by Gaelen Foley
Table of Contents
Duke of Storm (Moonlight Square, Book 3)
PROLOGUE: A Son’s Duty
CHAPTER 1. A Lady’s Resolve
CHAPTER 2. A Duke’s Honor
CHAPTER 3. The Warrior
CHAPTER 4. The Peacemaker
CHAPTER 5. A Devil’s Bargain
CHAPTER 6. Pistols at Dawn
CHAPTER 7. The Dragoon
CHAPTER 8. Pay the Piper
CHAPTER 9. A Wicked Notion
CHAPTER 10. Dragon Lady
CHAPTER 11. A Model Husband
CHAPTER 12. The Country Dance
CHAPTER 13. A Thorough Report
CHAPTER 14. Hyde Park
CHAPTER 15. Battle Royale
CHAPTER 16. Revelations Unfold
CHAPTER 17. A Shift in the Wind
CHAPTER 18. A Light in the Dark
CHAPTER 19. Gazebo
CHAPTER 20. The Dandy
CHAPTER 21. The Coach House
CHAPTER 22. Trumbull
CHAPTER 23. On the Hunt
CHAPTER 24. Aunt Lucinda’s Soirée
CHAPTER 25. The Major
CHAPTER 26. Killer Unmasked
CHAPTER 27. Leaving Town
CHAPTER 28. On the Road
CHAPTER 29. Dartfield Manor
CHAPTER 30. Vendetta
CHAPTER 31. Landfall
CHAPTER 32. At Last
CHAPTER 33. Two Lanterns
CHAPTER 34. Conflagration
CHAPTER 35. All or Nothing
EPILOGUE: The Fourth Duchess
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Copyright
MOONLIGHT SQUARE, BOOK 3
DUKE OF STORM
Gaelen Foley
PROLOGUE
A Son’s Duty
He did not think of them as victims. In fact, he did not think of them at all.
The Dukes of Amberley were but obstacles to be put down. And how ever many came in the line of succession, he’d just keep killing them, till the title went extinct.
Then surely Father would forgive him.
This one was the last heir in the line, though, he was fairly sure.
He hoped so.
Leaning in the shadows against a net-draped stack of crates, Seth Darrow waited patiently for doomed Duke Number Four to appear.
The ship from Ireland had arrived at the London docks hours late, but the cover of darkness only helped him in his quest. He listened to the Thames’ greasy current slap softly against the quay.
A ship’s bell clanged somewhere out in the darkness, while an ashy snow flurried down from an indifferent onyx sky to turn the Docklands hoary. It coated the roofs of the dismal warehouses and all the empty vendor stalls, abandoned at this hour. The air had a crisp, cold bite mere days before Christmas, but it still stank of slop buckets and fish brine this close to the river.
Seth shifted his weight, impatient with the need to have his task over with. God, this was as bad as waiting for the moment of a cavalry charge, hearing that bellowed order booming down the line of mounted men.
Wondering all the time if he’d come back alive.
He shoved away the thought of his regimental brothers, for this was not exactly the kind of killing that proud dragoons deemed honorable.
Father, on the other hand, did not trouble himself over such niceties.
So Seth waited, the dutiful son, taming his jitters.
His breath misted through the black kerchief he’d tied around the lower half of his face. He adjusted the makeshift mask restlessly and was irked when the cloth snagged again on his short, narrow beard.
Come on, Amberley, for chrissake. It’s cold out here. He fingered the hilt of the knife sheathed at his hip and watched the deck of the Irish frigate, now anchored nearby.
He could hear the voices of a few sailors going about their tasks, securing furled sails, bringing up portage. Meanwhile, farther out across the wide river, the bare masts of moored ships rocked, and creaking hulks of fishing boats shivered under the dark wintry sky.
Down by Parliament, the lanterns along Westminster Bridge gleamed feebly in the gloom. He drummed his fingers on his arm, beginning to wonder if the bleeder had missed the damned boat.
