Sussex shrugged. “He is part of this, isn’t he? It’s his knowledge of the old order that we need. He has a right to be here, to help us find the chalice and pendant.”
Indeed he was. Alynwick and his forebears had been in charge of keeping the ancient religious text safe, and well away from the chalice and the pendant. The text, which was in the form of an ancient scroll, was the third artifact that had been carried out of Solomon’s Temple by their Templar ancestors. The scroll was said to have the power of prophecy and alchemy, and contained the secrets of how to bring the powers of the chalice, pendant and scroll together. It was said that to possess all three, and their knowledge and power, was to rule supreme. Black had never believed, but there was that time, once, when he had held the black onyx pendant with its strange symbols marked in gold in his hand, and began to wonder if what his ancestors had passed down from generation to generation, son to son, was not true. He had felt something…heard something…a voice calling, whispering to him, tempting him with all he might have.
He’d been grieving at the time, Death had surrounded him, come in threes to take those closest to him. He’d assumed what he’d heard had been nothing but grief and despair. But now, ten years later, he began to wonder whether the pendant really had magical properties.
“Those are Templar treasures coming,” Sussex reminded him, “and we need Alynwick’s help if we are going to be able to keep London safe in the event that whoever has stolen the chalice and pendant discovers their powers.”
“Safe,” he murmured, gazing at the sky, thinking of Isabella. “Death follows me like a cloud, Sussex. No one is safe from my family’s curse.”
“We’re all cursed,” Sussex grumbled. “But that hardly matters now, does it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Sussex raked an unsteady hand through his dark hair. “Tomorrow the ship from Jerusalem arrives. Be there to find out what Knighton has unearthed. Report back as soon as you discover anything. We must be very careful, Black.”
“Aren’t I always cautious?”
“Tonight you weren’t.”
He glared at Sussex. “Some could accuse you of the same.”
“Just keeping tabs on what could be a very inconvenient discovery of our involvement.”
Black laughed, a deep sound of jaded weariness. “Is that what you’re calling Lucy Ashton, an inconvenience?”
Resentment flashed in Sussex’s eyes. “You needn’t concern yourself with her, I’ll manage her,” he snapped, and Black felt the duke’s possession in every word.
“You’ve fallen for Lucy.”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“Your tone says otherwise.”
“My tone is exasperation, Black. The young lady is far too intelligent and nosy for her own good,” he grumbled. “I can’t allow her to discover anything about the artifacts—or me.”
“What makes you think she knows anything about the artifacts?”
“She’s been plaguing me with questions about the Brotherhood and the Grand Lodge. She’s enamored of its secrets and I’m afraid she might just uncover that our family has been using Freemasonry as a way to keep the secrets they found in Solomon’s Temple buried. Miss Ashton has a hunger for knowledge, and it scares the devil out of me. She’s started attending séances and spirit meetings, for God’s sake. There’s no telling what lengths that single-minded miss will go to in order to indulge her quest for answers.”
“I’m sure you have charmed her out of seeking any further answers.”
“She doesn’t care for me.”
Sussex sounded hurt—and defeated. Oddly, Black found he relished the knowledge. Misery did love company, for his desire for Isabella was just as hopeless as Sussex’s for Lucy.
“She is only playing at the supernatural, Sussex. It’s in vogue, after all, and Lucy Ashton is a forerunner in society. It is innocent curiosity and a cure for interminable boredom. Trust me, the girl hasn’t stumbled upon anything.”
“Oh?” Sussex reached into his jacket pocket, then tossed something into the air, which Black caught. Uncurling his fingers, he studied the gold coin that sat in the palm of his hand.
Facing up was the image of laurel leaves and a lyre. On the other side was a six-pointed star with the words The House of Orpheus imprinted around the coin. Frowning, he stared at the image, wondering where he had seen it before. There was something very familiar about it.
“Still think we have nothing to worry about?” Sussex snapped. “I told you back in Yorkshire that someone was after the chalice and pendant. I could feel it.”
