The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (29 page)

Crack!
John shuddered and broke away from her. He'd been hit! Alex turned, too late. A man shoved her to the ground. He dove for her, but she rolled away and kicked out, hearing a grunt as her pointed slipper found its mark. She stood, ready to run, and looked toward John. He was being attacked by a second man; they looked to be in a pummeling fistfight.

Alex screamed as the shorter man caught hold of her skirt and yanked her toward him. Oh dear God, she thought as a shaft of moonlight appeared from behind the clouds, it was the Spaniards.

"What do you want?" she hissed. "I don't know anything. I'm just looking for my parents." She hoped the answer to her questions would forestall them, but it didn't. John didn't appear to be making any ground either.

Suddenly another dark shadow descended upon them. Alex screamed, wrestling against the man's arms trying to cage her. The shadow's arms came over his head and down on the Spaniard with such force that Alex was immediately freed.

She stumbled back, shaking and wide-eyed, while he whirled around, caught the taller one with a head blow, freeing John, and then in a quick circle, cape flying out, pummeled the shorter man until she heard a cracking noise and a whimper. She held her breath in awe as he slid to the ground.

Before he hit the cobblestones, she saw the wicked flash of a knife coming from behind the man saving them. She shrieked a warning. But it was too late. The other Spaniard spun too, made a deflecting move of his wrist so fast that it was hard to see what happened. She heard a guttural gasp and saw the caped man fall to the ground. No . . . no. Who was it?
Please, get up. Please, don't be hurt.
She wanted to run to his side, but the tall Spaniard turned toward her and was advancing.

John reached her and pulled her close. He was grabbing something . . . something from his back. Alex stood rigid between his encircling arm and his chest. He pulled an object around and pointed it. The moonlight spilled just enough light to see what it was. A gun.

John had had a gun all night.

At the musicale.

It didn't make any sense but she was in no position to make sense of anything. She gritted her teeth as he pulled the trigger, felt the shock of recoil go through both their bodies, and saw the Spaniard fall.

She was screaming. She knew it but she couldn't hear it. Should she be screaming? She couldn't seem to stop and think.

The Spaniard got up and limped away, dragging the other one with him. John started to go after them.

"No!" Alex pulled on his arm. "Help me!" She ran toward the cloaked man, fear vibrating through her whole being. She knew who this was. She knew this protector, and if he'd died for her she didn't know how she would ever go on.

They knelt by the still form. Alex pulled his head into her lap.

Montague! She didn't know if she said it inside or outside her head. "Wake up. Don't you die on me! Do you hear me!"
Oh, God. Save him, please. I'll do anything.

"Lady Alexandria Featherstone!" It was an order and a bark of authority. Her spine instantly straightened. She sniffed, noticing for the first time that her face was wet with tears.

"Yes?" she asked in a very small voice.

"Quit that blubbering and act like the woman I know you are." His voice lowered with a note of humor. "Besides, you're getting blood all over your new dress."

That brought a fresh bout of tears, but this time she was crying and laughing at the same time. "Are you all right? Where are you hurt?"

"Here, let me see." John, who was leaning over him, backed up and they saw the knife sticking from his chest. "Oh, Uncle. That doesn't look good. We have to get you to a doctor."

Alex started wailing afresh until Montague grasped her arm and pulled her toward his face. "Look at me," he demanded. "It's missed my heart, I think. And I'm breathing well despite the sharp pull on my ribs. I need you to pull it out and then stop the bleeding with something."

Alex nodded, a feeling of desperation to hold on to his calm assurance the only thing keeping her upright and coherent. "I can do it." She told them all, including herself.

"That's my girl." He turned to John. "Your neck cloth, sir. There may be a lot of blood when she pulls it out. You'll have to press hard and hold it to staunch the bleeding."

John nodded. "Yes, Uncle. I understand."

They both looked at Alex. Oh, God! Was she really going to have to do this? She'd been on her knees, but the thought that she might need to put some weight behind the action made her stand up and lean over him. She grasped the hilt of the knife.

One . . . two . . . three. She turned her head aside, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled as hard as she could.

