Pride & Passion

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Himself, he was something of an enigma—and a fraud. He’d been born a damn unfortunate, and then something had happened. The stars and planets had aligned, and something in the cosmos had shone down on him, making him the most fortunate soul that had ever graced the ballrooms of London. He’d been gifted, not once, but twice. Something more than an enigma, he thought with a sardonic smile, but a downright lucky bastard.

  He’d given thanks to his maker, had glanced up at the black velvety sky nearly every night and stared at the twinkling stars, wondering why it had been him they’d decided to favor with such fortune and luck. For him, it was always a question of why—the unanswered question leaving behind the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth, when there were so many unfortunate souls who would never experience such blessings. Fortune had shone down upon him, despite his being a fraud, despite knowing that he was wrongfully gifted by the Fates.

  For the last twelve years he’d walked with Lady Fortune. Everything he had touched had turned to gold. The ton admired him, his peers tried to emulate him and the stars had never failed to shine down upon him. That was, until a fortnight ago, when he had trudged down the front steps of Lord Stonebrook’s London town house, utterly defeated and numb after returning a lace handkerchief belonging to Lucy that had been in the possession of a man whom he had witnessed kill another in cold blood.

  The memories of that day still ate away at him. He had wanted Lucy to deny any knowledge of the man, to show outrage that the scrap of lace had found its way into the stranger’s possession. But she had not, and it only confirmed what he did not care to think about—that she was not only involved with the Brethren’s enemy, but also that she had an intimate connection with him.

  “So cold-blooded,” she had murmured as she looked up from her lap and the piece of lace he had placed in her hands. He had made it clear then that the man was his enemy, and that he would find him—and destroy him. “There is not an ounce of warmth in you,” she said. “No heart. No passion.”

  If she only knew how those words pierced him, haunted him during the darkest, coldest hours of the night. He could still see her, sitting on the window bench looking small and sad—and pale. How he had wanted to hold her, to show her that he had just as much passion—probably more so—than she could imagine. But she did not want him. She wanted someone else. His enemy. The enemy of the Brethren Guardians. It was his penance for the years of taking what Fortune had bestowed upon him, taking what he didn’t deserve.

  She had vowed to stand between them, her lover and him. To protect Thomas, not him. He had warned her that any attempt to do so might, regretfully, make her an enemy of the Brethren as well, but she hadn’t flinched at that. In fact, she seemed to already know and understand what would happen if she chose to cast her lot in with this shadowy figure he and his two fellow Guardians hunted.

  Nothing had ever distracted him from his duties as a Brethren Guardian. Theirs was an ancient order, handed down for generations. In his, Black’s and Alynwick’s blood surged the blood of crusaders, who had kept three sacred relics safe from the world. There was nothing that had ever persuaded him to abandon the cause he had sworn an oath to keep secret, and sacred—until now. Until Lucy.

  Damn if he wouldn’t sell his soul—and the relics—to the Devil himself to have Lucy in his bed for just one night. Gone was his honor. His moral compass. She had tied him in knots, and still he allowed her to pull the strings tighter and tighter.

  He should be repulsed by the thought of himself as a helpless marionette, moved and manipulated by her slight hands, but he could only smile in mocking amazement. He’d lived his life controlled and ordered, never once allowing the passionate nature that lurked within him to surface. For years he feared someone discovering his secret, and his controlled aura had been the only way to ensure it was kept safe. But now, after all these years of honing the skill, he’d let it all go down to the cesspool.

  “Adrian, it is downright frigid in here. How can you bear it?”

  His private thoughts shattered, he looked up from his desk, and the journal that lay open, in time to see his sister, Elizabeth, stroll carefully into the room.

  “I hadn’t noticed the chill. I’ll stoke the fire.”

  She fumbled over the turned leg of a table, her hands outstretched before her, searching for obstacles. Rosie, her liver and white springer spaniel pressed against her, her muzzle nudging Elizabeth’s wrist, steering her away from danger. Tamping down the impulse to go to her and help her, he rose from his chair and turned his back, his attention on the fire.

