My Wicked Marquess Page 10

  Max lowered his gaze. Drake, too, had been the Link for his trio of men. “One of our teams was completely wiped out.”

  “God,” Jordan whispered. “Anyone we’d know?”

  With the war over and the men dead, Max didn’t think it mattered anymore if he revealed it to them. “I didn’t know his fellows, but the leader was Drake Parry, the Earl of Westwood.”

  “Westwood,” Jordan echoed. “I think I met him once. Black-haired. Welsh?”

  “Yes.” Max stared into his cup. “Hell of a fighter. Good as Rohan, almost.” He nodded toward the duke, who slid Max a grim look in turn as he opened a second waiting bottle.

  “We’re sure they’re dead?” Rohan asked bluntly.

  “They’d better be,” Jordan murmured. “Better that than captured.” Then he noticed Max’s silence. “You knew him well?”

  “Fairly.”

  After a long silence, Jordan lifted his glass. “To Lord Westwood.”

  Max followed suit, nodding, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his throat. “To Drake and his men.”

  “Better them than us,” Rohan muttered under his breath and tossed back a swallow of port in their honor.

  A lugubrious silence descended as each man privately wondered how it was that he had managed to survive when equally worthy colleagues had fallen.

  Max’s thoughts turned to Daphne Starling once more, like a sailor searching clouded skies for Polaris, one distant light to guide him in the blackness.

  What if it were me instead of Drake? What if I was the one who didn’t get to come home? He lingered over his drink. Tomorrow was promised to no man. All he had been through had certainly taught him that.

  Hunger for life throbbed in his veins, especially now that his time was his own, to live as he liked, to do as he pleased, to be who he really was—if that was still possible after all he’d seen.

  They were still young men, though seasoned. They still had so much life ahead of them, things Drake would never get to experience.

  Like love.

  Max had never experienced that, either.

  Yet who could say when the darkness would come for him? Drake’s death was a reminder that he did not have forever.

  Get to breeding, Max, Virgil had said. Maybe the Highlander’s wisdom was exactly right once more.

  “So, what do we do now?” Jordan murmured as they sat around staring at each other uneasily. “Retire to our estates? Take up fox hunting and become country gentlemen?”

  “Bugger that,” Rohan said with a dark, rough laugh. “Rogering every whore in Covent Garden sounds to me like an excellent start.”

  “Good God, man, don’t they have women in Naples?”

  “I already had all of those—”

  “You are such a braggart, Rohan—”

  Ignoring their raillery, Max still stared unseeingly at his drink, but all of a sudden, he spoke up in a steely tone. “I know what I mean to do,” he announced.

  They both looked at him in surprise. The other two exchanged a glance.

  “Of course you do, my calculating friend,” Jordan said in amusement. “No doubt you’ve had your plans lined up for years.”

  Max’s heart was pounding. The sound of it rang like thunder in his head.

  “Well?” Rohan prompted. “What are you going to do?”

  Max paused, bracing himself for their shocked reaction: “I am getting married.”

  “What?”

  “Good God!”

  “Already? But we just got back!”

  “Are you mad? You’re finally free! The old Highlander’s got no more claim on us!” Rohan protested. “Why so quick to pledge yourself into some new bondage?”

  “Max, you are not serious?”

  “Of course I am.” He smiled coolly, but sat in silence as they continued trying to dissuade him, until at length, he shook his head. “My mind is made up.”

  At these words, Jordan stared at him. “Well, then. Knowing you, that’s the end of it.”

  Max shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant about it all, but in a moment, his course was decided.

  Over the years, he had learned not to question his instincts. Too many times they had saved his life. Too many times his survival had depended on being able to spot a possible ally in a room full of enemies, and everything in him knew it was Daphne Starling.

  He just shrugged. “The damage to my family line isn’t going to fix itself, obviously.”

  “Very well, so who is the lucky chit? Have you got someone picked out?” Rohan asked.

