Lord of Fire Read online

  Lord of Fire

  By Gaelen Foley

  An Ivy Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2001 by Gaelen Foley

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc. www.ballantinebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request. eISBN 0-345-45496-0 v1.0

  Table Of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  To my favorite feisty heroine, Aunt Yi, and her lovable tough-guy hero, Uncle Gene, in honor of their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  May there be many, many more—

  Love always,

  —G

  Something wicked this way comes.

  —Shakespeare

  Chapter 1

  London, 1814

  Shadows sculpted his sharp profile as he watched the crowded ballroom from the dim, high balcony; in the oscillating glow of the draft-buffeted wall candle, he seemed to flicker in and out of materiality like some tall, elegant phantom. Its shifting radiance glimmered over his raven-black hair and caught the Machiavellian glint of cunning in his quicksilver-colored eyes. Patience. Everything was in order.

  Preparation was all, and he had been meticulous. With a musing expression, Lord Lucien Knight lifted his crystal goblet of burgundy to his lips, pausing to inhale its mellow bouquet before he drank. He did not yet know his enemies’ names or faces, but he could feel them inching closer like so many jackals. No matter. He was ready. He had laid his trap and baited it well, with all manner of sin and sex and the siren’s whisper of subversive political activity that no spy could resist.

  There was nothing left to do now but watch and wait.

  Twenty years of war had ceased this past spring with Napoleon’s defeat, abdication, and exile to the Mediterranean island of Elba. It was autumn now, and the leaders of Europe had gathered in Vienna to draw up the peace accord; but any man with half a brain could see that until Bonaparte was moved to a more secure location farther out in the Atlantic, Lucien thought dryly, the war was not necessarily over. Elba was but a stone’s throw from the Italian mainland, and there were those who opposed the peace—who saw no profit for themselves in the Bourbon King Louis XVIII’s return to the throne of France and who wanted Napoleon back. As one of the British Crown’s most skilled secret agents, Lucien had orders from the foreign secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, to stand as the watcher at the gate, as it were, until the peace had been ratified—his mission, to stop these shadowy powers from stirring up trouble on English soil.

  He took another sip of his wine, his silvery eyes gleaming with mayhem. Let them come. When they did, he would find them, snare them, catch and destroy them, just as he had so many others. Indeed, he would make them come to him.

  Suddenly, a round of cheers broke out in the ballroom below and rippled through the crowd. Well, well, the conquering hero. Lucien leaned forward and rested his elbows on the railing of the balcony, watching with a cynical smirk as his identical twin brother, Colonel Lord Damien Knight, marched into the assembly rooms, resplendent in his scarlet uniform with the stern, high dignity of the Archangel Michael just back from slaying the dragon. The glitter of his dress sword and gold epaulets seemed to throw off a shining halo around him, but the famed colonel’s unsmiling demeanor did not discourage the swarm of smitten women, eager aides-de-camp, junior officers, and assorted hero-worshiping toadies who instantly surrounded him. Damien had always been the favorite of the gods.

  Lucien shook his head to himself. Though his lips curved in wry amusement, pain flickered behind his haughty stare. If it weren’t enough that the colonel had captured the popular imagination with his gallant exploits in battle, as the elder twin, Damien would soon be made an earl by a rather convoluted accident of lineage. It was not jealousy that stung Lucien, however, but an almost childlike sense of having been abandoned by his staunchest ally. Damien was the only person who had ever really understood him. For most of their thirty-one years, the Knight twins had been inseparable. In their rakish youth, their friends had dubbed them Lucifer and Demon, while the alarmed mothers of Society debutantes had warned their daughters about “that pair of devils.” But those carefree days of laughter and camaraderie were gone, for Lucien had transgressed his brother’s soldierly code.