  Elizabeth was a proud woman. And damn stubborn, too. Two traits they shared, inherited from their tyrannical father. Elizabeth was blind, and because of it her pride and stubbornness had grown twofold. Lizzy would not thank him for his help.

  “There!” she said, letting out a loud sigh. “We’ve made it, Rosie.” The spaniel gave a little whimper as she struggled up onto the settee. “Poor love, you’re getting as big as a barn.”

  Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but grin at the spectacle the spaniel made as her hind paws scratched and pawed for purchase against the leather. Rosie was having her first litter, and Adrian hoped to the devil her offspring would be as intelligent and trainable as she. It had been his very great desire to breed her and train her offspring to assist the blind, like Rosie assisted his sister.

  Rosie finally made it onto the settee and set her head in Lizzy’s lap. Lizzy’s fingers brushed along the dog’s long ears and a deep sound of contentment—a little growl, really—filled the room. It was followed by the sounds of Rosie burying her head into Lizzy’s damask skirts, and the subtle snore of self-satisfaction.

  Lizzy laughed and continued to stroke the dog’s fur. “Now, then, will you cease having the maids move that table, brother? I am forever banging into it.”

  “My apologies, Lizzy. But it’s me moving it. I like to watch the moon at night, and the table seems to follow it.”

  He turned in time to see his sister’s exasperated expression turn to one of longing. “Oh, the moon. Is it big and fat and hanging low in the sky? I just loved a November full moon.”

  This was a side of Lizzy no one saw but him. In society she was put-together, so seemingly in control. She never let on that her sightlessness bothered her, but at home, when they were private, he saw her frustrations, and wiped away the tears of sadness. He, of all people, understood what it was like to live in a world full of cruelty and distaste when one was not, in polite society’s estimation—desirable. Neither he nor his sister had been what their father wanted, and Adrian had been forced to live with that knowledge, to suffer the harsh realities of life. Lizzy, too, had been forced to endure her lot in life, with the same cold, demanding father. Adrian’s childhood shaped him, had given him sympathy for those less fortunate, for those who were born to circumstances beyond their control. He cared for things that no other duke would concern himself with. For the lives of those left to struggle without help.

  It was moments like this when he realized his role in society gave him power, power that he didn’t waste on flaunting his wealth, or using his name to gain admission to clubs, parties and liaisons with beautiful women. No, his power went to protect those who, unlike him, had never been blessed by anything but hard times. When he worked diligently with his cause to emancipate the poor in the East End from their daily suffering, he was not unworthy. Nor a fraud, nor an impostor in this world he had never understood and never wanted.

  “Adrian,” Lizzy said, amusement ringing in her voice. “You’re brooding about something. I thought you had outgrown that particular pastime years ago.”

  “My apologies, Lizzy. You were saying?”

  “The moon. Is it full?”

  “No, it is not,” he murmured as he came to sit beside her. “It is just a little crescent.”

  “When it’s full, I expect you to invite me into your study and you can describe it to me—vividly,” she clarified. “I sw
ear, Adrian, you have no gift for words.”

  “No, I do not.”

  Perhaps if he did, he could seduce Lucy with them. But words had never come easily. Twelve years ago, he had learned to guard well what words he used. Being too free with his words could cost him everything he loved, his position within the Brethren Guardians, his sister and Lucy.

  “Ah, that feels nice,” his sister whispered as she lifted her feet up and toward the heat that was now blazing in the hearth. “I thought my toes might drop off.”

  “Well, your tootsies shall be warm momentarily.”

  “I wonder how you didn’t feel the chill?”

  He was inured to the cold. Growing up, he had forever been cold, and he had strengthened his mind around it. He could not tolerate any weakness in himself. Just like his father could never tolerate any weakness in his son, or daughter.

  “Your lack of skill with words aside, you’ve been inordinately quiet of late. Do you care to share your troubles? And don’t deny you have them,” she commanded. “I may not see your sullen expression, but I can sense it. Your melancholy shrouds every room you’ve been in.”

