Seduction & Scandal. Charlotte Featherstone
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?”