  Damien had never quite accepted Lucien’s decision to leave the army a little over two years ago for the secret service branch of the Diplomatic Corps. Officers of the line, as a rule, deemed espionage dishonorable, ungentlemanly. To Damien and his ilk, spies were no better than snakes. Damien was a born warrior, to be sure. Anyone who had ever seen him in battle, his face streaked with black powder and blood, knew there was no question of that. But there would not have been quite so many victories without the constant stream of intelligence that Lucien had sent him—against regulation, at the risk of his life—on the enemy’s position, strength, numbers, and likeliest plan of attack. How it surely chafed the great commander’s pride to know that the fullness of his glory would not have been possible without his spy brother’s help.

  No matter, Lucien thought cynically. He still knew better than anyone how to prick the war hero’s titanic ego.

  “Lucien!” a breathy voice suddenly called from behind him.

  He turned around and saw Caro’s voluptuous silhouette framed in the doorway. “Why, my dear Lady Glenwood,” he purred, holding out his hand to her with a dark smile. Wasn’t Damien going to be cross about this?

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Her doll-like side curls swung against her rouged cheeks as she flounced over to him in a rustle of black satin. She smiled slyly, revealing the fetching little gap between her two front teeth as she took his hand and let him pull her up close against his body. “Damien’s here—”

  “Who?” he murmured, skimming her lips with his own.

  She groaned softly under his kiss and melted against him, the black satin of her gown sliding sensually against the white brocade of his formal waistcoat. Last night it had been skin to skin.

  Though the twenty-seven-year-old baroness wore mourning for her late husband, Lucien doubted she had shed a tear. A husband, to a woman like Caro, was merely an impediment to her pursuit of pleasure. Her ebony gown had a tiny bodice that barely contained her burgeoning cleavage. The midnight fabric made her skin look like alabaster, while her crimson lips matched the roses that adorned her upswept, chocolate-brown hair. After a moment, Caro made an effort to end their kiss, bracing her gloved hands on his chest.

  When she pulled back slightly, he saw that she was gloating, her cheeks flushed, her raisin-dark eyes glowing with amorous triumph. Lucien masked his insolent smile as Caro coyly lowered her lashes and stroked the lapels of his formal black tailcoat. To be sure, she believed she had done the impossible, what none of her rivals had ever achieved—that she alone had snared both Knight twins as her conquests and could now play them off each other for her own vanity. Alas, the lady had a large surprise in store.r />
  He was a bad man, he knew, but he could not resist toying with her a bit. He licked his lips as he stared at her, then glanced suggestively at the nearby wall, cloaked in shadows. “No one can see us up here, my love. Are you game?”

  She let out one of her throaty laughs. “You wicked devil, I’ll give you more later. Right now I want us to go see Damien.”

  Lucien lifted one eyebrow, playing along with consummate skill. “Together?”

  “Yes. I don’t want him to think we have anything to hide.” She gave him a crafty glance from beneath her lashes and smoothed his white silk cravat. “We must act naturally.”

  “I’ll try, ma chérie,” he murmured.

  “Good. Now, come.” She slipped her gloved hand through the crook of his elbow and propelled him toward the small spiral staircase that led down to the ballroom. He went along amiably, which ought to have warned her that he was up to something. “You swear you didn’t tell him?”

  “Mon ange, I would never say a word.” He did not see fit to add that such was the bond between identical twins that they hardly required words for the exchange of information. A glance, a laugh, a look spoke volumes. Appalling, really, to think that this wanton little schemer, for all her beauty, was on the verge of snaring Damien in marriage. Lucky for the war hero, his snake of a spy brother had come to his rescue again with the crucial information: Caro had not passed the test.

  Lucien bent his head near her ear. “I trust you are still coming with me to Revell Court this weekend?”

  She slipped him a nervous glance. “Actually, darling, I’m . . . not sure.”

  “What?” He stopped and turned to her with a scowl. “Why not? I want you there.”

  Her lips parted slightly, and she looked like she might climax on the spot in response to his demand. “Lucien.”

