The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (28 page)

DUBLIN WAS A FAVORITE CITY of his. Gabriel had been here before and had very much enjoyed it, the poetic sense of mood and the many faces of a creative story weaving people. It was a place of elegance and charm and fairy tales.

Gabriel and Meade trotted over the stone bridges that crossed the River Liffey on their mounts, both the men and the horses decked out in the royal blue and gold colors of the house of St. Easton. Gabriel had bought a coach and had his ducal seal painted on the sides of it, though no one rode in it. He'd hired outriders, uniformed in his family colors, four servants, one valet, two groomsmen, and a cook, just in case the hotel couldn't manage his demands. He had a plan.

It was time to be the Duke of St. Easton again.

It was time for a show of power.

They pulled up to the front of the Morrison's Hotel, a place worthy of royalty, and disembarked. He nodded to the porter, directed his bags to be brought to the prince regent's own suite and, ignoring everyone and their chattering faces, strode into the grand lobby. Meade would take care of the placing of his new staff and himself. Gabriel looked around with approval in his eyes. The place was as he remembered it. Grand, high-ceiling opulence with a thousand lights in candelabra and wall sconces. Lush furnishings in muted colors, a fountain in the indoor garden, and rooms enough to house a cavalcade. It was perfect and he was itching to get started on his plan.

He was led to a grand suite of rooms where his clothing was unpacked, pressed, and put away. He ordered food, a hot bath, and told his valet to locate Dublin's best tailor and boot maker. He needed outfitted for this mission and the clothes he'd brought on the road were not nearly up to snuff. Dash it all. When Alexandria first saw him she was going to be impressed and . . . a little terrified.

But that wasn't the spine of the plan, only one of the extremities. No, he smiled to himself, he would use every advantage he had to find her.

And this time, he was playing by his rules. This time, God help him it would not take long.

J
ohn led Alex to their seats in Dublin's Rotunda. Aptly named, it was an enormous round room with Corinthian pilasters and a massive, central chandelier. The crush of elegantly dressed people made the air warm but Alex didn't care. This was like nothing she'd ever attended and the crowd-watching alone was enthralling.

"Having a good time?" John handed her a set of opera glasses.

Alex nodded, glancing at his face. She couldn't help but admire how fine he looked in his formal clothing—white shirt, white high-collared waistcoat with a perfectly tied cravat. White pantaloons tucked into his boots, and a blue double-breasted coat that shone as if its threads were silken wool. His hair was brushed back in a careless-looking wave that lent him an air of artless sophistication, and his blue eyes sparkled down at her. She swallowed hard and looked away, trying to work the opera glasses.

"Here, let me show you." They sat down, Montague on her other side, while John flipped the handle around so the lenses hung correctly. Alex peered through them. "Goodness me, everything is twice its normal size!"

"Just wait," John promised, "the curtain's opening up."

She turned toward the stage and watched as the red velvet curtain parted, revealing a small stage. A few moments later Angelica Catalani came out, a beautiful, frail-looking brunette with a crown of roses entwined in her hair. As soon as she began to sing, everything and everyone faded away. Song after song Alex sat raptly, caught up in the magical spell of a world-class soprano.

During the intermission John steered her toward a hall where refreshments were being served and the attendees chatted and mingled.

"There," he leaned down and whispered into her ear, "do you see that older man, with dark red hair and ruddy cheeks?"

Alex nodded.

"That is Tad Molony. He's one of the men I told you about that is a member of the Royal Irish Academy."

Alex clasped John's upper arm with her gloved hand and squeezed. "Do you know him?" There was a hint of desperation in her grip.

"Not so much, but I know his son a little, enough to give you an introduction, at any rate. Come along."

They worked their way to the small circle of men where Mr. Molony stood. Alex could feel her heart speed up and took a deep, calming breath before stepping into the small open space beside him. John edged in beside her and bowed to the five or six men, all a generation or two older than they were. He was nothing if not confident, Alex thought with an inner smile. They did make a good team.

