by Gaelen Foley
Bravely, he kept them outside. “I am very sorry, ladies, His Grace is not at home,” the butler announced, his back to Kate.
To her surprise, his claim was rejected.
“Look here, my good fellow, we just saw his carriage!”
“Yes, madam, His Grace has returned to Town, but regretfully, he had to rush off again straightaway.”
“Where did he go?” demanded one pampered, petulant princess.
“When’s he coming back?” Lucinda asked hopefully.
“Er, I am not sure, on either point, ladies, but if you’d care to leave your cards—”
Crestfallen moans of disgruntlement floated up through the entrance hall.
Then, all of a sudden, one of the nosier ladies craned her neck past Eldred’s lanky frame and gasped. “Who’s that?” she cried, pointing past him at Kate, who was standing on the gallery.
Uh-oh. Her cheeks flushed, but Kate drew herself up as Eldred looked over his shoulder with a wince.
One of the women shoved the door open the rest of the way, and they all stared at her, looking utterly indignant that another female had beaten them to the punch.
“Why, that blue-eyed devil! He’s with someone already!”
“Warrington, you Beast! Oh, let us in, old man. We know he’s in there!”
“Mesdames!” Kate flung out sharply, unable to stand another moment of their intrusion. One hand on her hip, she lifted her chin and summoned up every ounce of elegant French hauteur that she had inherited from her mama. “His Grace is not at home,” she clipped out. “Leave your cards, please, and I will make sure he receives your—well-wishes,” she finished cynically.
None of the ladies moved.
No one made a sound.
They stared at her in shock, and Kate stared back, giving no ground whatsoever, though her heart was pounding.
She could not believe she had just given them an order. Clearly, she was spending too much time with Rohan. She was even starting to talk like him.
Even less could she believe her eyes when the women actually started to obey.
A nervous incredulity had descended over the coddled company. The ladies glanced uncertainly at each other; whispers were exchanged.
They kept staring at her.
“Well,” Lucinda said, gathering herself and smoothing her little reticule over her forearm. “W-we are very sorry to have disturbed you, I am sure.”
Kate bowed her head, accepting the apology.
Eldred held up his silver tray for them to leave their cards. Most of them seemed to decide against it on second thought, but they took pains to get a look at Kate before retreating from the doorway.
She, in turn, refused to budge. Rohan was going to be furious, for she had broken both rules—stay out of sight, don’t talk to anyone—but her pride simply would not let her flee the scene. Not when she, unlike they, had every right to be there!
Then Lucinda curtsied to her, and the others began doing the same before filing away from the door, and all of a sudden, it dawned on Kate the conclusion they had drawn. She nearly choked. Oh, my God. They think I am his duchess!
With newfound respect, the haughty Society ladies retreated from the house. They got in their fancy little carriages and trotted away, chagrined faces glancing out again from the carriage windows.
Eldred closed the door, turned around slowly, and shot Kate a look of disapproval. “Well, you’ve done it now, haven’t you?”
She pursed her lips together for a moment, as stunned by their orderly exit as she had been by their arrival, but she forced a smile, still playing the duchess. “That will be all, Eldred. Carry on!”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you want to tell His Grace about this, Miss Madsen, or shall I?”
A sudden angry pout flashed over her face. “I don’t care what he says!” she exclaimed, but a terrible thought now gripped her, a cold, deflating weight that brought her back to earth after the pipe dream of the past few days.
She sat down slowly on the stairs as it shook her to the core. How could she be so thick?
If Rohan had sported with all those beautiful women and eventually cast them aside, then she was a fool to think it would end any differently with her.
Chapter 16
Never in his life did Rohan imagine he would withhold information from the Order to protect a Promethean descendent, but as he rode to Dante House, he knew what he was doing.
With O’Banyon waiting, he could not waste time trying to convince the others that despite her Promethean blood, Kate was not a threat. He’d explain his actions later when there was time to go through all the details. For now, he trusted his own judgment, and really, given his record, so should they.
