Duke of Secrets (Moonlight Square, Book 2)

by Gaelen Foley

  “The spy had a knife. He was quite good with it, I recall. The two of them were evenly matched, to my surprise. My father took a few nasty slices before he managed to knock the blade out of the man’s hand. So now, they were both disarmed.

  “And I stood closest to both weapons. My hands were shaking too badly—I couldn’t load the gun. My father cursed me for failing, and ordered me to bring him the knife instead. So I picked it up and suddenly found myself in the unenviable position of having to decide which man to give it to.”

  Serena could not tear her gaze from his face. His brooding stare seemed a thousand miles away.

  “The spy started talking to me. ‘Don’t do this, boy. You know your father is an evil man. He’s a killer and a traitor.’ My father punched the man across the face for that, and barked at him about badmouthing a father to his own son. The man went reeling at the unexpected blow, and my father managed then to take him captive. He pinned the agent’s arms behind his back, and then he said to me, ‘Come and finish him.’”

  Azrael shook his head. “I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. ‘I gave you an order,’ Father said. ‘Show some backbone. It’s your duty.’”

  Azrael shook his head as though he were faced with his tormenter even now. “I refused. ‘No sir,’ I told him. I was terrified. I already knew I couldn’t do it. How could he even ask me such a thing? Then the spy spoke again. ‘Give me the knife, lad, and I’ll set you free of him.’”

  “So what did you do?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I chose.” He looked at her at last. “I gave the spy his knife back and he killed the bastard with it. Just as he had promised.”

  Serena slowly lowered her gaze, her heart pounding.

  “I wanted to run away, but I forced myself to stay there and watch. I had to make sure he’d truly died, because if he didn’t, I knew my punishment for this would be unfathomable. Thank God, the agent managed to dispatch him with a stab in the heart. By that time, unfortunately, the spy was also dying. And that’s when things got very interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He made me promise I would not grow up to be like my father. It was he who suggested I tell everyone that he was a poacher. That was his cover story. Before he died, he entrusted me with a signet ring he’d had hidden away, identifying him as a member of the Order of St. Michael.

  “He told me to keep the ring, hide it. Said if I ever needed help or protection, I could take it to a particular house in the Strand and present it as my calling card, and his comrades there would assist me.”

  “Did you ever go?”

  “No,” he whispered vehemently, “I didn’t dare. Stiver kept too close an eye on me. Everyone believed the vagrant story, but in the care of my new guardians, I was practically a prisoner. Besides,” he added after a moment, “once some time had passed, I started doubting everything that happened that day. It was all so confusing…it seemed impossible. I had the ring as proof that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But for a long time, I wasn’t sure my own memories of those events were clear.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “Mainly, it was just a relief to be rid of him. Stiver and my trustees at least were never cruel to me like he was. Things improved for me and my mother. I didn’t feel I needed the Order’s help, at least not until my tutor disappeared.

  “Mr. Foxham. He ran afoul of my guardian, and I soon suspected Stiver had done something terrible to him. But still, I didn’t dare go to that house on the Strand.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ultimately, I decided that I couldn’t take the chance of seeking those men’s help.” He shrugged. “If the Order hunts and kills men like my father, how could I be certain they wouldn’t also kill me? Unlike your family, after all, I have a long Promethean bloodline, and it seemed possible that these agents might not even believe me.

  “They might’ve thought my arrival on the doorstep was a ruse devised by their enemies, sending in a child for some nefarious purpose.” He shook his head. “For all I knew, they might’ve suspected I’d had a hand in killing their colleague, like my father wanted me to do.”

  Serena did not know what to say. She’d never heard such a dreadful account in all her life.

  “I’ve never told anyone this story,” Azrael murmured after another long pause. “I don’t know why I’m telling it to you now. The truth could get me killed by more people than I even want to think about. But you, at least, can understand, since it’s part of your heritage as well, now. Unfortunately.”

  “I will take it to my grave.”

  He nodded, but looked so forlorn that she moved closer and put her arm around his waist. Not that she had any idea how to comfort someone who had gone through such a violent ordeal at such a tender age.

  After a moment, Azrael put his arm around her shoulders and gingerly rested his head atop hers, both of them facing the dead, stagnant pond.

  They stood in silence like that for a long while, leaning on each other in the gray chill of the day, both trying to make sense of it all.

  “I know one thing,” Serena finally said, breaking the silence that had enfolded them. “You kept your promise to that man. You’re nothing like your father. Frightened as you were, a mere child put in an impossible situation, you chose good over evil and refused to shed innocent blood yourself.”

  “Father mocked me for my hesitation. Called me a coward. Why? Because I couldn’t murder an unarmed man in cold blood? I was twelve years old, for God’s sake.”

  Shaking her head, Serena turned so that they faced each other. She rested her hand gently on his chest and gazed up at him. “You’re a good man, Azrael.”

  At her assurance, his pale eyes flickered once more, but with light this time, not shadow in their depths. He took her face between his hands and kissed her gently.

