Earl of Darkness

by Alix Rickloff

  He returned to his study of the pages. Anecdotes, expenditures, daily family events. Aidan laughed out loud, reading about the day his father had caught him and Brendan on Belfoyle’s roof. And the culmination of ladders, footmen, nursery maids, and attic windows it took to get two oblivious young boys down. His father’s vexation was clear even at this far remove.

  “Let me guess. The roof story?” Cat asked.

  “Dead on.”

  “Your parents must have had their hands full. It’s a wonder you made it to adulthood.”

  “Looking back, I’ll admit there was a definite pattern of danger seeking. But my father promoted it to an extent. He never wanted his sons to flinch from a challenge.”

  “Stand fast or die trying?”

  He met her eyes, baring his teeth in a roguish smile. “Something like that. I rode. I fenced. I boxed. I shot . . .” His voice trailed off into a stilted silence.

  “But?” she coaxed.

  He shrugged. “In the end none of that seemed to count against the one thing at which I didn’t excel.”

  She lifted her brows expectantly.

  “Magic. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly proficient.”

  She looked as if she might say something. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, but she must have thought better. She dropped her gaze back to the diary, and the opportunity passed.

  Just as well. What could she possibly say to mitigate a lifetime of not measuring up? What would she know of the tangled web of love and disappointment, pride and expectation that made up the memories he held of his father?

  He raked a hand through his hair, put his maudlin thoughts aside, and focused back on the translation. Or tried. His temples bulged with the throb of an anvil clang, and yellow black swirls swam across his vision. They’d been translating for hours, and he’d yet to come across anything seeming to be the stuff of murder.

  The page he held contained notes from a meeting. One of the mysterious gatherings that seemed such a large part of Father’s life. And Aidan’s childhood. Men and women who arrived stern lipped and grim, disrupting the household as they lurked in the corridors and treated the normal inhabitants like intruders. Mother would flutter uselessly as Father barked orders for meals to be prepared and rooms to be readied. The stream of commands ending only when the group disappeared into Father’s study, doors locked against all comers. Except for Brendan. He’d been the only one of the children to warrant an invitation.

  Aidan remembered seething with jealousy until his younger brother had confessed the nature of the meetings. Astronomy, he’d claimed. Mathematics. Ancient languages. And like a dolt, Aidan had believed him.

  Or had he wanted it to be true so badly he’d disregarded all the clues pointing to a more sinister purpose? Only emerging from his blindness after it was too late.

  Scanning Cat’s translation, he read names, dates, an agenda of sorts, though even translated it made little sense. One name stood out among the others. Aidan read it with a twinge of recognition. Daz Ahern. A man he’d once known with the intimacy of a favorite uncle. A man last known to be residing outside Knockniry in the moorland isolation of the Slieve Aughty Mountains. He’d send an inquiry by post. Discover if Daz still lived and what he knew.

  None of the others mentioned rang any bells. A hodgepodge of Irish and English surnames. A few foreign sounding titles thrown in for good measure. But nothing to explain why unknown hands would be bent on gaining the information contained within these up-to-now mundane pages of trivia.

  “Here’s something interesting.” Cat’s voice broke into the endless circle of questions. “October seventeen. Eighteen-o-three. One of our own has sought to break with the group. Un . . . unfor . . . oh no, I have it — unacceptable.”

  Aidan crossed to her side, his stomach knotting in unexplained dread as Cat continued reading the entry word by stammering word.

  “M. suggests we”—her face scrunched in concentration—“persuade him to return. As if we all don’t know what he means. I’m not . . . not . . . a . . . averse to his suggestion, but how dare he undercut me with the others. I brought him into the council. I made him one of the Nine. And he repays my interest in his . . . schooling . . . knowledge . . . no that doesn’t”—one finger traced the page as if understanding involved the whole body—“studies by suborning my closest friends.”

  Aidan followed the progress over her shoulder. The writing spilled across the heavy paper in bold, violent strokes. It jumped and swooped as if Father had sought to assuage a black fury here within the privacy of his diary. Even Cat’s colorless translation was unable to mitigate the blast of emotion worked into the ink. It transferred itself to Aidan as an immediate lance of agony. Glowing auras outlined the room and everything in it, pulsing with every rapid beat of his heart.