  He nodded, his decision made irrevocably. “In fact, I do.” He shared the basic facts about Daphne Starling, and they laughed when he told them about the bride list he’d had his solicitor research for him in advance. “You’re welcome to my castoffs,” he added with a sardonic smile.

  “That’s very generous of you, you bastard.”

  “I can just picture your little gentleman-of-affairs running around Town collecting all this information,” Jordan said, laughing harder.

  “He happens to be quite efficient.”

  “What did you do, instruct him in field craft?”

  “More or less.”

  “Why didn’t you just have Virgil do your spying for you? He’s got a bit more experience in these matters.”

  “He was busy,” Max replied. “Besides—” His smile faded, a vague pulsation of suppressed resentment rippling under the surface of his easy tone. “I daresay the old Scot has had enough control over my life for the past twenty years. I don’t need him choosing my wife for me, as well.”

  He took a drink without another word.

  They fell silent.

  “He does seem rather keen to have us all wedded and bedded,” Jordan murmured.

  “Did he mention it to you, too?” Max asked.

  Jordan nodded, and Rohan glanced grimly at them both. “To me, as well. The Order’s ranks will have to be replenished soon enough.”

  “Haven’t we given enough of our own blood?” Max asked softly.

  Jordan lowered his gaze. “Apparently not.”

  “So, Max, what is she like, this lady of yours?” Rohan murmured with a trace of wistfulness in his wary eyes.

  “She’s perfect.” Max shrugged, a rueful half smile brightening his brooding countenance slightly. “Beautiful. Witty. Kind.”

  “And she agreed to marry you?”

  Max lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, I wouldn’t say she’s exactly agreed to it yet.”

  “Oho!” the duke exclaimed. “A little coquette? Playing hard to get?”

  “No, it’s just that I haven’t asked her yet.”

  “When do you intend to?”

  “As soon as I make the arrangements with her father.”

  Jordan turned to Rohan in astonishment. “He’s going to the father first! How terribly quaint.”

  “Very old-fashioned of you, Max,” Rohan agreed. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Well, I would hardly leave the decision up to a known jilt, now, would I?” He gave them a lordly frown, refusing to worry about her answer. “A good aristocratic girl will do as she is told.”

  “Yes, but you told us she already jilted one man.”

  “I am not Albert Carew,” he replied in a prickly tone.

  “Well, of course.” The earl studied him for a long moment, needing no words to express his skepticism—or his utter amusement.

  Max looked at both of their dubious faces and scowled.

  “When have you ever known me to take no for an answer when it comes to something I want?” he demanded.

  “The lad’s got a point,” Rohan said, grinning.

  Jordan smiled wryly. “Right. Then I suppose that’s that.” He poured them another round and lifted his glass in a toast. “To Max! The soon-to-be-married man.”

  “Poor lass,” Rohan said. “She’s got no bloody idea what she’s in for.”

  “Trust me,” Max replied. “She will soon find out.”

  All
three laughed. Then they clanked their glasses together and drank.

  Across the Channel, the night’s rain still persisted. Low clouds like dark fleece raked the slate-blue turrets of a grand Baroque chateau in the Loire Valley, drizzling on its ornate gardens, soaking its vineyard acres.

  The damp, dark night blotted out the stars, but a few lights glowed in the castle’s upper windows despite the late hour.

  In the inner sanctum of the Promethean Council, with its chessboard floors, and the gold veins of its black marble columns glittering in the torchlight, defeat lay heavy on the air.

  The Grand Masters of the Ten Regions and the three Revered Wanderers sat at a round table with a hollowed center, fashioned like the eight-spoked Wheel of Time.

  One chair was raised, thronelike, above the rest. The man planted firmly in this elevated position had spiky, white-blond hair receding at the temples, and cruel blue eyes that swept the gathered company in cold superiority. His name was Malcolm Banks, and as head of the Council, he was about to make an example of Rupert Tavistock.

  Indeed, he was looking forward to it.

