My Wicked Marquess (38 page)

Max nodded slowly, staring at him. “Thanks, Jord.”

“How much have you told her?”

“Nothing yet. There was a spy planted inside Westwood Manor when I got there. Daphne saw me catch the Promethean. She saw the Initiate's brand when I confirmed his status. Other than that, nothing.”

“Keep it to a minimum, eh? For all our sakes.”

Max dropped his gaze. “I only want to tell her who I am.”

Rohan suddenly appeared in the doorway, bracing his hands on the lintel. “Hate to break up the tea party, boys, but things just got a bit more interesting.”

“What is it?” Max asked quickly.

“A firestorm of gossip out there, that's what. The news just broke all over London that your unassuming neighbor, the Duke of Holyfield, and his pregnant duchess are both dead. They died in France.”

“What?”
Max pressed away from the sideboard where he had been leaning.

“It happened two days ago, in what they're calling a boating accident,” Rohan supplied in response to their astonished looks. He pushed away from the doorway and walked into the room. “Seems the couple hired a small vessel to take them cruising on the Loire River to view all the chateaux. The boat sank. The couple drowned.”

“In the Loire?” Max echoed. “That's in Malcolm's back garden, isn't it?”

Virgil bristled at the mention of his hated brother.

“How do you drown in the bloody Loire?” Jordan asked. “It's a gentle river.”

“Maybe they had help.”

Max shook his head, saddened and frankly stunned by the news. “Who would want to murder harmless Hayden Carew? Albert's the one who stands to gain, but even I know he's not that ambitious. As a younger son, he's got a fine income, a trust fund, and no responsibilities.”

“He also has no real power,” Rohan said.

“Isn't an accident ever just an accident?” Max asked wearily. “I mean, look at Hayden, a meek little fellow. I could easily believe he could drown in the Loire, especially if he was more concerned about trying to rescue his pregnant wife.”

“What about the boat's crew? Did they ‘drown,' too?” Jordan asked.

“Haven't heard yet.” Rohan shook his head. “I just think it sounds incredibly suspicious.”

“I agree. Maybe it's got something to do with Dresden Bloodwell's recent appearance in London.”

“But why? What would killing the Duke of Holyfield and his wife accomplish, other than elevating Albert Carew to the dukedom?”

Rohan shrugged impassively. “Maybe they've got plans for him. You have to admit, it is kind of funny, Max. Your old boyhood nemesis now outranks you.”

“That's just perfect,” he muttered. “Daphne will be sorry she did not marry him. Where was Albert when this boating accident took place across the Channel? Do
we know?”

“He was right here in London. According to the gossips, he wept copiously when he heard the news and had to be helped home.”

“Oh, very touching,” Max muttered.

“I say we watch him,” Jordan advised.

“Definitely.”

“Jordan, you'll be in charge of watching Carew,” Virgil said. “I'll deal with the captive Max brought in. Rohan, you stay on the Dresden Bloodwell matter.”

“Actually, old boy, that could be a problem,” Warrington said. “Afraid I must take a small reprieve to put down some serious trouble brewing back at home in Cornwall. I am sorry. It cannot be helped.”

“What's going on?” Max asked.

“You know those local smugglers that I allow to operate on my lands? They supply me with useful information from the ports and the criminal underworld. On occasion, they've run covert messages for me, in exchange for my turning a blind eye to their activities. Well, they know I have certain rules, limits to what I am willing to ignore. On the whole, they've kept things within reason, but now they've crossed the line. The Coast Guard office contacted me and said that in my absence, the smugglers have resorted to their old sport of causing shipwrecks and picking up whatever booty floats ashore.”

“Oh, that
is
serious,” Jordan murmured. “What do they do, use lights to simulate a lighthouse, yes? And lure the ships onto the rocks?”

“Exactly. I hear they've been having a grand old time while I've been gone. If I don't get down there and restore order, several of my local men are going to be arrested and probably sent to the hangman—which they might bloody well deserve—but would put an end to a very useful source of information that ought not go to waste.”

Virgil nodded. “Not to mention that any highly public arrests like that could also bring unwanted attention our way. Handle it as quietly as you can before the Coast Guard moves on them.”