Black looked up sharply. “What is this?”
“I found it in Lucy Ashton’s reticule. So, you tell me, is it nothing to be concerned about?”
Black had no desire to question why the blazes Sussex was snooping in Lucy’s purse, but he was curious about the coin, and its ominous nature.
“I’ve seen this before—not in the past, but recently,” he murmured. “The image has been modified, but only slightly.”
“So you remember the House of Orpheus, and its rogue leader?”
How could he not? Sussex’s and Alynwick’s fathers, not to mention his own father, had been the ones to shut down the club that had been created to mirror the old Hellfire Club of the last century. The leader had been a rogue Mason, but more importantly, he had been one of them. He had been the fourth Templar—the one whose ancestor had ambushed the other three while they lay sleeping before they left the holy city after stealing the artifacts. He’d been killed, or so they thought. All three Templars had believed their secret safe, buried with the body of the fourth. But then, after discovering the House of Orpheus, their fathers had been confronted with the fact that there was someone else out there, someone who knew of them and what they protected—and the prophesized powers they contained. Someone had wanted the artifacts twenty years ago—and someone wanted them now. Perhaps they even had them in their possession.
“Our fathers put an end to the infamous cult years ago. It cannot be the same one.”
“Damn you, Black, because you wish it to be so doesn’t mean it is. Whether you want to believe it or not, the club has been resurrected. Along with the coin, I found a piece of paper. On it was written, ‘Now you have died and now you have come into being. O thrice happy one, on this same day. Tell Persephone that Orpheus has released you.’”
Black froze. “That was the initiation rite.”
“Indeed. Someone knows of us—there are too many similarities to be a coincidence.”
“Who?” Black growled. “Who could have learned of the club and resurrected it? Who could know of the relics besides us—or the fact that the catacombs beneath the Masonic lodge lead to the crypts of the Templar church? Our fathers made certain its existence was kept secret. Perhaps this new House of Orpheus has no connection to the relics.”
“That is the answer we must discover.” Sussex’s eyes grew unreadable. “We must take every precaution, Black. No one can learn of us, or what our families are responsible for.”
Black tossed the coin back to Sussex. “You think Lucy is involved, don’t you?” And dear God, if Lucy was involved, there was every possibility that Isabella was, too.
Pocketing the coin, Sussex glanced up at the sky, to the moon that was being overtaken by a thick, black cloud. “I do not know what to believe. But if this club is returned, and the artifacts are missing, then we have much larger problems than I first thought.”
“I’ll go to the docks in the morning and search the ship.”
“Alynwick will meet you there. I’ll continue to research this coin. The next Masonic meeting we’ll talk. We’ll meet in private after it and discuss what we’ve learned.”
He inclined his head and made to move past Sussex. Lamb was standing on the path, his huge tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. The dog was as ugly as a demon, and his name a bit of folly, but the canine gave him some amusement. He found himself wondering what Isabella would
think of his pet beast. She was a kind and loving person; he was certain she would smother Lamb with a shocking amount of affection. It was strange how ordinary things suddenly made him think of Isabella. And after only one dance.
Sussex reached for the sleeve of Black’s shirt as he went to pet the dog’s head. “Find a way to keep Knighton close to you. I don’t trust him.”
The image of Wendell Knighton flashed before him. He was courting Isabella, a fact that made him see red. Black wanted to tear the young archaeologist from limb to limb, not take tea with him. One thing was certain, he would not attend Knighton while the fool was wooing Isabella. There were limits to what he could stomach, and Isabella falling for Knighton was not one of them.
“Your word. Keep him with you—alive.”
“Of course,” he drawled. “But you will remember that I’m cursed. Death has a way of following me.”
Sussex’s dark gaze met his. “He follows us all. Let us hope that this time, we have a head start.”
“Sussex,” Black said, “I’ve seen that very image on the coin, in the last few days. I can’t for the life of me remember where, but I’ll trace my steps and see where it leads me. I’ll let you know.”
