My Dangerous Duke

by Gaelen Foley

  “Almost.”

  “Very well, replenish your strength.” Straightening up from kissing her, he gestured toward the large and heavily laden tray. “Your breakfast, madame.”

  “Thank you, I’m starved!” She jumped up from the window nook, brushed past him with a caress, and hungrily examined the meal.

  They both sat down on his huge bed with the breakfast tray between them. Kate’s mouth watered at what was on offer: a pot of tea and pastries drizzled with white glaze, toast with butter and jam; when she lifted the lid keeping the center plate warm, she discovered eggs and sausages.

  They helped themselves and proceeded to eat, but eventually, while nibbling on a piece of toast, Kate pointed with her pinky finger at the largest lidded serving platter, which remained unopened.

  “What’s under there?”

  “Voilà,” he answered softly, lifting the lid.

  Kate went motionless, stopped chewing, then swallowed her mouthful with a gulp. “My mother’s book!”

  The weathered, leather-bound tome lay heavily on the platter, freed from the rough cloth swaddling in which Rohan had found it last night. She read the title engraved into the cover, probably an addition by a later owner helping to preserve it: Le Journal de L’Alchimiste.

  “Lord,” she murmured, “I had nearly forgotten about it in all of the, ah, excitement.” She shot him a flirtatious look, then gazed at it but decided on the spot there was something about it that she did not like.

  She glanced warily at him. “Have you looked at it?”

  “I started to. Then this fell out of it, and I thought I’d better wait for you.” He reached over to the book, lifted the leather cover, and pulled out an old, yellowed, folded letter, which had been tucked inside. “I think you’d better read it. When you’re ready.”

  Kate took it from him, intrigued. “Did my mother write it?”

  “No, I think your grandfather, the Count DuMarin, wrote it to her. Forgive me for looking at it before you, but I wanted to make sure there was nothing in there that was going to hurt you.”

  “Ohh.” With an adoring smile, she kissed her fingers and reached across the tray to press them to his lips. When he had bestowed a dutiful kiss on them in answer, she moved on with a smile, unfolding the letter. “I suppose I am as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  She began scanning the neat lines. “God,” she murmured, “it looks like my grandfather wrote this to Mama on the occasion of their parting.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Rohan was watching her with a frown. Kate nodded in answer, mentally switching over into French, the language in which the letter was written. As Rohan took another sip of tea, she delved in:My Dearest Gabrielle,

  We will not meet again upon this earth. I wish that I had years or even months to explain what I must do, but I have neither time nor heart to confess to you the Pandora’s box that I have helped to open. Perhaps one day, the Duke of Warrington can tell you.

  Kate looked up abruptly. “The Duke of Warrington?” She glancing from Rohan to the letter in confusion. “My grandsire . . . knew your father?”

  He nodded slowly.

  She stared at him in shock. “You didn’t tell me!”

  “Read on,” he murmured. “You will soon see why.”

  Her heart began pounding inexplicably as she looked at the letter again. “What is my grandfather referring to—this ‘Pandora’s box’ he says he helped to open? Do you know?”

  “Just read it, Kate.”

  She eyed him warily. Something strange was going on here. Consumed with curiosity, she read on:My only hope now is to assist those I had always deemed my enemies. Whatever the cost, we must stop what has been put into motion before the chaos spreads.

  She was baffled and could feel herself becoming slightly upset. What did it all mean?

  At least the next line made some sense.

  In America, you will be far away from all of this, and there, I must believe, you will be safe.

  That much comported with what little she knew of her mother’s past.

  Trust in these good men under whose protection I commend you. How could I have known it was our enemies who were right all this time, and we who were in the wrong? May you never be led into such folly as I was. Everything that I believed was backwards. I go to my death repenting everything—my entire life, blinded by the Council’s deceptions and my own greed—but most of all, regretting what I allowed to be done to you in the name of the creed that I now know was naught but lies and wickedness.

  “Good God, what is he talking about?” she breathed, glancing up at Rohan as she paled. “I thought Grandpère stayed behind in France to fight the Jacobins!”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You know about this?”

  “I do.”

  “How? ”

  “Because my family’s involved in it, too.”

  “These ‘good men’ he’s referring to—does he mean your father?”

  Rohan nodded stoically.

  Kate realized he was waiting for her to finish reading the letter before he intended to answer her questions.

  She felt slightly dizzy with the sudden uncertainty of realizing he had known things about her and her family without ever saying a word about it till now.

  He must have his reasons, but good God, she had entrusted him with her virginity last night.

  She could not help feeling a tiny bit betrayed by his secrecy. Shaken by these sudden feelings of distrust for the man on whom her life depended, she forced herself to focus again on the letter.

  My daughter, henceforth, you must beware the Council’s wrath. There are those who will seek to punish you for what your father is about to do. You know their names; they have dined with us on many an evening. They have been like uncles to you. But in your pure child’s heart, I believe you sensed the truth: Their souls are dark. Know now that I go to reveal their secrets to our rivals. I have no choice. The Order of St. Michael is Europe’s last remaining hope.

