has enemies. Well, they’ve found us tonight. Which is why we must go. Those men you thought were your servants, they were with them. But they won’t be a problem anymore. Now, let’s go.”

  He quickly wiped the blade clean on the arm of the couch. The careless smearing of crimson all over the upholstery made her queasy.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, feeling faint.

  Was that Brody’s blood, Porter’s? Roy’s?

  “It’s all right, darling. Don’t be afraid. I am your father and I’ll protect you.” He headed toward her, rounding the coach, closing in. “Take my hand and come with me. It’s what Azrael wants you to do.”

  She backed away from him.

  He lost patience and reached for her. “Damn it, Serena—”

  “Stay back!” she yelped, lifting the pistol and aiming it at him. “Don’t touch me. I know you’re lying.”

  He stopped, staring at her as realization dawned.

  “Aha,” he said slowly. “So. You’re in on this charade.” He shook his head. “Betrayed by my own flesh and blood. Figures.”

  “Stiver!” Just then, two more strangers jogged into the entrance hall, a short man with spectacles and a beard, and a tall, gawky one with a reddish moustache.

  “Did you finish them?” her father demanded.

  “They’re either dead or unconscious. We didn’t wait to find out,” the smaller one said.

  Serena gulped, assuming they were referring to Roy and her two guards.

  “Who’s this bit o’ muslin?” asked the tall one, nodding at Serena, and wiping the sweat off his brow with a pass of his forearm.

  “Be polite, now, this is my little girl. Unfortunately, gentlemen, Lady Serena has decided to disobey her father.” He nodded to them to surround her.

  At once, his companions approached on either side of the couch.

  “Stay away from me, all of you!” she said, sweeping her weapon across the arc of men closing in on her.

  They blocked her escape in either direction.

  “Serena,” Stiver said with a knowing smile, moving closer, “you’re not going to shoot me. I’m your father. Come, we must away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you! In fact, you’re not going anywhere either. You’re all staying where you are until the Order gets here to take you into custody. Roy!” she shouted in rising desperation, hoping against hope.

  Stiver laughed darkly. “Spirited filly, eh, boys?”

  His bearded henchman scowled, but the moustache man chuckled, leering at her.

  “Demmed spitting image of Mariah,” the tall one remarked.

  “Yes. I wonder if she likes to play like her mother did,” Stiver whispered, licking his lips at her.

  Serena recoiled, astounded. “You are vile!”

  “Take her,” Stiver commanded his henchmen.

  They both lunged at her; she didn’t know which one to aim the gun at. In the blink of an eye, the bearded one had driven her arm skyward.

  Knocked off balance, she squeezed the trigger by accident and fired into the ceiling in her fright. Stiver and the tall one laughed as plaster dust rained down on them.

  As if all this was a game.

  But the bearded man wrenched the weapon impatiently out of her grasp and tucked it into his waistband. “Can you two stop fooling around so we can get the hell out of here before the Order catches up?”

  “Relax, Falk,” said the moustache man. “They haven’t caught us yet and they never will.”

  “Humph,” said the bearded one, Falk. “A little assistance if you don’t mind, Jarvis. Or do I have to do everything myself?”

  Jarvis? Serena quaked at the name, glancing at the moustache man.

  She remembered it well from the papers inside the snakeskin box. Lord Jarvis was the one who had a penchant for twelve-year-old girls.

  “Bring her,” Stiver said through gritted teeth, then started toward the door.

  When Jarvis grasped her other arm, Serena planted her feet and began fighting them for all she was worth. “Let me go! Azrael will never let you get away with this!”

  “Azrael is dead, my dear. That’s whose blood it was, if you must know. I didn’t want to tell you, but there it is.”

  She froze, drawing in her breath, then snapped out of her moment’s fleeting horror, rejecting his claim with every ounce of her will.

  “I don’t believe you. Take your filthy hands off me!”

  She began fighting twice as hard as before, thrashing as they dragged her toward the doorway of the sitting room.