  “It does not sit well with me to prolong . . . strife that can only undermine our . . . our . . . energy for greater things. But M. cannot assume I will allow him to continue this blatant bid for dominance.” She shifted in her chair so that she faced him, strain tightening her mouth, clouding her eyes. “Who do you suppose M. is?”

  Aidan shook his head. Immediately regretted it as the pain curled down his spine. Slid along his ribs to the gash in his side.

  “You look odd,” she said, rolling up and onto her feet in one fluid movement, a queer look passing over her face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  She wore the same golden glow as the rest of the room, her black hair haloed, her skin pearlescent. Even her lips burned scarlet, pulled now into a frown, slanting her dark brows over eyes sparkling like green gems.

  He yearned to crush that sex red mouth to his. To comb his hands through the feather fineness of those inky tresses. To cup the small, upthrust breasts, rubbing them to pebble hardness. Another side effect of the diary’s archaic language? A result of a sexual itch left too long unscratched? Or something else? Something he wouldn’t even name for fear of giving it life. There was no future there. This was only Cat. He’d do better to save his pining for a female who could bring him wealth, not simply steal it. Someone like the incomparable Miss Osborne.

  So why did he want to taste those lips to discover if they were as berry sweet as they looked, or whether that lithe body would fit as perfectly against his as he imagined?

  A hitch came in her breathing, her cheeks flushing to a beautiful rose pink before her eyes darkened to storm cloud black. “I said, how many fingers am I holding up?”

  He blinked, focusing on the fingers wiggling under his nose. “Three,” he answered.

  She nodded. Backed away.

  But instead of letting her go—what his head told him he should do—he followed her retreat. Stepped into the space between them.

  The shimmer of golden light surrounding her flared bright. A heady warmth washed over him, sizzling along his nerves. Frying away the last hesitations. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Trace the line of her scar with a touch as light as breath.

  She swayed toward him as he brushed her lips with his before dragging in a harsh breath. “No.” She broke away, eyes dilated and hazy with desire, yet betrayal lurking there also. And the shadow of another embrace. Another kiss. One whose memories brought fear and anger and shame. “I can’t. Not again.” Shudders wracked her thin body, the muscles in her neck working as she fought tears. “Don’t ask it of me. Please.”

  His clenched hands dropped to his side, shame freezing him into shocked immobility. Bloody fucking brilliant, Aidan. You fucking randy dumbass. You’ve cocked it up now.

  The auras had lessened to a blue-white outline, but Cat still remained damned tempting, those knowing eyes in that oval face, the sheen of her hair. He shifted in painful frustration. He’d hired her to translate, not to satisfy his body’s mounting demands, but did she have to be so . . . desirable and so . . . available?

  “Go to bed, Cat,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She dropped the diary onto the chair. Backe
d away as if he might jump her should she turn her back on him. Only when she reached the door did she hesitate and turn back.

  He waved her out, knowing nothing she said would make him feel less a fool and anything he said now would only confirm his stupidity in her eyes.

  Alone, he lit a cheroot to steady his shaking hands. Took a restorative drag. Tossed it onto the fire. Cat. His father. Street thugs bent on murder. And now a mysterious M.

  Bloody fucking brilliant didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Blake had been sent to bed, leaving Aidan to complete his undress in privacy. Solitude in which to sort through the mess he’d almost made with Cat. To firmly attribute it to exhaustion and the insidious mage energy given off by the diary’s wards. It had nothing to do with her spirited self-reliance or her quick humor. The courage in her lightning gaze. Definitely not the way she moved with the grace of a dancer or that smoky purr of a voice. No. Mage energy completely. Had to be.

  A halfhearted rap on the door and Jack slouched into his dressing room, wineglass in one hand, bottle in the other. “You awake, coz?”

