Of loss.
On the ground floor she noticed that no one was guarding the front entrance—usually one of the Corsicans sat on a chair beside the door.
Now it was empty.
Iris stopped and glanced quickly around. She was alone in the hall.
And she hadn’t been properly outside in days.
Quickly she ran to the door. It had an old-fashioned bar, presumably left over from medieval times. She lifted it and was out the door in a minute.
The front steps were deserted and she let out a breath.
On the night that she’d been brought here she’d had the idea that the abbey was closed in by trees. Now she could see that a little green stood on the other side of the gravel drive. Yellow flowers were in bloom here as well—a veritable carpet of them.
She walked across the drive, heading toward the flowers.
Daffodils. They were daffodils, thousands of them. Iris knelt in the grass and inhaled the faint perfume. A breeze passed by and all the bright-yellow trumpets nodded as one. How could this be? Had someone patiently planted each bulb?
But no. The daffodils weren’t in soldierly rows. They bloomed in drifts and clumps. They must be wild.
She drew in her breath in wonder. How amazing that such beautiful ephemeral things could bloom here in this house of death and decay.
But perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the abbey wasn’t dying.
Perhaps it merely waited, sleeping, for joy and life to return to it.
She bent forward to inhale from a blossom. “Iris!”
She startled badly at Raphael’s shout.
Before she could respond, rough hands grasped her and pulled her to her feet.
She turned and oh, his face was hard and cold, his scar a red brand, and for once she could read the expression on his face.
He was furious.
“Have you no sense?” he snarled. “I tell you that you are in danger and to stay inside the abbey, and that causes you to go tripping about the countryside?”
She tried to step back. “I merely—”
“No.” He yanked her into his chest, his face within inches of hers, his breath hot on her lips. “No explanations, no excuses. I’ve had enough of your carelessness, madam.”
Her eyes widened and for a second she was almost afraid.
Something in Raphael’s face twisted and changed. “What you do to me—”
He slammed his mouth onto hers, forcing her lips apart and thrusting in his tongue.
She mewled helplessly as he bent her back over his arm. Her senses were filled with the taste of coffee and the scent of cloves and she couldn’t think.
He lifted his mouth from hers so abruptly she could only stare up at him, dazed.
Then she heard the sound of wheels on gravel.
A carriage jolted down the drive at a fast clip and halted in front of the house.
Raphael swung her to the side and partially behind him, his grip on her arm still firm.
A half-dozen Corsicans stood on the front steps and for a moment Iris felt embarrassed at the idea that they’d seen their master reprimand her and then embrace her so savagely.
Then the carriage door opened and three gentlemen emerged: two who might be brothers, they looked so alike, and a third, slightly shorter man.
There was a stunned moment while she and Raphael stared at them, and they stared back.
Then one of the brothers swept her a low bow before saying, “Lady Jordan. How … surprising to find you here.”
Iris felt her breath catch in fear even as Raphael went rigid beside her. These men were strangers to her, and yet here, far from London, they knew who she was.
Which could mean only one thing.
They were members of the Lords of Chaos.
Raphael stared at the intruders on his land, only his iron self-control keeping him from herding Iris into the abbey.
He could feel fine trembles shake her hand.
How dare these worthless cowards invade his territory?
Frighten his wife.
“Oh dear, did we arrive at an inauspicious time?” Hector Leland—the man who had been Raphael’s first contact with the Lords of Chaos—mockingly drawled the words. Leland was a short man with unpowdered reddish brown hair clubbed back at his neck.
“Ubertino,” Raphael called without taking his eyes from the three men.
The Corsican hurried to his side.
Raphael made sure his voice was clear and loud. “Escort my duchess to her room, please.”
Ubertino bowed and extended an arm, indicating to Iris to precede him.
Raphael was taking a chance, of course. She might decide to disobey him at this crucial moment. He had, after all, been berating her when the men arrived.
But it seemed that his wife had at last understood the danger she was in. Without a word she walked into the abbey. Ubertino followed with Valente and Ivo on his heels, and Raphael was glad he had such loyal men.
They would protect her.
He turned to his unwelcome guests.
They looked quite harmless and were all of nondescript countenance. They might be any group of aristocrats gathered at a coffeehouse or salon.
Save for the fact that all three were members of the Lords of Chaos.
Raphael prowled toward them.
Gerald Grant, Viscount Royce, the eldest of the invaders, cleared his throat. “Dyemore. I had no idea you were contemplating marriage. We came to—”
He cut himself off as Raphael kept walking and all three men were forced to back up a step.
Raphael halted and stared at them. “Why are you on my lands?”
“We come on the orders of a mutual friend,” Royce said with significance.
The Dionysus had sent them—most probably to find out if Raphael had killed Iris. He should have expected this. It was simply bad luck that Iris had been outside when they arrived. If she hadn’t been, Raphael might’ve been able to stay the news that she was still alive for another couple of days—time enough to fully heal.
But it was no use mourning what might have been. If nothing else, this would be a good opportunity to question these men about the Dionysus.
Having made up his mind, Raphael jerked his head toward the abbey. “Come inside.”
