Storm of Shadows

by Christina Dodd

  “The devil himself.”

  “Him, too. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a deep, bloodthirsty desire for vengeance—and you know who will have that revenge, and why.”

  Irving knew Davidov was right—but he was right, too. John could not be trusted.

  Davidov, of course, could read his reluctance. “I don’t care what you think. Get that seventh Chosen in here.” He had power in his voice, and he used it to try to bend Irving to his will.

  Irving would not yield to such tricks. “I will make this decision when I see the need.”

  Davidov slowly stood, glorious in his masculinity, his strength, his resolve.

  In that moment, Irving knew he faced death—and he was not resigned. He was surprised how much he wanted to remain on this earth, to see the drama of these days played out; yet he would not be reduced to obedience. He would do as he had always done—what he thought best for the Chosen Ones. He stood also, prepared to have his neck snapped.

  Then Davidov turned his head in the attitude of listening. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered.

  “Believe what?” Irving listened, too. He knew the sound of McKenna’s footsteps. But he had someone with him. Someone who walked a little off-kilter, dragging one foot behind him.

  Davidov seemed to know who it was.

  Irving didn’t have a clue.

  McKenna stepped through the door, his eyes bright, his posture sprightly. Irving had never seen him like this; he was the epitome of hope.

  “What is it, McKenna?” Irving asked.

  McKenna straightened his lapels, and in a sonorous voice announced, “Mr. Gary White.”

  And the man Irving had only two weeks ago seen in the depths of a coma walked in the door.

  Don’t miss New York Times

  bestselling author Christina Dodd’s

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  IN BED WITH THE DUKE

  Coming from Signet in March 2010

  Moricadia, 1849

  The four-piece ensemble ceased playing, and with exquisite timing, Comte Cloutier delivered the line sure to command the attention of all the guests within earshot. “Have you heard, Lady Lettice, of the ghost who rides in the night?”

  Certainly, he commanded the attention of the En glishman Michael Durant, heir apparent to the duke of Nevitt. There had been very little to interest him at Lord Thibault’s exclusive ball. The musicians had played, the guests had danced, the food was exquisite, and the gambling room was full. But of gossip, there had been nothing . . . until now. And now, Michael knew, only because Cloutier failed to comprehend the seriousness of his faux pas. He failed to comprehend that by tomorrow, he would be gone, traveling back to France and cursing his penchant for gossip.With every evidence of interest, Michael strolled closer, to stand near the group of suitors surrounding Lady Lettice Surtees.

  “A ghost?” Lady Lettice gave a high-pitched squeak, worthy of a young girl’s alarm. “No! Pray tell, what does this ghost do?” Before Cloutier could answer she swung around to her paid companion, a girl of perhaps twenty who stood at her left shoulder, and snapped, “Make yourself useful, girl! Fan me! Dancing with so many admirers is quite fatiguing.”

  The girl, a poor, downtrodden wisp of a thing, nodded mutely. From the large reticule she wore attached to her waist, she withdrew an ivory-and-lace fan to cool the abruptly flushed and sweating Lady Lettice.

  Lord Escobar hovered at Lettice’s left elbow. “Indeed, senorita, it is an unseasonably warm summer evening.”

  It was a gross flattery to call Lady Lettice “senorita”—she was a widow in her early forties, with the beginnings of the jowls that would plague her old age. But her bosoms were impressive and displayed to advantage by her immodestly low-cut, ruffled bodice, and more important, she was wealthy, and the half dozen impoverished men around her wooed her for her fortune.

  “So, Cloutier, tell me about this ghost.” Lady Lettice withdrew a white cotton handkerchief from between her breasts and blotted her damp upper lip.

  “This ghost—he rides at night, in utter silence, a massive white figure in fluttering rags atop a giant white horse. His skin is death, his clothes are rags, and where his eyes should be, there are only black holes. A terrifying apparition, yet the peasants whisper he is the specter of the last king of Moricadian blood.”

  “Peasants,” Lady Lettice said contemptuously.

  “Exactly.” Cloutier’s lip curled with scorn. “But others who have come to this fair city to take the waters and enjoy the gaming tables have seen him, too, and if you are unlucky enough to see this fearsome ghoul, you should flee at once, for this fearsome phantom”—Cloutier lowered his voice in pitch and volume—“is a sign of impending death.”

  Michael snorted, the sound breaking the shocked silence.

  At once, Lady Lettice fixed him with her gaze. “You’re impertinent. Do you know who this man is?” She gestured to Cloutier.

  Her mouse of a paid companion made a small warning noise and flapped the fan harder.

  Lady Lettice paid no heed. “He is Comte Cloutier, of one of the finest noble families in France. One does not snort when he speaks.”

  “One does if one is Michael Durant, the heir to the Nevitt dukedom.” Cloutier bowed to Michael.

  “Oh.” Lady Lettice extended her hand. “My lord. Your grace.”