  Aidan paused in shrugging out of his shirt. Opened his hands in a what-does-it-look-like gesture. “Thought you’d be out carousing. Weren’t you expected at Daly’s tonight?”

  Jack flopped into a chair. Downed his drink. “Decided to attend a musicale at the Campbells’ instead. Went for the food, but spent the evening listening to a recitation of your charms by the lovely Miss Osborne. Don’t know what she sees in you, Aido. You’re grouchy, overbearing, and far too dull. You’ll bore the poor woman to death within a month of your marriage.”

  “If there’s a marriage. Miss Osborne’s gotten wind of Cat as well as a story about a mother come down with plague.” He arched a cynical brow. “Ring any bells?”

  Jack flushed scarlet. “I can explain.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “She cornered me over the canapés a few nights ago. Said there were rumors circulating about a young woman residing with us here. I panicked.” He offered a roguish smile. “But then, the Aidan I remember had women stashed all over the city. Hell, two cities if you count your years in London.”

  Aidan rubbed a tired hand across the back of his neck. “Yes, but the Aidan you remember wasn’t concerned over outstanding loans, interest payments, estate maintenance, advances on purchases of seed, machinery, and stock—”

  “Enough. Sounds horrid.”

  “So now you know why I don’t need Barbara Osborne thinking me a libertine, pursuing her while blatantly enjoying a mistress.”

  “So, you mean to court her in earnest? I began to wonder if it was all one-sided on her part.”

  “Once these bruises heal. She can hardly want me at her side looking like this.”

  “You’d better heal fast. They’re queuing up at her door. The figure. The dowry. Perfect hips for bearing sons,” Jack cajoled.

  Aidan couldn’t help the laughter in his voice. “Who told you that? No, forget it. Don’t answer. Should I worry you’ll sneak your way into her affections while my back is turned?”

  “Not likely. Her father may mistrust you, but he hates me.”

  “Owe him money, do you?”

  Jack grinned. “A bit overextended when it comes to the gentleman, but nothing worrisome. You know me. Just when things look blackest—”

  “If you could distill that luck of yours.”

  Jack offered him a bland look of innocence. Poured himself another drink, stretching his legs out in front of him, examining the toes of his boots. Apparently this was to be a prolonged visit.

  Aidan gave up good manners and shucked off his shirt. Tossed it on a nearby chair.

  Jack’s gaze took in the swathe of bandages, tracked the route of Smith and Neddie’s fists across Aidan’s multicolored chest and arms before traveling up to meet the gleam of challenge in his eyes.

  He braced himself against Jack’s forthright, familial stare. A harbinger of trouble.

  “Is this all worth”—Jack waved the bottle in the direction of Aidan’s bound ribs—“being beaten within an inch of your life?”

  Aidan reached over and removed it before its contents ended on his carpet. At least they’d turned from the subject of his marriage situation. “You have to ask?”

  “Aye, I do. It’s been six years, Aidan. Six long years. What can it possibly matter now? Let the past bury its dead.”

  Aidan’s hand fisted around the neck of the bottle at Jack’s familiar recital. “And Brendan? Is he dead? Or living? How about Sabrina moldering away in a damned convent? She barely returns my letters. We’ve all been ground between the millstones of not knowing. But that ends with the discovery of Father’s diary. This”—he waved a hand over his bandages—“is the clearest sign the diary holds more than the sum of Father’s days. I want to know what he hid in there that’s important enough to warrant hired assassins.”

  “I, uh—” His cousin wore a cringing, expectant look as if he might be shoring himself up. Aidan waited. “Have you thought about speaking to the Amhas-draoi?” Jack asked anxiously.

  “Is that what you came in here for?”

  “Hear me out. It’s clear there’s more to the diary than a collection of old family anecdotes. Can you trust your wards and a few measly spells to protect it? And you?”

  Aidan drew himself up. “I think so.”

  “The Amhas-draoi may know more about the diary than you guess.”

  Aidan took a fortifying swig from Jack’s bottle. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Even if they did, do you think they’d share it with me? Not bloody likely. I’m on my own and prefer it that way.”

  “And if those thugs return to finish the job? Or the man who hired them? What then?”