  “St. Michael,” Kate echoed, recalling the magnificent marble statue of the archangel in the duke’s family chapel.

  Rohan’s face was impassive; she read on.

  As for you, my dear, this volume that I entrust into your care is to be used as your last line of protection. If you are ever threatened by my former colleagues, use The Alchemist’s Journal to bargain for your safety. The Council will not harm you so long as you keep it out of their clutches. But handle it as little as possible, lest you, too, become infected by the evil it contains. Breathe nothing of it to outsiders, and trust no one who would demand it of you. It must stay in our family since Valerian was of our own blood.

  Kate’s jaw dropped. She looked at Rohan in astonishment. “My ancestor—?” she cried. “Valerian the Alchemist? That’s why Mama had this book? T-the sorcerer who cursed your line? I am his descendant?”

  “Good thing you don’t believe in curses,” he murmured with a pointed look.

  She could barely speak, and did not know what she could possibly say, in any case. Her head was reeling.

  And yet there was more. She lifted the letter again and rushed on through to reach the end, only praying there were no further mind-boggling revelations.

  And so, now, my precious child, we must part. May you and whatever God exists behind the firmament forgive me for the mistakes I made as your father. I shall spend the rest of my life trying to make amends—however short a time fate allows before the Council learns of my betrayal.

  But do not weep for me. The information that I can provide to the Order shall be my penance for my part in the hell that has been unleashed in our beloved France. Tyranny is coming, Gabi. That is why you must move to America. I fear bloody days ahead for all of Europe.

  Her grandfather had been right about that.

  The letter was dated 1792, and nearly twenty-five years of bloody battles had followed. Napoleon’s ambitions had spread the upheaval across the Continent, from the French s
easide, across the fertile Rhine Valley of the German principalities, over the Alps, blasting past the Habsburg stronghold of Vienna, into the cold reaches of Russia itself, and south, too, to the Spanish plains and the boot of Italy. Even the Ottomans, she understood, had not remained untouched.

  The only place that had been safe was England, though, to be sure, up until the great Admiral Lord Nelson had crushed Napoleon’s navy at Trafalgar, the sentries had watched every night from their coastal towers for a possible invasion from the sea.

  Rohan was watching her intently, waiting with an almost predatory patience. It sank in then that he was somehow involved in all this. What had he said that night at their celebratory dinner?

  “I work for the government in certain . . . covert capacities.” She swallowed hard and read on, rushing to reach the end. She was beginning to get the feeling she had stumbled into something far beyond her ken.

  One by one, the crowns of Europe will fall until all are conquered and brought under the Prometheans’ one rule. But all is not yet lost. The Council’s aims cannot be allowed to proceed unchecked, and I can provide the Order with crucial information of their future plans.

  Remember, as I have often told you, do not believe anything you see. The tumult of this world is naught but spectacle and illusion, a magician’s trick to distract your eyes away from the real sleight of hand—the unseen hand behind all the thrones and powers of this world.

  I should know. I helped to craft it.

  Adieu, my darling. It is for you and for your children that I have made this choice. You are the one product of my days that I can look back on in pride. May you lead a long life in peace, with whatever joy you are able to discover in this dark world, my darling child. If not for you, I should have been swallowed by the darkness long ago.

  With love and tears,

  Ever your Papa

  Kate sat for a long moment in utterly stunned silence.

  When she finally looked at Rohan through a sea of confusion, he returned her bewildered glance with a calm, steady gaze.

  “So—my grandfather,” she said haltingly, “was some kind of—informant?”

  “Correct. And my father was the agent put in charge of his case.”

  “What is this Council he mentions, and the other thing—the Order?”

  “Kate . . . what I’m about to tell you, you must never repeat. To anyone. I am only prepared to discuss it with you because it concerns you directly, especially now that you have been targeted. But also because you deserve to know the truth about your bloodlines. I must have your word that you will never share the following information with anyone. Many lives are at stake, including yours and mine. Can you make me this promise? If not, I’ve already said too much.”

  “Of course I promise,” she murmured, wide-eyed.

  “Good.” Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Rohan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, loosely clasping his hands. He was quiet for a moment, considering how to begin. Then he looked askance at her. “Remember that dragon book you found?”

  She nodded quickly.

  “You were right,” he said. “It wasn’t really about dragons. It’s about a struggle between good and evil that’s been going on for hundreds of years. A secret war played out in the shadows.” He rose and began to pace. “My ancestors have been in it from the start, all the way back to the Middle Ages.

  “Likewise, your French kin, the DuMarin family, had a part in it for many generations, from Valerian the Alchemist, all the way down until your grandfather had his change of heart.”

  “Had a part in what?” she murmured, paling.

  He studied her for a second. “A very dark, very dangerous organization of conspirators known as the Promethean Council. We estimate there are fewer than a thousand of them, all told—”

  “We?” she interrupted.