  “Caro,” he retorted. It was hardly a lover’s devotion that inspired his insistence, but the simple fact that a beautiful woman was a useful thing to have on hand when trying to catch enemy spies.

  “You don’t understand!” she said with a pout. “I want to go. It’s just that I received a letter today from Goody Two-Shoes. She said—”

  “From whom?” he demanded, cutting her off with a dubious look. If he recalled correctly, it was a character in a classic children’s story by Oliver Goldsmith.

  “Alice, my sister-in-law,” she said, waving off the name in irritation. “I may have to go home to Glenwood Park. She says my baby might be getting sick. If I don’t go home and help take care of Harry, Alice will have my head. Not that I know what to do with the little creature.” She sniffed. “All he does for me is scream.”

  “Well, he’s got a nurse, hasn’t he?” he asked in disgust. He knew that Caro had a three-year-old son by her late husband, though most of the time she seemed to forget the fact. The child was one of the reasons why Damien was so interested in marrying the woman. Aside from some bizarre fatherly impulse toward a child he had never even seen, Damien wanted a wife with a proven ability to bear him sons. An earl, after all, needed heirs. Unfortunately, Caro had not proved worthy, surrendering wholeheartedly to Lucien’s seduction. Damien was going to fume at the blow to his pride, but Lucien refused to allow his brother to marry any woman who did not love him to distraction. Any woman worthy of Damien would have refused Lucien’s silken trap.

  “Of course he has a nurse, but Alice says he needs, well . . . me,” Caro said in dismay.

  “But I need you, chérie.” He slipped her a coaxing little smile, wondering if his own late mother had occasionally suffered similar pangs of conscience. What a piece of work she had been, the scandalous duchess of Hawkscliffe, making conquests of half the men she met. Indeed, the twins’ own father had not been their mother’s husband, but her devoted lover of many years, the powerful and mysterious marquess of Carnarthen. The marquess had died recently, leaving Lucien the bulk of his fortune and his infamous villa, Revell Court, situated a dozen miles southwest of Bath.

  As Lucien stared at Caro, he realized why he felt so strongly about stopping Damien from marrying her. He could hardly let his brother end up with a wife who was just like their mother. Turning away abruptly, he began walking down the hallway, leaving Caro where she stood. “Never mind, woman. Go home to your brat,” he muttered. “I’ll find someone else to amuse me.”

  “But, Lucien, I want to come!” she protested, hurrying to catch up in a rustle of satin.

  He stared straight ahead as he stalked down the hallway. “Your boy needs you and you know it.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Her tone was so bleak that Lucien looked askance at her. “He doesn’t even know me. He only loves Alice.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s the truth. I am an incompetent mother.”

  He shook his head with a vexed sigh. What was it to him if she wanted to lie to herself? “Come along, then. Damien is waiting.” Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he led her to the ballroom to face her fate.

  Under the bright glow of the balloon-cut chandeliers, the ballroom looked like a civilized place to those who did not know better; but to Lucien, not for nothing was the marble floor laid out in black and white squares like a giant chessboard. Carefully watching the crowd from behind the facade of the decadent, self-indulged persona he had created, he kept all his senses sharply attuned, on the lookout for anyone or anything that set his instincts jangling. Nothing was ever obvious, which was why he had cultivated an enlightened paranoia and trusted no one. In his experience, it was the most average, ordinary-looking people who harbored the most dangerous treacheries. The strange characters were usually harmless; indeed, he had a fondness for all creatures who refused to be crushed by the iron mold of conformity. This preference was borne out in his acquaintance as, here and there, disreputable persons, odd fellows, outsiders, assorted voluptuaries, rebels, disheveled scientific geniuses from the Royal Society, and freakish eccentrics of every stripe nodded to him, furtively offering their respects.

  Ah, his minions were eager to return to Revell Court for the festivities, he thought in jaded amusement, accepting their subtle homage with a narrow smile. He cast a wink to a painted lady who greeted him from behind her spread fan.