“I will. They're not bad fellows, really. It's just that with
the war's end, the black market these seaside bandits have thrived on has dried up. So now it looks like they've resorted to considerably more nefarious behavior.”

“Need any help with it?” Max asked.

“Hell, no.” Rohan grinned. “They're more terrified of their local Beast than they are of the Coast Guard, I assure you.”

“As well they should be, Beast,” Jordan replied with a sardonic look.

“So, anyway, since I have to go and handle this, can you get someone else to keep hunting Dresden?” the duke asked Virgil.

“I'll do it,” Max said grimly.

“
You
want to go after Dresden?” Virgil countered skeptically, but Jordan interrupted.

“Listen, if you think about it, what's the point of hunting Dresden Bloodwell in his lair? Let's just wait for him to come out again in Society the way he did once before, and then take it from there.”

“Wait for him to strike?”

Jordan shrugged. “Under the circumstances, not knowing Drake's status, I don't see how it helps
us
to risk drawing attention to ourselves right now unnecessarily.”

“He's got a point,” Rohan agreed. “Our main advantage is that we know who he is and he does not know who we are.”

“Very well,” Virgil said, nodding. “We'll put every pair of eyes we have to watch for Bloodwell, and once he's seen, we'll make sure to track the bastard.”

“Maybe we can work out some kind of a trap,” Max said.

“Maybe so, but we're going to need more of our men to work on this with us,” Jordan said.

Virgil nodded. “Beauchamp's team should be returning soon.”

“Were they able to find out anything about this Rupert Tavistock?” Max asked.

“Yes, in fact, they did. Some of my agents still do as I ask them,” the Highlander said sharply.

“Virgil.”

“Tavistock is dead,” the Seeker grumbled.

“And all the money he transferred into the Promethean accounts?”

“Gone. Malcolm's hidden it.”

“Can't say I'm surprised,” Max murmured. Then he told his friends what had happened at Westwood Manor, and learned in exchange what the demirep, Ginger, had said about her encounter with Drake.

Max listened keenly as they told him how Ginger had seen Drake in a carriage with two other men outside the Royal Opera House. The older of the two men had told Ginger that Drake had suffered a head wound and, to her, Drake had seemed out of sorts, not at all himself.

He had not recognized her, though, for that matter, even Max had forgotten her name a short while ago.

But the two men she had seen him with fit the description of James Falkirk, an elite member of the Council, and his longtime assistant, the one-eyed operative known as Talon.

Max took all this in with a frown. “If James Falkirk has Drake, then why are we still alive? If Drake intended to reveal our identities, the Prometheans would've attacked us by now, especially with the Council's favorite assassin Bloodwell in Town to organize the job. Falkirk need only extract our names from Drake and then hand over that information to Dresden.”

“God, I can't imagine what he's been through,” Jordan murmured, staring at the floor.

“Maybe it's like the harlot said. Maybe he really can't remember us. Had Drake's mother heard from him?”

“No.”

“Maybe he doesn't remember her, either.”

“Maybe he doesn't even remember himself,” Virgil said quietly while they were still pondering it.

“Well, the Prometheans certainly know who Drake is, otherwise, they wouldn't have known to plant a spy in his family's home.”

“We need to send some proper guards to Westwood Manor,” Max added, concerned about the old Lady Westwood's safety. “One advantage we can claim is that the Prometheans don't know I got their man. Maybe the so-called
footman I dragged in today will be able to confirm if it's Falkirk who has Drake, and where they're holding him.”

Jordan shook his head with an agonized look over their brother's well-being. “God, we have to help him.”

“Before they break him,” Rohan murmured.

“What if they already have? If he turns against us, we are in serious trouble.”

“He won't,” Max and Virgil declared simultaneously.

Then they all fell silent.

“And so it all begins again,” Rohan murmured at length.

“God, I hope not,” Jordan whispered. “For if they really do have Drake, all of our lives are in his hands. Including Daphne's,” he added, glancing at Max.

“I should get back to her.” He paused, warding off an icy chill to know that she now shared the danger. “You know, I just want to say that I did not want to bring her here. I tried to keep her out of it, for all our sakes, and hers, but when you're married…There were just too many lies.”

“I think we all understand, Max.” Rohan gave him a subdued nod, which Max returned with a look of gratitude.