  Cloutier did the honors. “Lady Lettice Surtees, this is Lord—”

  “Please.” Michael held up a hand. “In England, my name is old and honored. In Moricadia, I am nothing but a political prisoner, a nonentity, a man who has vanished from the world due to the oppression of the ruling family. Call me Durant. It is the only decent title for a disgrace such as me, and even my family name is too honorable.” His voice was a low rasp, one that played into the tragedy he projected with a sure hand.

  “A political prisoner?” Lady Lettice said. “I am shocked! How is this possible?”

  “The only ghost in Moricadia is me, my lady, for until I was allowed out for this one night, my existence has been no more than a rumor.” Michael bowed and strolled away.

  “The poor man.” Lady Lettice spoke in a whisper so high as to pierce ears. “What did he do?”

  Michael paused behind a marble pillar to hear the answer.

  No one replied at first; then Escobar reluctantly said, “Durant fell foul of the de Guignards. They accused him of assisting the rebels and undermining their position as rulers of Moricadia, and for these two years, he was believed dead. Only recently has it come to light that he is being held prisoner by Lord and Lady Fanchere, trusted allies of Prince Sandre.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Lady Lettice insisted. “How do the de Guignards dare to hold an English nobleman against his will?”

  “In the case of Moricadia, the de Guignards overthrew King Reynaldo and won”—Escobar waved his hands toward the window where brightly lit villas, gambling houses, and spas decorated the peaks of the Pyrenees—“all this. But we dare not talk of it. Prince Sandre has spies everywhere, and he does not tolerate dissension in his country.” Escobar bowed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Michael nodded to the man as he hurried past. Wise Escobar. He would seek another wealthy widow, one not at the epicenter of a possible upheaval.

  A well-dressed youth of twenty-two stepped into Escobar’s place. He paid no attention to the companion still vigorously fanning Lady Lettice’s neck. Nor did any of the other suitors.

  Fools. The girl appeared to be no more than eighteen, nervous as a rabbit. The drab gray wool of her plain dress did nothing to complement her pale complexion, and the cut completely obscured what appeared to be a shapely, if too thin, figure. She had typical English features, and might have been pretty, but she kept her eyes down and her shoulders hunched as if expecting at any moment a slap across the cheek.

  In Michael’s opinion, the
lords and gentlemen who fought to capture Lady Lettice in wedded bliss would be well-advised to look to her cowed companion.

  The young man jockeyed for position, and the result was disaster—for the companion. They bumped arms. The fan smacked the back of Lady Lettice’s head, making the curls over her ears bounce. Turning on the girl, she bellowed, “You stupid thing, how dare you hit me?”

  “I didn’t mean—” The girl’s voice matched her demeanor, low and timid, and it trembled.

  In a flurry, Lady Lettice adjusted her hairpins. “I should throw you out on the street right now. I should!”

  “No, ma’am, please. It won’t happen again.” The girl looked around at the men, seeking help where there was none. “I beg you. Let me stay in your service.”

  “She isn’t really sorry,” Lady Lettice told the others. “She only says that because she’s an orphan, the daughter of a Yorkshire vicar who left her with nothing, and she would starve without my kindness. Wouldn’t you, Emma?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Emma adjusted Lady Lettice’s shawl across her shoulders.

  “All right, fine, stop.” Lady Lettice pushed her away. “You’re annoying me. I’ll keep you on, but if you ever hit me again—”

  “I won’t! Thank you!” Emma curtsied, and curtsied again.

  Poor Emma. If Michael weren’t in such a mess himself, he would see what he could do for her. But as it was . . .

  “Actually . . .” Lady Lettice stared at her handkerchief, and Michael could see the spark of some dreadful mischief start in her brain. “I’d like this dampened. Go to the ladies’ convenience and do so.”

  “As you wish, Lady Lettice.” Emma took the handkerchief and scurried away.

  “Watch, gentlemen,” Lady Lettice said. “The stupid girl has no sense of direction. She turns right when she should turn left, goes north when she should go south. The ladies’ convenience is to the right, so she’ll turn left.”

  Emma walked to the door, hesitated, and as promised, turned left.

  Lady Lettice tittered. “Would you gentlemen care to wager how long it will take my stupid companion to find her way back to me?”

  “Good sport,” said Bedingfield. “I wager your handkerchief will still be dry!”

  Michael, ever the fool for the underdog, quietly went to rescue the girl from her own folly.

  Emma was lost. She stood in the garden and looked back at the château. From here, she could hear the music from the ballroom, see the light spilling from the windows. Surely, if she studied the location, she could find her way back.

  But then what? She still wouldn’t have accomplished her mission, and she knew very well the price of disobeying Lady Lettice’s commands.

  As she stood there under the stars, staring at the splashing fountain, she wished she was rich, noble, and beautiful instead of poor, common, and well educated. What good did common sense and a sharp intelligence do for a woman when her main duty was to fan a perspiring beast? But as Emma’s father had always said she might be a timid child, but she had an analytical brain, and that was a gift from God she should utilize to make her life, and the lives of others, better and more fruitful.

  So walking to the fountain, she dipped Lady Lettice’s handkerchief into the pool—and heard a warm, rasping chuckle behind her. Dropping the handkerchief, she turned to face Michael Durant.