Nodding, the duke raked a hand through his hair, then leveled his gray gaze upon him. “I have your word that if you discover any connection with Miss Ashton and this club, you will keep it to yourself. Lucy’s—er—Miss Ashton’s reputation must be protected at all costs.”
Sussex disappeared amongst the shadow and the faint glow of the gas lamps that lined the street. Glancing down at his hand, Black lifted the bloom to his nose, and began to think of the coin and the familiar image. Where had he seen it? The scent of rose almost immediately made him forget about Sussex and the Templar artifacts that were missing, and instead, brought him back to the dance he’d shard with Isabella.
“The last rose of summer,” he murmured idly as his finger stroked the velvety petals, and he knew just what to do with it.
“MISS FAIRMONT,” Isabella’s maid, Annie, announced from the door. “There’s a gentleman here to see you. I’ve put him in the back parlor, for he smells like the Thames.”
Isabella’s brows raised in curiosity as she glanced at the clock on her rosewood writing desk. “It’s only eleven.”
“A trifle early for calls,” Lucy moaned as she flung herself back onto the heap of pillows that lay on the bed. “Doesn’t Mr. Knighton realize that there is a proper way to call, and it is not before a lady is breakfasted, or dressed?”
“Should I send him away, miss?”
“No,” Isabella announced, rising from her chair in a froth of white sateen and lace. “Help me out of these bedclothes, Annie. It won’t take me long to dress and be ready to receive him.”
“I will return right shortly, miss. Just let me go and tell the gentleman that you are at home.”
The door shut behind Annie, and Lucy groaned. “Men! They do know how to put a pall on a perfectly good morning, do they not? I was utterly enchanted by your story, Issy. Now I must wait to hear what happened when your heroine sat on the bench, suffering beneath Death’s lascivious stare.”
Isabella glanced at her open journal. There was much more there than her story of Death and his mysterious lady on those pages. There were her penned memories of last night, in the maze with Lord Black—which somehow had found their way into the newest writing of her novel.
Closing the cover, she shut the tiny lock with a click and wrapped the key around her wrist, which she held on a delicate bracelet of black jet. She trusted Lucy not to go prying into her personal writing while she was below, taking tea with Wendell. Still, though, she could not allow the events of last night to get out. While she knew that she was not yet in love with Wendell, she cared for him, would not want to jeopardize what might possibly turn out to be a marriage proposal. She also didn’t want Wendell to discover that she had been out with Lord Black, allowing him unmentionable intimacies—and enjoying them. More than enjoying them, she finally admitted, but dreaming of another evening with him and perhaps allowing even more scandalous intimacies than a lady of good breeding and sound sense would ever dare think of allowing a gentleman.
But dream she had. All night, in fact. Her sleep had been fitful, the dream at times sensual, but then turning darker, dangerous. Black had featured in her dreams, and this morning she was paying for the hours of restlessness. She had the beginnings of a headache, the type that were brought on by her dreams. She didn’t believe it to be one of those dreams—the sort that had plagued her since she was twelve.
“I’ll come down with you,” Lucy announced as she rolled onto her side and slipped from the bed. “I’ll fetch Sibylla and meet you downstairs.”
At the mention of Lucy’s maid, Isabella felt compelled to ask, “Has Sibylla arranged for you to attend any more séances?”
Lucy’s green eyes shone as brilliant as emeralds. “Sibylla has the same deep interest in mysticism and spiritualism as I do. I do not care a fig that she can’t dress my hair for anything, for she can find the most diverting amusements. Where she hears of these things I’ll never know—but I won’t be the one to ask her, for she has kept me amused for a month.”
“Lucy…” Isabella warned. “You’re evading the question.”