Seth had learned everything he needed to know about the where and when of Duke Number Four’s arrival from a fetching maid in Amberley House.
Poor thing actually believed he was courting her—well, in the rough, earthy manner of the lower orders. Which was to say he’d got her onto her back fairly quickly. It helped that she wasn’t too bright.
It hadn’t taken much to turn the girl to putty in his hands. Little did she know his true intentions.
No matter. Women were made to be lied to.
His thoughts drifted back to something else the scullery maid had said, that half the duke’s own staff were disgusted to learn that their new master was three-quarters Irish.
Hell, the man’s first name was unashamedly heathen—Connor, she’d told him—like the ancient high kings of that destitute, superstitious backwater.
Seth did not give a damn what the new heir’s name was, but he shook his head, bemused. If the duke’s own servants found his Irish blood beneath their dignity, then he could not help wondering what sort of reception this Connor expected to receive here in Town.
His bloodlines might fully entitle him to his dead cousin’s coronet, but the ton could be deeply obnoxious to anyone who bore the slightest whiff of not being entirely one of them.
Seth knew this from personal experience.
There was nothing one could do but brazen it out and try like hell not to make some faux pas in etiquette or speech. Such errors instantly exposed one as an encroaching toadstool, as they put it—any lowborn soul attempting to rise up from the shit.
But lucky for Duke Number Four, he’d be spared the ton’s mockery. Because he would not be leaving the docks alive tonight.
Finally.
Seth came to attention when, at last, his target emerged from belowdecks, appearing on the snow-dusted deck of the frigate. He could not see him well yet. Just the tall, broad outline of a large man in a long, wind-tossed greatcoat.
He heard him bid the crewmen farewell, then arched a brow. It was a rare nobleman who thanked common sailors.
Seth waited to see how many servants His Grace had brought along that he might have to deal with, but there were none.
Apparently, he’d come alone. Seth cocked a brow as things got even stranger. What sort of duke carries his own duffel? But, sure enough, the big man slung it over his shoulder without ceremony, then strode down the gangplank.
Seth heard the deep thud of the man’s boot heels striking the planks of the long wooden dock, slippery with snow.
Then Amberley Number Four came closer, marching down the wooden pier toward the concrete quay, where Seth took care to lean out of sight.
He made no move yet, only gauging his target in predatory stillness.
Huh, he thought, bemused.
If the size of that rugged silhouette provided his first inkling that this man might be harder to kill than his predecessors, he ignored it.
Dragoons feared no one, and did not shrink from fights. Maybe this chap would finally give him a challenge. God knew the last three hadn’t put up any sort of fight worth mentioning. Two old men and a nancy-boy.
Of course, scullery maid what’s-her-name had told him that Number Four was also a military man, but in what capacity he’d served, exactly, not even the butler was quite sure.
Seth wasn’t too concerned. Chances were extremely slim that this highborn fool was a real soldier. With his lo
fty family connections, a rich uncle—either dead Duke Number One or Number Two—had probably purchased his commission for him to give him something to do. Seth had come by his own rank through similar means. Father had bought him his captaincy, pulled a few strings.
Ah, but once Seth had joined his regiment and felt that bold, proud esprit de corps, he’d realized that, for the first time in his life, he had a chance to be a part of something honorable. He’d worked hard to become worthy of the dashing uniform and the brave cavalry horses trained to carry him barreling toward the enemy.
And, to be sure, he’d learned the dragoon’s trademark swagger.
Meanwhile, his elegant younger brother had been learning his part, too.
Sadness flickered in Seth when he thought of Francis.
Unlike firstborn Seth, innocent young Francis had never borne the stench of their family fortune’s criminal origins. Had never sullied his hands dealing with the real family business. Hell, he’d barely even wondered how Father got so rich.