“Very well, then, here's the plan,” Virgil said gruffly. “Max, you watch Albert Carew. That makes more sense, since you've known the family longest. I'll deal with the spy from Westwood Manor and press on with finding Drake. Jordan, you stay on the watch for Dresden Bloodwell in Society as you suggested, and Warrington, you deal with your smugglers, and get back to Town as soon as you can.”

“Done,” Max said.

The others nodded, as well.

Max let out a low sigh of relief to have it all sorted out, and went to collect Daphne from the parlor where he had left her. With all other business attended to, the hour of his reckoning had come.

He was going to take her down to the Pit. Into the heart of their darkness.

D
aphne was waiting patiently in the parlor when Max returned. He beckoned to her to come with him; she got up and followed, noting that his expression was still grim and a touch apprehensive.

Without a word, he led her into a torrid red drawing room, and walked over to the harpsichord. He played a few specific notes on the instrument, and to her amazement, a full-length bookcase against the wall rotated open, revealing another dark, secret passageway.

“Come on.”

She followed him into the lightless maze once more, and they made their way back to the same ladder by which they had ascended.

Max went first this time to help her if her footing slipped. After climbing back down the ladder, she found herself once more in the mysterious stone chamber underneath Dante House.

“You can sit down if you want to.” He gestured toward the rough-hewn wooden table. “Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for her answer, he poured her a glass of red wine from the dusty bottle on the table.

Daphne accepted it wordlessly; maybe he thought she was going to need it. He looked at her for a long moment.

“Do you remember when you asked me about Albert
saying I disappeared when we were boys?”

She nodded slowly.

“The school that I was sent to is, indeed, in Scotland, but it is not an ordinary academy.”

She stared at him, holding her breath. Max searched her eyes.

“I belong to a hereditary order of chivalry named after St. Michael the Archangel.” He pointed to the floor mosaic. “You know his role, I am sure—God's warrior angel who cast Satan down from Heaven with his fiery sword. The castle in Scotland is, in fact, the Order's headquarters, and that's where I was sent, to fulfill an oath made by the first Lord Rotherstone.”

“The original owner of that broadsword in your gallery?” she murmured.

He nodded. “This duty was passed down through my family to me. Not all my predecessors were called upon to serve—the threat varies over the centuries, and many have escaped it altogether—but I could not.

“When I was thirteen, Virgil came to our estate and made arrangements with my father for me to be handed over to the Order and taken away to Scotland to begin my training as an agent for them. That's where I met Rohan and Jordan—and Drake, among others. This whole Inferno Club is merely a false front.”

He lowered his gaze, his angular face sculpted by the candle's glow. “The Order's motto is taken from the book of Hebrews:
‘He makes His angels winds, and His servants flames of fire.'
The Order is named after St. Michael, for like him, we are dedicated to battling a pernicious evil. Struggling to rid the world of it, though there seems to be no end in sight.”

“What is this evil?” she breathed.

“The Promethean Council. A secret society of very powerful men, bent on enslaving humanity. Their lust for power never changes, only the names do. They've infiltrated every government on earth…but all this has been going for six hundred years.”

She shook her head in wonder.

“The struggle dates back to the late twelfth century,” he continued. “Long ago, the first Lord Rotherstone, along with my friends' medieval ancestors, joined King Richard the Lionheart in the Holy Land on a quest to free Jerusalem from the armies of Saladin.

“This was the Third Crusade, and since it was unsuccessful, if you recall your history lessons, the even bloodier Fourth Crusade was launched a few years later. Our ancestors remained in the Holy Land for that one, too.”

“I see,” she whispered, and took a drink of her wine.

Max gazed at her. “The story goes that, one day, King Richard sent out a scouting party of about twenty knights to determine the enemy's location. A sandstorm began forming in the desert, so the knights took shelter with their horses in a cavern that they noticed amid the rocks. They began searching around inside the caves to see if there was any source of water there for their horses to drink, but instead, they came across some ancient clay jars.

“When they looked inside these jars, the Crusaders found that they contained a mysterious set of scrolls. One of the knights—Falconridge's ancestor, it was—was an accomplished scholar who had spent some years of prayer and study in a monastery. So, with his greater learning, he was able to make some sense of what was written on the scrolls.