Urging his tall, steady hunter on, he weaved through the traffic at a nimble canter, the reins taut in his gauntleted hands at the horse’s withers, the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes, his greatcoat billowing slightly with the horse’s motion.
All the while, he pondered the past few days with Kate. He still could not figure out her accepting reaction to his having told her point-blank precisely what he was.
Why had she not fled from him in horror?
Obviously, she had not yet grasped the full, dark reality of it. How could she? Kate was an innocent. She hadn’t seen the blood.
But she soon would. And then what? She would probably never let him touch her again, he thought grimly.
Arriving at the club, he swung down off his horse, tied the animal to a hitching post, and entered the tall, black, wrought-iron gate, striding up the short front path to Dante House.
To the outer world, the sinister-looking, deliberately illkempt Tudor mansion on the Thames was the gathering place of the scandalous Inferno Club. In actuality, Dante House was a compact, heavily fortified stronghold that concealed the secret headquarters of the Order of St. Michael the Archangel.
With the glass-domed observatory bulging from the roof, flanked by twin black spires rising like horns, as though some giant devil were hiding in the house, too big to fit, it was no wonder that Londoners called it “the Town residence of Satan.” The menacing façade was meant to keep the curious away; it also added to the lurid tales about the dastardly, highborn libertines and diabolical rakehells who supposedly frequented the place.
To be sure, the Prometheans were so conscientious about maintaining a respectable appearance that they would never have dared come near such a nefarious landmark.
The ruse of Dante House had worked for several decades now, though the Order had owned the building for much longer than that. No doubt, it would be closed up eventually and some new location chosen for the Order to continue its secret work.
The door knocker, shaped like a medieval scholar’s head, seemed to smirk as Rohan let himself in. At once, he was surrounded by the joyful clamor of the dogs.
He had always been a great favorite with the fierce guard dogs of Dante House. They understood each other.
He took off his hat as Mr. Gray, the gaunt butler, hurried into the foyer to attend him. “Welcome, Your Grace. May I take your coat?” he asked loudly over all the barking.
With a nod, Rohan handed him his hat, shrugged off his greatcoat, and let the butler hang it on the coat-tree.
As the solid-bodied guard dogs danced around Rohan in shameless adoration, he bent down and greeted them. “Is Virgil here?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Quiet!” he ordered the dogs in German.
At once, the pack fell silent.
“Where is Virgil, Gray?”
“In the parlor with Lords Rotherstone and Falconridge, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” Good timing, he thought, pausing to scratch one of the massive, black-and-tan dogs affectionately under the chin, then he gave another rugged beast a fond pat on the head.
He straightened up again, and when he left the entrance hall, the pack trotted tamely after him.
Stalking down the hallway, he ignored the club’s oppress
ively florid décor. The crimson rococo style was modeled after a whorehouse; the cloying atmosphere oozed decadence and excess. It helped to further the charade.
“Look who’s back from Cornwall!” Max, his team leader greeted him when Rohan stepped into the room. “Heard the commotion. Thought it might be you.”
“What are you doing here?” he countered as he sauntered into their midst. “Wife kick you out already?”
“I’m only here for the food,” drawled the newlywed marquess, still looking as absurdly happy as he had the last time Rohan had seen him.
“Midas” Max St. Albans, the Marquess of Rotherstone, dark-haired and sardonic, was sitting on the couch, cleaning a fine pair of Manton pistols, the disassembled parts neatly splayed before him on the low table.
In addition to being the Link, or leader, of their three-man team, Max was something of a financial wizard, who was excellent at tracking the Prometheans’ mischief through their bank transactions. He had also helped to fill the Order’s coffers for future operations for many years to come through his shrewd investments.
Rohan also nodded to the other member of their team, Jordan Lennox, the Earl of Falconridge. “Jord.”