  He sent her a sharp glance that bade her to be patient. “The leaders of the Prometheans are highborn, very wealthy, and strategically situated in high places in every court in Europe. Some wear crowns, but most of our royal houses are merely their lapdogs, puppets.” He shrugged. “These men give an outward appearance of serving their various rulers, but in actuality, they are secretly following their own well-coordinated agenda.”

  “What agenda?”

  “They insinuate themselves into the halls of power. It can be in any capacity, from generals to advisors, treasurers, high court judges, royal physicians, priests, trusted members of the aristocracy—even favorite artists. But behind their masks, their loyalties lie elsewhere. That sketch you saw in the dragon book. The dragon’s egg. Remember?”

  She nodded, mute with shock.

  “It’s called the Initiate’s Brand. Every convert to the Promethean cult receives the mark of the Non Serviam on his or her body. For you see, more than mere political ambition drives these devils. Their roots are in the occult. That is why they have such a reverence for the likes of Valerian and his black magic.”

  “My ancestors were on the evil side?” she cried, stricken. “But you will never convince me that Mama was evil!”

  “No, no, Lady Gabrielle had nothing to do with it. She was an innocent, as far as I know.” He hesitated. “Would you prefer that I stop? After all you’ve been through, perhaps this is too much—”

  “No, I want to hear it! You’ve told me more about my own origins within the past few minutes than I have known about myself my entire life. I need this information, Rohan. I need to know who I am. Please, go on.”

  He nodded, giving her a tender look. “The Prometheans do not consider themselves evil, which honestly makes them all the more deadly. In their own view, they are beneficent, only employing darker powers to bring about the ‘universal good’ of their own supposedly enlightened rule. Yet the proof of who they are is there, in all that they believe. To them, the ends justify any sort of brutal means.”

  “What do they believe?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  “They do not acknowledge the worth of any human life, no human dignity. Anyone is expendable, anybody can be sacrificed for what they like to call the greater good. Of course, the real motive behind all their high-minded philosophy is nothing more than the naked lust for power.” He studied her for a second through narrowed eyes, then paced back across the room in the other direction.

  “Mankind, to them, consists of no more than pawns on their chessboard, about equal in value to a herd of sheep, or a plague to be eradicated over time. No matter how pretty their speeches, they are driven by an arrogant conviction of their own superiority. Fortunately, however, they do not stand unopposed.”

  He paused and drifted over to the mullioned windows.

  Kate watched him, wide-eyed.

  Rohan looked out for a long moment, then he turned to her. “I belong to a secret hereditary Order sworn to rooting out the Prometheans and destroying them before they can become entrenched in power. It is called the Order of St. Michael the Archangel.”

  “The statue in the chapel.”

  “Yes.” He nodded with a gleam of hardened family pride in his eyes. “My line has been a part of it going back to when it all started during the Third Crusade under Richard the Lionheart. My father was one of the Order’s greatest warriors. As for me, from the moment of my birth, I’ve been trained and shaped and molded to follow in his footsteps.”

  She thought of the Hall of Arms and his ferocious practice with his unusual, lancelike weapon.

  At last, it was all beginning to make sense.

  “I was a boy at the time of the French Revolution. The whole world was shocked by the storming of the Bastille and the arrest of the French royal family. But soon, the leaders of the Order began seeing signs of the Promethean puppetmasters’ hands behind the growing chaos.

  “My father’s team tracked down a few Promethean agents provocateurs that had been dispatched to spur on the guillotine mobs. You see, the more blood and chaos they could cause in the streets, the more desperately the people would be
gin to cast about for some seemingly benign authority to restore order. Their plan was that the people themselves would clamor for a new form of rule that would soon grow into inescapable oppression.

  “The Prometheans did not care in the least about liberty, equality, fraternity—the ideals of the Revolution. I can assure you, the liberty of the people is the farthest thing from their minds. But they are very skilled at turning the political passions and philosophies of the moment to their use. It doesn’t matter to them.

  “Religious fervor, prejudice. Persecution of the Jews or other races—whatever comes along will suit, as long as they can sink their claws into a group of biddable zealots with some fury they can point in a useful direction.”

  “Vile.”

  “Yes. They’ve been using this same old strategy for hundreds of years. In this case, the result was the wholesale slaughter of the upper classes in France and anyone close to them. Not that corrections weren’t needed, but surely the women and children didn’t also have to be snuffed out in public executions.”

  She shook her head with a shudder.

  “When your grandfather saw the excesses of the Red Terror, he knew things had got completely out of hand. That was when he reached out to the Order.”

  “To your father.”

  “Yes. You see, the Dukes of Warrington have had this long association with the local smugglers’ ring. They’re very useful to us. Count DuMarin needed a ship to take his daughter to America. My father offered to get him the smartest, boldest captain he knew who could get her into New Orleans without anyone taking note of her arrival. He selected Gerald Fox.”

  Her jaw dropped. “My father . . . was one of Caleb Doyle’s smugglers?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that strongly, but, yes, they were acquainted in the early days. That was why Caleb was so keen to get rid of you. If Captain Fox is alive, as we now believe, Caleb did not want to cross him. He gave you to me because he was afraid to send you home or to keep you. He didn’t know what else to do.”