  “Your Unholiness,” she whispered, giving him a come-hither look.

  He bowed his head. “Bon soir, madame.” From the corner of his eye, he noticed Caro staring at him in fascination, her lips slightly parted. “What is it, my dear?”

  She glanced at the velvet-clad scoundrels who bowed to him, then met his gaze with a sly look. “I was just wondering how Miss Goody Two-Shoes would fare with you around. It would be such fun to watch you corrupt her.”

  “Drop her by sometime. I’ll do my best.”

  She smirked. “She’d probably faint if you even looked at her, the little prude.”

  “Young?”

  “Not very. She’s twenty-one.” Caro paused. “Actually, I doubt that even you could scale her ivory tower, if you take my meaning.”

  He frowned askance at her. “Please.”

  Caro shrugged, a mocking smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know, Lucien. It wouldn’t be easy. Alice is as good as you are bad.”

  He lifted his eyebrow and dwelled on this for a moment, then pursued the matter, his curiosity piqued. “Is she really such a paragon?”

  “Ugh, she turns my stomach,” Caro replied under her breath, nodding to people here and there as they ambled through the crowd. “She won’t gossip. She doesn’t lie. She doesn’t laugh when I make a perfectly witty remark about some woman’s ridiculous dress. She cannot be induced to vanity. She never even misses church!”

  “My God, you have my sympathies for having to live with such a monster. What did you say her name was again?” he asked mildly.

  “Alice.”

  “Montague?”

  “Yes. She’s my poor Glenwood’s little sister.”

  “Alice Montague,” he echoed in a musing tone. A baron’s daughter, he thou
ght. Virtuous. Available. Good with the brat. Sounded like a perfect candidate for Damien’s bride. “Is she fair?”

  “Tolerable,” Caro said flatly, avoiding his gaze.

  “Mm-hmm.” He passed a scrutinizing glance over her face, and his eyes began to dance at the jealousy stamped on the baroness’s fine features. “How tolerable, exactly?”

  She gave him a quelling look and refused to answer.

  “Come, tell me.”

  “Forget about her!”

  “I’m only curious. What color are her eyes?”

  She ignored him, nodding to a lady in a feathered turban.

  “Oh, Caro,” he murmured playfully. “Are you jealous of little luscious twenty-one?”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “Then where’s the harm?” he insisted, goading her. “Tell me what color Alice’s eyes are.”

  “Blue,” she snapped, “but they are lackluster.”

  “And her hair?”

  “Blond. Red. I don’t know. What does it signify?”

  “Indulge me.”

  “You are an utter pest! Alice’s hair is her crowning glory, if you must know. It hangs to her waist, and I suppose you call the color of it strawberry blond,” she said peevishly, “but it is always filled with the crumbs of whatever kind of muffin the baby ate for breakfast. Quite disgusting. I have told her a hundred times that long, cascading Rapunzel hair is entirely out of fashion, but Alice ignores me. She likes it. Now are you satisfied?”

  “She sounds delicious,” Lucien whispered in her ear. “Might I bring her to Revell Court instead of you?”

  Caro pulled back and smacked him with her black lace fan.

  Lucien was still laughing at her ire as they sauntered into the knot of red-coated soldiers. “Ah, look, Lady Glenwood,” he said in bright irony. “It is my dear brother. Evening, Demon. I’ve brought someone to see you.” Sliding his hands into the pockets of his black trousers, he rocked idly on his heels, a cynical smile sporting at his lips as he waited to watch the show unfold.

  Damien’s fellow officers looked disparagingly at Lucien, muttered farewells to their colonel, and predictably walked away, lest their honor be tainted by contagion, he thought dryly. With a war-hardened visage and lionlike decorum, Damien pressed away from the wide pillar where he had been leaning and gave Caro a stiff bow.