Another highly accomplished agent, Jordan was their code expert, a quiet, clean-cut man of understated elegance and cool capability. He looked up from the newspaper advertisements that he was perusing for any disguised messages, a daily discipline.
“Have a nice visit with your ghosts?”
Rohan answered with a wry smile and a rude gesture in the Italian style. Jordan laughed under his breath and turned the page of the Times.
Virgil snorted at their exchange, but his gruff demeanor fooled no one. He loved them as if they were his own sons.
At present, the head of the Order in London was leaning by the window, slicing off pieces of an apple with a penknife and eating them off the blade. The tough old Highland warrior had wild reddish hair shot through with gray.
He had handpicked and recruited them as lads out of the ranks of the aristocracy, had directed their training at the Order’s ancient castle in Scotland, and had coordinated their various missions ever since.
Rohan nodded to him. “Sir.”
“Did you secure the smugglers’ ring?” Virgil asked with his usual taciturnity as he flicked a piece of apple to the dogs.
“Of course. All’s well.” Rohan nodded, setting his hands loosely on his waist. “The Coast Guard’s satisfied. I handed over the fools who carried out the shipwreck. The rest have seen the light. They won’t be doing that again.”
“Good. Those smugglers are no use to us dead,” the Highlander said gruffly.
Rohan nodded, dropping his gaze, besieged by the first wave of guilt at his staunch decision to say nothing about a certain “gift” the smugglers’ chief had given him in Cornwall. “So, what did I miss?”
He quickly learned that there was little news.
He had been gone less than a month, and during that time, the Promethean assassin, Dresden Bloodwell, had not surfaced again. Jordan had been assigned to watch for him in Society, then to go after him when he reappeared.
“No sign of him yet,” Jordan reported.
Max, meanwhile, had been keeping an eye on Albert Carew, the new Duke of Holyfield, whom they suspected of possible involvement with the Prometheans, ever since Carew’s elder brother had died under highly suspicious circumstances, leaving second-born Albert with the dukedom.
Of course, Albert had had a solid alibi, and nobody wanted to question the word of the former dandy who had suddenly become one of the richest men in the House of Lords.
“Now that Carew has been elevated into such a high place,” Max explained, “he’s been toadying to the Regent even more than usual. He seems to be slowly insinuating himself into the Carlton House set. One cannot be surprised the Council would try to get someone else in close to Prinny again after we killed their last spy. Believe me, I am keeping Carew under close scrutiny.”
Rohan looked askance at him. “I trust he is staying away from your wife these days?”
“Damned right he is,” Max snorted, for Carew had courted the golden-haired Daphne before Max had made the choosy belle his own—and Lord, she’d made him work for it.
In light of his own new acquaintance with Kate, Rohan suddenly did not find Max’s romantic agonies several months ago quite so droll as he had at the time.
But he chased Kate fiercely out of his mind once again, determined that they should detect no change in his demeanor. And she had changed him. He knew it down to the core of his barbaric soul. She made him . . . what was that foreign word—? Oh, yes.
Happy.
“What about Drake?” he asked, ignoring the pleasurable memory of her sighs when he had taken her from behind last night. “Any more sightings of him or of James Falkirk?”
“Neither.” Virgil lowered his head with a brooding air.
Rohan leaned his elbow on the back of an empty wing chair nearby. “Well, then, what about that other team that you’ve been waiting for?”
“Beauchamp’s team,” Jordan reminded him.
“Right. Are they back from the Continent yet?”
“Beau and his men are on their way,” Virgil answered. “They should be here any day now. In the meantime, they sent me some interesting news. They managed to track down Tavistock.”
“The Prometheans’ banking fellow, right?” Rohan clarified. “That thieving blackguard in the Stock Exchange?”
“Exactly,” Max replied as he continued polishing the barrel of his pistol. “Sir Richard Tavistock was the one who scooped up millions for the Prometheans when they caused the market crash right after Waterloo.”