Andrew Grant, the younger brother of Lord Royce, swallowed with an audible clicking sound and said carefully, “Most kind, Your Grace.”
Raphael turned without comment and walked to the steps of the abbey.
“Luigi,” he said to one of the men on the steps, and addressed him in Corsican. “Tell Nicoletta to bring a tray of tea and whatever food she might have to the sitting room.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” the man replied, and trotted into the abbey.
“You both come with me,” he said to the remaining Corsicans, and as he passed, followed by his guests, his men fell in behind.
He led the procession up the stairs and into the same sitting room in which he’d married Iris. He walked across the room to the fireplace.
“Thank you for inviting us in, Dyemore,” Leland said from behind him.
“I don’t remember inviting you to the abbey, Leland.” He turned finally to face the three men. “Any of you.”
“Naturally we don’t mean to intrude, Your Grace,” Andrew said. “We are on our way to London. We just stopped to see you. Had we known …”
His voice trailed away as Royce shot him an irritated glance. The brothers might’ve been twins, they were so alike, both with slightly pointed chins and noses, a faint scattering of freckles across each one’s fair complexion giving him a boyish air.
He’d seen what these boys did by torchlight. In fact, he’d known both since childhood.
After all, the Grant estate was adjacent to his own.
And of course their father, like his own, had been a member of the Lords of Chaos.
“You might want to heed our mutual friend,” Royce said with heavy emphasis.
Raphael lifted
an eyebrow. “I heed no one.”
“No?” Leland said. “And yet you wish to join an exclusive company. One with a definite leader.”
Raphael met Leland’s eyes. He’d never seen the man alone—Leland always trailed one or both of the Grant brothers. Raphael had always assumed the man was a sycophant, yet now he seemed the least fearful of Raphael’s presence.
Interesting.
Bardo entered the sitting room and turned to hold the door for Nicoletta, who bustled in with a huge tray of tea and little cakes. She darted Raphael a cautious glance as she set the tea upon a table beside the settee and poured four cups before curtsying and leaving the room.
Andrew piled several cakes on a plate and took a cup of tea.
The other two men ignored the offering.
Raphael threw himself onto a chair. “Tell me why you’ve disturbed my peace.”
“We were sent by the Dionysus himself to see if you’d fulfilled your promise,” Royce hissed like a cat splashed with water. “And a good thing, too—you were ordered to kill her, yet we find Lady Jordan here and, what’s worse, you’ve gone and married her.”
Raphael shrugged, picking up a teacup and sipping. He’d never much liked tea, but it was a drink the English were fond of. “I changed my mind.”
Andrew laughed. “You changed your mind?” The younger Grant brother took a seat across from Raphael, shaking his head. “He’ll kill you, you do know that?”
“Will he?” Raphael cocked his head, feeling the fire, never banked for long, leap within him. “He’s certainly welcome to try.”
Andrew looked puzzled. “But you gave your word on your honor.”
“Honor.” Raphael arched an eyebrow. “In that company? With torches all around, standing with our cocks out, masked and afraid to show our faces.” He leaned forward. “How many victims were there that night, hm, Andrew? How many were children? Don’t talk to me of bloody honor.”
Andrew’s eyes lowered to his lap, where his hands twisted together.
Leland, however, wasn’t as cowed. “He made it plain that you were to dispose of Lady Jordan,” he murmured. “He considers her a liability to the Lords—especially because she’s a friend to the Duke of Kyle.”
“More fool he for kidnapping her in the first place, then.” Raphael said, lounging back. “But tell me, the Dionysus sent you here himself? You saw him unmasked?”
“He left a note.” Andrew looked up, his watery eyes anxious. “You know he never shows his face to anyone.”
“He must show it to someone,” Raphael murmured. “Someone knows where he came from and who he is.”
“No one.” Leland shook his head quickly.
Raphael watched him. “Then how does he communicate? How did he know you were still in the neighborhood? Where to leave the note?”
“Does it matter?” Andrew asked. “We were at Grant Hall. Presumably he must’ve been nearby for the revelry. The note was sealed and left at the door.”
Raphael’s eyes narrowed. “How are you to report your visit to me?”
“A note in—” Andrew began, but his brother cut him off.
“Why do you need to know? What would you do with the information?” Royce demanded. “You seek to bring down our Dionysus, don’t you? You want to take his place.”
“If I do?” Raphael asked softly.
Royce took a step toward Raphael, his face twisted with anger, but he hesitated on his retort a beat too long.
Royce feared him.
“This Dionysus is strong,” Leland said quickly. “The Lords haven’t had such a fine leader since your father was killed last fall. The man who attempted to become the Dionysus immediately after your father was too obsessed with his own fortune.”
Raphael sneered at the mention of his father. The prior Duke of Dyemore had been a roué of the worst sort and a man completely without honor. In no way had he been fine.
“This new Dionysus has magnificent plans,” Leland continued. “Plans that will make us all wealthy and powerful. No one will back you if you try to overthrow him.”
“No?” Raphael looked at them intently. “Not even if I pledge to share the power of the Dionysus?”
“What do you mean?” Leland asked.