He’d been shocked the night Seth had finally told him. The night he died…
Ah, but for a time, the handsome lad’s rising splendor in the world had made the old man so happy. How Father had laughed and beamed to hear Francis flirt with debutantes in French, or when he’d translate opera lyrics from Italian for him, or the time he’d showed the old cutthroat how to tie a dandy’s perfect cravat.
Unfortunately, as the shady Flynn-Darrow family’s first real gentleman, Francis had also mastered how to take offense at any slight to his honor, too young and hotheaded to know when to walk away.
And now he was dead.
Seth still felt like he could throw up whenever he thought of that night.
“This is your fault,” Father had said when he’d dragged the younger brother’s body home in tears. “You’ll avenge him, or you’re dead to me, as well.”
And so, Seth had no choice for what he was about to do.
But all his dragoon’s swagger was of no help to him in this. Total secrecy was paramount, for in truth there was nothing honorable about his father’s private war against the Amberleys.
No matter. Seth was nothing if not a loyal son to his terrifying sire. The old man had taught him everything he knew. Someone had to take over the family business one day, after all. Dark deeds and an iron stomach were simply part of the game.
Besides, Seth knew the guilt he bore for his little brother’s death.
“You spoiled little fop, you have no idea how easy you’ve had it,” he’d said that night, losing patience with the boy’s fine airs. “You think you’re too good for us? Why don’t you go collect the money, then—Your Lordship?” he’d taunted.
Words he’d regret for the rest of his life. For his beautiful little brother, out to prove his mettle, had taken the dare and been destroyed.
Now if Seth had to kill every last damned nobleman in England to redeem himself for sending Francis into that situation, that was exactly what he’d do.
The Amberleys deserved what they got. At least, one of them did. But Father wanted her left alive.
To suffer with loss, as he did. Because all of this was her fault. She never should’ve tried to double-cross him.
Nobody broke a deal with Elias Flynn.
Look sharp, Seth warned himself, snapping to attention as his target finally finished his goodbyes and reached the land. The duke whistled with irritating cheer as he stepped off the wooden dock and turned left.
A fragment of “Good King Wenceslas” trailed out behind him as he marched off, leaving a path of large footprints in the thin coat of snow.
Seth snorted with envious disdain as he watched the blackguard pass. Well, who wouldn’t be jolly, having just inherited some six estates and a hundred thousand quid a year, for God’s sake?
But his celebration wouldn’t last long.
Seth let him gain a little distance, then slipped out of his hiding place and followed stealthily.
It was time.
Is he taller than me? he wondered in surprise as he stole closer, bearing down on him. Most men weren’t, for he stood a proud six foot one.
Heart pounding, step by swift, silent step, he narrowed the duke’s lead, drawing his knife from its sheath. He gripped it tightly in a leather-gloved hand as he considered just how to spring the attack.
One thing was clear, though. He had to make his move before the bastard reached the street. He couldn’t risk any witnesses. God knew if anything went wrong, Father would hate him even more.
Dry-mouthed as the seconds ticked by, Seth shadowed the duke, passing warehouses, rows of fishmongers’ stalls, an empty ticket booth for the packet lines. Not a soul around. What little light the moon and a few distant lanterns gave reflected off the snow, casting only vague shadows.
His pulse galloped as Amberley slowed his pace, glancing from side to side as he wandered into a windy four-way intersection of the aisles between various stalls and storage sheds.
Outsider that he was, the Irishman didn’t seem to know his way. Then he drifted entirely to a halt, and a thought flickered in Seth’s mind that maybe he should just shoot the stupid bastard in the back and be done with it.
The dragoon in him winced at the cowardice of that solution, but, hell, he’d already done worse—look what he’d done to the old men…
Just as quickly, he dismissed the temptation to take the easy way out. The sound of a gunshot would only bring unwanted attention. More importantly, such a move would be too obvious. He had to make this look like a robbery.
Otherwise, Bow Street might start looking into the Amberley deaths, and neither he nor Father could afford that.
So far, Seth had managed not to raise any suspicions with the authorities because he’d been smart about how he’d done it, each time.