“So, what did they find out?”
“Tavistock’s dead,” Virgil clipped out. “They tracked him as far as the Loire Valley, where some villagers led them to a shallow grave. Tavistock was in it. He had been garroted.”
“It wasn’t me,” Rohan said in an offhand jest.
Max sent him a sardonic look.
Then Rohan frowned. “Isn’t the Loire Valley the same place Carew’s elder brother was murdered?”
“Indeed, it was. Right in Malcolm’s back garden.”
They all glanced at Virgil, for Malcolm Banks was not only the head of the Prometheans’ elite High Council; he also happened to be Virgil’s younger brother.
The brawny Scotsman lowered his gaze, bristling as always at the mention of the traitor.
Jordan spoke up to explain. “We believe Malcolm called a meeting of the Council at his chateau in France after Waterloo. According to Beauchamp, Tavistock did not make it out of that meeting alive.”
“Curious,” Rohan answered quietly, furrowing his brow. “After he had done so well for them, sweeping so many millions into their coffers?”
Jordan shrugged. “Maybe he’d served his purpose, or maybe they wanted to cover their tracks. Either way, they got rid of him. Whatever the reason, it does raise the interesting prospect that a power struggle has begun inside the Council. Malcolm likely feels his position as the head of the Prometheans is in jeopardy.”
“Which would make sense—considering he has presided over their greatest defeat,” Max interjected.
“If you ask me, Malcolm would’ve had Tavistock murdered to prove a point, that he won’t tolerate dissension in the ranks,” Virgil opined.
“Hm.” Rohan considered all this for a moment. “Any idea who would want to overthrow him?”
The other three exchanged grim glances.
Rohan realized why. “You think it’s James Falkirk?” he asked swiftly.
“The two never got along, according to our sources,” Max replied. “And Falkirk is extremely influential in their circles.”
They all fell silent, brooding on the matter.
Folding his arms across his chest, Rohan drummed his fingers on his arm in thought for a moment.
This new information presented a very specific, possible motive for why James F
alkirk could be trying to get to the Alchemist’s Tomb.
If, indeed, Falkirk was the one conspiring to challenge Malcolm to become the head of the Prometheans, he could use the legendary occult scrolls from Valerian’s tomb to win followers away from Malcolm to himself.
Staring at the floor, Rohan realized that if he could somehow get to the scrolls first, perhaps Falkirk would be willing to trade them for Drake.
All he had to do was make sure that Gerald Fox did not fall into Promethean hands in the meantime. His mind whirled, but none of the theories taking shape in his mind could be confirmed until he confronted O’Banyon.
Suddenly, he was extremely anxious to get to Shadwell and survey the ground around this rat-catcher’s shop. Best get on with it. “So, I really haven’t missed anything, then,” he concluded.
“Actually, no,” Jordan said with a shrug. “Damned frustrating.”
“I, for one, do not mind the quiet.” Max rammed the pieces of his pistol back together.
“Nothing interesting in here today, either.” Jordan closed his newspaper and cast it aside.
“I should go,” Rohan murmured, turning toward the door.
Max was studying him now with a peculiar intensity. “Are you all right?” he asked abruptly.
Rohan glanced over his shoulder in surprise. “What?”
“You seem—odd.”
“Odd?” he echoed, praying he did not look too suspicious. He hated deceiving them, but he shook his head and kept his face a mask. “No, I’m fine.”
“Just asking,” Max answered with a shrug. “You’re invited to supper tonight, by the way. Jordan’s coming. Virgil refuses, as always, but you are welcome.”
“Thanks, but I have some errands that came up in my absence,” Rohan said.
“Join us after, then? We’re all going out to a soiree afterwards to watch for Dresden Bloodwell and Carew.”
“Can’t, sorry. Unless you need my help?”
“No, we’ve got it. You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Of course. Give Daphne my best.” Rohan took leave of his all-too-perceptive friends with an evasive nod.