  But first he had a few grim facts to lay bare for the Promethean elite.

  “Bonaparte is finished,” he confirmed. “Even if we helped him escape again, he would receive no further support from any quarter, so for us, it is not worth the effort. With Napoleon’s ruin at Waterloo, we are bound to face the bitter fact that our ambitions with the French empire have come to naught. Fortunately, however”—he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers—“I allotted for this possibility years ago by cultivating our influence in King Louis’s court throughout the Bourbon exile.” He shrugged. “When Louis returns to the throne of France, at least that will bring us back to familiar territory.”

  The others were silent, none too impressed with his foresight, it seemed. Malcolm looked around at all their stony faces and grimly understood that this defeat had made some of them begin to doubt his abilities as their leader.

  Which was why the coming show of force was necessary. He knew he had to rally them before they started turning against him. After all, if they attempted to overthrow him, then it would complicate his desire to make his son his successor. The thirty-year-old Niall sat beside him, never mind the fact that many of the men present thought he did not yet deserve a place on the Council, that he was too young.

  Malcolm, however, was grooming him for the headship.

  This, too, was controversial, for by their tradition, new leaders had to be voted into power by the Council, chosen from among themselves based on who had the most experience and the proper temperament for the role. Unlike other types of power, it was not passed down from father to son.

  But Malcolm had his own plans. Having finally grasped the supreme post through his own machinations, he did not intend to part with it. The others had not yet realized that.

  “We are greatly set back, my friends, but we are not undone,” he continued calmly. “Our eventual triumph is only postponed. Though we require a period of recovery to shore up our losses, we will do as we have always done: Take the world as we find it. Adapt to new conditions. Regroup, and watch for the next opportunity. And when it presents itself,” he added in icy resolve, “we will be poised to strike.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through their company.

  “Now then, before moving on, we have one final order of business that needs to be addressed.” He nodded to Niall, who rose slowly from his chair.

  Watching him, Malcolm could not help taking pride in the fearsome man his boy had become. Niall had inherited his towering height from their ancient Highlander clan, along with his thick red hair.

  “Rupert,” Malcolm said mildly, glancing across the table at one of their comrades, “I am afraid there is a price to be paid for your incompetence.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the portly, balding Englishman blurted out.

  “Did you honestly think your failure would go unpunished?” Malcolm asked in a mild voice.

  “My failure?” Rupert Tavistock echoed with a gulp. He glanced over nervously as Niall moved away from his seat and began walking slowly, inexorably toward him.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. You were the one responsible for getting rid of Wellington in case Napoleon faltered on the day of battle. If your men had succeeded, the messenger Wellington sent to Blücher would never have gotten through; Napoleon would have won the battle, as he was poised to do, and six hundred years of our hopes might have been fulfilled!” he finished in thunderous rage.

  “Now, wait one minute!” Sweating profusely now, Rupert shot up from his seat, but Niall was behind him, and with one huge hand on his shoulder, pushed him back down into his chair.

  “Instead of our vision coming to pass, the agents you got into Wellington’s headquarters are dead,” Malcolm said. “And you will soon be joining them.”

  “But it is not my fault!” Tavistock pleaded. “I did everything you said! The market crash—I directed millions into our accounts.”

  “But Waterloo.”

  “It is all the Order’s doing! They sent someone in without my knowing. Whoever he was, he got to my agents before they could act. I am not responsible!” Tavistock insisted, his voice climbing. “It is the Order’s fault. We are never going to win until the Order of St. Michael is destroyed, and you promised us all that they would be, if we voted you into power!”

  “What would you have me do?” Malcolm snarled. “They are ghosts.”

  “They are men! They can bleed! Septimus killed three of them in Munich!” He pointed wildly to the dark-haired, taciturn German who was in charge of operations throughout the many principalities along the Rhine.