  “I came out to direct you to the ladies’ convenience, but I see you found a better solution.” He nodded toward the fountain.

  “It’s not what you think.” He would report her to the beast. She was going to be thrown onto the street in a strange country with nowhere to turn. She was going to die a slow death. “I didn’t come out here on purpose—”

  He held up one hand. “Please. Lady Lettice made clear your amazing ability to get lost. She didn’t realize your ability to improvise. Miss . . . ?”

  “Chegwidden.” She curtsied. “Emma Chegwidden.”

  In the ballroom, she had watched him and thought him a handsome brute, big-boned, tall, and raw. His hair was red. His eyes were bright, piercing blue. His black suit was well made, yet the clothes didn’t fit well: The formal black jacket was tight across his shoulders and loose at his waist, and the ensemble gave him the appearance of a warhorse dressed in a gentleman’s clothing.

  “A pleasure, Miss Chegwidden.” He bowed. “Shall I help you retrieve the handkerchief?”

  In the ballroom, she had thought him a phony, another nobleman flirting with tragedy for the outpour ing of sympathy and the residual gossip.

  Out here, he seemed different, sympathetic to her plight. Yet he saw too much, and he had a quality of stillness about him, like a tiger lying in wait for its prey. So she must step carefully. Durant could be every bit as nasty as the other gentlemen, and a good deal more dangerous.

  Glancing down into the clear water, she saw the white square floating just below the surface. “Thank you. I can do it.” Without turning her back to him, she caught it in her fingertips, and wrung it out over the pool. “So she did this to humiliate me.”

  “She is not a gentlewoman, I believe. Nor a particularly pleasant woman.” He walked up the steps and looked back at her. “Shall we go back in?”

  By that, she assumed he meant to guide her to the ballroom, and cautiously she followed him.

  “This way.” He gestured down the corridor, and as they walked, he said, “I recall Lady Lettice was the only daughter of a manufacturing family, married for her fortune to Baron Surtees, and after a mere twenty-some years of hellish married life, Surtees escaped wedlock by dropping dead.”

  “You are uncharitable, my lord.” Emma took a breath to avoid laughing while she spoke, and when she had herself under control, she said, “But yes. After his unfortunate death, Lady Lettice took his title and her fortune, and has lately been touring Europe in hopes of meeting her next, er, husband.”

  His height made her uncomfortable, and as they walked, she watched his hands. Big hands. Big bones. Big knuckles. Broad palms. Hands weathered by fighting experience. And she was walking alone with him. “Gentlemen of the Continent have a sophisticated attitude toward women of her age and wealth.”

  “I can imagine. This way.” He took a twisting route leading down corridors lined with closed doors.

  “Are you sure?” She could have sworn they were headed back to the garden.

  “I never get lost.” He sounded so sure of himself.

  Irksome man. He might not get lost, but he was certainly in trouble. With more sharpness than she intended, she asked, “What did you do to get yourself arrested as a political prisoner?”

  He stopped walking.

  She stopped walking.

  “In Moricadia, it doesn’t do to poke your nose into local troubles.” He tapped her nose with his finger. “Remember that.”

  Affronted by his presumption, she said, “I certainly would not do something so stupid.”

  His eyebrow lifted quizzically. “Of course not. You’re supremely sensible.”

  The way he spoke made her realize—she’d just called him stupid. “My lord, I didn’t mean—”

  “Not at all. You’re quite right. Now.” He opened a door to his right.

  At once, the sound of music and laughter filtered through, and peeking in, Emma saw the dining hall, and beyond that, the ballroom.

  “Do you still have Lady Lettice’s handkerchief?” he asked.

  “I don’t lose things, my lord.” She showed it to him, still twisted between her palms. “I only lose myself.”

  “And now you are found. I’ll leave you to make your own way to Lady Lettice’s side.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Chegwidden.”

  She curtsied. “My lord, my heartfelt thanks.” She watched him walk away, then hurried past the long dining table and stepped into the ballroom.

  She found herself standing behind Lady Lettice and her admirers, and opposite where she thought she should be. But she was back, the handkerchief was wet, and Lady Lettice and her na
sty game had gone awry.

  As Emma walked up behind the group of suitors, she heard Cloutier say, “She must arrive within the next minute, or I lose!”

  “Lose what, my lord?” Emma stepped into the circle.

  Lady Lettice jumped. Her skin turned ruddy with displeasure, all the way down to her amply displayed breasts, and she snapped, “Where did you come from, girl?”

  “The ladies’ convenience, as you commanded.” Emma extended the handkerchief.

  Lady Lettice plucked it out of her palm. “It’s wadded up, and too wet. You stupid girl, can’t you do anything right? Must I instruct you in every nuance? To think that you are the best the Distinguished Academy of Governesses had to offer is simply—” With a flip of the wrist, she opened the handkerchief.

  And a tiny, still-wiggling goldfish slipped out and down her cleavage.

  She screamed. Leaped to her feet, slapping at her chest. Screamed again.

  The dancing stuttered to a stop.

  The men around her backed away and burst into hearty laughter.

  And a horrified Emma Chegwidden backed away, murmuring, “I am ruined.”