My Dangerous Duke

by Gaelen Foley

  She nodded. He had drawn her a little map to the safe house in case she panicked and forgot his verbal directions. It was tucked in her bodice.

  “Now, remember, when O’Banyon gets here,” he said very quietly, “you’ve been locked down in that cellar in Cornwall all this time.”

  “I remember.” She looked around. “What is all this junk?”

  “Rat traps. Pitch,” said Pete, also looking around at the piled cages and the large, lidded barrels of tar. “You burn a torch with pitch to smoke the rats out o’ the cargo holds, y’see. Then you herd ’em into traps and club the little bleeders that slip past.”

  “How do you know all this?” she asked, grimacing at the rat-catcher’s tools of the trade.

  “I’ve been around boats all me life, miss, and most of ’em have rats. You can’t shoot the vermin, o’ course. Don’t want to fire a gun into the wooden hull of a ship. Risk springing a leak.”

  Pete fell silent.

  The air throbbed with nervousness, but Rohan was a rock. Kate padded to the back of the room and stood on her tip-toes, peering through the high, filthy window. Through the film of soil and soot, she saw a forest of masts along the river. Countless ships rode at anchor. To think that right now, Papa could be on one of those vessels . . .

  Excruciating tension was building in her, but Rohan remained perfectly calm, cool, and collected. Murderous light glowed in his eyes as he waited in predatory patience.

  She paced a bit in the small back room.

  He took out a flask and offered it to her. “Draught for your nerves?”

  “Lord, no,” she whispered. “I’ll want my wits about me.”

  “It’s going to be fine, Kate.”

  She looked over as he glanced at his fob watch and put it away again. “What if O’Banyon wasn’t there when the boy went to fetch him—”

  Just then, they heard footsteps pounding up the shaky wooden stairs outside.

  “It’s him,” Rohan murmured.

  Pete nodded. “Those footsteps are too heavy for the boy.”

  Indeed, lighter footsteps followed the heavy ones. A moment later, they heard the rat-catcher’s front door open.

  “Where are they?”

  Kate froze, riveted with unexpected terror at the rough sound of her main kidnapper’s voice.

  Rohan stood up slowly from where he had been sitting on a crate. He and Pete both moved closer to her, resuming their façade as her guards.

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself, standing between them. His nearness reassured her. Rohan gave Pete a bolstering nod, and in the next instant, the back room’s door banged open.

  “Took you long enough.” O’Banyon swaggered in, a compact, greasy-haired ex-convict. Upon entering the back room, he took one look at Rohan and instantly drew the pistol from his belt, aiming it at him.

  Kate gasped.

  Rohan stood stone-cold, but Pete let out a startled yelp. “Ho, now! There’s no need—”

  “What the hell are you up to, Pete?” O’Banyon demanded. “Who’s she? And who the hell is this?”

  “Sir, this is Kate Fox! We put her in disguise!”

  “Disguise?” Still pointing his gun at Rohan, O’Banyon glanced briefly at her. “Why?”

  “There’s people lookin’ for her, man—Bow Street types!”

  Pete cried. “Her neighbors reported her missing. We didn’t want her to be seen. But it’s still her under there.”

  O’Banyon slid Pete a wary glance, then nodded at Rohan. “What about ’im?”

  “He’s a different cousin of mine, sir. He’s fillin’ in for Denny.”

  “I didn’t authorize that.”

  “Denny got stabbed in a tavern brawl—in the leg—he can hardly walk. He’s useless at the moment. This is my other cousin, Curtis Doyle. He’s a good man in a fight, sir. You can tell by the size of ’im.”

  O’Banyon’s posture eased a bit. He looked Rohan up and down suspiciously. “Curtis Doyle, eh?”

  “That’s right,” Rohan growled back. “And I expect to be paid in gold.”

  “Do you, now?”

  “Put your gun away, please!” Kate implored O’Banyon.

  He eyed her mistrustfully, but after a moment, he did so with a nod. “Very well, then. If you say he can be trusted, Pete, I’ll take your word for it. After all, you know better than to cross me. Still, you should’a told me o’ this change and not sprung it on me, like.”