  “Yes, but that is the problem, isn’t it, my dear Rupert?” Malcolm eyed Septimus with wary displeasure. “Our Bavarian friend was not able to restrain himself and did not take them alive. As a result, we still have no idea where in all of Europe the Order is based these days, nor even how many agents they currently have.”

  “So, what do you suggest, Malcolm?” a cool voice spoke up from the other end of the room. “That we give up? Surrender to our foes?”

  They all looked over at James Falkirk, the lean and stately gray-haired Yorkshireman who had asked the question.

  As the chief of the three Wanderers, he was the only real rival to counterbalance Malcolm’s growing power.

  His normal role was to travel endlessly among all ten regions, keeping an eye on everyone, gathering information, guiding the overall strategy of the Prometheans, while the Grand Masters ran operations within their individual territories. But his travels over the past year had taught him many things, especially clues to the mischief that Malcolm was up to behind their backs.

  Gazing in unshakable patience at their incompetent leader, James masked his knowledge of Malcolm’s scheming, along with his anger. A cool-nerved Englishman to the core, he knew enough to treat these two Highland barbarians with kid gloves. But he saw through them, to be sure.

  Malcolm was not a true believer in the ideals their movement stood for, and James had come to despise him for it. To Malcolm, the sacred Promethean philosophy was naught but a secret means to untold wealth and worldly power.

  No wonder they had lost everything they had worked for through Napoleon, James mused. They deserved to taste defeat, for they had entrusted their shining dream of one world united under a benevolent Council into the hands of a man without vision. A monstrous Cyclops whose single eye was fixed on mere self-interest.

  Unfortunately, what Malcolm offered seemed to have become enough for some of the others lately.

  “Oh, don’t be tedious, James,” Malcolm said in annoyance. “Of course I am not suggesting surrender to the Order of St. Michael. But we must use common sense until we have regained our strength. Pragmatism, James, that is all. Ever heard of it? Not all of life is dreams and visions, you know. Niall, do proceed,” he added with an impatient wave of his hand. “There is no point in dragging this out.”

/>   Niall nodded, winding the garrote wire around his hands. Rupert tried to get away, but took only three steps across the room, screaming as Niall took hold of him.

  “James—help me!”

  “Yes, James, are you going to save him?” Malcolm glanced at him inquiringly, well aware that he, James, was the greatest threat to his power.

  James leaned back politely in his chair. Rupert Tavistock was a pampered idiot, not worth saving. He had lost his principles years ago, indulging himself swinishly in London when he should have been working to advance the Council’s aims. Power corrupted, and these men had it.

  James often wondered if he was the only one untouched. “Sorry, Tavistock,” he said. “You betrayed our faith in you. You were entrusted with profound responsibilities, and you failed.”

  Rupert whimpered, Malcolm snickered, and Niall got to work. James held his tongue. As he looked away, leaving Rupert to his fate, his glance happened to meet that of Septimus Glasse across the round table.

  The fiery, black-bearded German gave him a grim look that warned him to keep silent. No doubt, young red-haired Junior there had enough garrote wire left over for anyone foolish enough to point the finger at his sire.

  Don’t worry, my friend, James thought wryly, grateful that at least Septimus could be trusted.

  They both knew that the ultimate responsibility for the Promethean failure lay with the leader, but neither man was fool enough to say it, at least not here and now, like this. Planning would be needed first…

  Moments passed, and the last surviving embers of James’s humanity made him flinch ever so slightly as Niall finished the unpleasant business with great gusto. Rupert’s gagging sounds and the odd bump of his flailing limbs stopped.

  A stillness followed.

  Niall straightened up, his back to them, the wide, young shoulders heaving as he caught his breath.

  Looking over his shoulder with an evil glance, Niall sent them all a look that warned them not to mistake him for the typical idiot son who had gained high place by mere nepotism. He seemed quite ready to prove himself to any who might doubt.

  Try me, his narrowed eyes seemed to taunt them. His work done, the large Scot wiped the sweat off his brow with a pass of his forearm, and nonchalantly returned to his seat.