“The scrolls were already a couple hundred years old when the Crusaders found them—apocrypha written in Syriac, from about
A.D.
900. The first thing the scholar-knight recognized was that the scroll announced itself as one of a few existing copies of an older document, whose original had been burned in the great fire that destroyed the ancient Library of Alexandria.”

Daphne marveled at the tale. “What did these scrolls contain?”

“Something very dark. A sort of unholy bible for a strange cult of mixed origins, dedicated to Prometheus. Its founding tale sprang out of an Old Testament story, concerning the great Bible patriarch Joseph. You know, the one who was
sold off into slavery in Egypt by his brothers?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The brothers were jealous that their father had given Joseph the coat of many colors, while they had no such token of his favor.”

“Just so,” Max replied. “As I'm sure you will recall, Joseph did fairly well for himself in Egypt in spite of his brothers' treachery. By correctly interpreting Pharaoh's dream, he saved Egypt from a terrible famine.

“Now, the lesser-known part of that story is that Pharaoh wanted to reward Joseph for his service to the kingdom, so the grateful Pharaoh arranged an advantageous marriage as his reward. Joseph was given the beautiful Aseneth for his bride. Aseneth was the semi-royal daughter of the Egyptian high priest of Heliopolis.

“The two were married,” he continued, “Hebrew and Egyptian, and from those beginnings, a cult took root, mixing the sacred mysteries of the Jewish Kabbalah with the divination and the rites of the Egyptian high priests. The earliest practitioners of this Joseph-and-Aseneth cult had a particular interest in the Egyptian practices aimed at preparing the soul for immortality, the very purpose for which her people had built the Pyramids in which to bury their god-kings. But it did not end there.

“As this occult sect spread, they constantly incorporated new beliefs and rituals, seeking supernatural abilities, such as those that were said to belong to the Magi, like the three wise men who showed up at Bethlehem. It seemed the earliest Prometheans would try anything in their search for occult powers.

“Ancient Greek beliefs were also absorbed, the use of oracles like the one at Delphi, for example. There were also darker practices, the occasional human sacrifice. That one, they supposedly picked up at Crete, the home of the Minotaur.”

“How dreadful.” She shuddered in the clammy darkness of the stone chamber. She could almost imagine the bullheaded monster emerging from one of those stone-carved tunnels.

“Dreadful, yes, to us or to any sane person. But not to them. The Prometheans savor bloodshed, and they're not afraid to die because they don't believe that is the end. Essentially, they believe they are above death, and that by their black magic, the processes of death and regeneration can be brought under their control.

“As a result, not surprisingly, it was the Greek myth of Prometheus that inspired the name they have come to be known by.”

“Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods,” she echoed.

“Yes. Like him, they see themselves as mankind's savior, bringing light into the world.”

“But wait.” She furrowed her brow. “I thought bringing light into the world was supposed to be Jesus' job.”

“Not to them, indeed. Did you know the name of Lucifer means Light-bearer?”

She stared at him in amazement. “Are you telling me they have actual black magic?”

“All I know is
they
believe it's real. So much so that they're willing to kill for it. They chose the Titan, Prometheus, as their icon because in spite of his horrible torment, what with the eagle coming each night to eat out his liver, each day he awoke anew, whole and unscathed.

“In itself, that might have been harmless. But unfortunately, the whole point of their longed-for immortality is to slowly bring all of mankind under their control. I'm sure you know who Jesus called the ‘master of this world.'”

“Satan.”

“That is their true god,” he said, nodding grimly. “Of course, they don't openly admit that. They prefer to pretend that they are working for the ‘good' of humanity. That if mankind has to have the ‘true illumination' rammed down its throat by force, then so be it. But first, to the conclusion of our story about the Crusaders and their temptation in the desert.”

“Yes, what happened to them?”

“By the time the sandstorm was over, the knights' reaction to the scrolls was split. Half of them thought the scrolls
vile and unholy, and the work of the Devil. After all, these were medieval men. They immediately wanted to burn the scrolls—cast them into the Inferno, if you will.