The conversation came to an awkward pause as the men looked at the two of them, giving John his opportunity. "Gentlemen, we beg your pardon for interrupting your discourse on the fine qualities of Guinness. I was only hoping to introduce my young friend here to Mr. Molony. They have an interest in common."

One man chuckled. Another said something ribald under his breath, but Mr. Molony only turned to survey her and John with interest. "I must say I am flattered to be sought after by such a creature of beauty," he said in typical Irish charm. He took her gloved hand and bowed over it. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He looked at John, intelligence and curiosity in his eyes.

John reached out to shake his hand. "I'm John Lemon. I believe I know your son, Brant Molony. We frequent the same clubs."

A look of displeasure crossed his deep brown eyes, making Alex want to kick John. You didn't remind a father of a son's indiscretions unless the father had taught it to him. She didn't know how she knew that pearl of wisdom, but it just seemed like common sense. She hurried to correct the error.

"Sir, I understand you are a member of the Royal Irish Academy?"

His gaze switched back to her face and softened. "You've an interest in scientific matters, miss?"

"Alexandria Featherstone, sir. From Holy Island in Northumberland. And yes, I have a very great interest in antiquities. I was hoping to ask you a few questions." She glanced around at the aptly listening men of their circle. "In private, that is. It is a matter of . . . some delicacy." She raised her brows at him and gave him a small smile.

"Hmm," he said, thinking about it. "There is another in our circle here then that we should perhaps include." He turned toward a thin, silver-haired man. "Mr. Sean Healy, Lady Alexandria Featherstone." He gestured with a sweep of his arm. "Healy is also a member of the Royal Irish Academy and something of an expert on antiquities, aren't you, Sean?"

Mr. Healy shrugged one shoulder. "I have a small collection."

Mr. Molony chuckled.

Another member of the circle spoke up, his Irish brogue thick and deep. "You can't leave us languishing in curiosity, Lady Featherstone. Is there nothing we can know of the tale?"

John shook his head, his chest puffing out just a bit. Alex wanted to roll her eyes. Where was his legendary charm? Maybe he saved it for ladies. She smiled at the man and said, "I'm working on a case, sir. An important antiquity has gone missing, stolen most likely, and I've been hired to find it."

So it wasn't the full truth. So it was her parents who'd been hired to find it. She couldn't help enjoying watching his eyes widen with interest.

A bell rang signaling the crowd to return to the musicale. In a move a little too desperate, Alex put her hand on Molony's arm. "Please, sir. Just a moment more of Mr. Healy's and your time?"

He nodded and Mr. Healy moved closer, now making their circle four as the other men, some grumbling about how scientists got all the luck, made their way back to their seats.

"Come now, Lady Featherstone. What's all this about?"

"I exaggerated a bit with that last statement. It was not me who was hired to find this missing antiquity but my parents. You see . . ."

She launched into the story of her parents and the missing item from Sloane's collection. The two men stood raptly as she told it, exclaiming at times and whispering phrases to each other that made little sense to her.

"So you see, gentlemen, I am convinced that my parents are in terrible trouble. I must find them. And the only way to do that is to track this missing item from Sloane's collection. Have you heard anything about it?"

"Sloane's collection is a long way from what we are studying these days." Healy frowned.

"I do recall rumors of a theft though, about seven or eight years ago," Mr. Molony added, then he shook his head. "But I didn't pay it much mind at the time."

"There is someone else who might know more," Healy growled out the words.

"Yes, but not much good that it will do her." Molony stared back at Healy. "We shouldn't even mention it. He will never see her."

"Oh, please!" Alex leaned forward. "There must be some way. Who is it?"

"I'll see that he sees her," John put in with authority. They both ignored John.

"There is the masquerade ball. It's the only social function he attends. Might be worth a try." Molony's eyebrows rose in question.

"I've only gotten invitations to that event twice in my lifetime. How do you propose to get her in?" Healy responded.

Molony looked at John. "Lord Lemon has his connections. Do you get invited to the viceroy's annual masquerade ball?"

"Yes, I've been invited."

"Think you can get her in?" Molony flicked his hand in Alex's direction.

"Of course I can. I was planning on it. We've already had the costume made up."