  “Quit struggling!” Jarvis said.

  She brought her heel down hard on his toe.

  “Ow!” He cursed several times. “You take her, Stiver. She’s your damned problem, anyway.” When Jarvis stepped back, limping slightly, Serena all but hissed at him.

  This was not much of an improvement, though, as Stiver grabbed her arm and wrenched it to get her full attention.

  She cried out, but he ignored her discomfort. “Behave yourself! I don’t want to hurt you, Serena, but if you don’t come quietly, I will.”

  “Likewise.” She started to kick him in the groin, but he blocked the blow, quickly turning aside.

  Enraged by the attempt, he struck back, punching her.

  The unexpected blow snapped her head back; pain exploded through her face, so sharp it stole her breath.

  No girl who had grown up with two roughhousing brothers could’ve escaped childhood without being punched once or twice. But never in the face, and never with such sharp, controlled skill.

  He’d meant to knock her out so she’d quit struggling, and it seemed to have worked. Her eyes watered, a trickle of blood dripped from her nose, and the world turned woozy.

  Seeing stars, she went limp in her captors’ grasp, but her father caught her.

  She was only dimly aware of Stiver heaving her up onto his shoulder.

  “Cheeky little bitch. Just like your mother,” he muttered, shifting her weight a bit, then heading for the entrance hall. “Come on, you blackguards. Let’s get out of here. We’ll take their carriage.”

  Serena’s head and arms hung down behind her father’s back as they trooped out of the sitting room toward the entrance hall.

  Unfortunately, when they passed Raja’s covered cage, a distinct feline snarl came out from underneath what appeared to be a mere table.

  “Did you hear that?” Jarvis whispered.

  “I did,” Falk said.

  “What the hell?” Stiver murmured.

  Serena was dimly aware of her captors stopping, turning toward the cage.

  Falk approached it warily, then whipped the cloth away.

  “It’s Rivenwood’s animal!” Jarvis exclaimed. “By Jove, look at that thing.”

  “Shoot it,” Stiver ordered.

  “No, please…leave him alone,” Serena protested weakly, half conscious, but they ignored her.

  Falk pulled the pistol he’d taken off her out of his waistband. “Bullets?”

  “Try her reticule. She dropped it behind the couch,” Stiver said, motioning.

  “We really don’t have time for this, Stiver,” Falk said, trudging back to find it.

  “Nonsense; it’ll only take a moment,” Stiver replied. “Besides, Rivenwood needs to suffer for what he’s done.”

  I thought you said he was dead.

  “You two finish here while I go put her in the coach, then we’ll be underway.” Stiver shifted her weight on his shoulder and marched on toward the front door, crossing the entrance hall.

  Struggling back toward consciousness, Serena saw Falk
hand the gun to Jarvis with a look of distaste. “You do the honors.”

  “What, you don’t like big game hunting?” Jarvis quipped with a cruel smile, aiming the pistol at Raja.

  Suddenly, before Stiver reached the door, a tall, pale-haired figured exploded out of the shadows, ducking his head and barreling into Jarvis with the force of a battering ram. Through her groggy state, Serena saw that it was Azrael—his blond hair flying, his white shirt stained with blood.

  His elegant face had turned to a mask of savagery as he attacked, and when his shoulder slammed into Lord Jarvis, the hit threw the man across the room.

  Jarvis stumbled and fell onto his back.

  A sickening crack sounded when his head smashed against the floor. Lord Jarvis did not move again.

  A pool of crimson began spreading under his head as he stared up at the ceiling, stone dead.

  “He’s killed him!” Falk said to Stiver, peering down at his dead comrade. Then he backed away, suddenly diving for the loaded pistol Jarvis hadn’t got the chance to fire.

  He picked it up, looking unnerved, and aimed it at Azrael, who stalked inexorably toward him.

  Hands shaking visibly, Falk squeezed the trigger.

  And missed.

  Azrael hurled his knife in answer, his movements smooth and lethal; in the blink of an eye, the hilt of his dagger was sticking out of the bearded man’s chest.