“The other group had a very different idea. They saw this ancient ‘magic' as perhaps dangerous, but still useful information. Some of them wanted to bring the scrolls to King Richard and use the black magic they contained as a possible secret weapon that might allow them to defeat Saladin and his ferocious Mamluk armies. The Crusade was going badly, after all, and considering that the goal was to free Jerusalem, a noble cause, the ends, in their view, justified the means.”

“Always dangerous thinking,” she murmured.

“Indeed. The knights' argument soon grew heated. Their whole party quickly turned to chaos, and being medieval warriors, it wasn't long before violence broke out. One of the men was struck down. Seeing they had murdered one of their own, the knights in favor of trying out the magic escaped with some of the scrolls. They knew they could not go back to King Richard without dire consequences for killing one of their comrades.”

He paused. “At least the evildoers did not get away with all of the scrolls. In the fray, the knights who remained true were able to keep a number of the documents out of their hands. But from these murderous beginnings, turning knight against knight and friend against friend, the poisonous effects of these ancient writings were very clear.

“To the best of our knowledge, the others eventually approached King Richard's court astrologer to see if His Majesty might want to try using the scrolls' black magic against Saladin after all. According to the legend, our Christian warrior-king did not dare attempt to dabble in such stuff. At least,” Max added slowly, “not at first.

“But after the Third Crusade failed, after His Majesty had emptied England's coffers to pay for his war, some say Richard allowed the court astrologer to have at it when the Fourth Crusade came round.

“It is rumored that the use of the scrolls resulted not
just in the victories of the Fourth Crusade, but also in the fact that that whole campaign was hideously bloody, with battles and sieges that were considered wholesale slaughters, even by medieval standards. Whether the magic is real or not, the evil of these scrolls seems to have that effect on men.”

Daphne stared at him in awe.

“Eventually, the Crusaders who had embraced these dark ancient writings returned to Europe, bringing their newfound cult back with them like the Plague.” Max shook his head. “They did not care how far they went or how twisted they became. All they cared about was using their newfound creed to gain power.

“Of course, the Church quickly pronounced their beliefs heretical, so they had to take their rituals underground. It was then, too, that the Order of St. Michael was established to root them out.

“With the Pope's blessing, King Richard established our Order to hunt down this cult, destroy the scrolls, and bring this evil to an end. My ancestor, the first Baron Rotherstone, and Warrington's and Falconridge's, all took the blood oath swearing not just themselves but their descendants to the fight.

“Unfortunately, our enemies have proved as determined to persist as we have been in seeking to thwart them. Once this evil took hold, they have never stopped working to achieve their aims.”

“What exactly are their aims?” she asked in an ominous tone.

“Originally, the Prometheans claimed that, having seen the bloodshed in the Holy Land and throughout their barbarous Europe of the Dark Ages, their main desire was to use the occult secrets in the scrolls to end all future wars, by establishing one vast kingdom that would stretch across the entire world. They painted themselves as benevolent when in fact they were anything but. For years, they claimed that what they were trying to establish was nothing less than the kingdom of Heaven on earth.”

“But Jesus said the kingdom of Heaven is already at hand,”
Daphne murmured. “And it has nothing to do with worldly power.”

“Exactly. It was a lie. And before long, even the Prometheans themselves gave up this pretense. Their quest was for raw, naked power, and it continues to this day.”

He lowered his head. “Everything I've told you about my life, traveling in Europe, international investments, collecting art—all of that is only the surface truth. The real reason for my travels, indeed, the whole soul and substance of my life till I met you, was in this duty on my lineage, to persist continuously to topple them.

“In recent years, they had grown powerful. Certain members of their cabal had wormed their way into high positions around Napoleon, as well as in other European courts. Given Napoleon's genius and the extent of the empire he established, they thought they could use him to finally bring about their vision of one seat of power to rule the earth. They got very close.”

“Oh, God.”

“You asked me once how I ended up at the Battle of Waterloo,” he said. “The real answer is that I received a message from Jordan warning me that the Prometheans had sent an assassin after the Duke of Wellington. They had managed to get a spy into his headquarters like the one you and I unmasked at Westwood Manor. They had already planned in advance that if things went badly for Napoleon at Waterloo, our General Wellington was to be shot on the field. This would have thrown the allies into chaos long enough to let Napoleon regroup.