  “There wasn’t time, and I had no way to reach you.”

  O’Banyon snorted, then he leaned close to Kate, scrutinizing her in amusement. “As for you, poppet—is that still you under there?”

  “It is,” she answered coldly. If he doubted her changed appearance, Kate’s withering tone assured him she was still the same unruly prisoner he remembered.

  “It’s just as well your pretty body’s hidden for now.” His grin was full of lechery as he straightened up again, letting his crude stare travel over her disguise. “Not a bad idea, dressing her up to hide her face. But I’ll tell you, boys. I’m going to enjoy unwrappin’ this plump little package later tonight. Nothing like a spell in Newgate to make a man enjoy the finer pleasures.”

  Kate glared at him in disgust. O’Banyon laughed derisively. Pete followed suit with a show of nervous humor, but Rohan’s soft laugh, joining theirs, held a distinctly sinister undertone.

  “Come on,” O’Banyon ordered. “Time to go.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Kate demanded, as they grasped her arms again, not as roughly as their hold on her appeared.

  “You’ll see. Keep your mouth shut, wench.” He walked ahead, and Rohan slanted Kate a look that said it all. O’Banyon’s fate was sealed.

  They left the back room, crossed the dingy office, and returned outside, where she spotted the rat-catcher up on the driver’s box of an old, battered coach.

  “Get in,” O’Banyon ordered.

  They all piled into the carriage.

  O’Banyon stared at her the whole time.

  They traveled a short distance through the docklands’ maze of lightless streets, weaving their way down toward the river. Rohan remained stoic, but Kate was terrified, and Pete looked scared, as well. The carriage halted when they were in sight of the River Thames. They all got out.

  “Good. They’re here.” O’Banyon glanced into the darkness in the direction of the river. “Come on, girly. You’re the guest of honor.”

  “Let me go!”

  “Quit your fussin’!” Pete retorted, keeping up his role as one of her heavy-handed guards.

  “Don’t you lot say nothin’ in front o’ the old nob. He’s a deep one,” O’Banyon warned with a meaningful nod toward the quay. “When we’re done here, take her back to the rat-man’s shop. I’ll meet you there. See that you ain’t followed.”

  “Aye, sir,” Pete murmured.

  “Bring her,” he ordered her captors.

  They obeyed. With Pete on her right and Rohan on her left, each of them holding one of her arms, they all followed O’Banyon toward the quay.

  There were inky figures moving in the darkness at the river’s edge, a cluster of men standing around casually with rifles on their shoulders. She glanced at Rohan and saw him counting them with his narrowed stare.

  The frigid wind blew stronger as they walked toward the Thames, leaving the shelter of the drab brick buildings that lined the narrow street. The long, sweeping line of the quay stretched out empty in both directions.

  Kate noticed that as they advanced toward it, Rohan pulled up the neckerchief that hung around his throat, using it to conceal the lower half of his face. He nodded at Pete to do the same, then tugged the brim of his hat a bit lower over his eyes.

  O’Banyon scowled at his helpers. “What are you doing that for?”

  “There’s no point in lettin’ ’em see our faces,” Rohan answered, his pale eyes blazing above his makeshift mask.

  As distant church bells began to toll the hour, three silhou
ettes emerged from between the nearby buildings.

  “Right on time,” O’Banyon murmured under his breath. “Remember, keep quiet, like I told you.”

  Ten loud, slow bongs reverberated over London as the three new arrivals approached.

  Kate was acutely aware of Rohan’s taut vigilance. Her heart pounded as she wondered if she was about to meet some real Prometheans. It must be so, she thought, sensing the predatory tension that thrummed through his muscled frame as he stood beside her, holding on to her arm in his role as her guard.

  “Mr. O’Banyon,” a wry, patrician voice greeted the ex-convict. “Always a pleasure.” The owner of the voice emerged out of the shadows, an elegant older gentleman with a slim build and a shock of pewter hair.

  He had two others with him, each about age thirty. The first man, husky of build, with dirty blond hair and rugged features, wore an eye patch. His good eye regarded O’Banyon with utter contempt, but he kept watching everything, scrutinizing Kate and her two guards, gesturing some unspoken order to the armed men prowling back and forth down by the water and waiting by the river stairs.