  The blade was sunk somewhere in his heart and left lung. Falk looked down in disbelief at the knife sticking out of his chest and then fell with a garbled groan.

  Stiver let out an angry snarl, tumbling Serena off his shoulder onto a nearby armchair. “Well! If it isn’t the traitor. You’re a disgrace to your father’s memory, do you know that?”

  “Good,” Azrael replied. “I hate the lot of you. I’ll see you all burn in hell.”

  “You think you’re so pure?” Stiver taunted, circling with Azrael. “Look at your handiwork here tonight. Most impressive, Your Grace.” He gestured at the two corpses in the room. “I daresay you’re more like your ol’ man than you care to admit.”

  Azrael charged him with a muttered oath for that remark.

  They clashed, brawling right there in the entrance with the gusto of two opponents who had secretly longed for a go at each other for years.

  Now all that bottled-up rage on both sides was coming out.

  They’ll kill each other. Serena righted herself slowly on the chair, head pounding. The room was still a bit fuzzy, and her nose was throbbing, but somehow she fought her way back to full consciousness while the two men battled.

  Stiver, though in his fifties, seemed filled with the superhuman strength of some demonic rage as he warded off the younger, taller man.

  He somehow anticipated Azrael’s every move as he swung at him again and again, growing ever more furious.

  Stiver continually ducked, mocking him. “You ungrateful little shit. After all I’ve done for you, this is the thanks I get?”

  “You only ever cared about yourself.” With that, Azrael knocked Stiver’s feet out from under him with a sweeping motion of his leg, and Stiver lost his balance, landing on the floor.

  Azrael dropped down to punch him again and again.

  God, does he mean to beat him to death? Serena wondered, stunned by his ferocity. He’d already killed two men—probably more—and judging by the blood seeping through the front of his shirt, Azrael himself was wounded.

  He did not seem to feel it. But surely this had gone far enough.

  Thinking she should say something to try to calm him down, Serena tried to stand up, but the effort made her queasy. The fiery pain throbbing in her face nearly made her throw up. She leaned forward and saw a drop of blood fall onto her skirts from her nose.

  She could taste the blood, too. When she’d hung head-down over her father’s shoulder, it had run to the back of her throat.

  The taste of it was sharp and metallic, like biting down on a dirty penny.

  She closed her eyes until the queasiness had passed, but what she saw when she opened them again appalled her.

  The two men were now locked in a death match. Her father and her fiancé.

  Somehow Stiver had got the better of Azrael. He was kneeling atop him, trying with all his strength to drive the blade he’d wielded earlier down into Azrael’s throat.

  Azrael was on his back on the floor, his arms braced upward, keeping Stiver’s knife at bay.

  Serena rose, willing away the nausea and holding back a whimper. She knew Azrael was already hurt and losing blood. She had seen his red-stained shirt when he’d arrived. Cold terror gripped her. If his strength ebbed or his arms buckled for one moment, Stiver’s blade would cut through his windpipe.

  Stop it, both of you! she wanted to scream. But she dared not even speak for fear of breaking his concentration.

  Damn it, she felt as helpless and frustrated as the caged leopard.

  Raja was moving about restlessly behind the iron bars, snarling like he was dying to get out.

  Maybe he should, she thought suddenly.

  Dire inspiration filled her. Heart pounding, Serena went over to the cage.

  Driven by the blind, instinctual need to do something, anything, to save the man she loved, she did not stop to think about the consequences.

  She just wanted that knife pointed anywhere else but at Azrael’s throat.

  She looked at the leopard, hesitating only for a heartbeat.

  She understood the choice she was making, but if the leopard killed her father, then by God, she would be Azrael’s true bride in a deeper sense than either of them had ever anticipated.

  She gripped the latch on the cage door, aware she risked losing a finger or even a whole hand with the wild state the leopard was in at the moment.

  “Help him, Raja,” she whispered.

  Then she unlocked the cage.