  Serena’s eyes drifted closed as his lips caressed hers, soft and warm in the day’s chill. She parted her lips hungrily, and just for a fleeting moment, he enthralled her with another intoxicating, open-mouthed kiss.

  But when she started to slide her arms around his neck, he suddenly stopped her, ending the kiss, and pulling away a bit.

  “No. We mustn’t,” he whispered.

  “Why?” She searched his face in confusion. “I want to kiss you.”

  “Oh, I want to kiss you, too, Serena, more than you know. But this can never be. You’ve seen it for yourself now—our match was forged in darkness.”

  “Darkness? Azrael, what I feel for you is not evil.”

  He looked at her with an aching stare. “Serena, this is folly. You do not understand the price we’d both have to pay.”

  “I would pay any price to be with you,” she said, startling even herself with her sudden declaration, but it was true.

  Azrael scoffed and looked away. “You’ve spent the past couple of weeks ignoring me,” he pointed out.

  “Surely you can’t be that naïve,” she said.

  He frowned at her again, stubborn, reluctant, but obviously tempted.

  She clutched his lapels as she gazed imploringly at him. “What they meant for evil, love can turn to good, if only you’ll believe it.”

  He stared at her for a heartbeat. “You are truly beautiful,” he uttered, then he kissed her again.

  But only for a moment before pulling away from her, shaking his head. “We cannot travel farther down this path, my lady.”

  She stepped back, anger flashing amid her disappointment. “I don’t understand. You want me. You know it.”

  “Of course I do. I’m not denying that. But if they see us together, you don’t understand what will happen.”

  “What is your worry, that they’ll kill us? My own father, my own flesh and blood, whoever he is?”

  “If it were only the threat of murder, I wouldn’t be so concerned. But you don’t know these people like I do. Fear not those who can kill the body, as they say, but that which can destroy the soul. They want me under their control, don’t you
see, Serena?

  “I told you, my father was the leader. He molded me from the day I was born to the day he died to follow in his footsteps. They all did. You have no idea what I’ve done to stay free of all that. The deceptions I’ve engaged in. But if they see us together, they’ll rejoice, thinking you the perfect lure to draw me back into the fold—and for all I know, they could be right.”

  “I wouldn’t let that happen to you. Don’t you trust me?”

  “It’s myself I don’t trust.”

  She absorbed this, at a loss. “But, Azrael, you could never be one of them. You’re not evil.”

  “How are you so sure? You barely know me. It’s in my blood, after all, and what kind of son is glad to watch his father die?”

  “But you’re nothing like him.”

  “I can’t take that risk any more than I’d let Raja go roaming free through London. He’s a good pet, so long as I keep a tight leash on him. But I never take it for granted that he could switch back to his jungle instincts and tear somebody’s throat out in the blink of an eye. And so could I—in a manner of speaking.”

  “Impossible,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I’m not willing to take that chance. Especially not with you. You deserve better.”

  She stared at him, incredulous. “So then you’ll be alone.”

  “’Tis what I prefer.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  He stiffened. “It’s better this way. Then no one gets hurt.”

  “Don’t they?” she whispered, staring at him.

  “Please, Serena—find somebody else.” He gazed into her eyes. “You don’t want this for yourself, and I don’t want it for you. I broke off our betrothal for a reason. Your mother found some way to free you from this darkness. I will not drag you back into it for my own selfish pleasure.”

  She flinched. “So that’s the end of it, then? You’re simply going to walk away and pretend you don’t feel this between us?”

  He started to answer, but stopped himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I see.” She flinched and looked away, feeling as though he’d just thrust a rapier into her heart.

  “Please…try to understand,” he said awkwardly. “I cannot get involved.”

  “Of course,” she said, studying the muddied grass. Seeing he would not be moved, all she could do was drop her gaze to hide the hurt and try to retain what was left of her dignity.

  It was hardly the first time she’d been rejected, after all.

  Thankfully, she managed to keep her outward composure. What else could she do? She’d never beg and plead for any man.

  “Very well,” she managed at last, her throat straining. “I understand your predicament, I do. And I appreciate your coming here for my sake. I…see now how hard this was for you. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  She swallowed hard. “Could we please go back to the village now and stop at the coaching inn? I’m cold.”

  Indeed, she felt as though she might never be warm again.

  He bowed his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Then they left that dismal place and drove back to the village.

  CHAPTER 11

  A Change of Plans

  Azrael felt like an utter failure as they rode back to Owlswick. There was no conversation in the coach.

  His situation felt unwinnable no matter what he chose. He’d ruined this entire day, never mind that he’d delivered on his promise. He’d found the hideous snakeskin box in which they might well discover the identity of her natural father.

  Aye, and strained his back for his pains. That damned bronze effigy must’ve weighed three hundred pounds. The growing cold merely added to his general misery. The temperature was dropping. That’s all we need. Snow for the drive back.

  Serena’s unsmiling silence as she huddled alone on the other end of the carriage, staring out the window, made his heart sink lower still.

  Maybe I’m being irrational. Maybe the Hamlet routine had started becoming real, and he was losing his wits. God knew his brain felt as tangled and twisted as the gloomy, vine-wrapped woods through which they drove.