  She gathered these were under his control, apparently a contingent of Promethean foot soldiers.

  The second man accompanying the older fellow had a wounded air and an introverted posture, though he was strikingly good-looking; his black hair was cropped short, revealing a beautiful, chiseled face. His hands were thrust down into the pockets of his greatcoat, shoulders hunched against the cold. He kept his eyes down but stayed close to the older fellow, perhaps specifically assigned to protect him.

  Kate sensed Rohan staring at this brooding, silent man as though he recognized him, and it suddenly dawned on her that this might be their missing agent he had mentioned.

  Drake.

  “You have the daughter?” the distinguished older gentleman inquired as they approached.

  If this was the Promethean magnate, James Falkirk, the “Old Man” that O’Banyon had mentioned to Pete, contrary to the nickname, he could not be described as elderly. He was elegantly fit and appeared to be in his early sixties.

  “She’s right here,” O’Banyon answered, nodding at Kate.

  “Hm,” Falkirk mused, looking her over with a degree of pity at her unfortunate appearance of this night.

  “Who are you?” Kate demanded.

  “Be quiet!” O’Banyon ordered, but Falkirk lifted an eyebrow in amusement at her show of spirit.

  “I knew your grandfather, Miss Fox. Such a shame, what a wrong path he took in life. I regret to say the last Count DuMarin brought great dishonor to his otherwise-distinguished line.”

  “You have the wrong person, as I’ve told these cretins a hundred times. My name is not Fox, it’s Madsen,” she retorted, just to see what he’d say.

  “No, my dear. Your mongrel of a father merely dubbed you with an alias to protect you.” He smiled. “I daresay, in the hopes we’d never find you—but, alas.”

  “My father is dead.”

  “Really?” he answered in a pleasant tone. “Then, tell me, who is that?” Falkirk turned with an urbane gesture toward the river stairs, where the lone figure of a man was now getting out of a rowboat.

  Kate stared, riveted by something familiar in the way the brawny figure moved.

  O’Banyon let out a low snort of disgusted laughter, staring. “Well, well. The Sea Fox has arrived.”

  Papa?

  Time seemed to slow. Her heart was thudding in her throat. She barely felt Rohan’s hand steadying her with a subtle press of her elbow. She was riveted by the large, rugged silhouette striding slowly up the docking stairs.

  “You’re sure it’s ’im?” The eye-patch man glanced over.

  O’Banyon nodded. “Aye, that’s him, all right. The illustrious Captain Fox.”

  Kate let out a small cry as the men with rifles surrounded her father; it dawned on her that they had been waiting down there for him.

  It hit her then. Truly hit her.

  Not only was Papa alive. He had walked into this fully prepared to sacrifice himself so she could go free.

  “Come along,” Falkirk instructed in a most polite tone. “Let him see we have her. Then we can proceed without delay to more important matters.” He walked ahead of them toward the river’s edge. His two younger associates followed, flanking him.

  Rohan nudged her gently into motion; they all walked slowly toward the others.

  “Captain Fox!” Falkirk greeted him. “It was wise of you to come alone, as we requested. You can no doubt guess why you are here, but suffice to say, I learned from your former shipmate that you are in possession of rare and wondrous information—namely, the whereabouts of the Alchemist’s Tomb. All you need to do to ensure your daughter’s safety is to lead us to it. We will do the rest.”

  “You claim you have my daughter,” the newcomer spoke out boldly. “Let me see her first.”

  At the familiar sound of that gravelly, defiant voice, Kate’s mind reeled.

  “Bring the young lady forward.”

  “Come on,” Rohan whispered, tugging her into motion.

  Kate walked in an amazed trance toward the burly outline of Captain Gerald Fox. He stood tall, still looking hearty and hale enough to thrash any unruly crewman.

  As she went closer, she saw that his square, rough-hewn face was lined now and even more weathered than she remembered. His once-thick hair was gone, now a bald pate shining in the moonlight. The same rectangular goatee beard that he had always worn surrounded his mouth, still shaved neatly to cover just his chin, only now, it was white.