  He laughed. “Damn frightening what you can sense.”

  Smiling, she titled her head until she found his shoulder, and let her head rest against him while she continued to pet Rosie. “Is it this Brethren business, Adrian? I thought the investigation was getting somewhere.”

  “It is getting somewhere—deeper and murkier. Thank God we found the chalice in Wendell Knighton’s office at the museum. How the bastard discovered its hiding place, and the importance of its existence, I would dearly love to know, but it’s unfortunately a secret he took to his grave.”

  “Well, at least it’s back in your possession, and Black has the pendant. All three artifacts are safe and sound.”

  “But who took them is still a mystery,” he muttered. “However, we have some leads. Black’s wound has healed and he’ll begin searching through the Masonic Lodge for more clues of this mysterious Orpheus, and Alynwick and I have taken over the investigation of the House of Orpheus. Although, being allowed admittance into the secret club is proving more difficult than either of us had anticipated. Still, Alynwick won’t let it rest.”

  “Alynwick,” Lizzy snorted. “You’ll only find him of use if you can keep him out of the bedchambers.”

  Frowning, he realized his sister was right. Iain, the Marquis of Alynwick, was a rake, and little induced him to be anything but.

  “If Alynwick would put his head into it—and not the one he’s so fond of using—you might discover the identity of Orpheus much faster. Alas, the marquis is selfish and only interested in what amuses him. And it is not, I am afraid, Brethren business. Oh, if only I had been born a male, I would have kicked Alynwick in his rear end, and forced him to remember his oath.”

  Smiling, he thought of Elizabeth as a boy—and a Brethren Guardian. She was brave, smart and so disciplined—not to mention she was the eldest child. She would have made an excellent Guardian—better than him—and she certainly would have given the marquis some much needed grief.

  “Alas, I am only a poor helpless female, concerned only with fashion and fiction. Speaking of that—Lady Lucy and Lady Black are due here any moment. They’re bringing the new penny dreadfuls.”

  Adrian hid his groan. Lucy in his house. He could hardly bear it. But he would, for Elizabeth’s sake. She had very few real friends, and he would never think to deprive her of Isabella and Lucy’s companionship.

  “Now, you know that I don’t condone this…this snooping about, but should I question Lucy about anything?”

  Elizabeth could not see the surprise on his face, but she sensed it.

  “You didn’t think I knew, did you? Adrian, really, she’s my friend. And you’re my brother. I want to help you find the man responsible for stealing the pendant and murdering Mr. Knighton. I want also to keep Lucy out of danger, if indeed she is in danger.”

  “She is,” he growled, “believe me, she is.” He thought of the murderer who had been carrying Lucy’s handkerchief. What the devil had she been about giving a man such as that any token of her affection? A strange sense of betrayal filtered through his blood but he shook it off, determined to try to think of other things.

  “Why don’t you tell me what it is, so that I may aid both of you?”

  He’d kept the secret well-guarded, deep in his heart. It haunted him at night, and he wanted to be purged of it, to forget he had ever discovered it. But was telling his sister the thing to do? Was it betraying Lucy?

  “Adrian?” she asked. “There is no need to war with yourself over this. I just thought, well, sometimes secrets are a burden when one must shoulder them alone.”

  Suddenly he was speaking, not thinking it through, only knowing he needed this, the ability to talk to another soul who might have some wisdom to impart to him.

  “The man who shot Knighton,” he began, recalling the scene a few weeks ago when the pendant, one of the relics the Brethren Guardians were responsible for keeping, went missing, and Isabella’s—now Lady Black’s—former suitor, Knighton, had been found with it. “He was involved with Orpheus. Hell, he might even be Orpheus.”

