Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(36)

“This new Dionysus has magnificent plans,” Leland continued. “Plans that will make us all wealthy and powerful. No one will back you if you try to overthrow him.”

“No?” Raphael looked at them intently. “Not even if I pledge to share the power of the Dionysus?”

“What do you mean?” Leland asked.

Raphael shrugged. “When I become the next Dionysus, naturally I’ll reward those who helped me to achieve that position—perhaps permanently. Why, after all, should there be one leader of the Lords?”

“This is dangerous talk,” Andrew murmured uneasily.

“It’s ridiculous talk,” Royce scoffed. “You have no idea who he is—what he is.”

“I’m sorry, Dyemore,” Andrew whispered. “We cannot back you.” He lowered his head when his brother sent him a glare.

Royce turned to Raphael. “You and your new duchess won’t have long to live if you continue on this mad course, Dyemore. Quit it and leave well enough alone. Perhaps if you grovel, the Dionysus will forgive you and let you live.”

Raphael’s brows rose. “I don’t grovel.”

“Then you’re insane and doomed,” Royce said, sounding exasperated. “What possessed you to marry Lady Jordan anyway?”

“Why, Royce, don’t you believe in fairy tales?” Raphael drawled. “Perhaps I saw the former Lady Jordan at a ball months ago and fell in love with her at once.”

Leland snorted, Andrew simply looked at him thoughtfully, and Royce bit off something foul. “Don’t mock me, Dyemore. You’re the one who’ll soon be dead, not me. You and your duchess.”

He felt the fire overrun his barriers.

Raphael rose and Royce started back.

“Get out,” Raphael whispered.

They scurried from the room like rats.

He strode to the door and up to his bedroom.

He threw open the door, startling Iris, who was sitting by the hearth.

She rose, twisting her hands together. “What is it? What did they want?”

“You,” he snapped. “Pack what you need. We leave for London in an hour.”

That afternoon the Dionysus smiled behind his mask at the Fox. They sat in a private room in an inn not far from Dyemore Abbey. The Fox had procured a room for the revels and the Dionysus had asked him to stay afterward on a whim.

A decision that, as it turned out, had been most fortuitous.

“My lord,” said the Fox. “You know I am at your disposal.”

“Are you?” The Dionysus studied him, for the Fox of course wore no mask.

He was a man of medium build, red haired—though his pate was covered now with a white wig—and green eyed. He came from an old family and was handsome enough to have caught himself an heiress wife, though not so handsome that the wife’s dowry could satisfy all the debts his father had put the family estate into. The Fox was entirely amoral and entirely in thrall to his own sexual appetites, which were far from what was considered tasteful.

Oh, and he wanted desperately to regain the fortune his father had lost.

It made him biddable.

“You know I am loyal,” the Fox said.

“So you have said,” the Dionysus replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair he sat in. “But have you ever proved yourself to me? I think not.”

“Then set a task for me.” The Fox was on his feet now, his green eyes wide, his face filled with fervor. “Tell me what to do and I shall do it so that you will know my loyalty once and for all.”

“Very well.” The Dionysus inclined his head. “Dyemore has defied me. He gave his word to me and then broke it. He is dishonorable. He is rebellious. He is dangerous. Rid me of this traitor and his wife and you will not only be held to my bosom as my most trusted friend, but I shall also reward you monetarily.”

The Fox’s eyes lit. More at the mention of money than at talk of being held to his master’s bosom, but then the Dionysus was a cynical man. He’d take whatever means motivated his pawns.

“I vow I’ll do this for you,” the Fox said with satisfying fervor.

“Good,” said the Dionysus, and began telling him how he wanted Dyemore—and his wife—killed.





Chapter Eight




The tower was round and squat, made without mortar, the stones simply fitted together. Ann circled it until she found a door, and there she knocked.

The man who answered was tall and lean, gray and craggy, stern and unsmiling. He was, in fact, exactly like the barren rocky wasteland.

Ann looked at the Rock King and raised her chin.

“I need you to save my little sister.”

The Rock King stared at her, unblinking.

“How?” …

—From The Rock King





In the late afternoon of that same day Iris watched her husband from across a carriage as it bumped along a country road. He was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, but held himself sternly upright as if he could overcome the lingering effects of his fever by sheer force of will alone.

And perhaps he could, she thought with a wry smile. This was, after all, the man who had sent three members of the Lords of Chaos fleeing with their tails between their legs. Who had declared open warfare against the Dionysus of the Lords of Chaos—and by extension the Lords themselves—without hesitation or qualm.