Montague came off the walkway with a groan. The knife flew from her hands and clattered, bloody, into the middle of the street.

Alex broke into a fresh sob.

John pressed on the wound.

Montague grasped her hand and gasped out, "Well done, my dear. If I'd had a daughter . . . I would have . . . wanted her to be . . . just . . . like . . . you."

S
ervants, porters, the hotel staff, and his valet rushed back and forth between the Duke of St. Easton's suite of rooms and the front desk where package after package was arriving. In the last week he had met with tailors, boot makers, glove and hat makers; there were all kinds of leather goods including elaborate new saddles and tack for the horses. His staff had three sets of matching livery, and Meade, an entire new wardrobe, even though he complained it unnecessary and despised the tedious sittings for the tailor.

Gabriel sat at his desk with Meade across from him as the packages arrived, were unpacked, and presented. He sent back almost as much as he kept.

"Here are the invitations that have arrived so far." Meade began opening them and handing them across the desk in the familiar routine they'd had for years. There were at least thirty invitations to all sorts of entertainments and he'd only been in town a week. The rumor mill had obviously done its job. The plan was working.

"Accept the O'Brien dinner party for tonight and Lord Donovan's ball tomorrow night. Have we heard from the viceroy yet?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Meade passed over a thick letter. "Earl Talbot has responded exactly as we hoped."

Gabriel unfolded the letter, a personal note of welcome from the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and the enclosed, gilt-edged invitation to the masquerade ball at Dublin Castle. He sat back with a smile. There would be any number of people who might know of the Featherstones, the missing Sloane manuscript, and possibly even know of Lady Alexandria herself. He would only have to ask the right questions and watch their responses. Meade would accompany him and direct him in how best to answer.

It wasn't a perfect system, any number of things could go wrong, but his fellow attendees would have heard all about the power and wealth of the Duke of St. Easton and would hopefully think him eccentric instead of deaf should he choose to walk away from a conversation. It was the best way to find her in such a vast city. Not that he hadn't hired investigators to scour the city too. He was leaving nothing to chance this time.

"Excellent." Gabriel gave Meade a sly look. "And is my costume ready?"

Meade snorted. "Yes, Your Grace. You will certainly strike fear into their hearts."

"Fear, you say?" Gabriel could mostly read Meade's lips, far better than anyone else's, but he still missed a word here and there.

Meade was not perturbed in the least and seemed to take pride that they could get on without the speaking book quite often. "Yes," he overly enunciated, "fear."

Gabriel laughed. "Well, that was the point of it, wasn't it? We don't want anyone too comfortable, asking too many questions."

"It is an excellent plan, if I may say so."

Another commotion at the door brought their attention around. A servant of the hotel hurried forward, bowing and hardly daring to look Gabriel in the eye. He spoke with Meade for several minutes and then backed out of the room, bowing and scraping all the way.

Meade turned toward Gabriel with his brows raised. He took up the speaking book and wrote down the message.

We've found several men who are known to have some knowledge of Sloane's collection. They are: Sir Kiefer Donovan, Sean Healy, Patrick Sullivan, and Jeremy Lyons. Three are members of the Royal Irish Academy and two are expected at the ball. You were right again, Your Grace. The ball will be a good place to ask questions.

Gabriel studied the names, allowing his mind to rove through his memories. Lyons rang a bell, but he wasn't sure why. "Which two are expected at the ball?"

"Healy and Lyons."

Excellent. "Find out all you can about each of them. And find out what the two attending the ball look like, what they'll be wearing. We won't want to miss them."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Meade hurried to do his bidding while Gabriel closed his eyes and thought of his quarry so close now within his grasp.

THEY WERE LATE. PURPOSEFULLY LATE.

Being deaf made great crowds a challenge that Gabriel hadn't known would ever be problematic for him. He'd always been the picture of confidence and control. Sought after in any crowd and made to feel important. Now, when he walked into a crowded room, he felt disoriented, lost, left out, and alone. Sometimes the anxiety grew until the dizziness haunted him, loping through his mind and making his ears ring. That was the worst. And then there was the horror of the scene he would cause if he collapsed again. He couldn't risk that here, not after all he'd gone through to convince the good people of Dublin that he was so grand as to be almost otherworldly with wealth and power.