“Oh, all right then, yes. There’s to be a séance tonight, and guess where? Oh, it’s going to be so brilliant,” Lucy cried as she ran to her and reached for her hands, squeezing them hard in her exuberance. “Imagine this, Issy, a séance in Highgate Cemetery! First we will do our séance, and then at midnight, and beneath the full moon we will walk amongst the headstones and see if we might not conjure up an apparition! The medium is to be Alice Fox, directly descended from the Fox sisters. So you know it’s not going to be a sham. Oooh, I can hardly wait.”
“Uncle will forbid it.” And thank heaven for that, because Isabella had no desire to spend the night at Highgate Cemetery, with anyone directly or indirectly related to the three sisters who were considered responsible for making England crazed with spiritualism.
“Father is at his Masonic lodge meeting tonight. So he won’t even know.”
“Lucy—” Isabella began as her headache began to thump in her head.
“There’s to be an initiation tonight, I heard father telling his valet this morning. You know he’s out at the lodge all night whenever there is an initiation. He won’t even know about me going out, and we’ll be home well before father returns in the morning.”
Dread suddenly consumed her, while her head pounded mercilessly. At first Lucy’s interest in spiritualism had been amusing, and nothing concerning. Mysticism was fashionable, and Isabella had assumed that Lucy was following suit. But lately, Isabella had noticed a change in her cousin. She wasn’t quite as jovial and laughing. Her conversation seemed focused solely on séances, and spirit meetings, and all other kinds of things that Isabella had no desire to dabble in. Who, or what, was Lucy searching for when she went to these things? It was a bad omen to court the dead—and Death, she added.
Isabella could no longer put aside her intuitive feelings. She could not help but notice that Lucy’s increasing hunger for séances had seemed to begin with the arrival of Sibylla a month ago, which also coincided with Mr. Knighton’s courtship.
“Lucy,” Isabella said softly, trying to find the right words. “Are…are you by any chance…lonely?”
“Of course not!” her cousin gasped, but Isabella saw the widening of her eyes. “I have far too much to do to allow loneliness to get in the way.”
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if…if…”
“Goodness, Isabella, I’m just fine. Now, allow me to dress and take tea with your Mr. Knighton. A rousing rendering of the contents in those dirty old crates from Jerusalem will be just what I need to liven up my morning.”
“Lucy, please do not make a jest of Mr. Knighton. It is only that he is very proud to be the one to have discovered the secret tomb beneath the te
mple. His treatise has been published in all the history papers, you know.”
“I know,” Lucy drawled, “and really, I am rather excited to discover what he’s brought back. Honestly,” she said with a laugh. But Isabella stuck her tongue out, and Lucy let out a very unladylike snort. “All right, I’m wondering how I’m going to stay awake and not snore or drool while he’s enlightening us yet again with stories of his Holy Land escapades. Really, Issy, how many times have you heard them?”
“A few,” she admitted, “but I take comfort in the fact that Mr. Knighton can undoubtedly carry on a conversation. I’m quite certain that we will not be sitting across the supper table staring at each other in stony silence.”
“Issy,” Lucy whispered. “I think I’d prefer Mr. Knighton’s silence to another story of the Holy Land.”
“Lucy!”
Her cousin stuck out her tongue and ducked before the pillow Isabella threw could hit her. Lucy, drat her, did have a point. It was rather difficult to keep smiling and laughing when she had heard the same story for well over a month now. Certainly something of import, or excitement, would soon come along to make Mr. Knighton’s conversation not quite so…singular.
ISABELLA SENSED something was wrong. Wendell was pacing the length of the parlor with long, agitated strides. He’d removed his hat, and carried it in his hands, which were clasped behind his back. His dark chestnut hair was rumpled, as well as his suit jacket and trousers.
The air in the parlor smelled strongly of fish, seaweed and the musty hull of a ship. Three things that were not conducive to the temperament of a hungry morning belly and aching head.
“Wendell,” Isabella murmured as she closed the door to the parlor. He stopped pacing and whirled around to look at her. With a laugh, he threw his hat onto the rose-colored settee and in three strides reached her, wrapped his arms around her waist and twirled her around in a rather uncharacteristic show of mirth and impetuousness.
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