  Orpheus was a rogue Freemason. Adrian was certain. This Orpheus had an uncanny knowledge of the Brethren Guardians. Their existence was a secret. No one but the three of them and their families knew of it. No one knew that the relics they protected even existed. But Orpheus knew. And so had Wendell Knighton. The urge to find and unmask this Orpheus positively seethed and festered inside him. It should have been because of his oath—the liege he owed to the generations of his family who had successfully kept the chalice and the secret of the Brethren Guardians carefully hidden. But it was not. It was the knowledge that Lucy was intimately acquainted with the bastard that ate at him, made him want to discover Orpheus’s identity, and tear at him—destroy him. For what, he had asked himself? And the answer was always there, whispering in his mind. For taking the woman he loved, for turning her away so that she could not see him, or his need; for making her unable to accept anything he offered her.

  “You’re woolgathering again, brother,” Lizzy murmured. The touch of her fingers pulled him out of his reverie and escalating anger, and helplessness that had been his constant companion these past weeks.

  “This man who shot Knighton, he obviously didn’t want us to capture Knighton alive. Before he shot him, I spotted him on the roof of the lodge. I ran to the back of the building and gave chase, but he had quite a head start on me, and when he was out of sight, I stopped, deciding it prudent to return to Black who had been shot. And then I saw it. A lace handkerchief, with three initials.”

  The memory made his stomach fall to his feet, just as it had when he’d picked up the lace and saw what he held.

  “Lucy Ashton’s initials, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I know the rest. She had given this man her favor—and he is the lover that she’s trying to connect with on the other side, via all the séances and soothsayers she’s been visiting.”

  Adrian could no longer deny the truth to himself. “She loves him,” he said on a breath that he knew sounded pained. “She believed him dead, and when I gave her back the handkerchief, it told her that he was indeed very much alive and not killed in the fire as she had assumed. She doesn’t seem to give a damn that he’s a murderer, and my enemy, and also the enemy of her cousin’s husband. She’s obsessed with finding him,” he snapped. Lunging up from the settee, he paced the room like a caged lion.

  “She’s determined to find him, even knowing that we search for him. She’s resolved to stand in our way, and if it makes her an enemy of us, so be it.”

  “Then we must protect her for her own good.”

  “How? She won’t do or say anything that might help us.”

  Rising, Elizabeth held out her hand, and he grasped it, steadying her. “She won’t tell you, brother, but she’ll confide in a friend—I
am sure of it. Now, I hear a carriage…that will be them. Take yourself off, Adrian. Your expression, I’m quite certain, is rather ferocious. It will hardly induce poor Lucy to share her confidences with me.”

  He stood there, stunned. “You would do that?”

  “Betray Lucy’s confidence?” She shrugged, and reached down to where Rosie, now off the settee, placed her head against Elizabeth. “Only so far as it might help you. Anything she says that is of no consequence to this case, or Orpheus, I will not share. I like her, Adrian. And I could not live with myself if she were to be hurt by this man.”

  “Thank you, Lizzy.”

  “There is no need to thank me, yet. I haven’t gotten her to confide in me—and I won’t if you’re standing around.”

  “All right,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll head out to Blake’s. I’m meeting Black and Alynwick there.”

  “A good idea. Be back for tea and I shall share what I learn.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IF IT WASN’T for Elizabeth’s excellent conversation and friendship, Lucy wouldn’t dare step foot inside the huge town house. Despite its size, there was every possibility she might very well run into the duke—whom she was presently arduously avoiding.

  “Ah, good day, ladies,” Elizabeth said as she breezed into the foyer with the help of a footman, her pet spaniel at her side. “You have brought the contraband, I hope?”

  Isabella held up a stack of leaflets. “The penny dreadfuls. Hot off the press. I made Black run out early this morning to get them.”

  “How fortunate for us that you have the ability to persuade your reclusive husband to leave his home, and at so early an hour.”

  “There are some inducements his lordship is unable to resist,” Isabella murmured. Laughter filled the entry, and the footman struggled to hide a crooked smile.

  “Well, my brother has gone to see Lord Black, so we have the house to ourselves. We may eat as many scones as we like, and drink pots of tea, without any tedious male intrusion.”