His criminal sire had taught him well. There always had to be a logical explanation. Thus, Duke Number Four would perish at the hands of some faceless footpad. Everyone knew it was treacherous down by the docks.
Especially at night.
Now! he thought, but still delayed for a heartbeat, adjusting his mask one last time, his stare fixed on the broad-shouldered form before him as he summoned up his courage for the attack.
Suddenly—before he could move—something startling happened.
Without warning, Amberley dropped the duffel bag and spun around, lifting his arms out to his sides.
“Well?” he challenged Seth. “Come on, then. Are you gonna try it, or you gonna follow me around all night, you stupid bleeder?”
Seth blinked, taken off guard, but it was too late now to back down. He let out a curse and charged.
What happened next was all a blur, violent and disastrous. He seemed to have run, face-first, into a fist or possibly a brick wall.
Somewhere in between the speed at which the man ducked his whooshing blade and smashed his nose with a facer in reply, Seth realized he had…miscalculated.
He was pummeled, grabbed, wrenched slip-sliding on the snow, dragged about, reprimanded and disarmed, knocked about some more, and, lastly, kicked once hard in the gut when he ended up sprawled on the cold, hard ground, seeing stars.
The duke dusted off his hands. “And let that be a lesson to you,” he said.
Seth lay there on the snow for a moment, dazed. What the hell just happened?
His nose cascading blood, his left wrist either broken or sprained—his knife hurled off to God-knew-where—he clambered to his feet somehow and fled.
“What, leaving so soon?” the man boomed heartily into the night, laughing as Seth scampered away. “That’s what I thought! Ye horse’s arse.”
The last Amberley duke stood there waiting for him to try again, but Seth was focused on staggering away before the towering savage came after him a second time, as he well would’ve, no doubt, if he’d known his true intent.
Seth flung around the corner of a warehouse to catch his breath and clutch his throbbing wrist. Son of a bitch! He’d injured it reachin
g out to catch himself when he’d fallen on his rear end, after the duke had kicked his feet out from under him.
“You’re lucky I let you live—merry Christmas!” the Irishman added. Then he picked up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder once more. Seth could hear him muttering to himself: “Bloody welcome to London.”
With that, Amberley marched off, perhaps to hail a hackney to take him to his new home in Moonlight Square, the giant corner mansion he’d inherited.
Shaken, Seth leaned against the warehouse wall and tilted his head back until the gushing from his nose became a trickle. Blood had soaked through the black kerchief on the lower half of his face. It became a bandage now rather than a mask. So much for all his stealth.
And his swagger.
At length, he dragged himself home in humiliation, still completely confounded and clutching his bruised ribs.
When he went into the florid house that Father’s ill-gotten gains had procured for the family back when Francis was a baby, he immediately crossed the mahogany-paneled foyer to the red-walled dining room, where he poured himself a much-needed brandy.
Dragoon or no, his hand shook as he stoppered the crystal decanter again, then lifted the drink to his lips and tossed it back. What the hell have I got myself into? He gratefully let the liquor burn its way down to his belly, then took a steadying breath, and slowly became aware of someone watching him.
He realized Father’s study door was open just across the hallway.
Seth cringed at having to face the man.
“Well?” Still seated at his baronial desk, Elias Flynn had looked up from his ledger books and was peering at Seth from across the hallway, his stare blade-like over the tops of his small, wire-rimmed spectacles.
His shorn head gleamed in the candlelight coming from the tapers on his desk. But their soft glow could not conceal the harshness of that craggy, harrowed face, the deep lines carved into the forehead and bracketing the cruel mouth.
Father rose, drifted to the doorway. “Did you get him?” he asked.
Seth hesitated, loath to admit his failure. “Not yet, sir.”
Flynn stared at him, rather murderously.
“This one’s not like the others, Father. B-but don’t worry, I’ll see it done. C-can I pour you a drink, sir?”