  “I’ll handle it, but don’t expect me to grovel for help from the very people who destroyed my family. It’s not going to happen.”

  “More hope than expect.” Jack sighed his resignation. “Then if you’re resolved to keep at it, just—be careful, Aidan. I know you. You throw caution to the winds. Especially when you’ve got the bit between your teeth. Just look before you leap in Miss O’Connell’s case.”

  Aidan cocked a quizzical brow at the odd coupling of so many clichés. “You think she set me up?”

  Jack rubbed a speculative hand over his chin. “I think we don’t know anything about her. I think you caught her in an attempted burglary. I think she was also the reason you were almost murdered by a gang of cutthroats. What I think is the woman is trouble.”

  Just when he thought he’d put the disastrous night behind him, Jack dredged it all back up. She was trouble all right. Trouble he’d wanted to experience firsthand, damn it. “Give me credit for having a little sense. I’m keeping the diary locked away. Not even Cat knows where. That should keep it safe.”

  Jack wouldn’t be placated. “Should, but we don’t know what kind of abilities she holds beside this talent for language. She might be able to breach a ward. Ensorcell us with a spell—” He ground down at Aidan’s look of skepticism. Reached over to retrieve his claret. Took his own fortifying swig. “Fine, she won’t, but who is she? Where does she come from? You have to admit she piques a person’s interest.”

  Oh, Aidan would definitely admit that. Though “piqued” didn’t seem to cover the realm of feelings she provoked in him. Insane, reckless feelings that would only lead to trouble on too many levels to contemplate. “There’s definitely something that doesn’t add up about her, but that only heightens her allure. I mean—” He cleared his throat as he bent to pull off a boot.

  Jack’s amusement rang clear through the claret haze. “Careful, Aidan. Your lust is showing.”

  Aidan stiffened, a hand still holding the boot he’d pulled off, tempted to heave it at Jack’s head. The fool probably wouldn’t even feel it, as much alcohol as he’d pumped into himself.

  Putting down glass and bottle, Jack stood to shaky feet. “Piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?” />
  “Bed her and get her out of your system. Always works with my infatuations. I mean they’re all the same in the dark, aren’t they? Soft flesh, a few maidenly whimpers, and boom, the itch is scratched.”

  Aidan sighed. Why had he even bothered having this conversation? He should have bundled his cousin out as soon as he’d shown signs of nesting. Exhaustion and his own laudanum hangover had loosened Aidan’s tongue more than he’d expected. He sought to repair the dam. “Thank you for that lovely image, but I think I’ll stick to my own plans. And Cat’s bed does not figure in any of them.” He’d said it. He meant it.

  Jack made his way toward the door, only the cautious way he carried himself a hint at how drunk he was. “No Miss Osborne. No Cat.” He sighed dramatically. “Just remember, all work and no play . . .”

  This time Aidan gave in to the temptation. The boot hit the wall where Jack’s head had been only moments before.

  Lazarus straightened, slamming his dagger into its sheath. Breathed slowly to calm the shaky jags trembling his hands.

  Already the battle madness ebbed, that endless, impossible abyss of hate and evil seeking to pull him into its fiery vortex. Claim him as it had so many others before him.

  If he thought it would end the pain, he’d give in. But he knew it for the chimera it was. There would be no end. Not as long as he remained trapped in this living hell of slavish bondage. For one of the mage-born Domnuathi, not even death came as a relief. After all, death had been the origin of his creation.

  He tried remembering that other self, the warrior who’d found honor in battle, pride in a skill few challenged. But the memories came as through a dream, fragile as smoke, dissolving before he could capture the illusion for truth. Instead, his eye fell upon the carnage before him, the bodies strewn across the room. Quigley with a sword thrust through the heart, the bookseller’s final expression almost defiant as he called for aid that had never come. Smith and his cronies had fallen only seconds apart, their criminal cunning no match for Lazarus’s dual lifetimes spent on the attack.

  No trail, Máelodor had ordered. No way to trace Quigley back to Lazarus and thus back to Máelodor.