So he and Meade arrived a full hour late. It was probably expected anyway. They would be panting to see him after hearing so many audacious rumors. The viceroy and vicereine had been ecstatic that he had accepted their invitation to the masked ball, or so he'd been told.

Dublin Castle was as he remembered it. A scrawling mass of stone buildings. He'd been in the upper courts once before, where the lord lieutenant had his apartments. But he'd rejected the offer of a tour, probably offending them at the time, but after seeing most of the palaces of the world, he hadn't been in the mood to be accommodating. He was, he discovered with some surprise, eager to see it now, especially the grand ballroom.

They passed through a gate from Cork Hill and saw the two gigantic statues of Justice and Fortitude on either side of the central colonnade. The coach with his ducal coat of arms emblazoned on the side swung up to the front and stopped. Gabriel waited for the footman to open his door and then tossed back his cape and stepped down into the drive surrounded by the courtyard.

He waited for Meade to come around, looked down at his secretary, and smiled. Meade was dressed as a crocodile, and it was all Gabriel could do not to laugh out loud every time he looked at him. "I can't believe you've worn that, Meade. You'll be tripping everyone within arm's length and you have to stay close."

Meade turned toward him, the lower half of his face plainly visible from the crocodile's wide mouth. "It's perfect, Your Grace. Only you will be able to see my mouth."

Gabriel sighed. "If I don't look like I'm mooning over you all night, it will be a miracle. Good heavens, what was I thinking to agree to this plan?"

"If I recall rightly, it was your plan, Your Grace."

"Never mind that." His mood was starting to seriously sour. "Let's pray we get through the next couple of hours." He didn't wait to hear what Meade might think of that. He had been praying. More than he'd ever prayed in his life.

They made their way up the wide flight of stairs to a grand, and thankfully empty, hall. Gabriel paused to adjust his sweeping black cape. It reached almost to his ankles in the back and swirled around him in voluminous folds whenever he turned. His black demimask was tied around his eyes, but he had made sure that he would be identifiable. He needed to be known to get the answers he wanted.

"Well?" He motioned for Meade to precede him. "Follow the noise, man, and find us the ballroom."

Meade responded like a horse being nudged. They went down a wide hall, passing a brilliant but empty presence chamber complete with the viceroy's throne. They turned a corner and Meade stopped. At the entry to the ballroom stood liveried servants in the viceroy's colors of green and gold. They saw him, spoke briefly with Meade while Gabriel pretended to ignore them, and then they beckoned them into the room. Meade turned toward him and mouthed,
the viceroy.

He understood that the servants had been on the lookout for him and were ordered to take him directly to the viceroy when he arrived. So far, so good.

Gabriel stepped forward, feeling the rush of battle beat through his veins as he fought with the anxiety filling him. He took a deep breath, nodded to those close to him, and started forward. As if a spotlight had been shined upon him, those he passed stopped and turned to stare. His gaze swept over the glittering crowd amassed in all manner of costumes from the exquisite to the ridiculous.

There were clowns with giant heads, dogs leading real identical dogs on a leash, medieval kings and queens, Greek gods and goddesses, sultans and belly dancers, Spanish gypsies, gaudily painted jesters, and women as sweet as dairy maids and as raunchy as the prostitutes from Covent Garden.

Their eyes seemed overly bright, their voices too loud though he could hear nothing. A sweat broke out down his back and he felt a little sick. And to think he used to enjoy these things. He used to at least be able to pretend he did. It was all he could do not to flee.

Meade tapped on his arm and directed his attention to the viceroy. He was dressed as a Turk with a high purple-and-gold turban on his head that looked ridiculous and a fake snake coiled around his back and arm.

Gabriel blinked once at the snake and then drawled out in his most condescending manner. "Good evening, Lord Talbot. You have a new friend, I see. Have you charmed the Irish into welcoming reptiles?"