  By all rights, he should’ve been feeling rather pleased with himself right now. He had just faced a very difficult thing, setting foot in that place again. He’d waged a battle royal against the demons of his past. He could hardly believe it himself that he had told Serena what had really happened the day his father died.

  Having never confessed the true tale before to a soul in his life, he felt bizarre and unsettled to have shared the secret with his should-have-been bride. Uneasy yet relieved about it at the same time.

  Which made no sense at all.

  He sighed as the carriage rumbled on, while across from him, Serena fingered the baby’s rattle she had taken from her sister’s nursery. Her soft breaths fogged the carriage window pane where she leaned her head.

  He wondered if she felt as wrung out and empty and emotionally drained as he did after that ordeal, grappling with the past. Perhaps. She didn’t look it, though. Her haunting beauty fit well with the autumn landscape. The skies were still gray, the countryside beautiful but bleak.

  Azrael rested his head back against the squabs and closed his eyes, wishing he could’ve traded lives with that silly Toby Guilfoyle. What a debacle.

  He could not believe one of the most desirable beauties in London had just offered herself to him on a silver tray, and he’d refused.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? his stubborn side retorted. I had to protect her. That’s the most important thing.

  Of course you want her. Everybody does. Too bloody bad.

  Find another girl. Or just become a bloody monk and be done with it. God knows you’re already halfway there.

  He lifted his head and flicked his eyes open with a scowl, only to find Serena studying him. She turned away again, but not before he glimpsed the hurt in her soulful, gold-flecked eyes.

  It struck him like a blow to the gut from a top pugilist. Bloody hell, if any woman had ever been worth turning evil for…

  But even as temptation sent a shiver of desire into his belly, he glanced down at the snakeskin box near his feet on the carriage floor, a sinister presence. He nudged it farther away from him with the toe of his boot.

  Serena just looked at him.

  They arrived at the edge of the village, where Paulson pulled the team into the yard of the coaching inn, called The Hound and Horn. The inn yard was empty but for Azrael’s coach-and-four; they must have been between stagecoach arrivals and departures.

  Good. He was in no mood to fight a swarm of loud, jolly travelers.

  Paulson brought the team to a halt in front of the pub on the ground floor of the hotel and they got out—to be greeted by the smell of livery stables, smoking chimneys, and, if Azrael was not mistaken, a hint of roast beef with gravy.

  And possibly plum pudding.

  Why, it was already dinnertime for those keeping country hours, he recalled. His stomach grumbled, much to his surprise. He thought he’d lost his appetite, but the cold must have made him hungry.

  Perhaps a good, hot midday meal would restore their flagging spirits and help them both start feeling human again after that experience. With any luck, it might even put them back on speaking terms.

  Otherwise, it was going to be a very long, frigid journey back to London.

  When they went in, Azrael’s eyes had to adjust; it was decidedly dark in the taproom, compared to the brittle pewter glare of the overcast day.

  But a welcoming fire blazed in the stone hearth with a snug inglenook around it. The taproom gave an impression of cozy intimacy—a wide, low horizontal box of a space, with heavy beams across the ceiling and slightly wavy flagstone floors covered in woven rushes.

  Oil lanterns in sconces hung on the walls at regular intervals, casting dim illumination. There were simple wooden tables and chairs throughout, long tables with benches.

  Directly acros
s from the entrance, a husky, mustachioed man, probably the innkeeper, stood behind a weathered oak bar. He was drying and hanging up glasses on a rack, while a bearded man with the look of a yeoman farmer propped an elbow on the bar, nursing a pint as they chatted of local matters.

  A plump, curly-haired woman bustled about the dimly lit tavern, straightening chairs and benches around the tables, and bantering with an elderly gent while she worked. The old man, their only customer at the moment, sat smoking a pipe near the mullioned bow window.

  In the far corner was a counter set up as a ticket booth for the stagecoach service. There were chalkboards hung behind it, listing an elaborate schedule of arrivals and departures, along with ticket prices and a few maps of the standard routes. The aproned clerk dozed behind the desk, but he blinked awake when the bell above the door jangled.

  Azrael closed it behind him. Serena swept into the taproom ahead of him, drawing off her gloves. He removed his hat; the people took one look at him; and all conversation in the pub immediately halted.

  The locals seemed to freeze as they stared at him. It was clear that they recognized him as a Rivenwood, probably by the color of his hair.

  He dropped his gaze in chagrin.

  Serena, however, commandeered their attention.

  “Excuse me.” The raven-haired beauty in her smart Town garb seemed to take them all aback as she marched in with her usual air of confidence and greeted them, “Good afternoon!”

  “Good day, miss. Er, what can we do for you?” asked the barkeep.

  “Oh, you have such a lovely establishment here, and we are so glad to find you. It’s so cold out! I should love to sit by the fire, if you don’t mind—and have a look at your bill of fare. I don’t know what you’re cooking, but it smells wonderful.”

  “Oh, um, yes, right away, miss.”

  They leaped to serve her, and it was only then that it dawned on Azrael that she had deliberately distracted them for his sake. Charming them.