  “Father,” she said slowly, calmly, “I would run if I were you.”

  Actually, running was the worst thing a person could do around a wild animal, so Azrael had told her.

  But Stiver took the bait, looking over just as she opened the cage door. Horror flooded his face. He jumped to his feet with a stifled cry, then bolted out the front door, abandoning Azrael.

  He didn’t get far.

  Raja was after him like a streak of black lightning, rocketing out into the night.

  Serena ran to help Azrael, but he was already getting up. He sprang to his feet, and they both raced to the doorway.

  They arrived just in time to see Raja leap off the small front terrace and pounce on Lord Stiver, landing on him with graceful ease, flattening the earl onto his stomach.

  “Raja, no!” Azrael roared as the snarling leopard began biting Stiver about the shoulder and neck, tearing into him, his ebony tail whipping back and forth, his razor claws out slashing at the man’s back.

  Azrael ran outside, but Serena took a step back in horror as the reality of what she had done played out before her eyes. Her heart thumped like it would jump right out of her chest.

  Stiver was on the ground being mauled, letting out bloodcurdling screams, kicking his feet, flailing.

  Meanwhile, with the wagon driver off opening the gates, as Serena had ordered, the unsupervised horses hitched to the coach got spooked enough to overpower the brake and bolted off, taking the carriage with them. The wagon’s team of larger, more docile workhorses reacted with terror as well, but only dragged their burden twenty feet or so away.

  Much closer, Stiver managed to knock Raja briefly off his back, but the leopard merely caught the arm he’d swung at him between his jaws.

  “Help me!” the earl begged while Raja started dragging him by the arm across the overgrown drive.

  Instinct had taken over, and Raja seemed inclined to carry his prey off into the bush so he could devour him in privacy.

  At that moment, the wagon driver returned from opening the driveway gates, saw what was happening, and aimed his rifle at Raja.


  “Don’t shoot!” Serena cried at the same time Azrael bellowed at the man, “Don’t you dare!”

  The roar of his master also managed somehow to get the leopard’s attention, penetrating Raja’s fury.

  Years of training seemed to override the predator’s instincts momentarily.

  The big cat hesitated, but did not let go of his quarry.

  At that moment, Stiver stopped screaming. His body went limp.

  Whether he was dead or had simply passed out from blood loss or pure horror, there was no way to tell.

  Azrael moved toward the leopard, keeping eye contact now that he’d finally captured the animal’s notice. “Raja. No.”

  The beast hissed at him as if to say, Don’t come near my prey.

  Serena watched with her heart in her throat.

  The Order man looked terrified but held his fire; he kept his rifle trained on the big cat in case it made any move toward his horses—or them.

  “Come, Raja, you are not a monster…” As Azrael began speaking in a low tone to his pet, Serena heard footsteps behind her.

  She turned, stunned to find Roy and the two Order footmen limping back into the entrance hall.

  Roy and Brody had Porter between them, holding him up. She gathered he was the most seriously injured. They’d tied a bandage around his thigh.

  “What’s happening?” Roy asked.

  “Bring the cage!” Azrael said, hearing them arrive, but he did not look over, never taking his eyes off Raja.

  The two abler men quickly deposited Porter on a chair and picked up the cage by its metal bars, not bothering with the poles, in their haste.

  Serena stepped aside as they carried it out. They set the cage on the ground a safe distance from Azrael and quickly backed away.

  It was then that Serena and everyone there witnessed something extraordinary.

  While the two Order men hurried back toward the house, Azrael kept his stare fixed on the beast he had raised since it was a cub.

  There was no question in this moment that Raja was a wild and fearsome force of nature.

  But so, it seemed, was the Duke of Rivenwood.

  Azrael loomed over the deadly predator, making sure the leopard understood who was larger, who was really to be feared here. He all but hissed back at the beast.

  Raja’s tail thrashed back and forth, challenging his master. His ebony ears were flattened. He shone like liquid darkness in the brilliance of the full moon.