"What are you talking about?" Alex asked.

"Why the masquerade ball, my dear. Remember? The special dress?"

"It's a masquerade? You didn't tell me that."

John shrugged. "I was saving it as a surprise."

"That's the only reason he attends. He doesn't like to be out in public. His face is . . . disfigured. But once a year, he dons a mask and revels in the waltz with no one the wiser."

"Who is this man?"

"His name is Jeremy Lyons. And he is an expert on Sloane. He's been obsessed with him for years. If anyone will know about this missing antiquity you're speaking of, it will be him."

Alex took a deep inhale. "Then we'll have to attend this ball." She looked up at John. "Are you sure you can do it?"

"You can count on it."

"But if he's masked, how will we know who he is?" Alex asked the group.

"Good question." John looked at Molony, who only shrugged.

"It is to all our good fortune that I have a standing invitation to this ball," the voice came from behind them, "and Lyons and I have had some dealings in the past."

They all turned to see Montague.

Molony and Healy both grew wide-eyed and bowed. "Admiral Montague. Sir, a pleasure."

They all greeted each other while Alex tilted her head to one side and scowled at Montague. Why hadn't he told her this? Why did he make it so easy for her to forget she was traveling with a legend? Drat that man and his modest, humble, wonderful self. As if to make it up to her, he leaned down and gave her a fatherly peck on the cheek.

"We'll have to find out what his costume is though. Just to make it a bit easier. Any thoughts on that, my friends?"

"The servants," John stated emphatically. "Find out who is preparing his costume and we'll be able to get all the details."

"Sounds like a job for a young man of charm and wit." Healy laughed. "We'll leave that to you, Lord Lemon."

John looked torn between being insulted and excited. "Oh, very well," he muttered to save face, but he was smiling.

"Back to the concert then? Shall we?" Montague motioned with his arm toward the door.

Alex turned to Healy and Molony. "I can't thank you enough, sirs. When I find my parents, your names will be among the many who have helped me." Her bottom lip started to quiver so she pressed her lips together and bowed her head toward each of them and then turned, placing her hand on Montague's arm. As she left she heard a low chuckle and the words, "Now isn't she something?"

AS THE CONCERT CAME TO an end, Montague, John, and Alex made their way through the crush of people to the door. Montague stopped suddenly and shook his head. "I've left my cloak behind. Start toward the carriage and I will catch up to you."

John smiled in a delighted way, cocked his head to one side, and took Alex's arm, pulling her close to his side. "Very good, Uncle."

Montague shot him a warning look and hurried back toward the Rotunda.

The night was dark, the moon covered by clouds, as they stepped onto the walkway with various other concert goers and walked at a leisurely pace toward their carriage.

"I would say tonight was a success, wouldn't you, love?"

Alex let a laugh escape. "John, you mustn't call me that. And yes, tonight was a great success. I can't think how to thank you."

"I can think of something."

Alex tried to quicken their steps, knowing where he was leading the discussion, half afraid and half exhilarated by it, but he deliberately slowed their progress.

"How far to the carriage? It's terribly dark."

"Never fear, Lady Alex. I will protect you."

They turned down a side street and suddenly, they were alone.

"John, I'm afraid. Are we close?" Alex edged closer. "It's so dark."

"Just a little farther. Stay close." His voice sounded ill at ease too.

She kept close by his side as they walked to the carriage. The coachman would be there, probably sleeping on his perch, once they reached it. Alex comforted herself with the thought.

Suddenly John stopped, grasped her shoulders, and turned her toward him. "Alex . . . I . . ."

She looked up at him, a small shaft of moonlight peering through the clouds. "Yes?"

Would he declare himself so soon? Did she want him to? She hardly knew what to think beyond the thudding of her heart.

His head bent down toward hers. He was going to kiss her.

Unless she pulled away and did something—right now—he would kiss her.

She didn't pull away. She waited, her breath small and short, not knowing, just not knowing what to do.

His lips were warm and dry as they touched hers. She held her breath and stood like she'd been composed of Carrara marble as they began to move against hers.