Raphael shrugged. “When I become the next Dionysus, naturally I’ll reward those who helped me to achieve that position—perhaps permanently. Why, after all, should there be one leader of the Lords?”
“This is dangerous talk,” Andrew murmured uneasily.
“It’s ridiculous talk,” Royce scoffed. “You have no idea who he is—what he is.”
“I’m sorry, Dyemore,” Andrew whispered. “We cannot back you.” He lowered his head when his brother sent him a glare.
Royce turned to Raphael. “You and your new duchess won’t have long to live if you continue on this mad course, Dyemore. Quit it and leave well enough alone. Perhaps if you grovel, the Dionysus will forgive you and let you live.”
Raphael’s brows rose. “I don’t grovel.”
“Then you’re insane and doomed,” Royce said, sounding exasperated. “What possessed you to marry Lady Jordan anyway?”
“Why, Royce, don’t you believe in fairy tales?” Raphael drawled. “Perhaps I saw the former Lady Jordan at a ball months ago and fell in love with her at once.”
Leland snorted, Andrew simply looked at him thoughtfully, and Royce bit off something foul. “Don’t mock me, Dyemore. You’re the one who’ll soon be dead, not me. You and your duchess.”
He felt the fire overrun his barriers.
Raphael rose and Royce started back.
“Get out,” Raphael whispered.
They scurried from the room like rats.
He strode to the door and up to his bedroom.
He threw open the door, startling Iris, who was sitting by the hearth.
She rose, twisting her hands together. “What is it? What did they want?”
“You,” he snapped. “Pack what you need. We leave for London in an hour.”
That afternoon the Dionysus smiled behind his mask at the Fox. They sat in a private room in an inn not far from Dyemore Abbey. The Fox had procured a room for the revels and the Dionysus had asked him to stay afterward on a whim.
A decision that, as it turned out, had been most fortuitous.
“My lord,” said the Fox. “You know I am at your disposal.”
“Are you?” The Dionysus studied him, for the Fox of course wore no mask.
He was a man of medium build, red haired—though his pate was covered now with a white wig—and green eyed. He came from an old family and was handsome enough to have caught himself an heiress wife, though not so handsome that the wife’s dowry could satisfy all the debts his father had put the family estate into. The Fox was entirely amoral and entirely in thrall to his own sexual appetites, which were far from what was considered tasteful.
Oh, and he wanted desperately to regain the fortune his father had lost.
It made him biddable.
“You know I am loyal,” the Fox said.
“So you have said,” the Dionysus replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair he sat in. “But have you ever proved yourself to me? I think not.”
“Then set a task for me.” The Fox was on his feet now, his green eyes wide, his face filled with fervor. “Tell me what to do and I shall do it so that you will know my loyalty once and for all.”
“Very well.” The Dionysus inclined his head. “Dyemore has defied me. He gave his word to me and then broke it. He is dishonorable. He is rebellious. He is dangerous. Rid me of this traitor and his wife and you will not only be held to my bosom as my most trusted friend, but I shall also reward you monetarily.”
The Fox’s eyes lit. More at the mention of money than at talk of being held to his master’s bosom, but then the Dionysus was a cynical man. He’d take whatever means motivated his pawns.
“I vow I’ll do this for you,” the Fox said with satisfying fervor.
&nb
sp; “Good,” said the Dionysus, and began telling him how he wanted Dyemore—and his wife—killed.
Chapter Eight
The tower was round and squat, made without mortar, the stones simply fitted together. Ann circled it until she found a door, and there she knocked.
The man who answered was tall and lean, gray and craggy, stern and unsmiling. He was, in fact, exactly like the barren rocky wasteland.
Ann looked at the Rock King and raised her chin.
“I need you to save my little sister.”
The Rock King stared at her, unblinking.
“How?” …
—From The Rock King
In the late afternoon of that same day Iris watched her husband from across a carriage as it bumped along a country road. He was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, but held himself sternly upright as if he could overcome the lingering effects of his fever by sheer force of will alone.
And perhaps he could, she thought with a wry smile. This was, after all, the man who had sent three members of the Lords of Chaos fleeing with their tails between their legs. Who had declared open warfare against the Dionysus of the Lords of Chaos—and by extension the Lords themselves—without hesitation or qualm.
Hades was a man other men were wary of—and with good reason, it seemed.
He turned at that moment and his crystal gaze met hers. He arched a brow. “What do you smile at?”
She shrugged. “I was just remembering how swiftly our guests left the abbey.”
“I’ve no doubt they went running straight to report to the Dionysus that you still live.” He glared at her. “And that we’re married.”
“I thought his identity was secret?” That much she’d learned from Hugh.
“It is.” For a moment she thought he’d stop there; then he seemed to come to a decision, his eyes intent on her. “Apparently the Dionysus has been communicating via notes with the Grant brothers. They didn’t tell me, but I have no doubt that they have a way of sending a message to him in return. He probably knows you’re alive right now.”
She couldn’t help her muscles’ sudden tightening, an instinctive reaction like that of a rabbit freezing before a fox.
Then she drew a breath. “That’s why you insisted we decamp for London so precipitously, isn’t it?”
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