  But when she stood before him, it was his eyes, as green as her own, that left no doubt of who he was. They still blazed with the same fiery spirit that she remembered from those days so long ago when she had stood at the helm of his frigate pretending to steer the great vessel, though the wheel had towered over her.

  Papa stared back uncertainly, squinting in the darkness. “That’s not my daughter,” he said gruffly.

  “Yes, Papa, it is,” she choked out.

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” Falkirk said sardonically. “Otherwise, I’m afraid we should have no use for her.”

  Cautiously, Kate lowered the spectacles, letting her father see her eyes. “Don’t you recognize me, Papa?”

  Profound amazement overtook his manly features. “Katy, me wee barnacle,” he whispered. “It is you.”

  She stepped forward suddenly and hugged him hard, squeezing her eyes shut against the threat of tears. When she felt his arms encircle her artificially plumped-up waist, she somehow managed to put aside the storm of her emotions. She had to let him know there was help at hand that he was not aware of.

  Still hugging him, she breathed the message in his ear only loud enough for him alone: “Warrington is here.”

  She felt her father pause, absorbing the news.

  “Well, this reunion is all very touching, I’m sure,” Falkirk interrupted dryly, “but we have a schedule to keep, if you don’t mind.”

  Shrewd as he was, Captain Fox did not so much as glance at the tall “smuggler” standing next to her, but instead, kept his fond gaze fixed on Kate as she released him from her embrace and stepped back between her guards.

  Her father glanced grimly at Falkirk. “Very well, I’ll do what you want. You’ve got me now. You don’t need her anymore. Let my daughter go.”

  “Oh, we’ll be holdin’ on to her until you’ve kept your end of the bargain, Cap’n Fox,” O’Banyon spoke up, gloating at his former employer.

  Papa glowered at him. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

  “Aye, you should’ve. Because when all this is over, I’ve got a score to settle with you concerning Newgate.”

  “That is exactly where you belong, you gallows rat!”

  O’Banyon merely smirked at the insult, then he glanced at Pete and Rohan. “Go on. Take her away, like I told ye.”

  “Not so fast,” the eye-patch man spoke up. He beckoned to his
rifle-toting henchmen to come and take hold of Kate. “My men will take over from here.”

  O’Banyon turned to him indignantly. “What do you mean by this? That’s not our agreement! My men are to keep watch on the girl!”

  “Our agreement?” the ruthless, one-eyed Promethean replied. “You’re the one who broke it. Nobody told you to bring outsiders into this. I’m afraid your men’s services are no longer required—and frankly, you piece of dung, now that we have the good captain, neither are yours.”

  Without another word, the eye-patch man pulled out a pistol and matter-of-factly shot O’Banyon dead.

  Kate’s jaw dropped, but even as her kidnapper’s body crumpled to the ground, the man turned with a second pistol to do the same to O’Banyon’s “smuggler” assistants.

  Rohan was already shoving Kate behind him; reaching with both hands under his coat, he withdrew two pistols, took aim, and almost gaily blew a hole in the eye-patch man’s forehead, dropping him to the ground; he almost simultaneously leveled his left arm and shot the first Promethean henchman taking aim at him.

  Everything happened in the blink of an eye.

  Shots flashed everywhere, blinding bursts of gunfire, sharp reports bounding off the brick box of crowded buildings at the river’s edge.

  Rohan had already drawn a third pistol, aiming at Falkirk. But when Drake stepped in front of the old man and blocked the shot, Rohan held his fire with a low curse.

  Drake immediately hustled Falkirk to safety, taking cover behind a wall off to their right, while a surge of yells erupted from the direction of the river.

  Half a dozen of her father’s sailors rushed up from unseen hiding places, barreling into the fray against the Promethean henchmen.

  As the two groups began to battle each other, Kate peeked out from hiding behind Rohan to see what was happening. She spotted Papa through the mayhem as he pulled out a gun and shot a Promethean foot soldier in the back. The man had taken aim at Pete, who was crouching low to the ground, covering his head.

  Another shot flashed at once from off to the right; Gerald Fox let out a curse.

  “Papa!” she cried in horror as he fell, shot in the leg by Falkirk to stop him from getting away.